Spontoon Island
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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
2 April, 1937 to 3 April, 1937



Friday April 2nd, 1937   

Back onto the ice for another energetic day of hammering across the snow trails – and getting somewhat hammered ourselves, as we learn to cope with uphills (where one slides in reverse unless one energetically “herring-bones” with the skis splayed at right angles to each other making the edges bite into the slope for grip, walking rather duck-footed) or downhill, where being able to stop is rather the thing. Of course, before one properly learns, there is the occasional fur-raising moment when the snowdrift at the bottom of the slope looms up at twenty knots and one realises a crash is seconds away. Sitting down promptly, or “applying the backside brake”, is generally a good idea in such a case. Molly is naturally better suited to this having a shorter tail less likely to getting pinned under her; mine does not take kindly to being sat down on at high speed and Helen is in much the same case.

    We had spotted some air activity, with the JU-52s on skis taking off and landing. There is a second piece to the airfield (I suppose it can be called a field, as snowfields are.)  On the far side from the passenger terminal there are other tunnels in the cliff where cargo crates are being wheeled out, or more accurately sledged out to the transports flying them further South. Intriguing stuff! Maria whispered that it would be interesting to see where they go. We have not seen any mining machinery or evidence of goods coming back this way, so it may be a prospecting site. There are other things than minerals to prospect for, as we well know.

    Luncheon was a most excellent spiced soup that Molly identifies as “goulash”, a European dish that could be scented cooking in the immigrant areas of her home town.  It was decidedly warming, and we got through about a pint apiece with plenty of that black ryebread I liked on Vostok. Still no poi, much to all our satisfactions. Then again, in a list of the commonest world foods taro hardly appears at the bottom of the chart, being almost entirely Polynesian though Saffina has said Africa boasts a similar masked yam dish called “Fufu” in her local language.

    Interestingly, one of the locals turned up for lunch who was rather different from our usual guides. We have really only seen resort staff, obvious cooks and suchlike – but a gentleman walked in who did not look at all like that. One never thinks of mice as being imposing, but he certainly was – dressed utterly plainly with a black polo-necked pullover that set off his silver-grey fur and smoothly brushed tail. He looked rather like one of the furs on last year’s Olympic games posters – perhaps gymnastics or fencing rather than wrestling or weight-lifting.

    The real interest was when Helen whispered in Spontoonie to try the same reconnaissance exercises as last night but at minimal strength – which I did. The mouse in black gave a twitch as if he had touched a live circuit, and cast his eyes searchingly over our party. I think I know who Helen spotted last night! Whether he could spot us out of the fifty tourists the same way is an interesting question. It might be rather like hunting for a needle in not perhaps a haystack but at least a pawfull of hay.

    Helen seemed to think some misdirection was in order, and whispered in Spontoonie for Molly to make enquiries. Happily Molly did not leap straight into the fray (she is learning some discretion) but waited twenty minutes before asking one of the waitresses who the handsome gentleman with the silver fur was. In an isolated place like this one expects everyone to know each other, and indeed she learned he was Herr Grubensdorf, a researcher. One rather wonders what he researches. Actually we expected him to be at least a Captain, but nobody wears uniforms here that we have seen, unless dirndls qualify. Most of the Germans we have met on Spontoon have been Herr Professor types, or at least Dipl. Eng. and most of them have been “Von” somewhere or other. I suppose not everyone is in the aristocracy – at least, the ones who are, have enough to enjoy at home without having to go out and wander the far ends of the earth.

    Back onto the snow! The weather was decidedly cooler, about fifteen Centigrade below zero, but we were working hard and it hardly felt cold. After our toughening up before our Aleutians trip we are used to cold, but to be honest one rarely feels deep-down cold like we had for days in our damp and smoky island shelter. Paws and ear-tips are another matter – one knows paws are cold when five minutes after a fall puts snow on one’s gloves it is still frozen. One really feels it if one has to stand still for any length of time, the cold seeming to spread up from one’s paws like rising floodwater. The felt over-boots over the tightly laced leather ski boots definitely help, but apart from electrically heated underwear such as some record-breaking high fliers have tested, keeping comfortable out here is just a ticking clock.

    Above Wotansberg there is a high plateau used for skiing practice, not exactly a glacier but a great snow-covered plain with distant peaks rising above the snow. Glaciers are dangerous places and hardly suitable for risking expensive tourists on, especially beginners. But this was a huge plain that seemed to extend all the way to the horizon, days’ worth of travel across the emptiest landscape we have ever seen. The fine spindrift of ice hangs in the air like thin clouds, sometimes making “sun-dogs”  “sun-pillars” and other such curious effects. It is decidedly a strange and primal landscape, and one can see why folk look to find strange secrets here. At least they are fairly sure to have the field to themselves, unlike standard archaeological areas such as Egypt where rivals always have agents sniffing around.

    We were about half an hour out on the ice when we got to the real edge of the plateau after a stiff climb “herring-boning” up the slopes. The view was still better from there, and for a few seconds mirages of mountains seemed to dance far out on the Southern horizon. It felt very peculiar looking out in that direction, where the supply aircraft head out to and we can spot strange activity in the extreme distance using the means Saimmi taught us. They say the rumble of the Krakatao volcano was heard in Ceylon thousands of miles away and thought to be distant gunfire just over the horizon – and I found myself wondering just what scale of events we might be listening into, and how far off they really are.

    A fine fast run down the slope from the plateau to Wotansberg, and only a few of us tumbled. Furs who are otherwise very fit still have some trouble just holding the position long enough. Standing on skis with knees bent is hard for a straight-legged fur to keep up for more than a few minutes, yet if one stands up straight the first bump or course change will mean a crash. Jack-legged furs are at a natural advantage here. Helen agrees, and says Beryl would be good at this and should try it – preferably as a permanent career. She could probably make a living selling ice in Antarctica if anyone could.

    Back to our rooms for a most welcome bath and grooming which had us feeling almost civilised again. Our Spontoonie language is really quite useful for private conversations as we found in Macao; Helen and I brought Molly and Maria up to speed with what we had found. Maria is still not entirely comfortable with our religious training, but admits it has its uses. She has seen it in action on Cranium Island and on Krupmark against things that no other sorts of talent would affect, and is very interested in our impressions of the mountains to the South. I expect Professor Schiller’s work is in that direction, as there does not seem to be much for an archaeologist to do in a tourist resort. What he finds to investigate in the unknown interior should be interesting.

    Molly grumbles that she feels naked without weaponry, but it hardly fits in with our being harmless tourists here. The talkies have adventure films where furs have reversible uniforms with all sorts of gadgets built in, but the trouble with that is it might as well read on the back “I Am A Spy” when the authorities spot one is wearing it. Having the occasional Czech Army Knife and toolkit in the pockets or a compass or two sewn in is another matter; anyone who has heard of Songmark would quite expect it. If we had a term-time competition the “best-dressed girl in class” would look exactly like all the other contestants, until one X-rayed her clothing. First-years are inclined to rattle if shaken; second-years learn to pack better.

    As we expected, not all the staff here are wholly concerned with serving up the goulash soup and mulled wine. Herr Grubensdorf definitely gives the equivalent of a strong echo on the hydrophone, rather like a submarine “pinging” an ocean liner. Molly speculated that off-season this resort is useful as a rest area for the whole colony – advanced bases in the interior are not likely to have comfy beds, baths or mains hot air heating, and anywhere else furs might go for rest and recuperation is an awful long way off. Actually the beds are very nice, and unlike at Songmark there is no trouble finding a sleeping position to rest one’s daily bruises (of which we have many, both there and here.) Being able to get enough sleep is such a luxury and one we are making the most of. When we return to Songmark it will be our final term and by repute we will have to plan a scheduled time to breathe, let alone sleep!

    Down to the dining area bang on time, all neatly brushed and dressed in our best – Songmark does not list “quick-change artist” on its prospectus but it is a skill one certainly learns especially dressing in the dark in an unheated dorm. The corridors here are decidedly cool, as there is just enough heat to keep the guests from freezing on the way to the public rooms – it seems as if the rooms and buildings here are suspended inside tunnels mostly without touching the endless heat sink of the solid rock around. A thick layer of “rock-wool” insulates the rooms, and can survive leaks and condensation without rotting. A decidedly efficient building system and one that can be rapidly extended with prefabricated units in quite crudely finished tunnels.
 
    One wonders if they have been taking tips from the underground cities on Franz Joseph Land at the North Pole, where the Hapsburg Empire retreated to prepare its comeback once (quote) the corrupt and unstable European governments based on Nationalism and Democracy (unquote) have collapsed? One would not think the current Reich has a lot in common with the Imperial refugees who live, if they still live, under half a mile of rock in the High Arctic. Still, it would be ironic if the furs on Cranium Island really do succeed in a (mostly) world-destroying experiment, and the Franz Joseph Land folk are the sole survivors and dig their way out of the rubble to repopulate the planet. They are well-placed to survive most things, by all accounts.

    Dinner was a decidedly lively affair, now that folk have got used to the routine and are starting to make themselves at home. Not everything is strictly imported; it seems that Wotansberg has its own brewery! Of course the grain and hops are imported, but that is trivial compared to carrying basically water across the Roaring Forties from Australia or South America. Molly sampled a stein and declared her family business would have made little profit on something of that quality. This is no bad thing; the waitress assured us their beer is brewed under the medieval “Reinheitsgebot” purity law, very different from the bathtub bootleg fizz the Procyk family were turning out at least cost to a decidedly seller’s market. I doubt the medieval burghers who put the original ale purity laws together would have been too impressed with Chicago bootleg brews made with sugar synthesised from sawdust and hydrochloric acid. *

    Certainly, the rest of the guests seemed quite taken with the local product and quite a party ensued. The staff were kept definitely busy re-filling the beer steins; they seem to be quite happy with parties starting in beer-halls. Snorri Snorrisen was particularly enthusiastic – then, a polar bear of Viking stock might be expected to. Molly whispered that her Family would have been delighted to have had him as a customer ten years ago –if the Sapporo Olympics of 1940 introduce a drinking event, Vanierge would be well advised to place him on the national team.

    I kept to a glass of white wine and kept my eyes and ears open. About an hour into the evening we had a not unexpected visitor – a certain mouse.  Herr Grubensdorf is smaller than me, and I am no giant – but he has a definitely charged presence. Helen felt it too, and whispered that if she had a gold-leaf electroscope tuned to something other than radium-emissions, it would have gone flat immediately. He seems to shine, not as a light in himself but like a polished sword blade. The “Feel” of it is rather like those three odd wolves who worked with Professor Schiller last Summer, who we thought of as a group (G-U-U) rather than regular furs.

    Not surprisingly he made for our table, moving in by sweeps like an aircraft hunting a radio beacon. When he saw and evidently recognised Maria he smiled and introduced himself as Franz Grubensdorf, a humble researcher and scientist. He added that Professor Schiller had mentioned we would be coming out for an exciting holiday, and hoped we were enjoying ourselves so far.

    Molly and Maria engaged him in conversation while Helen and I tried to stay in the background. It seemed possible he had not spotted just which of us had the particular talents – and we were not going to volunteer that sort of information till we knew just why he was interested. Still, we listened in quite eagerly as he talked of discovering “certain rare resources” at great risk in the interior. Maria tried to pump him for information about the minerals to be found out there – but we have not seen evidence of heavy mining equipment at the docks, let alone ore being shipped. It would have to be gold or radium to be profitable to ship back to Europe from Antarctica.

    It was rather hard keeping track of the conversation when there was such a lively party going on all around; most furs seemed to be in need of a lot of general anaesthetic and muscle relaxant, and the local ale was evidently both. It is said to be an “Oktoberfest bier” which is, oddly enough, fairly relevant down here as it is the Southern Hemisphere’s autumn. The first few evenings everyone had been too sore and bruised to do much more than dine and head out for a hot soak and an early night, but the furs on this holiday seem a resilient bunch and have got back into the swing of things. One could almost imagine a definite social tradition building up around after skiing.

    In our Warrior Priestess training we have learned how to effectively look and listen silently with our skills – rather like waiting till one’s eyes adjust in the darkness, rather than switching on a searchlight that other folk are liable to notice miles away. Spontoon priestesses look much the same as each other shown that way (except Priestess Oharu who is from a different Tradition) and for some strange reason do our Tutors – but Herr Grubensdorf is somewhat different. It is as hard to describe it in words as it would be to write down exactly what an unfamiliar scent is like so someone else would recognise it. I can say he registered as something harder, colder – like steel-tipped icicles rather than the strong wood that a Spontoonie priestess reminds me of. Definitely a different tradition, and nothing so refined.
 
    A fine evening, and very informative. I hope we learned more than we gave away – after all, we were invited here by Professor Schiller and presumably he forwarded what public facts he knows of us, plus whatever Eva has found out. It makes me wonder just why he did invite us down. One tries not to have too much of a suspicious nature, but these are not furs with exactly the world’s best reputation for charity and generosity. Perhaps that is the reputation they are trying to live down – it is always best to look on the bright side. As Molly says, the Reich may have banned the Barx Brothers’ films but they have banned Little Shirley Shrine too.

*Editor’s note: this can be done. Readers are not recommended to try it at home, or the resulting product.


Saturday April 3rd, 1937

Another day of hard but enjoyable skiing. The weather is definitely cooler, about minus fifteen plus (or possibly minus) wind chill, but bright sunshine makes it very tolerable. The leather skiing boots are well fitting, and we have thick felt gaiters that go over everything and supposedly keep one’s paws from freezing. It might be more accurate to say they delay the process. Still, one can hardly expect this will ever be a popular sport, rather than a useful way for Adventurers to get about. As we spend more than three quarters of the time trudging uphill, it is jolly hard work and nothing one could imagine the average Spontoon tour-boat tourists doing. It might be a lot healthier for them if they did, though.

    Out on the plateau one’s eyes are drawn Southwards, and in the very clear dry air the view must be seventy miles or more. Actually it is sometimes a lot further – though mirages are usually thought of as hot desert phenomena, it is a matter of temperature differences rather than any particular temperature – and we get brief flashes of mirage here. There are distorted, upside-down glimpses of what must be a huge range far inland, that waver and shift in and out of focus in a most disturbing way. I get the most peculiar feeling watching them, and Helen says she feels the same.

    Now we have learned the basics of skiing, we are being taken on longer and longer tours. It feels rather exposed, being up on the high plateau with only our tour group for hundreds of miles. When Maria and me were on our own on Vostok escaping from the Bolsheviks, at least we had a chance of running into friendly or neutral Native settlements, and when we reached the coast there were passing ships that we might have signalled to or rafted out to. Here there is nothing – in some directions it is a thousand miles to the coast, and some of that coast has never been surveyed from the air, let alone explored on foot. Even in the Aleutians there were settled islands within rafting range, and though driftwood was scanty a raft might have been possible. One feels definitely isolated. The entire world around is pure rock and ice, with not a scrap of life or even a stick of driftwood for a fire. The winds and ocean currents go eternally around the continent, and besides the nearest land is Patagonia which is barren enough on its own account and not likely to drop convenient logs our way.

    I recall back in Scripture classes at Saint Winifred’s being told that many of the world’s religions came out of the deserts, where there is silence and emptiness and a fur feels so exceedingly alone under the heavens at night. Antarctica is about the ultimate desert, being in real terms dryer than the Sahara and no possibility of an oasis to provide refuge. One wonders what sort of religion might come out of here, or what it might do to an existing one that comes in and stays for long.

    As there is only one settlement, we cannot go out too far and still be back for lunch (garlic soup today served in a sort of edible pot consisting of a hollowed-out small loaf, like medieval “trencher-bread”) but two hours on good snow each way can cover a lot of territory. We are of course making notes of times and distances, knowing full well our Tutors will be asking us. At least we can look forward to writing reports of our athletic holiday with a clear conscience and confidence they will approve. Molly whispered that she would love to see what Jasbir, Meera and Sophie put down for how they spent their time on Gull Island. The Sind sisters may be of their local nobility but the traditions in Utterly Pradesh are rather different – their sacred temples are reputed to be covered with carvings that decidedly would not go on a publicly saleable postcard. Not even in Spontoon, where one can purchase ones of Natives in exceedingly authentic costume.

    After luncheon we heard there are plans for some extensive excursions tomorrow; some are going out to look at a spectacular glacier, and some to climb one of the local mountains that stick up invincibly through the snow, earning their name of “Nunatak” as even the million years of glacial attack has been repulsed to date. There are lists to sign of who wants to go where, that are being posted tonight. Each trip is three days; we will be staying at already established snow huts and caves near the attractions, and flying out and back in the ski-equipped aircraft.
 
    It should be a jolly interesting three days, whichever one we go for!


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