Log Entry

We’ve had to make landfall early. My newfound enthusiasm outweighed my practical sense; even with the EV Protean’s hardy design and new improvements, it struggles to handle winter seas this far north. One of the engines burnt out when we tried to slip between two icebergs. We might have made it to our intended port with the remaining three, if we moved fast enough and the weather didn’t turn poor too quickly, but our helmsman advised me that the crew was still rattled by the killings in Ireland and were likely to mutiny if anything else went wrong before we reached Lapland. I forget sometimes that most of the sailors on this ship are still young and don’t see the need to rush to our goal. I’m the only one trying to outrace death.

We’ve landed in some port at the bottom of the Scandinavian Peninsula. ‘Smeegehooch’, or something to the effect. It was our compromise with the captain, who would have preferred to dock at a more southerly port, ideally in Denmark or even Prussia. This port is more northernly than they’d like, but far enough South that the seas wouldn’t wreck the ship. Importantly, it also puts us in the right country so we don’t have to deal with an extra round of customs.

‘Reynard’ is busy trying to negotiate overland transport. A few hours ago, he brought in a pair of skis and insisted that we could outfit the entire expedition with them, including the specimens, and ski up to the giants’ realm. A fine and harmless joke, by his standards. In truth, he bought them for himself so he could travel faster in the snow, expediting his negotiations for sleighs and reindeer. He was quite graceful on them, up until the cliff. The drudges are swarming the local village in search of wine, women and song. Probably for the best that they get some enjoyment while they can; the overland route will be much harder on them.

This leaves me alone in the ship, save for the captain and a few drudges trying to juice the burnt engine back to life. I’ve already prepared one of the specimens for transport: the thumbsucker’s sleep trick is working wonders. Can’t confer with the other players in this scheme. Young Victor won’t be safe to contact for some time, talking to L will just lead to another argument, and even if reaching out them was a good idea, the telegraph’s down. All I can do now is sit and think.

It’s still difficult. I wish it wasn’t. I see him brooding in the guts of the hull, only a few new stress lines in his brow from the day we met, and I just want to thrash him with my cane. At some point, he’ll die - some trickery of his own hand turning against him, I’m certain - and he’ll become unmired in time and space once more, and I’ll still be here with bald head and shaking hand. He can never truly stay anywhere, and that is a curse, but he will never spend two decades in the town that scraped the joy out of his husk of a body. I wish I could believe him when he says that he’ll regret what happened in Henshaw a thousand lives after this one.

One would think my bitterness would make me resent this trip, and yet I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than right here, right now, helping him pull off the ‘heist of the epoch’. Where else is there for me to be? Philadelphia has no doubt forgotten me: my parents dead, the academics busy with families or careers. I miss Chicago but the noise and chaos is likely still too much. Henshaw…I cannot deny that I found a sort of peace in Henshaw while I was there. I cannot deny that I had friends there. But what rot ate me up inside, year after year! So betrayed by friends that I threw myself into the pit they left me in, acting like they didn’t eat a woman or kill the man I loved, settling for apologetic warmth and camaraderie from the culprits hidden in plain sight. I am angry at Renyard. I might die before it all passes. But it is an honest flame and not the false hearth of those who would never understand the warmth of heaven.

When I first left Philadelphia, I would have hoped that I’d have less frustrating concerns at this age. At least now I can bring Lee’s quest to a close. If I can just prove that it’s possible, that’ll vindicate him in the eyes of academia. If ‘Reynard’ actually pulls off his heist, all the better. Anyone else would hoard it, use it to accrue power and wealth like an avaricious dragon. I can trust ‘Reynard’ to not care, to leave it to me and mankind to make use of, for the good of all. All he wants is to be known as the man who stole fruit from the Tree of Life.