Chapter 81: Ice Fog

Westman forcibly dragged him into the cabin, hiding in the dim chamber until the changing shift of sailors passed, disappearing one by one up the stairs to the deck.

"Could it be drifting right toward us?" his companion answered his own question with another absurd query, eyes darting everywhere, searching for a landing spot, before finally fixing on Westman.

It was clear he needed a bit of validation, a nod, or a word of affirmation, but Westman could not give it to him.

He had never seen a massive iceberg, but he had seen plenty of large floating ice. Floating ice often served as a reference for movement; lacking sails, their limited drift was negligible compared to the ship's speed, and in a short while they would be left behind, letting the crew know they had drawn closer to their destination.

He had never seen an iceberg, but he felt icebergs should be no exception. From simple logic, the answer had to be negative, yet Westman did not want to admit it. "Who knows? It might not be the same one at all."

This statement effectively convinced his companion, and even Westman himself. The probability of encountering two massive icebergs, a rare sight once in a decade, on this sea consecutively was too small to calculate, but far greater than the possibility of an iceberg moving at the ship's speed.

The two groped back to the cabin in the last bit of light and decided to sleep. The manager of this shift was the captain himself, the trustworthy ice-sea veteran helmsman Becker; perhaps by the time they woke, the matter would be resolved?

With this thought in mind, Westman arranged his somewhat damp straw bed, shared the leftover frozen meat from yesterday with his companion in the darkness, lay down separately, and prayed that when they rose in the morning, they would not see it again.

The exhausting daytime labor did not make the night more peaceful; the ocean's rolling and pitching was erratic, repeatedly interrupting an already restless sleep. He heard scattered footsteps on the deck above; they must be adjusting the sails again.

What he had seen during the day surfaced in his memory more than once, recalled as drowsiness crept in, merging with his companion's terrified expression. He recalled those scenes: the unfurling of sails, the ship surging forward at full speed, leaving chunks of floating ice behind.

That thing on the horizon had not been left behind. It was simply too far away, so far that no details could be made out, so far that Westman could just claim the morning and evening sightings were not the same to placate himself and his companion.

In a corner of his heart not easily noticed, a thought rejoiced that he had only seen it twice; otherwise, he would have found no excuse to avoid it. Yet he could not realize this himself, muttering that it was merely two icebergs coincidentally appearing in roughly the same direction, striving to empty his mind of the chaotic recollections.

Woken from light sleep for the third time, Westman heard the voices of other sailors who had gone to sleep earlier. They thought they had lowered their voices. In the gaps between the waves, these sounds were like patches of moonlight filtering through the small window; the environment ensured that however faint they were, they would be noticed.

The content of the conversation was things they dared not speak aloud when the sea and sails were visible. Occasionally, waves slapping against the hull covered parts of it; the first half of a whisper was swallowed, while the second half trickled like cold water into the ear canals of the silent eavesdroppers.

"... It seemed to get a bit bigger this afternoon?"

The careless words drilled into Westman's mind. He eagerly compared his memories of gazing at the iceberg in the morning and evening, forgetting that he had just been comforting himself that they were two different ones. The black silhouette edged by the setting sun truly seemed a size larger than what he had seen in the morning.

The drowsiness accumulated over half the night vanished instantly. Only then did he face his heart, admitting he could not deceive himself into treating what he saw in the morning and evening as two different things.

Westman felt the straw beneath him damp; water stains had soaked a large area of his underclothes. Reaching behind, he found the surface of his leather coat dry as before; the sweat on his body was cold, seeping out at some unknown time.

He rolled over and reached out to wake his companion, only to discover the other had not slept either. There were no snores; instead, irregular, heavy breathing indicated his heart was not at peace.

It was not just here; the cabin, usually filled with snores, was so quiet that whispered conversations could be heard. How many sleepless people were listening to the late-night talk, recalling that strange object not suitable for discussion where sails and the horizon were visible, saying nothing.

"May the Father of Heaven protect us." Westman tore open his collar, grasped the double-winged ring amulet hanging around his neck, pressed it to his forehead, and plugged his ears, waiting for dawn.

The same prayer came from beside him. Westman knew it was from other sailors, hoping the Father of Heaven's power could extend to this barbaric land without churches, driving away evil and ensuring that when they stood on the deck again in the morning, they would not see it.

An atmosphere spread through the cabin; low prayers rose everywhere. Some were one or two simple verses; those usually more devout could recite passages from the holy scripture for exorcism.

The sacred chants offered some psychological comfort, as if this narrow space had returned to the civilized world, where the Father of Heaven's glory protected his faithful followers, even though the witnesses to such devout prayer were nothing more than a dark, cramped cabin, not the holy statues under a church dome.

After gaining some comfort, weariness surged. Westman made a vow to donate to the church if he returned safely. Before closing his eyes, he heard scattered footsteps on the deck, the sound of ropes being pulled in unison with shouted commands; the sails were adjusted again.

Westman thought he would be woken by the urging shouts of the changing shift at dawn, but he was frozen awake by the chill on his exposed skin.

The light filtering through the small window was no longer moonlight, yet it lacked the brightness of a normal day; it was like passing through a layer of gauze, becoming soft and weak, providing only the bare minimum of illumination.

Habitually pushing off the cabin wall, the slickness nearly sent him tumbling back into the straw. Westman took a deep breath; the thick, low-temperature water vapor hung heavy, hindering his breath, like moving underwater.

"What's going on?" The humidity was heavier than before a storm. Westman wiped his hands on his trousers; the clothes he wiped were stained with a cold dampness. The chilling sensation seeped in through his unfastened collar. The sweat from last night had not even dried, and the sticky clothes clung to his back.

Looking down, he avoided his companion's poor sleeping posture, with limbs sprawled and crossed all over the floor. Westman held the cabin wall and walked toward the exit leading to the deck.

The unclear lighting conditions cost him more time to carefully watch his step; it took several times the effort to find the stairs.

Looking up, Westman saw not the faint morning light he expected, but a chaotic, indistinct white. The light above, having passed through a long obstruction, was now spent, dissipated and exhausted.

Rubbing his eyes in confusion, Westman moved toward the deck, climbing the waterlogged, slippery wooden steps on hands and knees, and stepped onto the unusually quiet deck.

He finally understood what the heavy, icy water vapor in his breath was.

Boundless fog surrounded them. Rolling thick white mist surged toward the ship, carrying the sharp, biting chill characteristic of the ice sea. It coated every surface capable of condensation, transmitting the cold to the skin and to the hearts of the people, which had plummeted to rock bottom.

Restricted along with their vision was the ship's speed. The wind was too weak to blow away the thick fog. No reference was needed; from the listless sails, it was clear they would not be able to leave this boundless ice fog anytime soon.

What on earth was happening? Westman wanted to shout this question at the sailors nervously staring out at the ship's sides, but the people on the stern quarterdeck made him abandon the thought.

Captain Becker leaned against the wheel, gazing forward, fulfilling his duty of steering the ship. Hearing footsteps, he glanced at Westman, his face stern, and waved him over to take the shift.

Such a captain was rare; most of the time Becker was a easygoing, talkative man, fond of stealing a little rest by letting the first mate and boatswain take over, returning to the captain's cabin to enjoy leisure time, and chatting a few words with sailors on the deck.

On the ice sea, there were no reefs or undercurrents; no matter how poor the visibility, one could go straight ahead. Colliding with floating ice, at worst causing a slight bump, was not worth his full attention.

"Get to your post, Westman. You are not on your first day aboard." Seeing Westman still hesitating in place, Becker spoke up to remind him. The eyes beneath his brim seemed to see through his thoughts. "Just some fog; I've seen plenty."

Westman walked behind the nearest sailor and lightly tapped his shoulder. The man turned around, his hand still firmly gripping the ship's rail, unwilling to leave. His fingers, red from enduring the cold fog all night, unconsciously tightened, as if trying to claw into the wood.

He looked at Westman, then at the captain, preferring to endure the cold rather than leave.

"Change of shift, do not linger!" Becker barked at them. Anyone could notice that this laid-back old good-natured man was out of patience today; something was consuming most of his energy, leaving no time to soothe the sailors' minor concerns.

Forced by the captain's authority, the man reluctantly let go of the rail. His eyes, filled with tension and fear, did not leave the white fog until, under the captain's command, he left the deck and disappeared into the hatch.

"If you see anything on the sea surface, remind me to turn in time," Becker instructed.

This remark was somewhat redundant; Westman could clearly see that everyone was on guard against something. Taking advantage of the captain looking away, he touched the hand of the sailor beside him, which was tightly gripping the rail. "What are you looking for?"

He did not think this visibility would allow the captain to spot something as small as floating ice in time, nor that he could maneuver deftly to avoid it even if he did.

His lips, frozen stiff, murmured out the answer he had long guessed:

"That thing from yesterday."

"May the Father of Heaven protect us." The prayer slipped out habitually. Westman immediately detected the dark humor in it; in a way, yesterday's prayer had been answered in a strange manner.

So-called "all requests granted": the sailors hoped not to see that thing on the horizon today, but they did not expect the cold fog to descend suddenly overnight. Not only could they not see it, but now they could see nothing at all.

"Last night..."

"Closer." He knew exactly what Westman was about to ask and cut off the question with a brief answer, staring unblinkingly into the fog, as if doing so could penetrate the barrier and reveal its tracks.

An iceberg never seen before, or something that looked like one, was approaching them through the vast, sightless ice sea and its cold fog.

Westman touched the ship's rail and his hand came away wet. He held it up in the air, feeling no wind whatsoever.