Dark Matter

by Michelle Paver

  He didn’t reply. But I had his attention.

  ‘Don’t you see it’s the same for us?’ I went on. ‘We thought long and hard about where to site our camp, and we chose Gruhuken. We chose it. We made a decision.’

  ‘You don’t know what you are doing,’ he growled.

  ‘Now look here,’ cried Gus.

  ‘Oh, I say!’ exclaimed Algie at the same time.

  Without taking my eyes from Eriksson’s, I signed them to silence. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You don’t know,’ he repeated.

  ‘Then tell me,’ I urged. ‘Come now, you’re an honourable man. And yet you’ve gone back on your word. Why? Why don’t you want to take us to Gruhuken? What’s wrong with it?’

  His face darkened. He glared at me.

  For a moment I thought he was going to tell me. Then he leapt to his feet and struck the table with both fists. ‘Helvedes fand! As you wish! To Gruhuken we go!’

  3rd August, off Gruhuken

  There’s some drift ice in the bay, but also plenty of open water, and Mr Eriksson has dropped anchor a hundred yards from the beach. We wanted to go ashore and explore, but he said it was too late, and the crew was tired. After yesterday’s row, we thought it best to humour him.

  After dinner, I went on deck and listened to the ice talking to itself. I fancy it sounds different from the ice we encountered further south. Sterner, harsher. But that’s only my imagination.

  We had a clear run up the coast and round the north-west cape, although the weather remained overcast and foggy. As we headed east, our anticipation grew. Only a few miles left to go. Gus and Algie leaned over the side, counting off landmarks on the map. I went to the wheelhouse to make one last attempt with the skipper.

  ‘Mr Eriksson,’ I began, with a poor attempt at geniality.

  ‘Professor,’ he replied without taking his eyes from the sea.

  ‘I don’t wish to offend you,’ I said carefully. ‘And I’m not suggesting that you haven’t been straight with us. But I’d count it a favour if you’d tell me, man to man, why you don’t want to take us to Gruhuken.’

  Still watching the waves, the Norwegian adjusted course. For a moment his glance flicked sideways to me. Something in his expression told me he was wondering if I could be trusted.

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘All I want is the truth.’

  ‘Why?’

  I was startled. ‘Well . . . isn’t it obvious? We’ll be there a year. If there’s some problem, we need to know about it.’

  ‘It’s not always good to know,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I’m – not sure I agree with you. I think it’s always best to know the truth.’

  He gave me another odd look. Then he said, ‘Some places . . . they make bad luck.’

  ‘What?’ I was taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Gruhuken. It’s . . . bad luck. Things happen there.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Bad things.’

  ‘But what? Tricky currents in the bay? Bad weather off the icecap? What?’

  He chewed his moustache. ‘There are worse things.’

  The way he said that. As if he couldn’t bear to think of it.

  For a moment I was shaken. Then I said, ‘But Mr Eriksson. Surely you don’t believe that a place – a mere pile of rocks – can make bad things happen?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Another silence.

  Exasperated, I blew out a long breath. That was my mistake. His face closed and I knew that I’d lost him.

  Shouts from the deck. Gus and Algie were beaming and waving at me. ‘Look, Jack, look!’

  While I’d been talking to the skipper, the weather had undergone one of those sudden Arctic reversals. The clouds had lifted. The fog had cleared.

  That first sight of it. Like a blow to the heart. The desolation. The beauty.

  A fierce sun blazed in a sky of astonishing blue. Dazzling snow-capped mountains enclosed a wide bay dotted with icebergs. The water was as still as glass, mirroring the peaks. At the eastern end of the bay, tall cliffs the colour of dried blood were thronged with seabirds, their clamour muted by distance. At the western end, shining pavements of pewter rock sloped down to the sea, and a stream glinted, and a tiny, ruined hut huddled among boulders. The charcoal beach was littered with silver driftwood and the giant ribs of whales. Behind it, greenish-grey slopes rose towards the harsh white glitter of the icecap.

  Despite the cries of gulls, there was a stillness about it. A great silence. And God, that light! The air was so clear I felt I could reach out and touch those peaks, snap off a chunk of that icecap. Such purity. It was like heaven.

  For a moment, I couldn’t speak.

  I turned to Mr Eriksson. ‘Is that . . .’

  He nodded and sucked in his breath, like a gasp. ‘Ja. Gruhuken.’

  5

  7th August, Gruhuken

  Our fourth day at Gruhuken. I’ve been too exhausted to write.

  This morning we finished unloading the ship. That meant lowering eighty tons of supplies (and dogs) into the boats and rowing them ashore; except for the fuel drums, which we floated into the shallows. I had an anxious time with my wireless crates – if anything gets wet, it’ll be damaged beyond repair – but thank God, they made it OK. Then I had to protect them from the dogs, who were racing about, christening things. And when a husky is loose, it eats whatever it finds: windproofs, rucksacks, tents. It wasn’t long before Gus and Algie saw sense and tied the brutes to stakes. At first they complained with ear-shattering yowls, then they realised it was hopeless and settled down.

  I’ve enjoyed the hard work after being cooped up on the Isbjørn. Every ‘night’ – these strange white nights that I still find magical – Mr Eriksson and the crew go back to the ship to sleep, but we’re keen to take possession of Gruhuken, so we’ve pitched our Pyramid tent on the beach, at the head of the bay. Our reindeer-hide groundsheets are supremely comfortable, and not even the seabirds keep us awake.

  We’ve been so busy that at times I’ve hardly noticed our surroundings. But sometimes I’ll pause and look about, and then I’m sharply aware of all the busy creatures – men, dogs, birds – and behind them the stillness. Like a vast, watching presence.

  It’s a pristine wilderness. Well, not quite pristine. I was a bit put out to learn that there have been others here before us. Gus found the ruins of a small mine on the slopes behind camp; he brought back a plank with what looks like a claim, roughly painted in Swedish. To make the beach safe for the dogs, we had to clear a tangle of wire and gaffs and some large rusty knives, all of which we buried under stones. And there’s that hut, crouched among the boulders in a blizzard of bones.

  Gus asked Mr Eriksson about it. ‘So were there trappers here too? Or was it the miners who left all the bones?’

  Mr Eriksson sucked in his breath. ‘Ja.’

  Gus raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, which?’

  The Norwegian hesitated. ‘Trapper first. Miners later.’

  ‘And after them, no one,’ I said. ‘Not until us.’

  Mr Eriksson did not reply.

  I’m glad to say that relations with him have improved, and he and his crew have worked like demons to help us set up camp; almost, Gus remarked, as if they’ve a deadline to meet.

  And maybe they have. With every day that passes, the midnight sun dips nearer the horizon. In a week, on the 16th, it’ll disappear for the first time, and we’ll experience our first brief night. Mr Eriksson calls it ‘first dark’. Algie’s planning a little ceremony involving whisky to usher it in, but Mr Eriksson disapproves. He seems to think we shouldn’t joke about such things.

  I’ve told the others what he said about Gruhuken being unlucky. Gus was briskly dismissive, and Algie said I shouldn’t indulge the man’s penchant for superstition. Secretly, though, I think they were relieved that it wasn’t worse. I feel better, too. Now it’s dealt with. Out in the ope
n.

  This morning, after the last crate was brought ashore, the Isbjørn set off on the forty-mile trip to collect our boats, coal, and the materials for the cabin. It’s good to be on our own, a sort of dress rehearsal. And it’s given us a chance to explore.

  Leaving the dogs tied to their stakes, Algie took his rifle and headed off to hunt, while Gus and I went for a wander to the bird cliffs at the eastern end of the bay.

  The weather has been perfect since we arrived, and this was another brilliant, windless day; surprisingly warm in the sun, only just below freezing. The sea was a vivid blue, mirroring the mountains, and out in the bay, I spotted three bearded seals basking on ice floes. I took deep breaths of the clean, salty air, and it went to my head like wine.

  Nearer the cliffs, the smell of guano took over. We scrambled among the rocks, Gus pausing now and then to identify yellow Arctic poppies and brilliant green clumps of saxifrage. He’s fascinated by nature, and likes pointing things out to me, the ignorant physicist. I don’t mind. I quite enjoy it.

  The cliffs echoed with the guillemots’ rattling groans. Craning my neck, I saw the sky speckled black with birds, like dirty snow. Thousands more perched on ledges. In the shadow of the cliffs the dark-green water was dotted with white feathers. Among them paddled guillemot chicks. Fluffy and flightless, they rode the waves uttering high, piercing cries.

  ‘Poor little scraps,’ said Gus. ‘They spend their first three weeks on a ledge, facing the wall. Then they jump off, and if they’re lucky they hit the water and swim out to sea with their parents.’

  ‘If they’re lucky,’ I remarked. I’d just seen a gull swoop down and swallow a chick whole.

  ‘Not much of a life, is it?’ said Gus. ‘Three weeks with your beak jammed against a rock, then you jump off and get eaten.’

  A lone chick was bobbing on the swell, peeping. Maybe it’d got separated from its parents, or maybe they’d been taken by the Arctic foxes which haunt the feet of the cliffs like small grey ghosts.

  As we made our way round the headland, we heard the distant report of Algie’s rifle. We watched a big, thuggish gull bullying a guillemot into disgorging its fish. Gus found a reindeer skull, and showed me its worn-down teeth. He said it would have died of starvation, albeit with a full stomach, as it could no longer chew its food. Sitting on the rocks, we basked in the sun, and I thought about the beauty and cruelty around me.

  Without preamble, Gus said, ‘The other day, I didn’t express myself very well. What I was trying to say is that I don’t think you’ve missed your chance.’

  I felt myself going red.

  ‘What I mean,’ he went on, ‘is that although your family had a hard time of it, that needn’t drag you down, too.’

  ‘It already has,’ I muttered.

  ‘I don’t accept that. You’re here. This is a new beginning. Who knows what it’ll lead to?’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ I retorted.

  ‘But Jack—’

  ‘Gus, leave it! I came out here to get away from my life, not rake it all up. OK?’

  I’d spoken more sharply than I intended, and there was an uncomfortable silence. I shredded a clump of Arctic poppies. Gus counted the tines on the reindeer’s antlers.

  Then he said, ‘Back in London, did you really not have any friends?’

  I shrugged. ‘Everyone I knew at UCL was doing further degrees. Why would I want to see them? And I’d got nothing to say to the lads at Marshall Gifford. So I just thought sod it, I’ll go it alone.’

  His lip curled. ‘You’re so extreme.’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘Yes you are. How many people do you know who’ve spent seven years entirely on their own?’

  ‘Well, since I don’t know any people, the answer is none.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s what I mean! Extreme!’

  I bit back a smile.

  ‘And after all that, to end up stuck in a tent with Algie and me.’ He hesitated. ‘Tell me honestly. Is it a strain?’

  I threw away the poppies and looked at him. Sunlight glinted in his golden hair and lit the strong, clean planes of his face. He wasn’t merely good-looking. His features had a chiselled purity that made me think of Greek heroes. I wondered what it must be like to be so handsome. Surely it would affect the behaviour of everyone around you, always?

  And more powerful even than his looks, he seemed genuinely to want to know how I was getting on.

  ‘Honestly?’ I said. ‘It’s not as bad as I expected.’

  On the way back, a fulmar glided overhead, so low that I heard the hiss of air beneath its wings. Fulmars are serene grey seabirds which Gus says are first cousins of the albatross. I watched this one skim the waves till it was out of sight. As we headed past the cliffs, I heard that guillemot chick, still peeping. I wished something would eat it and get it over with.

  At camp, we found Algie in high spirits. He’d made his way west into the next fjord, where he’d come upon a spit of land ‘crammed with eider ducks’. He’d shot five, and on his return he’d bagged a seal, which he’d hacked to pieces and fed to the dogs. Judging by the amount of blood spattered over the rocks, it had been a big seal, and Algie is a messy butcher.

  For dinner we roasted the ducks on a driftwood fire, having (on advice from the ship’s cook) removed the fishy-smelling skin. They were the best thing I’ve ever tasted. We washed up in sand and seawater, then lay about, smoking and drinking whisky. We had a long discussion about whether Amundsen was a greater explorer than Scott, and where did Shackleton fit in, and was Nobile a cad or a decent fellow.

  Everyone looks tousled and tanned, and our beards are becoming quite respectable. Algie’s is red and fuzzy, like a hedge. Gus’ is golden, of course. It suits him inordinately. He says mine makes me look like a pirate. I suppose he means because I’m dark.

  I never expected to get on with them like this. OK, sometimes Algie gets on my nerves. He’s obtuse and he snores, and takes up so much space. But I’m beginning to regard Gus as a friend.

  He’s quite persuasive, too, is Gus. All that talk about new beginnings. I nearly believed him. It hurt. Like pulling off a scab.

  I’m writing this in our tent. Outside it’s minus five, but in here, with our eider-down sleeping bags and Gus’ fur motoring rug on top, it’s quite snug. The tent’s green canvas walls are softly aglow in the white Arctic night. There’s an occasional yelp from the dogs, but they’re tethered a hundred yards away and full of seal, so it’s not too bad. I can hear the little waves sucking at the shingle, and the muted cries of seabirds. And now and then there’s a crack as an iceberg breaks apart in the bay.

  The day after tomorrow, the Isbjørn is due back, and we’ll start building our cabin.

  I never expected this, but I feel at home here. I love Gruhuken. I love the clarity and the desolation. Yes, even the cruelty. Because it’s true. It’s part of life.

  I’m happy.

  8th August

  A strange day. Not altogether good.

  After breakfast we decided to take a proper look at Gruhuken’s ruins, so that when the Isbjørn returns, we’ll know what needs clearing away. To my annoyance, Algie brought the dogs. (So far, I’ve managed to ignore them, and they’ve sensed my dislike and given me a wide berth.)

  Another bright day, almost hot in the sun as we climbed the slopes to inspect the ruined mine – Gus and me striding ahead, Algie puffing in the rear. I was relieved to see that there isn’t much left of the mine. A rusty tramcar, a stack of tracks, a few hollows blasted from the rocks.

  ‘No cabins,’ remarked Algie.

  ‘I asked Eriksson about that,’ said Gus. ‘He says they were buried in a rockslide.’

  Algie grimaced. ‘Poor chaps.’

  ‘Oh, the miners weren’t in them. But it was the last straw, and they abandoned the place.’

  ‘What do you mean, the last straw?’ said Algie.

  ‘What does it matter?’ I snapped. ‘They couldn’t make a g
o of it, so they left, and that’s that.’

  ‘Steady on, old chap,’ said Algie, turning pink beneath his freckles.

  I was damned if I was going to apologise. I hate all this raking up of the past.

  Gus the peacemaker suggested that we leave everything as it is, and we wandered down to take a look at the hut among the boulders.

  A grim little place, squatting in its drifts of bones. The dogs didn’t like it either. They nosed about edgily, then raced off along the beach to investigate our tent. Which meant that Algie and Gus had to chase after them and tie them up. I went along to show willing, but they wisely didn’t ask me to help.

  When we got back to the hut, Gus, the inveterate biologist, paused to identify the bones. Many are scattered, the disembodied skulls of walruses and reindeer, but others are recognisable skeletons. Gus pointed out foxes, fine and brittle as porcelain; and the big, man-like frames of bears. And smaller ones with short limbs and long toes that look unsettlingly like human hands, which he said are seals.

  I tripped over a claim sign lying on the ground. A posh one, of enamelled tin with emphatic capitals punched out in English, German and Norwegian: PROPERTY OF THE SPITSBERGEN PROSPECTING COMPANY OF EDINBURGH. CLAIMED 1905.

  ‘And now there’s nothing left,’ said Gus, chucking the sign away.

  The hut itself was about six feet square. A lean-to, with three walls of driftwood logs built against a large boulder, presumably to save on timber. The roof was still intact, tarpaper dismally flapping, and the door was only two feet high, perhaps to keep in the heat. The side window had been smashed by a marauding bear, but the small one facing the sea was still shuttered. Three paces in front of it stood a driftwood post planted in a cairn of stones. Algie said it was a ‘bear post’, for luring bears to the trapper’s gun.

  Gus took out his knife and prised the shutter off the front window, loosing a cascade of splintered glass. The old hut exhaled a musty smell of seaweed.

  Gus peered in. ‘I suppose we could use it for a doghouse. What do you think, Algie?’