Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [102]
The Phantom Patrol. This couldn’t be true. Brentford, trembling, fumbled for his rifle and then tried not to move.
The undead advanced slowly, silently, their rifles cocked. One of them stood a few feet in front of the ship, waving his lantern from left to right. Brentford tried not to breathe so as not to leave a blur on the glass that separated him from them. The phantom put the lantern at his feet, casting a long shadow behind himself, and then placed his fists on his hips.
“Ahoy there!” he cried with what seemed to Brentford an American accent.
Brentford crouched a notch lower, feeling as if he were being trussed up with ropes made of shivers.
“We expected a warmer welcome, sir,” the man continued after a moment, turning toward the others as if to gather their approbation. “What kind of man would have such a hardened heart as not to salute fellow travellers in such a wilderness? Especially when those travellers have walked a long way to meet him and are, shall we say, rather hungry.”
Some of the other men burst into a yellow, unpleasant laughter.
“Believe me, sir,” the man went on, as the others came closer to him. “We have spent long periods of wintering in cramped cabins or tents, and there is nothing that we understand and value more than a man’s need for a little privacy.”
The others nodded with conviction, some saying “Aye, aye.”
“But, as we have also experienced, there is absolutely no place on earth where a man can feel more desperate and helpless when he is on his own.”
A hum of approval greeted his words.
“Here, kind sir, here and only here, can you learn to truly appreciate the value of someone being there to lend you a hand. Or a fresh leg.”
The patrol roared, a sickly, grating laughter that curdled Brentford’s blood. The man silenced them with a gesture of his hand, before tipping his hat.
“We are unforgivable. We attempt to address a gentleman but we haven’t introduced ourselves. Maybe we should do this now, mates.”
Regrouping in front of the ship, the men all put their lanterns on the snow, in a row, a few feet from one another, and then, walking back together, formed a straight line behind the orator, who started his banter.
“As you know, there is nothing worse under these latitudes than the lack of entertainment. This is why we are happy and proud to present to you the best success of the famous Royal Arctic Theatre since Harlequin Light. Ladies and Gentlemen, The Skating Rink Ting Ting or The Phantom Patrol’s Polar Pageant!”
The men applauded, while Brentford, now a paralyzed block of anguish, wondered if going mad would not be the easiest way out of this demented situation.
The master of ceremonies went and sat on a nearby block of ice, looking very comfortable.
“Come on, Geo,” he shouted, turning toward the back row. At that command, one of the men emerged into the circle of light, striding like an automaton toward the “stage” lamps. He had a grey, sideburned, sallow face under his Eugenie hat, and his bulk was made larger by a thick brown greatcoat. He turned, showing, painted on his back, a coat of arms and a motto: “St. George and Merry England.” This was, Brentford suddenly remembered, what British sailors did to have some target to look at as they man-hauled sleighs in snowstorms. Having pirouetted again, the man psalmodied in a croaky, pathetic voice:
I am Saint George that valiant knight
All feet no toes for England’s right
My cross stands on a useless land
Show me the man that dare before me stand.
Another tall, bearded man, with a greyish hollow face, no lips