ISAAK IS BACK!
I found him huddled against the door when I returned from the noon readings. He was in a terrible state, soaking wet and shaking with fright. I fell to my knees and flung my arms about him, ‘Isaak, Isaak!’ And still that convulsive shivering, panting with terror, his black lips drawn back, and a wildness in his eyes that I’d never seen before.
Where have you been? I wanted to ask. Tell me what you saw.
When I opened the door he was through it in a flash, scrabbling to get into the hall. Then he shot under my bunk and refused to come out.
All entreaties failed, but at last a chunk of butter-scotch succeeded. I towelled him down and fed him a tin of pemmican, and gradually the shaking eased and he became more like himself. His fur fluffed up in the heat of the stove, his eyes lost their wildness. But when I rose to hang up the towel, he followed me anxiously, keeping so close to my heels that I nearly fell over.
‘Don’t worry, Isaak,’ I told him. ‘From now on you’re staying in here with me. No more doghouse for you, my lad. You’re safe.’
He watched my face, his ears twitching as he listened.
It’s amazing how reassuring it is to have someone to soothe. It makes you so much braver and more resourceful. I suppose that’s how parents feel. You’ve got to stay strong for the children.
‘But the thing is,’ I went on, ‘if I left you free to roam around in here, you’d eat everything in sight. So I’m afraid I’m going to have to tie you up.’
To stop him chewing the rope, I soaked it in paraffin. Then I tied one end to his harness and the other to the most immovable thing in the cabin: my bunk.
Of course it didn’t work. When I was out of sight in the main room he set up a heart-rending yowl. And it turns out that he quite likes paraffin: he dispatched the rope in five minutes. So instead I dog-proofed the cabin as best I could, moving everything remotely chewable to the upper bunks and shelves. Then I scattered a few sticks of driftwood as decoys and set him free.
Ignoring the driftwood, he burnt his nose on the stove, then rushed about, sniffing and lifting his leg whenever I couldn’t stop him. Soon he began to pant alarmingly, and I realised he was hot. I gave him a bowl of water. He lapped desultorily and continued to pant. I fetched a big bowl of snow. Better. He snapped it up and the panting lessened. After that he found my reindeer hides, which I’d forgotten to move off my bunk, and settled down to eat them.
I’d been so busy that I’d missed the five o’clock readings, and had to wire an excuse to Bear Island. I didn’t care. It’s wonderful having Isaak with me. To hear the click of his claws on the floor. To feel his cold nose nudging my palm. He’s not house-trained – he’s never been in a house – so I have to watch him constantly, and that’s exactly what I need. Just now he started to squat, so I grabbed him by the harness and dragged him outside. I stood with my back to the door, like a suburban householder trying to persuade Fido to do his business. I felt no hint of the presence. Nor did Isaak show any signs of fear. The food I’d set out for the dogs was still there in the snow, but to my surprise, he ignored it. Instead, when he’d done what he needed, he trotted off a few paces and stood facing seawards, with the wind at his back. Then he lifted his muzzle and howled. I felt the hairs rise on the nape of my neck. Such loneliness. Such grief.
It didn’t sound as if he was calling his pack. It sounded as if he knows they’re never coming back.
21st November
He still howls for his pack, but he’s becoming accustomed to being inside, and I no longer have to watch him all the time.
Nor do I need to worry about my wirelesses, because he never goes near that end of the cabin. He becomes agitated when I’m working there. Wise dog. I wish I could do as he does, and stay away.
This morning, I nearly missed my talk with Gus because of Isaak. I’d switched on the Eddystone, but Isaak was about to squat, so I’d taken him out, and when we got back inside, the lights were flickering.
I rushed to put on the head-phones; I didn’t want to miss a single one of those disembodied dits and dahs which are Gus’ words coming through the ether.
JACK WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU OK? JACK!
That he’d used an expression like ‘OK’ made me smile. It reminded me of one of our first conversations on board the Isbjørn, when I’d said ‘OK’ and he’d said ‘grand’, and I’d been so touchy. So I couldn’t resist using his own word in reply. I’M GRAND STOP HOW ARE YOU?
Being Gus, he got it at once. OH HA HA BUT I WAS WORRIED!
DOGS GONE BUT ISAAK HERE STOP
WHAT? WHAT?
I told him about the dogs, and Isaak coming back. I explained that Bjørvik had left, although I didn’t mention that he’d asked me to go with him and I’d refused. Gus’ anxiety crackled through the wires, and I basked in it. I was like Isaak: it didn’t matter what Gus said, it was the fact that he said it which counted. The fact that he cares enough to worry. JACK YOU ARE SO BRAVE! EXPEDITION OWES ALL TO YOU!
Yes it bloody well does, I thought. But because it was Gus, I flushed with pleasure.
When he’d gone, I stared at his words on the page. I couldn’t bear to put them in the stove, so I slipped them inside this journal.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I suppose you’d call it hero worship. Or maybe I cling to him because I’m so frightened. All I know is that if he was here now, I could bear anything.
The silence after the noisy transmission was awful. The cabin looked smoke-stained and dirty. Everywhere I turned I saw Gus’ possessions. His microscope, his books. Piles of his clothes on the upper bunks, like bodies.
And around the table, five chairs. Five. A convocation of ghosts.
Then I spotted some scraps of reindeer hide underneath, which Isaak had missed. I got down on hands and knees to pick them up, and he padded over to investigate, and I felt better.
I don’t know what I’d do without him. I love the way he slumps down with a humph, and thumps his tail at my approach. I love it when he lies on his belly with his muzzle between his paws, and twitches his eyebrows to follow my every move. I love the leathery smell of his pads, and the croaky ror-ror-ror noises he makes when he’s talking to me. His eyes are extraordinary. They’re not ice blue as I used to think, but warm: the light, clear blue of a summer morning. I know that’s ridiculously over the top, but it’s true.
As I write, he’s under the table, leaning against my calf. I reach down and sink my fingers into his fur. I feel the heat of his flank and his muscled ribs; the rapid beat of his heart.
I keep breaking off to talk to him. ‘We won’t be parted again, I promise. When all this is over, you’re coming home with me. To England, Isaak, that’s where I live. I don’t care how much it costs or how long it takes. People do keep huskies in England; Gus knows a family in Berkshire, they’ve got three. I’ll get a job in the country. You’ll like it there. And you’ll love chasing rabbits. You’ve never seen a rabbit, but you’ll know at once that it’s got to be chased. You’ll be good at it, too. And I’ll find you a mate, and you’ll father puppies. You can start your own pack.’
Isaak sits with his muzzle on my thigh, gazing up at me with his extraordinary eyes.
Later
The south wind is still blowing, breaking up the last of the ice. I can see the black water in the bay. I hold on to that. The bay is still open. They can still get back.
Somewhere on the outside of the cabin, a corner of tarpaper is flapping. A while ago I ventured out and tried to find it, but I couldn’t. And I didn’t try for very long.
Soon after I got back inside, Isaak became restless. Not playful or hungry or wanting to go out, not looking for a place to squat. He moved about, panting, but ignoring the bowl of snow in the bunkroom. His ears were back and his head was low. His eyes were glassy. He was afraid.
‘Isaak?’
He ignored me.
I grabbed a lantern and a torch and stood in the middle of the room.
Isaak st
opped a few feet from the north window. His hackles rose.
I held my breath, listening. My eyes darted from window to window.
Suddenly, Isaak shook himself. Then he turned to me and faintly wagged his tail.
I breathed out.
After that I couldn’t face going outside, so I skipped the five o’clock readings and wired another excuse to Bear Island. I feel bad about that. I don’t like to think that the rot is setting in. Tomorrow I’ll get back to my routine.
My routine. I cling to it. It’s all I’ve got. But I’m beginning to worry about time – that is, about being able to keep track of it. My wristwatch still won’t work, and today I discovered that the Stevenson’s self-timer has broken. This means that all I’ve got left to mark the time is Gus’ alarm clock. Tomorrow when I go outside, I’ll take it with me in my pocket, wrapped in a muffler to protect it from the cold. For now, it sits on the table in the main room.
It’s the only thing I’ve got left to tell me that the days are going by. There’s no longer any twilight at midday, and the moon has dwindled to a lightless sliver. Tomorrow it will be gone.
Tomorrow it’s the dark of the moon.
16
22nd November
Last night I learned what Bjørvik couldn’t tell me. I learned what happened to the trapper of Gruhuken.
I sat up late, writing and talking to Isaak. Around eleven, I let him out, and when he came back inside I put a bowl of snow for him in the bunkroom and we settled down to sleep.
Cold outside, twenty-five below. Inside, our breath crusted the bunkroom walls with hoar frost. I couldn’t get warm. I coaxed Isaak on to the bunk, but he soon jumped down. He curled up on the floor, but not for long. I couldn’t tell if he’d caught the restlessness from me, or if he was sensing something.
Despite two sleeping bags and the remaining reindeer hides, I couldn’t stop shivering. Eventually I went into the hall and unearthed our portable paraffin stove from beneath the dog harnesses, and set it up in the bunkroom. Because of Isaak, this meant dragging the packing cases from the opposite wall and positioning the stove on top, where he couldn’t knock it down.
Much better.
I dream I’m in a rowing boat with Gus. The swell rocks us gently. It’s wonderfully peaceful. Together we peer over the side and watch the kelp swaying in the clear water.
The boat tilts slightly backwards, and I glance over my shoulder. A hand has risen from the sea to grasp the gunwale. I’m not frightened, merely determined. I won’t let that thing haul itself out.
I’m holding a large knife, and with a grimace of distaste I start sawing at the fingers. My blade snags in the flesh. I yank it free. I keep trying. It’s like cutting up a chicken when you’ve missed the joint and have to saw through the bone. I’m faintly disgusted, but I also find it satisfying.
The dream shifts. Now I’m in the sea, deep down in blackness. Again I’m not frightened, only disgusted. A drowned thing is clasping me in its arms. Together we roll in the slippery kelp. I can’t see its face, but I feel its cheek pressed against mine, cold and soft as mouldering leather.
Now I’m tied to the bear post. Now I’m afraid. I can’t see. I can’t speak. I have no tongue. I smell paraffin. I hear the crackle of flames. I know that someone nearby is holding a torch.
Now I hear the clink of metal dragged over rocks. Dread squeezes my heart. It’s coming closer. I can’t get away. I’m bound hand and foot. Clink. Clink. Closer. The terror is overwhelming. It’s coming for me. I can’t move I can’t move . . .
With a cry I woke up.
Isaak nosed my face, his whiskers brushing my cheek. I lay gasping and shuddering, my heart pounding so hard that it hurt.
I was cold. My sleeping bag was damp. Putting out a hand, I felt the wall. Wet. It took me a moment to realise what had happened. The stove had melted the hoar frost.
The dream was still with me. I knew that the terror I had felt had not been my own. I thought of the blotchy stains on the bear post. The sound of metal dragged over rocks.
That’s when I remembered what I’d forgotten before: the rusty relics which we found when we first came to Gruhuken. We buried them to make the place safe for the dogs. Wire. Gaffs. Knives. Big, rusty knives: the sort that you use once you’ve gaffed your seal and dragged it ashore.
Flensing knives.
I didn’t make it to the slop pail. I vomited in the doorway till my belly ached.
Isaak padded after me and lapped up the sick.
Shaky as an old man, I hobbled to the kitchen. I filled Isaak’s bowl and set it down. I watched him sniff it. I scooped water into a mug and tried to drink. My teeth were chattering. I couldn’t swallow. I kept seeing flashes from the dream.
Flensing knives.
When men know they won’t be found out, they will do anything.
When I was eight, I saw some older boys torture a dog. At first they only kicked it. Then one of them took out his penknife and slit its eyes. I remember watching it stagger down the street. I was desperate for its suffering to end; please please let it be run over. But the creature blundered across the road and round the corner, and when I got there it was gone. For weeks I prayed that it had died quickly. But young as I was, I suspected that a God who allows such cruelty wouldn’t have cared about bringing it to an end.
I don’t want to think about what they did to the trapper of Gruhuken. I can still hear the clink of metal as they dragged the gaffs over the stones; as they threw down the knives and got to work.
And after they’d finished with the knives, that’s when the paraffin came in, and the torches. I wish I could believe that he was dead by then, but I don’t think he was.
I don’t want this in my head. I wish I could scour my mind clean.
It’s two in the morning but I dread going back to sleep. If the dream came again . . .
So instead, I’m going to deal with this hoar frost. Bjørvik told me a trick about that. You nail blankets to the walls and ceiling, and somehow that stops it collecting.
There. I’ve done it. I’ve lined the bunkroom with blankets. Having to concentrate on hammering in the nails has steadied me a bit.
Even though it’s just occurred to me that what I’ve created is a padded cell.
Later
I thought it wanted me gone, but now I know better.
I must have fallen asleep, because I woke huddled in my bunk. The window was a faint charcoal oblong in the dark. Isaak stood in the middle of the room. His hackles were up, his ears flat back.
Outside, near my head, a step on the boardwalk. A heavy, wet, irregular tread.
Sweat chilled my skin. I lay frozen, listening to the footsteps pass slowly down the boardwalk towards the front of the cabin. I groped in the bedclothes for my torch. Isaak came and leaned, shivering, against my bunk. I found my torch but didn’t switch it on. I watched something dark move past the bunkroom window.
Clutching my torch like a talisman, I swung my legs over the side of the bunk. I stumbled into the main room. Isaak followed.
I dreaded to hear the steps halt at the porch, but they continued past as if it didn’t exist. Feeling my way, I shuffled towards the north window. Nothing. I turned to the west window. There. Half seen at the edge. Something dark.
The steps on the boardwalk ceased.
I waited. Isaak stood behind me, panting with fear. My breath smoked. I began to shiver. Still I waited.
At last I couldn’t stand it any longer, and went and huddled in my sleeping bag. Isaak crawled under my bunk.
I listened for an hour. It didn’t come back.
For Isaak’s sake, I decided to create a semblance of normality. I got up and pulled on some clothes, and lit the stove in the main room, and the lamps, and made the cabin as bright and warm as I could. I opened a tin of pemmican and emptied it on to one of the Royal Doulton plates, and watched him gulp it down, rattling the plate across the floor as he licked it clean. To my surprise, I found that I was hungry too, s
o I scrambled four eider-duck eggs with half a pound of cheese. But once it was ready, I couldn’t eat, so I gave it to Isaak.
By then he’d stopped trembling, although he stayed close at my heels. That’s how it happened. I’d washed up and was putting things on the shelves when I turned and he couldn’t get out of the way and I fell over. I crashed against the table and sent the alarm clock flying.
It broke. Something inside me broke, too.
‘Stupid fucking stupid dog!’ I shouted. ‘Stupid! Stupid!’ I went on shouting, kicking and lashing out with my fists. He didn’t try to get away; he cowered with his tail between his legs, not understanding what he’d done, only knowing that he was in the wrong because he’s a dog and must take his beating.
Suddenly I realised what I was doing. I fell to my knees, I flung my arms around him and started to cry. Big jerky heaving sobs. I cried till I was exhausted. By this time, Isaak had extricated himself and retreated to a safe distance. I think my crying scared him more than anything.
Drained, I got up and went to the kitchen and washed my face. I didn’t recognise myself in the shaving mirror. Who is this haggard, hairy man with the wild eyes and the grimy furrows down his cheeks?
That’s when I knew I couldn’t do this any more.
‘All right,’ I said out loud. ‘You’ve won. Gruhuken is yours. I’ve had enough. I’m beaten. I’m getting out.’
At this time in the morning, Ohlsen on Bear Island would be asleep, but there might be someone awake at the Longyearbyen wireless station. As soon as they received my Mayday, they’d wake Gus and Algie, who would wake Eriksson, and the Isbjørn would set off . . .
I’d forgotten about the hoar frost. It wasn’t only in the bunkroom. Why should it be? And I’d done a good job of warming up the cabin. The Eddystone was beaded with moisture. So was the Gambrell and the Austin, and all my spare valves. Wet. Ruined. Useless.
That was a while ago – although of course I don’t know exactly how long, because I haven’t got a clock. I’ve mopped up as best I can, and hung the towels over the stove to dry. I don’t know why I did this. Except that I’m the wireless operator, and I don’t like leaving my equipment in a mess.
Dark Matter Page 14
