Arqtiq: A Study of the Marvels at the North Pole. Anna Adolph
Hastily curving by, we are suddenly brushed by a bush, and berries rattle lusciously on our window-pane. Flinging it open a balmy air salutes us, forcing us out upon a bright-hued snow-flower carpet.
“What, berries in spring! in Arctic forcing-houses! no cold night to delay matters!” as Charley is about to cram his mouth. But I, on closely examining, fail to identify them, and jot in my book a new name, “Onigogies.” He looks over to read. “Gogies, gogies, gorge us, please.”
“Tu whu a whu,” wavers our brains and quivers our eyes, as we see a great white owl perched on our banner, blinking. I see near by an apple vine. I reach out and take a most beautiful red specimen, before I am aware that it is already in the mouth of a serpent, coiled around the twig. Unconsciously an Eve, as unconscious, also, is the reptile, who looks at me with kind, appreciative eyes. But I drop the apple and get into the sleigh, quite weak, unable to prevent Mae from taking and eating another, giving one to father. Seeing me in, Charley gets ready to enter, by loading the bottom. The owl has gone, but approaching is a gorgeous stork of orange plumage. Of camel size, it coolly steps over us, as the rest quickly step in and we move forward.
Thinking this may be a lost Eden, I look curiously to discover the life tree, to see Mae and father, who have turned deathly pale, reel in their seats. Stopping quickly, we put snow on their heads and bind it by leaves of a high shrub we are under. Shuddering, they grasp the leaves in their teeth and swallow the juice as their breath revives. A red glow on their cheeks. Was it the leaves of healing? Much trampled beneath had given us roadway. As expected, we enter a herd of foxes, who are barking in play and basking in the unusual light; as all else, unnoticing us, we glide along quite securely.
Charley has studied the lesson of the apple, as he audaciously reaches down and takes one, and calmly eats it in conjunction with the leaves, to my perturbed attention.
We reach the edge of the island and go down to the sea plain again, which is here more rough in icy waves, making the travel quite difficult. The waves grew larger until mountains high, then lessen and gradually disappear, having unfolded to us a frozen storm at sea.
The surface is smoother and smoother; so that we start up swiftly. A gale scurries toward us from behind. As it strikes us Charley opens valves and we all rise in our seats, unable to contain our ardor, as miles are covered in our exceeding speed, which continues as the moments and hours pass, father’s speed-measure marking a mile a second. Hundreds of miles are covered and the ice is still smooth. Knowing we are not so far away from the peaks that point the pole, we hourly anticipate a view as of masts arising at sea, but instead, we are shocked to see the flame-hued sky settle densely in a fog. So long our friend, its warmth had melted the congealed air and now clouds our nautical bearings. Our compass is our sole northly guide. But what—what is the matter with it that it hangs its head and stops? We are lost!
In frenzy, now, the hours go by as we circle blindly, when a luminant point attracts us far away. Is it the serried guide shaft? It is.
Famished and cold—our steam spent and wheels broken—we make but slow speed toward the flickering gleam. Attaining it, we have only left us our wings, by which we rise up the cliff side of the topping pinnacle—to see others, massed in braided and arcaded confusion before us. Weakening, while above their splintering and crashing avalanches, we drop on the side of the sheerest bayonet of all, as hundreds of hues are changing and ranging in glistening sea waves in a deep, long valley below us. Not long, but a round level plain, girdled by this ring of bergs that hem it in.
Our pained eyes watch father stolidly take our local bearings, then with him shout in audible voice: “The North Pole!”
“Lead, kindly, light!
Lead thou me on.”
The north star in the heavens, shining faintly through the half-clear atmosphere, has decided us on our locality at the dearly attained goal, costing us friends, and country, and possibly our lives.
The sound of our voices falls dead around and echoes into the deep valley below. No sign of the beautiful city we had fancifully pictured. Thankful to die in the light, with the stars to take our last breath, is only left us.
Mae complainingly whimpers: “There isn’t a pole at all!”
“Nor open sea,” growls Charley, hoarsely.
“The width of the valley determines the flattening of the earth, though,” sighs father.
Fall dead around, did I say? our voice—I level the glass down the berg side beneath me. I see at the sound a snowy mass turn about, with a human face uplifted toward me.
So great the size and wondrous fair the countenance I believed myself deceived, as it quickly turns back. But I see two hands clasp together in signal. Then low organ notes swell from below, which, when loudest grown, suddenly stop.
When the sun in hailing gleam lights a tall spire, supporting a ring of gold points arising from the valley center, which I now trace for the first time. Led to examine the valley around it, I see shapes of domes and wall—signs of a buried city. What are they doing? Whirling and shaking? Presto! the snow canvas rolls off, unveiling a full-fledged and much-alive city to my amazed mind. From last extreme of despair my hopes suddenly arise to so sudden height! I fall forward and cover my eyes, to keep my brain intact. The city at last. City of Zion! Sung of poets and portrayed of artists inspired of its contour and elysian beauty. Hope raises a hosanna in my breast that is chorused around me, where I now give my attention.
The human presence below, with feather-plume robes, so like snow, swaying back, is hastening up in giant strides, anxious expectation on his face. As he reaches the ledge on which we lodge the choral voices around disclose a throng of people similar to him lining all the mountain sides. Their pæan of praise to their city’s prowess ended, with shouts and conversation they prepare to descend. Nearly running over us, babes to them in size, they at last spy us, as the first kneels in adoration, his hands over us in protection and token of possession.
With tender emotion he essays to quiet our alarm, managing at last to emit words that sounded like “Welcome, Unions!” For a moment I wonder if other Americans are here lost before us. Then we bow low in reply. Assured of our trust in him he takes charge and lifts us from our ruined vehicle to another, standing near, which is no less than a great white albatross, one of many now being mounted by the throng. Robes are drawn about us, after we are presented to a lady, also in his charge, who, with less success, attempts the words he first used. Feeling quite among friends, as he lifts a feather-tufted guiding wand resting on the bird’s head, I turn to the lady by my side, whose first glance, as though in bitterness, before our arrival, has changed to liveliest sociability in gestures, nods and smiles upon Mae, who is cuddled in her lap.
With womanly curiosity I essay to learn the city’s name. Understanding my desire she essayed to reply, in cordial, harmonious tones, “Arc.” Farther inquiry in my eyes, I get the farther delineation, “It circles Aurora,” meaning, no doubt, the electric centre. Content with this, I scan the dimensions growing, as we approach, and ride high above, the snowy pinions of the bird throng clouding the air.
Courts are numerous, covered with great glass domes and domes rolled back. As we turn down to one of these I hear father whisper to our host, “How do you know English?”
With effort he kindly gives the following: “My father, when younger, explored a great deal upon the iceberg sea around. Venturing too far one day, he became lost in an island garden, to find camped there a people like you, who fed and cared for him.” How simple; his kindness is in gratitude.
“But where are the people?” father farther inquired.
“I do not know. He became lost again from them to find his own city.”
Alighting, we are led through conservatory halls to an