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Irving is beginning to think he would be quite happy never to set foot in the hold ever again.
The crates and bags and stores, all arranged so neatly and yet he always has to return and pick through them again and again. Sometimes, he thinks they move, wriggle around, try to confuse him. He has not told anybody this, of course. He does not want them to think him mad. This long on the ice, any man might have fancies but Irving is determined that it will not be him who has them first.
Besides, it is not all bad. Sometimes, as the stores are moved around, he finds surprises, which he had thought impossible. The crate of jam had been very well received. He heads back to that corner now, just in case but it is just empty crates now so he is turning to begin accounting elsewhere when his toe strikes something.
It is a box. A most unfitting one, too small to contain anything very important and yet it must be important, for it is clasped together with bands that look like tarnished silver. Irving rubs at them, trying to see if they are locked together. Why ever would there be a silvered box in the hold? It cannot possibly hold any food or any supply of any use. Is it really silver? He would have to polish it up to know for sure.
Curiosity pricks him. He places it aside and finishes his job, then takes it back to his cabin. The box is even stranger when it is in a good light. It is dark and dirty from being so long hidden but when Irving begins to polish, the silver stands out bright. Could it be Captain Crozier’s? But why would he conceal it in the hold? It is not a logical thing for anyone to have done –
He does not expect it to open. Something so odd must surely be locked. But his thumbs push the catches and the lid snaps back and Irving suddenly finds himself inhaling a puff of powder as dark as smoke. He gags on it, choking, briefly, horrifyingly unable to breathe, blinded –
Then he can see again and his throat is clear and he feels ridiculous. The box is part-filled with what appears to be dirt, dirt that he must have dislodged when it opened so suddenly. He stirs it a little with his fingers but there is nothing more to it. A box filled with earth. Irving laughs a little, closes it. A mystery but a dull one then. Perhaps someone thought they would have time to plant a garden or that they would value a little English earth on their trip. Well, it has proved little use or luck so far. A waste of a pretty box. Though he finds it oddly ugly to look at now, an unpleasant, nasty little thing. He shoves it in the drawer beneath his bed. He will return it to the hold when he gets an opportunity and forget all about it.
*
“John, are you all right?”
Irving lifts his oddly heavy head, meets Hodgson’s worried gaze. He is not feeling terribly right, though he is not sure what is wrong. He feels rather drowsy, although he slept well – slightly strange dreams, perhaps, but well. He is terribly hungry, despite having eaten quite a good breakfast but somehow, none of it was satisfying. He is not sure what he wants but he is sure if he saw it, he would know it.
But he does not think it would be wise to say any of this to Hodgson so he forces a smile on his face, nods his head.
“Of course George. Why would I not be?”
“I don’t know. But you and Edward are the same like this, I know you both, you’ll work till you drop. So if you get sick, please take yourself to Doctor McDonald and don’t make me drag you!”
Irving laughs at this and Hodgson’s face lights up, obviously feeling he has done well.
“I am not sick,” Irving says. “I promise.”
He is sure he is not sick. He does not feel sick. When the drowsy hunger isn’t frustrating him, he feels startling healthy. He appears to finally be used to the cold for it has not troubled him so much for the last few days. He feels as though if only he were properly fed, he could do almost anything. It is an energy he has missed – but has not yet quite found how to use. He’s sure it’ll work out though. If he is improving, he will continue to improve. He knows it.
*
He does not improve.
The sluggish hunger gets worse over the next few days, weighing him down. He eats voraciously, finds himself longing for second helpings, for different food. He wishes there was fresh meat, something delicious and juicy and rare. He’s never been like that before but he knows it would help, it would be good, it would be so good. He is so tired sometimes and he does not know why. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he cannot help but think he looks pale, insubstantial.
“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, are you well?”
Mr Gibson has noticed. Irving lifts his head, tries to smile.
“Quite well, Mr Gibson, thank you,” he says.
“Shall I shave you, sir?”
“Please.”
Mr Gibson begins his work and Irving lets his mind wander. He has a busy day today, in so much as they have busy days out here. He hopes he can get his energy up a little. If only he knew how to do it. If there was just something truly meaty to eat, something rich and red ...
Mr Gibson gives a very soft hiss, so soft that Irving is surprised he heard it. He looks around, sees Mr Gibson looking at his finger, sees the line of blood there –
The world seems to narrow. There is nothing in it except that little cut, that little bead of blood. It’s so bright and red, a little jewel of it, glowing and glowing and Irving is salivating, he is so hungry –
“Sir?”
Gibson’s voice is high and frightened. Irving blinks. He is holding onto Gibson’s wrist, holding it tightly. How has he done that? He does not remember moving and yet he has twisted right round in his seat.
“S-sir. You’re hurting me.”
Gibson’s face is very white. Irving knows he should let go but he is oddly reluctant. The blood sparkles in his vision. He feels the most peculiar urge to dip his mouth to it, touch the soft finger to his lips and lap -
The cross at his throat throbs. Revulsion suddenly fills him. What is he thinking?
“Get out!”
He thrusts Gibson from him. Gibson flees without even an attempt to ask what he has done wrong and Irving leans over his desk, breathing shakily. What is wrong with him? How could he even contemplate such a monstrous thing? He feels sick with horror. There is something to fear here, something most terrible and he does not know what.
He clutches his cross, murmurs a prayer. He must just be a little unwell. It will pass. He will apologise to Mr Gibson later. He will make this right. It was just an aberration. Just a little aberration. Of course there is nothing wrong with him. Of course.
He loosens his grip on his cross. He has held it hard enough to mark his skin. But it is well. All is well, he is sure.
*
He is wrong. He realises it quickly.
He has always known that he has a penchant for the sin of desiring men. He usually keeps it under control – the occasional flicker of longing when he sees a man’s well-shaped form, a wish for deep companionship that he knows is more romantic than friendly. But he prays and does his exercises and he does not sin.
But whatever it is that is wrong with him, whatever it is that is dragging him down, now it is dragging him still further for the desire is burning. He looks on the men and he aches for them. They are so vital, so vivid. He craves them. He wants to press them against the wood, touch them, feel them. He wants to press his face into their throats, breathe their scent, their salt, their taste. Every man, regardless of aspect, he’d have any one of them today. It burns in him as hot as flame and it terrifies him. What has made him like this? What sickness could have infected his heart to make him lust?
He controls it, biting it back, forcing it down inside him, picking his finger when it becomes too much. He prays for guidance, for help, that nobody can see he is wracked with obscene needs. He must not be seen. Christ he must not be seen.
They notice. They don’t know what it is they are noticing but they do. Little asks if he is all right, his eyes big and worried and Irving wants to grind against him until Little isn’t thinking at all. Hodgson tries to tease him into cheeriness, Irving dreams of straddling him until Hodgson is calling his name with abandon. When he thinks of visiting Doctor McDonald, his mind instantly conjures up images of pushing the man against the wall and pleasuring him. He trembles in horror at himself, at his lusts. He should not be alone with anyone.
He apologises miserably Little, begs to be excused, goes to his cabin and kneels there. He wants to pray but the words skitter hopelessly over his mind. He reaches for his Bible but his hand seems to fall short of it. The cross around his neck feels so hot that he pulls it off, shoves it aside. He does not know what to do. His head is swimming. He is so hungry. He is so hungry. If he could just eat, he would be all right, these lusts would fade, he knows it, if he could just indulge in this one, tiny need ...
A tap on his door.
“W-who is it?”
“Jopson, sir. Might I come in?”
He stumbles quickly to his feet, checks he looks presentable before calling the man in. Jopson enters, closing the door behind him. Irving stares past him rather than at him and begs his body not to disgrace him. Jopson smells of soap. It is pleasant.
“W-what can I do for you?”
“Sir,” Jopson says quietly. “Please do not take this the wrong way but Mr Gibson has spoken to me and he seemed to believe you were unwell.”
“I’m fine,” Irving says brusquely. “Quite all right.”
“Sir. Forgive me but that is not true.”
He puffs up furiously.
“Do you accuse me of lying, Jopson? You may be allowed to speak so to the Captain but I will certainly not tolerate such a thing!”
“You are not wearing your cross, sir.”
“And must I always wear it?!” Irving snarls. The anger that fills him is beginning to turn to a deliciously stinging rage. Does Jopson think he can be insubordinate? He’ll rip the man apart with his bare hands and drink his steaming blood from the very deck!
The thought is delicious. It is repellent. He staggers backward, almost losing his balance. Oh God. Oh God, what is wrong with him?
“Sir. I believe I have seen this malady before. I believe I can help you.”
Jopson’s voice is quiet. Irving stares at him. Oh, if Jopson can fix this, if he can make Irving right –
“Can you pick up your cross, sir?”
Irving finds himself strangely reluctant to do so. He has to force his hand to obey him. The cross is now too cold, nasty beneath his hand and he has to fight an urge to drop it. Jopson gives a soft sigh.
“It is the first, that,” he says. “If you can fight the pain sir and keep it on you, it will ease. Not enough to cure but it will help.”
“I ... I don’t understand. Jopson, what ... what are you talking about?”
“Have you heard tell of vampires, sir?”
Irving stares at him. Jopson does not look like he is joking. He does not look like he wishes to make Irving laugh. His pale face is serious, his expression set as though he believes what he is saying.
“Vampires?” Irving scoffs. “Superstition!”
“Truth, sir, in fact. Not quite as some of the tales might say but truth none-the-less. I think you have been turned sir, though how in a place such as this – ”
“I am in no mood for this nonsense, Jopson!” Irving snaps. “I am in no mood – ”
“You saw Mr Gibson bleeding, yes? And you liked it.”
“No! No, I ... of course I ... ”
The gleam of it, the thick, flow, oh, oh ... he feels his tongue dip from his mouth briefly to lick his lips, knows Jopson has seen it too.
“Vampires do not exist,” he says miserably. “They do not exist, Mr Jopson, it is a lie, it is a lie, it must be ... ”
Jopson looks at him gently and Irving hates it. It cannot be real. It cannot. He is a good man, a Godly man, he believes and there cannot be ... there cannot ...
His cross throbs as cold as the ice outside in his hand. Unnatural.
“Am I damned, then?” he whispers and his legs nearly give away at the empty horror of such a thing.
“I do not know,” Jopson says quietly. “I know that if it should take full control of you, you will become a creature unlike yourself. That you will crave blood over anything. But it is not impossible to hold back, sir. It is not impossible.”
“Then what do I do?! I can’t ... I don’t understand ... I was not like this before!”
The box he suddenly thinks and he drags his drawer open, pulls the thing from it. It sits in his hands; just a small, warm wooden thing. When he touches the silver clasps, they are chilly and unpleasant. He offers it to Jopson and Jopson takes it.
“Someone must have hidden it here to send it away. When you opened it, something came out? Touched your skin, went into your mouth? That is how, then.”
“Can I put it back?”
“I don’t think so, sir. Perhaps there are learned men back home that would know how but I have never heard of it. I think you and it must ... exist together, in so much as you can. But you can be helped, sir. I will help you. Continue to wear your cross, even when it hurts you – that will hold it back. Continue your prayers. And I shall feed you sir, a little amount every few days and that – ”
“Feed?”
He does not need to ask. He knows exactly what Jopson speaks of. Blood.
“It is the best way, sir. Unfed, the cravings prove stronger than the man who holds them. You are better to take controlled drinks than – ”
“Never!”
He is disgusted by the idea. Disgusted by his own desire for it, the voice inside him that whispers that just a little surely would not hurt. It is hideous. Is he not a good, Christian man? Is he to be a slave to some demon desire? That is not who he is!
“Sir, you – ”
“I said no and I mean it! I will die before drinking a drop of blood! We will talk no more about this Jopson, no more at all unless you have some better solution!”
Jopson gives a soft sigh. His gaze drops to the floor. Irving holds himself tall, feeling his cross aching at his throat.
“I ... I am grateful, Jopson,” he says, trying to sound more himself. “That, that you would try to help me. I ... how do you know of such things?”
“Something that happened in my youth, sir,” Jopson says. He clearly has no intention of elaborating “I .. you must be careful of yourself, sir. The cravings will get stronger. A man bleeding around you will fill you with urges. You will begin to notice the scents of the men, the vitality of them and you will want it. There is ... another matter, sir that you need be aware of. A consequence of your new condition is that some men will gravitate towards you. They will not understand why, sir, but there are always men that are drawn to such things. They will be easily subdued by you, will try to give you what they think you need. It will be hard for you to resist what they offer. That is when the temptation will be at its strongest.”
Irving hears it all with a cold sort of horror. He does not understand. It all sounds so sordid and terrible and sinful. Hasn’t he already seen himself weak today? Beset with lust? Is Jopson saying that will happen more?
“I shall pray,” he says. “I shall pray and ... and God will help me.”
He hates that his voice quivers as he says it. He believes it. Of course he does. There is nothing that cannot be fixed by prayer and hard work.
“Of course, sir,” Jopson says blandly. “And if you need me sir, simply call. I will be on hand for you.”
“Thank you,” Irving whispers. His cross is aching again. He ignores it. He will wear it night and day and pray and this will cease. It must cease.
He will be well. He will. He can defeat this, now he knows the nature of it. Of course he can.
*
The cravings do not leave him. They burn within; a rancid, low-level fuel of obscene wants and desires. He is better – he is better – at blocking them now. But they still thrum beneath the surface, tempting him, confusing every interaction with their flickers. Have him, take him, kiss him, bleed him dry ...
He sees what Jopson means too about the men that are attracted to his new disease. Not all. Some, in fact, seem far less easy around him than they did before. Manson shows fear when he is near for no obvious reason. Hickey regards him with a strange eye. But some seek him out, he is sure of it. Sergeant Tozer seems to be around him more, offering assistance, watching him with thoughtful eyes. Tom Hartnell, soft and shy, never overstepping a boundary but there. And Irving can feel the pull of them more than the others, the itch beneath his skin. It would be so easy to slip into a shadow with them, caress them into still compliance, swallow their blood in great gulps. So easy ... but he does not. He will not. He is strong, he has God and Jesus on his side, he will not break or bend, he will stand tall and fight and he will win.
His cross has marked his throat now; a little burn in the shape of it that Irving things might scar. He tells himself that it is a good sacrifice.
*
He cannot sleep.
Hunger is haunting him, driving him mad. He can smell blood, he does not know where or who but someone has bled and he wants it. It’s a constant drone in his head: want, want, want and he cannot give in, he cannot but nor can he ignore it. He kneels on the floor, praying over and over again but the words mean nothing, they are just spilling out of his mouth in a mindless flood. He wants. He wants. Oh, he wants.
A sob escapes him and he presses his face into his hands, begins his prayers again. He cannot give in. He cannot. He is strong. He is strong. He is strong. He is so hungry. So horribly, horribly hungry.
A tap on the door.
“John?”
Hodgson’s voice is soft. Irving tries to scramble to his feet but he has knelt too long and his legs are numb. He stumbles, thumping into the desk and Hodgson obviously hears the noise for he opens the door in a rush.
“John?”
“I, I am fine,” he says and knows it is clearly an untruth. He can feel the tear tracks on his face and his fingers sting. He has been biting them more and more of late, trying to block the desires. It does not work. Nothing works.
“Oh John. John, that is not true. What is wrong? Why don’t you tell me? I can help you.”
“You, you cannot,” he says wretchedly. “But it does not matter, it ... please George ... ”
Hodgson ignores him. He steps forward, puts his arms around Irving’s shoulders, pulling him near. Oh. Oh he smells so good. So warm and solid and he is stroking Irving’s back softly, so softly and it cannot hurt just to let himself be held, can it? He is strong, he is, he is strong enough for this.
“Let me help you.” Hodgson’s voice is soft and warm in his ears. “Let me help you, John. Dear John. I don’t pretend to understand but I’m here and I’m sure if you let me, I can put it right. I’m sure.”
He is rocking Irving slightly, his hands still caressing ever so delicately. Irving grips him, presses a little closer. Such a good smell. Such a pleasing sensation. His face is tucked against Hodgson’s soft throat. His pulse beats beneath the skin; a lovely, steady thing. He puts his lips to the pulse without meaning to and Hodgson shivers but does not pull away.
“John,” he murmurs and he sounds different now, heavy, dreamy. “Let me help you. I’ll do anything you ask. Sweet, sweet John ... ”
“Anything?” he murmurs back, lips moving against that skin. He feels Hodgson shiver. One of his hands has come up to stroke Irving’s hair. The other has fallen to his hip, is stroking there, a soft back and forth, not quite enough to be outside of property but near, oh, so near ... they could do such things, such pleasing things ...
“Anything,” Hodgson says, sounding dreamier than ever. “You ... you’re so lovely. I hate to see you unhappy. Just let me give you what you need ... ”
What they think you need.
Jopson’s words swim back into his mind, hazy but there. He realises his mouth is open against Hodgson’s neck, pressed against it in a parody of a kiss, teeth poised, he is going to bite, he is going to bite and drink and Hodgson will let him because Hodgson just wants to please him now, he is no longer himself, he is Irving’s, Irving owns him, can rule him and feed from him and take his pleasure –
“No! No!”
He thrusts himself back. Hodgson stumbles. His eyes are glazed, face slack. He does not seem to take in Irving’s distress. He reaches out again.
“John ... ”
“If, if you want to help me, fetch Jopson,” he says, forcing the words out. “Fetch Jopson and, and go and sleep and, and do not think on this madness, please George, I beg you!”
Hodgson stares at him for a moment, face still glazed. Then he nods slightly, smiles a hazy sort of smile.
“If that’s what you want, John.”
“Yes. Please.”
Hodgson nods agreeably, leaves the room. Irving slumps onto his bed, head in his hands, chanting a psalm over and over, desperate for the need to subside. He has done the right thing. He resisted. He did. But barely. He cannot stop thinking of Hodgson’s throat so soft beneath his lips, how easy it would have been, how much he wants it, needs it ...
The door opens and Jopson is standing there. He begins to roll up his sleeve.
“Sir,” he says gently.
“I can’t,” Irving says despairingly. “I can’t.”
“Sir. You must.”
Jopson’s arm is pale. It almost glimmers in his vision. He is so hungry.
“I will be damned,” he says wretchedly. “The Lord will turn from me and I will be damned.”
“You do not know that. God has infinite forgiveness, does he not? If you take from me now, you save others that you might hurt because something beyond your control rules you. It is a balance, sir.”
What Jopson says sounds right but Irving wonders if he just wants it to be true. Just wants to believe him so he can sate the need in him. He is weak, he has always been weak, it has always been such a fight to be a good, righteous man and now ...
Jopson steps towards him. He takes a small knife from his pocket and digs it into the crook of his elbow. The blood stings Irving’s nose. Even in the darkness, it seems bright and jewel-like. Hunger. Hungerhungerhungerhunger –
“Come here, sir.”
Jopson is suddenly holding him. His blood is inches from Irving’s mouth and he crumples. Hunger, so much hunger, he can’t, he can’t, he –
It tastes so good. So rich, the most wonderful salty delight. He licks, then sucks. A part of him wants to bite hard but he stops himself. He does not have to bite, not when riches are already in abundance. He can just drink and fill himself, gorge himself.
“That’s it, sir.” Jopson’s voice is soft, kind. “That’s it. If the blood slows, just wipe it with a cloth and it will start again.”
He hums a hazy agreement, continues gulping. Oh, he feels so good. The world is blossoming around him. He can hear the whole ship, all the men shifting and sleeping and walking and breathing. He can hear the wind in the stars and it’s beautiful, it’s all so beautiful, he is something else, he is someone else now and it is wonderful.
He suddenly realises he and Jopson are both kneeling. Jopson is cradling him, petting his hair softly. He feels warm and content, peaceful in a way he has not for so long. It is almost as frightening as the blinding lusts have been and he pulls back, swallowing, wiping his mouth frantically with his hands.
“No sir, use this.”
A handkerchief. He slowly takes it, wipes properly, cleaning lips and fingers until no trace of the delicious elixir remains. Jopson calmly bandages his arm and pulls his sleeve back down.
“Better, sir?”
“Yes,” Irving says. “Did ... was Lieutenant Hodgson all right?”
“Yes sir. A little glassy but I believe he is sleeping it off now. Did you not realise he was so drawn to you?”
“No. The others were obvious, they had little or no reason to be around me. George is ... always like that. To a point.”
“Sir. Let me feed you. Once every two or three days will be enough to keep your hunger under control.”
Irving nods his head wretchedly. He has never felt so strong and yet so weak in his life. He feels as though he could climb mountains and yet he wants to put his head under the pillow and weep.
“Every three days,” he says. “And ... and do not let me hurt you.”
“It did not hurt, sir,” Jopson says. “Do not worry about that. Just continue to be strong enough to serve the Captain and I will be strong enough to serve you.”
Irving nods his head. Jopson nods too, then quietly leaves. Irving knows he will not sleep, not after this. He sits awake. Rather than read, he takes some paper and plays with numbers in a way he has not in years. His mind dances beautifully and he can see the danger he always knew would come with succumbing, the enjoyment of it. His mind is lively, his body healthy and his spirit soiled. He knows he has taken another step from God in more ways than one. Jopson’s blood was delicious and his embrace was warm. Would he allow Irving more than an embrace? It would be dangerous, but it would be delightful ...
He closes his eyes. He can defeat this. He is strong. He is still Godly. Jopson will feed him, he accepts that fact but he will be strong with it. He is not a weak man. He is not.
He can still be saved.
*
Jopson feeds him three times a week. Always the same way, a gash in one of his arms which Irving then curls into and laps at until the hunger no longer rages in him. It is always there, an itch that could only be scratched with a monstrous action but it no longer haunts his every moment. There is something comforting about curling in Jopson’s lap and drinking from him. A ritual that brings contentment, order. When he aches, he can remind himself that soon, Jopson will be there and that he will be safe and soothed and given what he needs. Jopson has taken to talking to him as he drinks, telling him about what he has done in the past few days. It gives a pleasant veneer of a debriefing; of this all being quite normal and nothing to fret over. If Jopson’s hand strokes and pets his hair in a pleasing way as he speaks, if sometimes, Irving has to conceal himself after, it can be ignored. It is just another part of navy life.
Then comes the night of the floggings.
He cannot refuse to be present. What sort of officer would flee from it, particularly as it was he, so long ago, that whispered of Hickey’s predilections in the captain’s ears. It is hard enough with Manson and Hartnell, the blood dripping from their backs but Mr Hickey ...
Hickey’s blood is inflaming. At the first draw of it, Irving wants to fling himself forward. He stings with horrifying want. He wants the blood. He wants Hickey. The desires tangle with each other rapidly, becoming a repulsive orgy of death and sex in his mind. He will have Hickey. He will have him, his body and skin and blood and he will drink until he is fat and gorged and it will be everything his heart has ever desired.
Jopson stands beside him. Each time the lash comes down, he twitches. Irving knows without being told that it is not because Jopson fears the lash nor is sorry for Hickey but because Jopson fears him. He knows that Irving is aching. He knows Irving’s weakness and pities him and doubtless fears that the monster will break free, the monster will be known to all.
He cannot allow it. He will not allow it. The lashing will end soon. God will see him through.
His cross is burning, burning, burning. He tries to take comfort in it. Every burn of it is to keep him righteous, every ache is the Lord saying that he can still be saved. He can. He can still be saved.
It ends. Merciful God, it ends. He goes to his cabin, kneels for a time, recovering himself. He is a human still. He is not damned. He is not damned. He held himself, controlled himself. Not a monster yet. When Little knocks at his door, reports how many men wish to go to the Erebus, he is able to report it to the captain without any more trouble than usual. He is strong. He must be strong.
But the ship reeks of blood and he knows that if Jopson does not come, he will have to send for him. He is strong but he is not that strong. He can admit it. He must admit it if he wants to live even part of a good life.
Jopson comes. Of course he does, he knows what Irving has suffered.
“You did so well, sir,” he says quietly, then sit on Irving’s bed and offers his arm. Irving crumples into it, gulping deeply at the wound. Jopson’s hand comes up to stroke his hair as always; soft and comforting. Irving lies against him and laps his blood, feeling almost relaxed. He is safe in Jopson’s arms. He is safe. He can control it. He can control it all.
“Thank you,” he murmurs softly against the bloodied arm. “Thank you, Jopson. You are the best man on these ships.”
“It is nothing, sir,” Jopson says but when Irving lifts his head, he sees Jopson is looking pale, paler than usual. Guilt floods him. He is taking too much.
“Jopson – ”
“No, sir. It is all right. I wouldn’t have you risk anything. I shall recover.”
Irving cups his cheek, holds it a moment, strokes a thumb down Jopson’s cheekbone. He does not quite mean to do it. But Jopson blinks and then smiles softly, as though he is pleased and Irving feels himself blushing. He feels close suddenly, intimate in a way that he has not before. It is a nice feeling. It does not feel ungodly or connected to his base self. It feels good.
“Thank you,” he says softly. “You are ... the Lord must love you, Jopson. You are truly kind.”
Jopson shakes his head.
“Just my duty for the ship, sir,” he says.
Irving nods. After another moment, he drops his hand, moves back. A part of him longs to ask Jopson to stay, to lie down with him. To kiss him, soft and sweet, to touch him with those delicate hands of his. It would be gentle. He would be gentle. He can be gentle, even now.
But he already asks too much of Jopson. He cannot ask that too. So he lets Jopson stand, watches him adjust his clothes and leave his room, then settles down. He can still smell Hickey’s blood but he can ignore it. He is all right. He is strong again.
*
The day before they walk out, he calls Jopson to him.
“I will not feed off you when we are walking, Jopson.”
Jopson looks positively dismayed.
“Sir, you will need – ”
“No,” Irving interrupts him firmly. “No, Jopson. I will not ... I cannot risk you. We will be walking and it will be hard on us all. Taking your blood when we are in such danger ... I couldn’t and I will not. I will manage – I will be doing better than most of you, after all, the cold does not affect me so. I cannot risk you, Jopson. It is not right.”
“What will you do if you start craving again?” Jopson asks. He sounds unhappy.
“I shall deal with it as it comes. If ... I know I can rely on you. Can I not?”
Jopson smiles at him but it is a strained smile. Irving cannot blame him. He is telling himself that he’s not afraid but he is. They all are. Eight hundred miles. Eight hundred miles with little food. If Fairholme is coming for them, perhaps it will be less but perhaps it will not. Perhaps ... perhaps ...
He swallows.
“Jopson, may I ask something?”
“Of course, sir.”
“If ... if I do not feed ... I ... will I die?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve never seen one like you not feeding. But ... although your kind find it harder to die, I believe it is the blood that keeps you alive so yes, you could perhaps die.”
Irving is not sure what he thinks of that. He does not want to die. He is afraid of it. But to not die ... to not die would forever cut him off from God. Damned. Truly damned.
“Well,” he says. “Well. Perhaps I can use that to help the men, yes?”
“Yes sir,” Jopson says. “If you need me, sir ... I will feed you. Please do not shy away from it. if you are suffering.”
Irving nods but he has no intention of calling on Jopson. He must be strong. Jopson deserves a chance to live, more than the creature that Irving now is. All the men deserve a right to live.
*
The hunger returns.
It is not as powerful and for that, he is grateful. He hopes that is his own effort, his own attempts to strengthen himself but perhaps it is simply that he is more tired, so tired that even his hunger cannot torment him so much. He prays it is true. More than ever, he must be a man and not a monster. The men are beset with enough monsters.
Jopson watches him, careful and discreet. Irving smiles at him, tries to show that he is healthy and well and in control. If his cross burns a little at his throat and the Bible aches in his burned and bitten hands, well. That is the price he must pay.
*
Morfin’s blood smells good.
He tells Hodgson he will be outside checking on the men, but it is a lie. He slips back to where Morfin’s blood still glistens on the stones.
He is a man, not a monster. He is a man, not a monster. He is a man. He is a man. He is a man.
He trails his fingers over the stones. Rapidly cooling liquid glistens on his fingers under the stars. He looks furtively around before pushing them into his mouth. The taste is exquisite.
The shame is unbearable.
He is a monster.
He will always be a monster.
*
The meat the Esquimaux give him is delicious and bloody.
He does his best to conceal his delight for it. They must not know. Bad enough that he has over a hundred men about to beg this little family for help. What would they do if they knew or even thought he was a monster? It would be a final betrayal of the men. So he swallows the meat as decorously as he can, thanks them and is glad that the cold is blocking his sense of smell a little.
Perhaps that is why he does not smell the other blood until it is too late.
He does not really understand what is happening. Hickey is in front of him, face twisted, striking again and again and again and he cannot think, he cannot think. And then Hickey is crouched over him, holding him down, hand over his mouth and he is choking and there is a relief to it, a relief because he is dying, he is dying, he can die and that must mean that God has not turned from him, God will take him to him, he is not damned, he is not damned ...
*
He is not dead.
He does not hurt. Something is wrong, he can tell that but it does not hurt. He sits up and sees he is naked but it is not frightening. Nor are the wounds that litter his body. They should not be there but it does not really matter. He is not dead and he is hungry and he can smell food.
The food is screaming. It is dark and foggy outside but he can see well enough. There is a smell of another predator on the air. He does not want to come into contact with it. There is no need.
Food. He can smell it. A man lies nearby, blood trickling out of him. After a moment, he crouches down, puts his lips to the wound and drinks. It tastes good, though it is turning cold and sluggish. It would be better hot. So much better hot and gushing ...
A pulse at his throat. His stupid necklace. He tears it off, tosses it aside. There are more men nearby. Nobody will see him. He will feed from them, it will be beautiful, everything he has ever wanted ...
There are faces in his mind. Faces of men, men like this one. Men who he liked. Are they to be food too? Did he fight all this time only to give in now?
Somewhere nearby, he can hear someone shouting instructions. Jopson. He likes Jopson. Jopson made it good. Jopson saved him from himself. Jopson would be sad. If Jopson is sad, the others ...
He is so hungry.
He will kill them all if he stays.
So he cannot be here.
The thing once called John Irving closes his eyes and turns himself into fog.
*
He does not know how long he floats in the air.
He is still hungry but it is easier to ignore here. He floats invisibly, not really looking for anything. He could perhaps stay this way forever, except that sometimes, the air sings with the voices of men and he remembers. Little. Hodgson. Jopson, his dear Jopson. Friends. Friends he would not see harmed but who sound harmed, who sound lost and afraid. He does not quite understand their cries any longer, perhaps because he is fog. Once, it all meant so much. Once ...
When he takes his old shape again in Jopson’s tent, the hunger gnaws at him. He ignores it. Jopson turns his head. He looks sick, unappetizing.
“Oh,” Jopson says softly. “Oh sir.”
“I haven’t come to kill you,” he says because that seems important.
“No sir. I believe you. I let myself hope ... I am sorry, sir.”
“You think I should be better dead?”
“Don’t you, sir?”
He ponders the question. He remembers that mattering to him once, mattering a great deal. He is not quite sure why. It must show on his face because Jopson closes his eyes. There is something clasped in his hand and he realises it is his old necklace, the one that would burn if he touched it. Jopson must have found it, kept it. He is not really sure why Jopson should want it but seeing it makes him feel a little strange. Sad.
“I am sorry, sir,” Jopson says dully. “I could not protect you.”
“You did your best. Do not feel bad.”
“Will you kill them, sir? The other men?”
He ponders that question too. They are where the real food is. He hungers. He hungers so much. The faces of the others, they feel meaningless. He is hunger.
“I suppose so,” he says indifferently.
“Must you?”
The question is puzzling.
“I am hungry,” he says.
Jopson nods, as though he did not expect a different answer.
“Goodbye, sir,” he says.
It is a dismissal. He accepts it. There does not seem any reason to stay.
He turns to fog once more and fades away into the air.