The Polar Bear People
[Published here alone; written for a SPR/SUM Year 2 university module (non-assessed).]
The “Polar Bear People” – Doc. #1 – 1867
It is unlikely that I will see next week’s sun. Certainly will I never see England’s again. As far as I am aware, I am the only man of us left alive to see any sun. That is as of two days ago, when Charles Grey was lost to snow fever. I barely knew him, but in the days since Hughes’ loss, he was an appreciated face to have around—one of my own.
The natives, I suppose, sense that I do not have long left, as they have now provided me with more to survive this white desert than any man led by God could need. Whether it is ritualistic for them, I do not know, but in response to the shortening of my days, they have moved me up to one of the northernmost tents. Here, in what ways are possible, they convey stories to me. One in particular piqued my interest. Perhaps this is because I found it easiest to understand, but regardless it took me for another reason. They spoke of polar bear people.
So they tell me, before the sea rose there was a stretch of land that protruded from the coast, one region northwards. The length of this land is, as they indicate, far far. It is still there, buried under water. But which part of it is not buried is the—now—island on the other end. I asked how big this land might be, but they communicated that they could not know—none of them have travelled there for forty years. The one that did travel there and return those years ago could only say that it was far. Far enough for him to not see any coastline beyond that which he had crossed to arrive there. A white fog did hang over the island. At first, I was confused how it had even been possible to travel there, even forty years ago, given the risen sea. But they explained that once every twenty years, the levels drop just low enough to walk across, as though walking through a long, shallow puddle. It is walkable for three to four days at this time. Of course, upon asking when it would next be possible, they told me it would be, to their estimate, the start of next week.
Expressing my dismay at unlikely living to see the island, they reminded me that it had been five men that visited the island forty years ago, yet only one returned. Not only this. Twenty years ago, a team of Englishmen had returned to this native village after hearing the story on their prior visit. There had been more than one-hundred of them. The number able to return home was zero. First, half the crew had travelled to the island. Worried for their safety after a delayed return, a quarter more travelled over. Finally, a smaller group of loyal men did the same. Those who were left could not man their ship alone, agreeing to let the natives dismantle it and use the parts for housing and tools. I am told some of the Englishmen had helped to build huts and so were cared for better by these natives. This did not increase their survival by long.
Perhaps approaching death has awoken a morbid curiosity within me. I want to see that island. I want to see what took the lives of all those men. Maybe it just becomes so cold that the ice-laden air is what kills a man there. Maybe it is the polar bears or walruses I am told reside there that send men to the Gates above. Or, maybe the polar bear people are real. It is that thought which excites me. Excitement in death seems so rare a feeling, I dare not deny it. I observe and embrace it.
Just the discussion of these people disturbs the natives. They even showed me artwork depicting the Final Day, which, to them, is when the polar bear people will come down from the island and purge their people from this world. Whether it will happen or not, they do not know, but they think of it as the most likely end for them, whenever that day should be. Recent knowledge they have of these people all comes from the one man who returned from the trip forty years ago. They call him what I believe translates as “living one”. He is alive now, but so close to death himself that he does not speak anymore. What he saw is now told by the storytellers.
Putting together what they tell me and the artwork I have been shown, I will form a picture of these polar bear people. They are covered head to toe in white fur, other than their face and hands, revealing thick, black skin, as well as abundant, white hair and a beard. “Head to toe”, however, is not covering much for some of these people, as they span from the average height of modern men to, supposedly, two heads shorter. Where they have obtained the white fur, the living one is confident, is from polar bears, as their boots were starkly polar bear feet. Although this polar bear usage—and the people’s appearance—is what earned them their name, it is not the only prey of their hunt.
Resting against the waist of their polar bear skin coat, they have one or two walrus tusks strung. This is their most used tool, it would seem. Their tents are also made of gutted and stitched walrus carcasses, the head being proudly displayed atop the entrance. The survival of the walrus is what the living one and the other four men faced first-hand.
After arriving on the island forty years ago, it was late afternoon and not long until they would find the polar bear people. They looked to be a healthy community. Locating a mound far enough into the fog to be out of sight, the five observed until it was dark and the people began lighting campfires before heading into their tents. During their afternoon observation, the five had seen a group walk from the village and return, blood-stained, pulling a walrus carcass. Once in the centre, they gutted it. Other polar bear people ran in to collect various parts, but not the carcass itself. That was brought to the edge of the village and became one of many surrounding it. After they had eaten and the campfires were lit, those who didn’t return to a tent crawled into an opening in the lining of the walrus carcasses. The group was eager to explore the village whilst the polar bear people slept, but the living one refused to go. Instead he watched on from the fog as the four split into pairs and entered the village. One pair had approached a carcass together and almost instantaneously after peering inside, the polar bear person within jumped out and impaled them both with a walrus tusk each. They were then dragged to the centre campfire and left by it before the polar person returned to their casing. The other two watched this from behind a tent. Both then began to hurry away from the camp. Two guards from different walrus skins then rushed out towards them and speared them with their tusks before bringing them to the centre. After this, they let out an echoing grumble, causing the other polar bear people to awake and search around their village. At this, the living one returned to the native village and recounted what had happened.
That is all there is to recount of these animalistic people. And, with me the story goes no further. I do not believe I will see the next lowering of water, nor will I make it back to England to tell of what I have heard. What I can leave behind, though, is this letter which I will tell the natives to hold on to and offer the next traveler here. Whether they will or not, I cannot say, as they haven’t showed fondness for written words prior. What I can say is that if fate is drawn against my belief, I will visit that island. There is something blood-curdling and yet thrilling and fulfilling about the idea of experiencing the people there. If in death, I should make discovery, then I can only be fulfilled.
William Fitch