The purple is spreading up my hands, a webbed map of the blood thickening in my veins.  My fingers are grey and seizing at the joints, the tips darker still.  I can’t feel the leads of the dogs in my hands, and it’s only when I look that I see the straps aren’t there anymore.

Savagery begets savagery here, the dogs barking and tearing on the pack leader now lying dead or dying.  Andes, the biggest dog left, staggers back and bows possessively over something solid and wet in the snow.  Pennine is dead.

Stepping of the supply sled, I go to pick up the big stick to beat the dogs back but my fingers wont bend and the touch of anything burns like my hands have been slammed in a hot vice.  The dogs growl at me as I stagger towards them, towards the carcass that may still be warm enough to bury my hands in to bring some life back to my useless fingers.  But they have turned wild with mistrust, lost their faith that I will do anything but get us all killed.

I am alone, the sled is gone, and the supply sled has barely survived the ice.  We are not lost, though, merely hindered by every misfortune that could have fallen on us.  I cannot beat the dogs into obedience, though, and without fear or respect there is nothing I can do with them.  I could unstrap them and let the pack go, but out of spite I leave them tethered to the sled.

Half a mile is not so far to walk to the old whaling sheds, but when the daylight has lasted weeks and the horizon wavers as a distorted smear, it feels like I have been walking the breadth of this pole.  As I walk, I beat my arms against my sides and wheel them about to keep my blood moving.  My spare gloves had been on the main sled, and the others had been too wet to ever dry here.  The snow was warmer, and when I rested I buried myself in the powder, scrubbing the ice from my lashes and beard with my arm.

Hours, days, seconds later, I reach the sheds, wooden structures rotting to black and stained with blood and fat.  Everything is unlocked and I fall with a barked shout infront of the cutting table.  There are frosted rags, rusted knives and a box of matches sat waiting, open wide enough for the one match sticking out.  I can’t get my fingers around it, but manage to lift it from the box pressed between the heels of my dark hands.  If I drop it, I won’t be able to pick it up again.  Manoeuvring the matchbox with my elbows, I wedge it between pieces of frozen down cloths, and with shaking arms, line up the dull head to strike.

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