Shall I go left, where nothing is right, or shall I go right, where nothing is left?
Unidentified commentator
—
A group of eleven penguins were marching across a plain of snow and ice, heading towards the sea — their feeding grounds. Ten of them were going together as a group. One was trailing around 30 metres behind, and the distance was increasing.
A little bit later, four penguins turned around to go back to the colony. Soon they met the one that was lagging behind, and he joined them so that now it was a group of five penguins on their way home.
Very soon, however, he fell behind again. The group of five became a group of four, with the fifth one hopelessly trying to catch up. And then, the fifth penguin stopped altogether.
This penguin was always slower than others. Generally, it wasn’t a big issue. He was well-fed because usually, by the time he arrived at the fishing grounds, all other penguins were full and on their way home, and fish were coming back, thinking that the danger had passed. They were tired and easy to catch.
But, apparently, the day came when this penguin had enough.
After standing still and just looking around for some time, he turned and went. Not after the first group (which was a group of only six now), and not after the second group, but in a completely new direction: towards where the greyish-white surface curled up and formed a jagged line with darkish peaks that stood out against the permanently grey sky. Those were the mountains.
—
Meanwhile, just a few hundred metres away, Kevin was filming this whole event. Through the camera, he saw eleven penguins moving to the right, keeping zoom level low enough to fit in the eleventh penguin near the left edge of his shot. Then, as four penguins turned back, he felt annoyed at having to make a decision, which group should he continue filming.
He zoomed out and observed how one group of penguins was going to the right, the other group — to the left, and how one penguin remained standing in the middle, sometimes looking to the right and sometimes to the left.
Then this lonely penguin turned and headed away from Kevin, towards the mountains in the distance.
Kevin forgot his freezing hands and everything else. What he thought was another boring piece of another dull documentary just turned into a story. He zoomed in, slowly and carefully, so that the black shape with wings, rocking left and right, took most of the screen.
Kevin took out the radio.
“Nickie, this is Kevin.”
Nickie’s response came after five seconds — way too long. Kevin pushed to talk.
“A stray penguin will pass not far from the camp, heading towards the mountains! You should see it already if you look inland!”
He started packing his camera in a hurry.
—
In about half an hour, Kevin arrived at the scene late. Besides the penguin, there were already three people and two snowmobiles there, and some drama was happening.
“What are you doing! Don’t meddle with them! Ever!”
An angry man from the permanent research staff was dragging Nickie away from the penguin.
From the other scientist, an old woman, who observed the scene impassionately, Kevin learned that Nickie tried to turn the penguin around and point it towards the colony. Her efforts were in vain — the penguin turned back and continued to go towards the mountains every time.
“But it’s going to die there,” Nickie complained desperately, seeing Kevin.
“Gosh, Nickie… did you even take a camera?” He eyed her snowmobile and didn’t see anything on it. “Seriously? Take mine. I’ll use my small one.”
For another hour, they followed the penguin, filming from different angles. Penguin on the background of the faceless and soulless plain of snow. Penguin on the background of the mountain range. Penguin, passing by a man in a red suit with reflective tape (that was the angry biologist, trying to demonstrate appropriate behaviour around animals). The man looks down on the penguin, but the penguin doesn’t even look up at the man as it passes by, aiming decisively towards the mountains.
Finally, they went back to their snowmobiles, where Nickie set up the camera once more, focusing it on the distant black shape.
“It’s like, fifty kilometres or something,” said Nickie.
“To the mountains? Seventy,” corrected the woman. “But the distance doesn’t matter. Even if it reached them, there’s no food there.”
“It’s nature,” said the biologist.
“It’s a story,” said Kevin.
“Story of what? Suicide?” asked Nickie.
“It’s much more than just a suicide.” And to Nickie’s raised eyebrow, Kevin added, “the question is — why?”
—
Back at the camp, they drank tea and discussed Kevin’s “why”. A few more colleagues from the filming crew and two scientists joined and looked over the filmed material. They all agreed that they felt strangely related to this penguin. The exact interpretations differed, though. Some said that the penguin was insane. Others insisted that it was depressed. The debate got heated and shifted to the differences between the film crew and permanent staff. The film crew was convinced that all scientists and even regular workers, like plumbers or engineers, were insane here in the Antarctica. Scientists did not object to that, but when they pointed out that most on the film crew were depressed, Kevin protested fiercely, explaining that they came here for excitement. To which the glaciologist commented that if anyone came here for excitement, they should be classified as insane.
Kevin continued to defend his point of view, arguing that the penguin incident was an excitingly dramatic event, deep and meaningful, completely relatable to most people, that the penguin’s story would attract plenty of views, reviews, and, hopefully, funding. He stressed the last point, not because he cared about money, but just to emphasise that he was a person of common sense, thus not insane.
—
Meanwhile, out there in the greyness (nights weren’t black but rather grey at this time of year), the penguin kept moving. He regarded the encounter with people as a mere annoyance that didn’t matter much on his way to the undiscovered magnificent breeding (or feeding) grounds. He didn’t bother himself with details, such as how far they were or how many fish were in those mountains. He was no longer the last penguin but finally the first — the leader. He didn’t know if he had any followers, though, but he preferred not to look back, just in case there weren’t any.
Actually, he was aware of the risk he was taking. But to take the risk was the only option for someone with ambition, who always got left behind. There was simply no other choice. Also, such a risky decision could only be approached with optimism and determination to go until the very end. In other words, he had to believe in himself.
So, he spread his wings, raised his head, and proudly marched into the horizon, where a lonely, miserable, and certain death awaited him.
—
“Come on, you won’t find it. Put them down,” Kevin was referring to the binoculars.
Nickie was still standing at the window, scanning the plains just below the mountain range, looking for a moving black dot.
“Your story isn’t finished, you know,” she said. “Those couple of hours of tape might be enough background for some meaningfully psychological monologue — ”
“And a couple of interviews,” inserted Kevin.
“ — but really, we don’t know what actually happens at the end, do we?”
“Nickie. No one wants to know what happens at that end.”
“Oh yeah? Have you forgotten your own speech the other day? The, ehm… ‘find-the-truth’, and, ‘show-to-the-world’, and, ehm… ‘go-until-the-end-to-the-very-bottom-of-the-planet-if-need-be’. Speaking of… That penguin is more true to your words than you yourself are!”
Kevin came to stand next to Nickie and looked at her from the side.
“You always said the documentary is the story of reality,” continued Nickie, who was still scanning the horizon but not really paying attention neither to the horizon nor to the fact that her anger fascinated Kevin, “but all you want to do is film something untypical, then take it out of context, insert the most ridiculous part of an interview with the most deranged scientist you can find, and wrap it all up with some tear-squeezing philosophical bullshit that all just comes from your own childhood issues! And no one really cares about the actual story of a poor penguin!”
“Nickie,” Kevin said as softly as he could and gently lowered the binoculars, putting his hand on hers. “It doesn’t matter how far that penguin gets before it freezes to death. It has already immortalised itself — on our tape and in our hearts. In our interpretations, in our own stories. We all have childhood issues, and that penguin probably had them, too. We are all different but same. A fragment of its life is enough for us to understand this connection. Penguin’s story is already complete. And over there,” Kevin gestured towards the mountain range, “there is no story. Believe me.”
Nickie should have been moved by this new and best speech he had made so far, but she wasn’t. Her cold hand was still clutching binoculars. She was a challenge.
“Pancakes,” said Kevin, and Nickie looked at him with confused surprise. “Your hands are cold. I will make you hot tea and pancakes,” now he had her undivided attention. “The maple kind…”
Nickie giggled at their inside joke. Kevin gently pulled the binoculars out of her hands and headed towards the kitchen.
