I fidgeted with the microphone at my desk. It was a rather nice and expensive one, and I was shocked that the Antarctic Culture Committee even had the budget to let me buy such a thing. I was supposed to be recording a vlog, but I kept getting distracted. The window was slightly open. What kind of idiot would open that window? The chill was not at all a slight one, and it reminded me of where I was. It was such a cold breeze that it felt like a wind of obsidian blades. Yes, the Aztecs thought their dead went to go live as animate skeletons in the underworld with the god of death. And the obsidian blade wind was what took off their flesh when they made their journey to his realm.
I shut the window, but then I realized I had not fed the midge. The midge! I kept the creature in something that looked like an aquarium, but with snow and ice inside. He was a freakishly cold resistant insect, native to Antarctica. He had a shiny, black exoskeleton. I named him Itzcoatl because it means “obsidian snake” in Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs. And it was the name of the fourth Aztec emperor.
I was going to feed Itzcoatl, but then someone knocked on my door. It was my friend Marina. She’s from Aotearoa. She’s an ecologist. So basically, she’s a lot cooler than me.
“Asmund and I may have found the perfect viewing area for seeing the southern lights! You should really come with us, Saperi,” she said.
Asmund was another ecologist. And he was from Iceland. Asmund and Marina had great reasons for being in Antarctica, of course. They were ecologists! They could study the midges, leopard seals, penguins, and all the other fascinating creatures that played a role in the Antarctic ecosystem. My presence there was perhaps a lot less easy to justify.
“You guys go ahead. I should be recording a vlog. Or writing,” I said.
“What? But Saperi, it’s the southern lights! Seeing them is a life-changing experience. You’ll never get this opportunity again,” said Marina. “I know you may have seen the northern lights in the northern Ixa Chilan wilderness, but aurora borealis is for normies. Aurora australis is where it’s at. Even in Aotearoa, you couldn’t get such a perfect view. You just couldn’t.”
“I never saw aurora borealis. I learned what the Ojibwe people called it in their language though. It’s wasnoode,” I said.
“You can be a nerd here, then. Fine! Asmund and I are leaving now,” said Marina.
I needed discipline. I needed to focus on my work and not get distracted by anyone, not even Marina. She would never understand. But I loved her and I knew I needed to make it up to her for missing aurora australis one day.
But for now, my priorities were clear. I needed to vlog and write. You see, the Antarctic culture committee was funding my study in this tundra because Antarctica needed culture. It needed artists and writers. And those artists and writers not only needed to paint and photograph and write, they needed to be social media influencers. That was probably the worst part of my job description. But the culture committee wanted the world to know what its funded writers were doing, so I had to vlog alongside my novel. It was just the rules.
I opened a notebook to a blank page. It was beckoning. But alas, none of my ideas were about Antarctica! My heart and mind were still brimming with remembrances of my travels throughout the great land of Ixa Chilan.