The Earth and The Lion

The old merchant ship cruised into the bay, slicing through cold blue water as smooth as glass. Sharp peaks of black stone towered above the harbor like the walls of a prison. Tiny icebergs bobbed up and down, reflecting their rainbow colors in every spectrum.

A row of hills covered in thin grass was the sole buffer between snow-covered mountains and an old whaling station near the water's edge. The abandoned station stood forlornly, a falling-down collection of rusty tin roofs and broken docks that thrust into the bay like flat wooden fingers. Empty steel drums and discarded wooden beams were scattered everywhere.

The station was an interloper now. Nature would eventually reclaim it. The crumbling buildings stood quietly, empty monuments to a time of whaling ships and the harpoon gun.

A large fishing vessel was beached between two of the docks with its stern thrust onto the shore. It sat majestically with a slight list to port. The hull was rusted surprisingly little considering its age and looking at it, one could imagine giving it a push back out to sea for another run. A few heavy lines hung limply down its side, nearly touching the ground.

Paul Morgan stood at the bow railing of the merchant ship, snapping pictures. He framed each shot carefully, ignoring the biting cold nipping his cheeks and nose. He was an imposing man, well over six feet with a thick, black beard. He wore a heavy red parka and gloves. Moving the camera from side-to-side, he tried to get a panorama of the entire scene. He was quite used to operating a camera while wearing gloves. He finally lowered the camera and shook his head.

It does look different from my last visit, he thought.

The ship came to a stop in the harbor. Morgan startled involuntarily when the anchor chain crashed loudly into the water. He heard footsteps coming up behind him and turned around.

"Dr. Morgan!" The First Officer said impatiently, shivering in the bitter cold.

"Yes?"

"The Captain is having the launch lowered for you now, sir."

Morgan snatched his rucksack and followed the officer to the boat deck.

******

A few minutes later, Morgan and two of the ship's crewmen were powering toward the beach at a steady clip in the launch. Morgan sat alone in the bow, snapping more pictures.

"Ever been to South Georgia Island before, sir?" Shouted one of the sailors above the roar of the engine.

"Yes."

"Scientist or something?"

"I can't talk about it." Morgan stared toward the approaching shoreline. "Sorry."

"You work for the British government, then?"

"That's classified. Please, I can't discuss it."

"Sorry, sir." The launch hissed softly as it ran aground on the beach. "We'll be back in one hour."

Morgan shouldered his rucksack and jumped from the boat. He was careful not to get his feet wet in the freezing water. Waving a polite farewell to the sailors, he started walking up the beach toward the whaling station. He noticed some algae muck just above the tide line and bent over to examine it. It was brown and dead, with an acrid smell. He pulled off a glove and scooped up a bit of the smelly mush. It was the texture of thick pea soup. Bad sign, he thought. He shook the residue from his hand, wiped the rest onto his pants, and then slipped on his glove. He snapped a close-up of the algae and then headed up the beach again.

As he approached a building near the station, he spotted a sign nailed to a post on one of the whaling docks. It was a royal crest of a reindeer standing above a penguin and a walrus. A lion was posed proudly in the center. It was the official symbol of South Georgia Island, issued by the Crown. There was a phrase in Latin on the sign.

LEO TERRAM PROPRIAM PROTEGAT

Morgan tried to remember what the Fisheries Officer at King Edward Point had told him about the sign and its meaning. King Edward Point, and the government station there, were empty now anyway. He studied the sign again and finally remembered the translation:

Let The Lion Protect Its Own Land

Morgan snapped a picture of the sign for his records and kept moving. He climbed a set of concrete stairs leading from the beach and into the village. As he passed the old docks and warehouses, he saw a church with a white spire standing tall above the other buildings. A smaller building still had a sign hanging in the window with the words 'South Georgia Museum'. Both the church and the museum were long abandoned now.

A hundred years ago, the Antarctic explorer Shackleton had finally found rescue at Grytviken whaling station. Now it was filled with ghosts.

A cold shiver passed through him. Nothing here but death.

A biting wind gusted through the village. In the cold hills above the station, he saw the grass wave in response. All of the grass was brown and quite dead, yet it stubbornly remained in place. Morgan checked his watch. Twenty minutes gone already. Better get up the hill and over to the rookery.

He stepped over discarded buckets and old beams and made his way to a trailhead on the other side of the village. The path was worn and steep. There were no switchbacks. The old whalers had been a tough lot, preferring a more direct way of reaching their destination. The trail led over the hills and down to a small beach. His legs began to burn as he struggled toward the top. Stopping for a moment to rest, he plucked a handful of the dead grass. He studied it carefully before tucking the sample into a plastic bag.

He reached the summit and started down to the beach. Halfway there, he caught the odor of rotting flesh. It grew stronger with each step.

Like hundreds of black-and-white headstones, he saw penguins lying in neat rows along the barren beach. An icy hand snatched his heart and shoved it into his throat. He stopped again to capture some images of the overall scene. Tears flooded his eyes and he brushed them away angrily. He switched the memory chip in the camera before continuing. The trail ended at the beach.

Most of the penguins had died with their eyes closed. Some were huddled in family groups. Others had washed up on the beach after a futile attempt to escape death. Rats scurried away at his approach, but Morgan noticed some of the rats were dead as well. Their tiny bodies were scattered randomly among the penguin dead. His camera clicked and dutifully recorded everything.

He knelt down next to one of the penguins and removed a small leather case from his pocket. Opening it with an expert flip, he took out a small scalpel and gently sliced a piece of flesh from the animal's flank. He dropped the sample into a plastic bag.

Another hard wave crashed into the rocks and sprayed him with freezing salt water. He brushed the water from his parka and then snapped a few more quick pictures. He checked his watch again. Forty minutes gone, he thought. Time to go.

He headed back up the trail toward the harbor. Along the way, he took a few final pictures, seeing only dead animals, brown grass, and an angry surf pounding against an inhospitable shore. Morgan slipped a cap over the lens. For the first time in ten years of research, he suddenly realized he had nothing more to do. This was the end of his work.

*****

Twenty-five minutes later, he met the boat. The two sailors stared at him curiously, but said nothing. Morgan looked back at the station as they headed out to sea. The launch eased up alongside the ship and stopped. The deck crew tossed down the lines and the boat rose from the water while the old davits creaked and groaned.

Morgan scrambled out the moment they reached the railing. The crew secured the boat quickly, almost in a controlled panic. Morgan saw fear in their eyes. All of them disappeared below decks without a word as soon as they finished.

The captain must have said something to them.

Morgan ducked into the nearest passageway and pounded his fist against a steel bulkhead until the pain made him stop. He already knew what he must say in his report to the Admirality. The numbers were irrefutable.

It was going to reach Chile in less than a year. In five years it would spread completely around the world. There was no longer any doubt. As the hole in the ozone layer had grown larger, its edges had also expanded at an exponential rate. Simple numbers, really. It was impossible to stop now.

South Georgia Island represented both the past - and the future.