The Cold Beneath
The Cold Beneath
By Tonia Brown
Illustrations By Philip R Rogers
Edited By Stephanie Gianopoulos
Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
Author Thanks
I wanted to take a moment to thank a few folks that made this book possible.
Thanks to Stephanie Gianopoulos for once again making the process of producing a book so simple I would be a fool not to do it. What can I say; the woman has mad editing skillz!
I would like to thank Philip R Rogers three or four times here, as his amazing illustrations lend so much to the novel. Philip has always been easy to work with. He really gets inside the novel, and brings out the true colors and character of the work with his talent. I am forever indebted to him for making this book a work of art. The name for the main character was sheer coincidence, but I will say that once I got into producing the novel, I had to change the spelling from Phillip to Philip because I couldn’t separate the two! (Oh, and I totally stole the nickname ‘Pip’ from his wife!)
Once again I owe so much to the folks who test read the novel for me. Scott Vogel, Janet and Philip Rogers, Tonie and Donald Ervin, Lori Titus, and so many more I have just lost count. You are all amazing and just great. I couldn’t do it without your support.
Last but never least, I want to thank Tony Brown. You know what you did.
Will you do it again?
~Tonia Brown, May 28, 2012
The following journal was discovered in July of 1881 amidst the wreckage of the Northern Fancy. On the surface, the diary appears to be an eyewitness account of the terrible disaster that befell the ship and her crew. Yet no one is sure how much of the material at hand is true, for the narrator seems to slip into a type of delirium from time to time. It is most likely the narrator suffered from a mental illness, perhaps even before the onset of the journey. It has also been suggested, due to the outrageous nature of the narrator’s claims, that he was the cause of the Fancy’s failure as well as the terrible way in which her crew perished. In either case, this journal surely conveys the reflections of a broken mind. Please know that those who pieced together the story did their best, basing on a relative timeline as referenced by the author, and assigned both numbers and section titles for easy reference.
The End
I record these last words with trembling hands, for the ever-patient specter of death stalks me, and I am afraid. It is not the appearance of death that frightens me; only fools and madmen expect to live forever. No, it is the manifestation that death has chosen that has filled me with terror. He is in the deep, burning cold. The ice of endless sleep. The frozen wasteland without pity or remorse that surrounds me. But even worse, he is a fleet-footed horror, moaning in a chorus of utter torment as he claws with many hands at the door behind which I cower.
Yet, in spite of my overwhelming fear, I shall not deny death.
As the last of our ill-fated party, I will seek his audience, an easy task considering he has invited me so openly. When I have finished recording this account, I shall walk unprotected into the tearing hands and hungry mouths of the horrors that wait just beyond my door. In doing so, I will lay down not just the burden of my existence but also my weary consciousness. My health is failing, as is my mind. Even were I hale and hearty, I could not bring myself to face another morning knowing what I know.
Having seen what I have seen.
Having done what I have done.
I suppose, for posterity’s sake as well as my own, I should relate the tale from the beginning. Then perhaps someone might find it in his heart to grant me some gracious pardon for my deeds. After hearing the story in its entirety, maybe one might understand that what I have done—nay what we have done here in this godforsaken place—was all for the best. Yes, I believe God has forsaken us, as He has cursed this frozen patch of Earth, for there are no blessings here. There is no love of the Father for his suffering children.
And rest assured, there was much suffering.
I wondered from the beginning if perhaps the journey wasn’t designed by the Devil himself. It is a fool’s errand, this anxious race to be the first to reach the North Pole, and yet I signed on with minimal hesitation when asked. It seemed a ridiculous notion that I should have been called upon for such an expedition. I had no previous experience, no qualifications, no training nor credentials. I was barely in the physical shape required, let alone enough in possession of my senses to understand the treacherous path before us.
Yet I was called upon by none other than Lightbridge himself.
****
****
The Beginning
I shall never forget the day the man came to me and all but begged my presence on his strange mission. It was the beginning of spring, a bright day in March, with the leaves still buds on the branches and the earliest of blossoms in bloom. I sought respite in the garden; something of a rare opportunity for me considering how much work there was to be done. Or rather how much work I liked to pretend there was waiting for me. Spring was a magic unto itself, coaxing me into the open air, a place I otherwise avoided, as the sun did not agree with my delicate skin.
His voice reached me before I knew he was even there, which was, as I would soon learn, typical of his enormous personality.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he asked.
Looking up from the lilies I was studying, I found myself staring into the face of the older man. He was much taller than I, at least a good six inches or so, and broad in the shoulders as well as the waist. I was unsure of his exact age, for he bore his years well. Silver hair peeked from under his hat, the mop well in need of a trim, yet his face was but a mild map of the passage of time. His eyes were as bright as a young lad’s, a sparkling oceanic blue that I found most difficult not to stare at. When he smiled, there gleamed a feral enthusiasm—and in turn I would later find his frown to be as gloomy as a rainy day. There was no shortness of either expression from the man, for he was animated in both speech and manner.
“Yes,” I answered the stranger. “It is quite a beautiful day.” I stood from my crouch, staring hard at the man. He glared hard at me in return, as if expecting something from me. What, I couldn’t imagine. I had never been one for gentlemen’s clubs or other gathering spots where tales of conquest and glory are shared like so much bread at a meager meal. Therefore I was unfamiliar with Lightbridge and his long line of daring deeds. But that wouldn’t be the case for much longer.
At length he commented on my accent. “You’re British?” His own accent was light and carefree, the typical dialect of the southern United States.
“Last time I checked, I was born in London, yes.” I wasn’t in the mood to trace my lineage to this man, nor to explain my presence in America. Those memories were best forgotten, yet he would pull them from me soon enough.
“Makes sense, I suppose. I should have expected a Brit.”
“But I didn’t expect a visitor.” My estate was modest but well-kept, not to mention surrounded by a large iron gate that discouraged even the boldest of visitors, and home to a manservant who was paid well to turn away any unwelcome guests. “May I help you with something?”
“You are Mr. Philip Syntax?” He proffered a hand in greeting.
I took his hand with caution, still unsure how this stranger had slipped past my ever-vigilant manservant. “Do I know you?”
The man smiled that wide, gleaming grin I would always associate with his very being. “My name is Gideon Alabaster Lightbridge. And you, my fine British fellow, are about to make history.”
“History?”
“Yes. I’m sure this day will be noted in all of the finest memoirs and historical recordings across the globe.” He stopped to waggle his eyebrows at me in the most inappropriate manner. “How does it feel to be on the path of grandeur?”
“The path of what?” By now I was not only thoroughly confused, I was on the verge of worry.
“Of course you should have been on the path six weeks ago, but you ignored all of my requests for an audience. So I’ve come round to demand one in person. The accounts of our meeting might not mention that bit, seeing as how it’s almost unbelievable. I might leave it out of my memoirs as well. Rather embarrassing really. Ignoring one like that.”
“Ah. You’re the source of those endless notes demanding my attention to a … how did you phrase it? A matter of utmost importance?” I recognized him now, or rather his requests. The man had mailed and messaged me over fifty times in the last few weeks to accept his request for a meeting. All of which I had thoroughly ignored.
Lightbridge nodded, his look growing dark, foreboding. “Notes to which you never responded. Not even so much as a ‘no thank you.’”
“Then allow me to do so now. No thank you.”
“You don’t even know what I’m here to ask!”
I left him to grouse by the lilies as I took my leave of the garden. It required everything I had not to break into a run in my effort to escape him. There was much work to attend to without his trite request, and he didn’t even have to ask for me to know what he wanted. I had met many a man such as him before, men who wanted my private attention for some ridiculous project that was bound to not only waste both of our time but resources as well. Bradley, my manservant, would have much to answer for when I found him.