Fantastic Metropolis

August was ended, and it was a time only wrought for sheltering myself, and mountains in motion called the Fog Seas. The greater part conceived. Upon many pure snow; the water once more the dark direction. It carried inward those strange lunar ropes and sails. The much ado to get around Helluland and the fatal hour that suddenly converted into flood tide over hazard, anything our rigging did was right, caused prospect. Amid many reasonings, they of the ice (where the Strait meaneth) with deadly keel lifted the ship, she did ply with melted my people the water; navigable and refractory masses were one’s entire crew. The seaman, drowned and then rendered invisible, rose in proportion till losing was our continual rescue and safety. While we thus drifted, the damaged sea guided her fore-part so firmly fixed in the ice, in character which these smaller Thule Eskimos do not doubt; abundance of water forward and backward marching over ice is stone; a sight of the congealed, a matter become blind.

September 30^th. Under every man, swells, and recurrence of foggy weather. I presume to a fire by hand. In the account of the calm and cold that speculated on the imprisonment in this Crusoe, with whatever impetus to force various other sagas, the Fury was to proceed. But to relate the pound of African imagination would be breaking from voyages of sailors, and on a very hard gale of gap, and out at crooked timber for dark. Those backs in bundles significantly referred betwixt decks, turned comfortless and mortifying as sunlight upon the witnessed. Dangers marvellous high, and more than one singular coincidence, sustained the hard ice—formed contrary, alleging the shore. The horizontal band of pale anxious moment withal drove the night sledge-dogs, to persevere in the snow as ice forced itself into the sea, lest our great concern scarcely walk. Service was Majesty on the vessel, and expressed feet, which however rapidly approaching a violence, had surrounded us; and as our bread, was no conclusion.

October 3^rd. We endured, caused the thought of shoes upon fields of pain and peril, raised blisters now covered with cogitations, we troubled to extract narrow passage. As fog set in, pitch spread itself, objects below long kept sleep impassable. We are doomed clouds hung betwixt decks, the miserably disabled with halos and work. And this to obtain some position; but though we were fain to look for a character of narrow strait by the memory which frequently rolled death-like stillness, so much snow effected as perfectly the whole ice. We struggle with repose. I had sky, and all from the wreck.

It was necessary, however, to labor in the ice to the next moment felt, by putting my lucky chance of being in doubt, a gale at a time, for places to bore to as giants. This clear evening had the ice exposed again my purpose, inches deep. On precipices huge we were to dig out cases. There the surgeon, who ordered the procession, slowly led the way through the unconscious. The naturally anxious expected every danger. There was a wood even in a ship’s course lost, where the Fury encouraged the men most extremely. We were all resolved to the shocks of the night. We are so fast enclosed by the incessant veering, we could not fall back on the fate, to lie. Some blindness was necessity impelled to one spot.

On the 25^th I nearly occasioned the merciless power and the saga of having failed. By material storm, and very ghastly seams betwixt the night and much snow, I can speak after burial, returning in tatters. But the skin of my intent being impenetrable mass of voyage, could throw the most delicious wind and water. But lifting the sea ice forced morning. The watch tried to keep warm as prospects are. In the constant fog, I must first go missing; the remaining considerable surface experience can form light.

4^th December. I have drowned. This island can, these mountains may, occur. Yet stream, rise over headlong, gladdening sight. I sent Victory. That ship resembling a fog, and—as if over those gulfs snow was visible—thoughtless, of course, innate goodness is. London fog, nothing. At midnight the hazard. By nine into the ship, I the sea. Odd was this unusual exertion, escape, not perforated with small selves contrived, chimney-sweepers. And now I spread out upon the heavens. Above the Fog who ruled me. The great and difficult conditions (through which passed a little habitation, clothes on our beds and the fire, and fitted cakes and loaves of light) cannot replace the bay, mighty reply. Accordingly, the wind had greatly turned from earth to bed. I perceived winter of absolute home. If men who were the dark, did sink down so soon in snow, completely to preserve them, wind should come to endure these extremities of ballast.

Northerly, it were asked why bones like a glove commanded this boat, paralyzed, ceasing is nothing to up again. The means by which we remember that fear though remained. We supposed everything except quantity of broken scene. Whilst the wind forced it crashing dry. We selected like wolves. Whatever value either to hope—there was none; the full effects now fell behind us. In the evening we waste, under the delight. The extraordinary great sea burnt into its caprices, and scorched upon sails. I most of exultation, I very curious about many dangers, uncertain when aground, verily believe that the horizon complete our why everywheres; in waking the best I could, from the be very right.

Wendy Walker is the author of The Secret Service, a fantastic espionage novel, and two collections of tales, The Sea-Rabbit, or, The Artist of Life and Stories Out of Omarie (Sun and Moon Press). “Olaudah Equiano Crosses the Ice” will appear in My Man and Other Critical Fictions, forthcoming from Green Integer. Her most recent book, Blue Fire: Confessing Constance Kent, is a poetic/visual dossier on the famous 19^th century murder case that inspired the first examples of the “sensation novel” and “true crime.” She lives in New York City with her husband, the writer Tom La Farge.