The Midnight Circus

by Jane Yolen

  I became obsessed with the grave site at Cape Adair where Hanson, the naturalist with the earlier Southern Cross party, had been buried. His was the only grave on that vast continent. I thought that I, too, might find the rest I longed for there at the frozen center of a bloodless land.

  The task of raising finance for the expedition was both wearisome and frustrating, but I threw myself into it with a fierce energy and at last we were set to go. Kathleen already spoke of me as if I were a hero. I could not disabuse her of the notion. So I said nothing more.

  We set sail on the Terra Nova, and while the others had their hopes set on the Pole, mine were set on peace. The close confines of the ship forced me into an unavoidable proximity with the other men, but fortunately the lowering temperatures did, indeed, temper my unnatural hunger. Tempered—but did not entirely destroy the thirst.

  I was able to limit myself to only a fortnightly indulgence, using three different sources so as not to overweaken anyone. I carried out my drinking during the hours of sleep, having by this time become well practiced at taking my guilty sustenance with a delicacy that left only the barest physical trace, and even this would fade in the course of a day. I never drank from the same man twice in a month. Any debilitating effects experienced by my comrades were thus attributed to the climatic conditions and our restricted diet.

  Even you, my dear Atkinson, had my lips on your neck and never knew it. Your blood is a trifle sweet, more a Chianti than a cabernet.

  The details of the trek to the Pole I have recorded in the diaries you will find in the green wallet under my bag. I have made every effort to be as truthful as possible while omitting those matters I am entrusting to you alone. I am sure you wondered why I decided to take an extra man on that last leg when we had originally planned for only four. By that time it had occurred to me that if the center of Antarctica were to prove my final resting place, then an extra man would be needed to haul the sleds on the return journey. I could not—of course—reveal my reasoning to anyone else, but here, now, you have it.

  There was controversy about whether or not we should use dogs or men for the pulling, and I confess that my resistance to the use of dogs may have been colored by the incident I have already related to you, when I tried to drink from a beast rather than a man. Having dogs along made me terribly uncomfortable, to the point of nausea. And having along extra men for the work meant that I would need to visit individuals fewer times for my cursed drink.

  My companions were the best of men, and I hoped that we might yet beat Amundsen in the race for the Pole, both for their sakes and for those we had left at home. For my own part, that goal had become second, for every step we took deeper into the vast, cold bleakness, the raging heat of my thirst cooled still further.

  In the end, while I shared my crew’s disappointment when we found the Norwegian flag and the note from Amundsen waiting for us, it was for me but a small distress. For there at the center of the stark icy world, I found myself without hunger or thirst or the raging blood that had plagued me for so long.

  Here, I thought, here is where I shall stay.

  I was already composing a letter to my dear Kathleen in my head. It was full of celebration and hope, even as it was a letter of farewell.

  However, Amundsen’s note drained the spirits from the men. Even seaman Evans, from whose simple good humor I had drawn such strength along the way, seemed drastically affected.

  The men scarcely spoke to one another and took no joy in the fact that they had made it that far, an accomplishment in itself.

  I feared the mental oppression that was settling upon them might well spell their doom. The way back was to be made even more difficult with no sense of honor and reward at the end of the journey. Only the utmost determination can overcome the pitiless savagery of the Antarctic wastes, and the crew had lost that determination by coming in far second to the Pole.

  I knew then that I would have to revise my plans. I could not—as I had so hoped—simply disappear into the vastness, sinking beneath the next fall of enveloping snow, my body frozen by the plunging temperatures of the Antarctic winter. I had to do all I could to lead these brave men to safety. Only then would I be free to make my way alone back into the icy embrace of the Antarctic. If I could turn them over to your good hands, Atkinson, I knew my work would be well done. Well done indeed.

  But as you are reading this, you know all too well that the return journey proved even more of a trial than I had feared. The weather rapidly grew worse and we found our way blocked by yawning fissures and huge drifts.

  Tragically it was Evans, that cheerful workhorse of our party, who was the first to succumb. The physical ravages of frostbite that assailed him were only the beginning. It soon became clear to us all that his mind had become affected. His fearful babblings did little good for the morale of the others. As we made our laborious way across the glacier on dwindling supplies, Evan’s lucid periods became fewer and fewer, until he was at last incapable of proceeding.

  To haul him on one of the sledges would slow us to such an extent that the party’s fate would inevitably be sealed. I knew that it was up to me to end his suffering and give the others a fighting chance for survival.

  So that night, while the party slept, their snores punctuating the sentence I had passed on young Evans, I crept over to him and lay down by his side. I put my gloved hands on either side of his face and gently turned it from me for I could not bear to watch him while I drank. He sighed once, like a child, as my teeth razored his neck but he did not otherwise wake. Silently I drank my fill.

  As far as the others were aware, Evans had simply passed away from the effects of frostbite and the injuries he had sustained on the journey. But I could see in their faces that they could not help but be relieved that they were no longer faced with the awful choice of leaving him behind or dooming themselves by dragging him along. You must believe me, Atkinson, I did it for them, not for myself. The thirst was never the reason for his death, though I gained much strength thereby.

  We were now four weeks out from the Pole and our progress had been depressingly slow. We pushed on and on against driving snow, our gear steadily more icy and difficult to manage. One by one we all became victims of the cruel cold and subject to bouts of snow-blindness.

  While Wilson and Bowers did all they could to keep up the spirits of the party, Oates subsided into gloomy silence. His feet were swollen with frostbite and his old war wounds flared up under the hardship. Such was his agony that he was too enfeebled to help with pulling the sledges; it was all he could do to keep himself moving. In the tent he sat sullenly and stared at me. It was clear to him—as it was to the rest of us—that he was not going to make it much farther.

  He drew me outside on the pretext of examining a damaged runner on one of the sledges, but we had no sooner shut the flap behind us than he took hold of my arm and yanked me well out of the hearing of Wilson and Bowers, who were still inside the shelter.

  “I know what you think,” he said in a voice that was as cold and thin as the wind whipping around us. “You think I’m done for and that I’m going to drag the rest of you down with me.”

  I tried to give him some reassurance, but he paid no heed to my words. His eyes burned with a feverish emotion and his voice rose in pitch.

  “I saw what you did to Evans,” he said. “I was not sleeping as you supposed. If not for the fact that the others have enough to contend with already, I would expose you for the foul creature you are.”

  I was so staggered both by this unexpected revelation and by the vehemence of his words that I was still gaping when he flung himself upon me and began to rain blows upon my head. For a man who had had trouble moving before, he was remarkably able.

  “I will not go down so meekly!” he cried, and as he continued his assault, he hurled all manner of abuse at me, which it would be fruitless and distasteful to repeat.

  I had no option but to defend myself, striking back at him with all my might
. The unthinking rage that had possessed me upon previous occasions rose up now, and I beat him viciously, pounding at him until there was no further resistance. By the time the red haze had faded from my eyes and I could think clearly again, he was dead.

  I was panting from the exertion as I realized that I could not tell Wilson and Bowers the truth. Their morale was already at a low ebb. They would need every ounce of courage they could muster if I were to lead them back to safety.

  I dragged Oates’s body away, without even taking time to drink his blood, and buried him beneath the snow. Then, with my coat, I painstakingly brushed aside all signs of our struggle.

  When I returned to the tent I told them that Oates—painfully aware of his condition and the fact that he was a burden on the rest of us—had followed a brave and honorable course. He had taken me aside to tell me what he planned to do, exacting a promise not to follow him. Then he had walked out into the icy waste to face his death in lonely dignity.

  Neither Wilson nor Bowers questioned my tale, and indeed there was little reason for them to do so. Oates was a soldier, a proud man who had been wounded in battle, and it was entirely in keeping with his character that he would sacrifice himself for the good of his comrades. I promised Wilson and Bowers I would write of Oates’s sacrifice in my journal, so that it would not be forgotten. The words that I placed in his mouth were these: “I am just going outside and may be some time.” You will agree, I am certain, that they have a noble ring.

  We continued as best we could, hoping to reach the next depot before our already meager rations gave out. After only a few days, however, the most severe blizzard yet descended upon us, cutting off the wan sunlight and trapping us inside our tent. Even if we had had the strength to push on, we would have been hopelessly lost in the blinding storm.

  It was obvious that the end was not far off. Wilson had long ago given up his diary and Bowers made only desultory meteorological notes, but now we commenced writing letters to the colleagues and the dear ones we would soon be leaving behind.

  Once this task was done, my friends had nothing left to fortify their minds against the darkness that was coming upon us. Frostbite and cold kept them in constant discomfort. They wept at the thought of their families, and this so unmanned them that they were in mental agony as well.

  I gave them the only gift I had left to give. While they slept fitfully, I granted them a quiet death by draining away their life’s blood. In doing so I also gained for myself the sustenance I needed to see me through a few more days so that I could write this final testament.

  Was it merely bad luck that stopped us here? Or is this place my destiny? I no longer believe in God, but I do believe that some awful Providence is clearly at work. I was not meant to return to even so remote an outpost of civilization as Cape Evans for—I am now sure—had I reached there, my bestial thirst would have erupted again. And in that place, so unlike London’s dark rookeries, some dreadful incident would have exposed my awful secret. And then my dear Kathleen and my poor son would have borne the brunt of my dishonor.

  Bury us all here together, Atkinson, and let us not be disturbed. Resist all attempts to bring us home. Say what you will—that this is a magnificent cathedral for our burial, or that it is fitting we stay here where we strove so hard against the elements. Only do not let others—even Kathleen—convince you to take our bodies back. As long as the ice has me in its grip, I am at peace. I have made my farewells in the other letters you see here, but I could not leave this tale untold. What you do with it is for you to decide, though I beg you to consider first and foremost my wife and son and their welfare.

  Perhaps the truth should simply be allowed to die, but as the Antarctic wind howls outside, clawing at our little tent with its talons of ice, I pass this account on to you in defiance of mortality and the crushed hopes of a doomed expedition.

  My last hope is that you will forgive me.

  Yours ever sincerely,

  R. Scott.

  When I had finished reading the letter I saw that Atkinson was regarding me with an almost pitying stare.

  “It is . . . incredible,” I said, only too aware of the inadequacy of my words.

  “When I read it the first time I thought so as well,” Atkinson agreed. “I could only assume that Scott’s mind had been unbalanced by the hardships of the journey and the deaths of his comrades. However, when I returned alone to his tent and examined the bodies of Wilson and Bowers, I found their condition to be entirely consistent with Scott’s description of their end. They were drained of blood. And Scott’s own body was what convinced me of the truth.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I could see now that his features were noticeably less disfigured by the eight months of winter than those of his companions. I took off my glove and touched my fingers to his frozen cheek. To my horror his eyes immediately began to move beneath the closed lids, as though he were experiencing a dream. His cracked lips parted, and he uttered two words in a dry whisper: ‘Leave me!’

  “I fled the tent and struggled to master myself lest any of my comrades suspect that something was amiss. The only conclusion I could draw was that the warmth of my touch, the blood beating beneath the pads of my fingertips, had been sufficient to rouse Scott momentarily from his frozen slumber.”

  I suppose my jaw dropped during the last of this recitation, though Atkinson was not done yet.

  “I carried the watches and documents from the tent, removed the poles, and collapsed it. We built a cairn of stones over the graves and I read the burial service. We left for home, letting the Antarctic ice cover the grave and leaving Scott to the rest he so earnestly longed for.”

  As he finished his dreadful tale, Atkinson had become agitated. His face was reddening and there were tears in his weary eyes.

  “But . . .” I said to Atkinson, “what you tell me is insane.”

  “I am a man of science, vicar,” Atkinson said. “And I believe it. Can not you—a man of God—believe it, too?”

  I shivered and looked away. For all that I spoke daily of God—and the devil—I still had great moments of doubt. But this strange confession somehow put all disbelief to rout. If this thing were true, then what else might be so? The miraculous birth, the even more miraculous Resurrection? I turned back, to thank the dying man for giving me back my faith, but he had one thing more to say.

  “What haunts me most is this, Reverend,” Atkinson said, and with some last miracle of strength, he sat bolt upright in the bed. “By his own testimony, Scott cannot truly die. He merely sleeps beneath the Antarctic ice, his thirst dormant. But what climatic changes might occur in millennia yet to come? In some distant age, the Polar ice melted, might he not rise again to haunt an unrecognizable world, to feed a thirst grown gigantic over a thousand frozen centuries?”

  Atkinson’s distress had now reached such a pitch that his body was shaken by violent convulsions. I seized him by the shoulders only to feel him slump into my arms.

  “God will not allow that, my son,” I said.

  I settled him back down against the pillows and saw that the tranquility of death had overcome him at last. But my own newfound tranquility was forever shattered.

  It had never occurred to me that there might be more than one kind of Resurrection. But what Atkinson, in his dying horror, had proposed was exactly that—a devil’s resurrection. It was an unsettling, hideous, corrupting thought.

  I would never, I supposed, finish that sermon now.

  Night Wolves

  WHEN WE MOVED into the old house on Brown’s End,

  I knew the night wolves would move with us. And the bear. They had lived in every bedroom I’d ever had—the one in Allentown and the one in Phoenix and the one in Westport.

  The wolves lived under my bed, the bear in my closet. They only came out at night.

  I knew—I absolutely knew—that if I got out of bed in the middle of the night, I was a goner. You couldn’t begin to imagine how big that bear was
or how many teeth those wolves had. You couldn’t imagine. But I could.

  So I put the bear trap I had made out of Legos and paper clips in front of the closet. And I put the wolf trap I had built out of my brother Jensen’s broken pocketknife and the old Christmas tree stand at the foot of my bed. And I kept the night-light on, even though I was ten when we moved to Brown’s End.

  That meant, of course, that no one dared come into my room in the dark, not Mom or Jensen, or even Dad, though we rarely saw him since he got married to Kate. And none of my friends stayed overnight.

  It was safer that way.

  Of course the minute it got to be light outside, the wolves and bear disappeared. I never did figure out where they went. And then I could go to the bathroom. Or get a new book from my bookcase. Or sit on the floor to put on my socks. Or anything.

  Which meant winters were tough, especially now that we were living in the north, the dawn coming so late and all.

  In Phoenix once, when I was eight, I was sick to my stomach and I just had to go to the bathroom. I waited and waited until it was almost too late, then made a dash over the foot of my bed. I managed to get out of the room in one big leap, my heart pounding so loud it sounded like I had a rock band inside. But I had to spend the rest of the night curled up in the tub because I could hear the wolves sniffing and snuffling around the bathroom door.

  So when we moved to Brown’s End without my dad, I expected the wolves and the bear. I just didn’t expect the ghost.

  I heard it on the very first night, a kind of low sobbing: ooh-wooo-oooooooo.

  The wolves heard it, too, and it made them nervous. They rushed around under my bed, growling and scratching all night, trying to get past the trap.

  The next night the bear heard it, too. He thrashed around so in the closet that when dawn came and I opened the closet door, my best sweater and my confirmation suit had fallen to the floor.

  But the third night, the low sobbing turned into a cry that came from across the hall in the room where my mom slept. And then I was really scared.