by John Wilson
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
CHAPTER 11
The dreams were so real now that I hardly knew what was reality and what was not. In school I would drift off into recollections of the previous night and return surprised that the floes of shimmering blue ice were mere desks, the cliffs only blackboards and the grunting walruses simply teachers insisting on an answer to a question I hadn’t heard. I just couldn’t be bothered. The concerns of the real world seemed irrelevant compared to those in my dreams.
One day I was walking across the schoolyard with Wayne, one of my friends from the team. Sarah and a few other girls were walking toward us. I had never made any secret of the fact that I thought Sarah was beautiful, but she had never shown any sign of being interested in me. Her crowd was the school elite, and I was a long way from that social circle. As we passed, she looked straight at me, gave a smile that would normally have made my knees turn to jello and said cheerily, “Hi, Dave.”
I just kept walking.
When we were past, Wayne nudged me hard and said, “What are you doing? I thought you were crazy about her. Why didn’t you stop and talk?”
I just shrugged.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I didn’t feel like it.”
Wayne shook his head, “Man, you’re getting really weird,” he said and walked off.
The truth was, I really didn’t feel like myself anymore. I was constantly thinking about my dream self. I really was getting weird. All I wanted was to sleep and dream. I stopped going out with my friends so that I could go to bed early. On weekend afternoons, I snuck away from whatever chore I had been assigned, curled up, and slept in an attempt to return to my other world.
Some nights would bring two or three short dreams, others just a single long, involved one. Either way they were always in order and always advanced the story. They also varied from simple images, which stood on their own, to complex dream-memories of things my waking self could know nothing about. Sometimes it even seemed like my dream self was keeping a sort of spoken journal. Whatever form my dreams took, every morning I could remember each one as if I had actually lived it.
I was becoming obsessed, and people were beginning to notice. Teachers commented and asked me if everything was okay at home. My parents asked if everything was all right at school. Even my friends gave me a hard time about never doing anything with them. But I didn’t care; my dreams were everything.
But I couldn’t ignore the real world entirely. One day I came home around supper time. I was just reaching up to open the door when I heard Mom’s voice from inside. It was loud and she sounded upset.
“But we can’t go on like this,” she was saying. “You have to sell that business. It’s not working.”
I stopped and listened even though I had heard this before. Dad had tried everything at one time or another: selling cars, real estate, landscaping. They were all failures and it was always Mom who spotted it first. Dad tended to always look on the bright side and blame the economic climate or unreliable suppliers.
His latest project was running the local franchise fried chicken place. It’s called Fingers ’n Wings. He even had a secret batter recipe. It should have stayed secret. The stuff tasted like cardboard and it had the texture of partly-set carpenter’s glue. The guys at school laughed at the place and wouldn’t be seen dead there. So the only customers Dad got were the little old ladies who came in on “Seniors’ Wednesday” to gum their way through a few soggy fries and maybe a donut. Even they didn’t try the secret batter. The chicken place was the worst of Dad’s ideas, and right now it wasn’t doing well.
“There’s not even enough money coming in to pay our debts, never mind buy groceries and clothes,” Mom continued.
“It needs a chance to build up a customer base. It’s....”
“Its had three years,” Mom interrupted, “and you still only get six people on a busy night. Face it, the chicken place is a failure.”
That was the wrong word for Mom to use. I guess Dad felt she was calling him a failure and he got very defensive.
“I’ve built that place up from nothing,” he shouted. “This town needs a place like mine. It’s just a matter of time.”
I heard footsteps coming toward the door and jumped back. The door flew wide open and Dad stormed past me as if I didn’t exist. I went in. Mom was standing in the living room. Her back was to me, but I knew she was crying. I went to my room and closed the door quietly. I felt terrible. I was angry at Dad for making Mom cry. Sometimes the fights worked the other way around and then I felt angry at Mom for being unfair to Dad. The dreams were becoming more and more tense and now life at home seemed to be falling apart.
In the past, the fights had made me feel so helpless that all I could think of was running away. I never did, but I would lie in bed and plan how I would do it. I would plan what I needed to take with me, when would be the best time to leave so that they wouldn’t find out, and where I was going to go. Eventually I would fall asleep and in the morning the fight would be over and the thought of going and living on the streets of Vancouver wouldn’t seem quite so attractive. As I lay in my room this time listening to the silence, I began to think that escape was the answer, both here and in my dreams.
CHAPTER 12
“Mister Young, be so kind as to bring my box of pens and ink to the tent.”
Captain Fitzjames is gesturing from the doorway of one of the large tents set up on a beach of jagged rock at Victory Point. Even this late in the winter, the endless, howling wind has swept bare the slightly higher places in this flat land. It has also sucked all colour out of the view. We exist in a world of monochrome; all is white or grey as far as the eye can see. In some senses, the land is more depressing than the sea. At least on the sea ice there are the pressure ridges to break the monotony. Were it not for them, it would be impossible to tell where the water ended and the land began.
Victory Point was named by James Ross as the farthest point west he achieved. It seems we shall get no farther either. It is April, 1848 and we have not moved in a year. The ice did not melt last summer and the ships are still locked fast. Food is plentiful but scurvy haunts us and many are becoming weak. Leg muscles are painful after the least exertion; gums bleed and teeth loosen for no reason. Our daily exercise does no good and the lemon juice is not sufficient to keep the disease at bay for much longer. We need fresh supplies to halt the ravages of scurvy, and there is no game in this God-forsaken spot, so we are going south to hunt. The journals of Simpson and Back talk of plentiful deer and partridge in these regions. Perhaps when we return the ice will break and we can continue.
As quickly as my freezing fingers will allow, I rummage through the boxes piled beside me. We have brought much of our equipment ashore, mostly from the Terror as she has been holed by the ice. If it should release its grip while we are gone, she will surely sink. The Erebus is in good condition and will serve us well if she can be freed. The supplies are piled all around, in places, higher than the tents. What we will take with us is already loaded into the seven boats which are set on runners to form sleds. Even with that number, and in our weakened condition, there are ample men to haul and we should make good time. Hopefully the worst of the winter storms are over. It is very cold and a brisk wind is blowing powdery snow against my legs.
I carry the small box over to Fitzjames and hold it out.
“Come in boy, come in. You might as well get out of the wind.”
Inside the tent it is not much warmer than out, but at least I am sheltered from the wind. Two oil lamps swing gently from the cross pole, casting a dull, eerie glow over the huddled figures. The tent creaks and flaps quietly in the wind.
Captain Fitzjames takes the box and sits down at the small, makeshift desk. Captain Crozier, the commander s
ince Sir John died, sits opposite. On the floor to one side sits Lieutenant Irving, weary from his trek to the cairn from which he has retrieved Lieutenant Gore’s message from last year. We will add to that note in the unlikely event that someone should come by in our absence. I don’t wish to go back outside and no one orders me to leave, so I sit quietly in the corner and watch. Fitzjames begins the laborious process of thawing the ink.
“Well Irving,” Crozier turns to the young Lieutenant on the floor, “was it a hard trek to the cairn?”
“Not too bad sir,” Irving replies, “but I must admit to feeling the effects somewhat.”
“Yes, none of us seems to have the stamina of old. It is this damned salt meat. I could kill for a good roast pheasant and a decent glass of claret. Still, with luck, in a very short while we shall be feasting on fresh venison. God willing, that will restore our strength.” Crozier stops talking and lets his gaze drift to the nearest oil lamp.
“Six officers dead this past winter and no cause that the doctors could find. Certainly there was some scurvy, but it is worst among the men and not yet bad enough to kill. With Little, Thomas and Sir John that makes nine officers in all. Why? We keep the most active and eat the most tinned food. We should be in the best of health. And yet the officers seem to get sicker than the men. The worst is poor old Gore. He should have lived to savor at least some of the glory of completing the passage.” Crozier drifts off into his own silent reverie. It is interrupted by Fitzjames.
“The ink’s ready now sir.”
“Very well.” Crozier pulls himself back with difficulty and begins to dictate slowly. “Twenty-fifth April 1848 Her Majesty’s Ships Terror and Erebus were deserted on the twenty-second April three leagues north-north-west of this!’ Crozier hesitates. “No, that should be five leagues north-north-west of this.” He pauses while Fitzjames makes the change. “Having been beset since twelfth September 1846, the officers and crews consisting of one-hundred-and-five souls under the command of Captain E R. M. Crozier landed here. Put in the latitude and longitude here Fitz.”
There is a moment when the only sound is the scratching of Fitzjames’ pen. Then Crozier continues.
“This paper was found by Lieutenant Irving in the cairn”
“Sir,” Irving interrupts, “it was under the cairn, not in it.”
“Very well, make it under the cairn—under the cairn supposed to have been built by Sir James Ross in 1831—where it had been deposited by the late Commander Gore in May 1847. Sir James Ross’ pillar has not, however, been found and the paper has been transferred to this position which is that in which Sir James Ross’pillar was erected”
We wait in silence again as the pen finishes its scratching.
“Read it back Fitz.”
After Fitzjames has finished reading, changes are made. First Irving adds something, “Sir, the cairn was four miles to the north, perhaps we should say that.”
“Yes,” says Crozier. “Put that in Fitz, after 1831. And while you are at it change May to June. Now we must add the sad news. Sir John Franklin died on the eleventh June 1847 and the total loss by deaths in the expedition has been to this date nine officers and...how many men Fitz?”
“Of all causes, fifteen in total.”
“Right. Well, put that in and then sign it.”
Fitzjames scratches his signature and passes the paper over to Crozier who reads it one more time and adds his signature.
“Should we say where we are going sir?” Irving puts in almost tentatively. Crozier thinks for a minute.
“If all goes well, we will be back long before anyone sees this note, but I suppose you are right.” Crozier bends again over the document and says slowly as he writes, “and start on tomorrow twenty-sixth for Backs Fish River.”
Crozier puts the pen down, folds the document and passes it to Irving.
“Thank you Lieutenant. Be so good as to replace this and have the men rebuild the cairn.”
Irving stands and pushes through the tent flaps. I am just about to follow when Crozier speaks again.
“So Fitz, what does the future hold for us now?”
“That is a hard question,” Fitzjames replies. “If only the ice had broken last summer we should be home, or at least well on our way by now. I only hope the men are strong enough to get us to the hunting grounds.”
“They will liven up when they see the game and have something to do,” Crozier replies. “it is the boredom as much as the illness. Three years on board ship in this bleak wilderness is enough to make any man sick. But what then? We have but three options. We can head through the Barren Lands for a Hudson’s Bay post, traverse Boothia for Ross’ supply cache at Fury Beach and wait there for a whaler, or return here in hopes that the ice breaks this year and we can sail on in the Erebus. I fear the old Terror will go no farther.”
The two men fall silent. The only sound now is the lonely, mournful wail of the rising wind. Fitzjames’ eyes drift down to the corner where I sit huddled.
“Boy, you are still here. What do you think? Which way should we go once our bellies are full of fresh meat?”
They are asking me? For a moment I am speechless.
“Go on,” Crozier encourages, “tell us what you think.”
“Well sir,” I begin tentatively, “I have read George Back’s narrative of his journeys in the Barren Lands and on the Fish River. As he describes it, it is a desperate place with no food or shelter. I fear we would find little to sustain us there.”
Both the officers are watching me intently and smile encouragement.
“On the other hand, the supplies left by Ross may well have been taken by whalers or locals. If that is the case, we would be little better off for our long march to Fury Beach and not able to await the uncertain arrival of whalers. The Erebus is still in good shape and, if needs be, we could spend a further winter on her. But if the ice should break up, and surely it cannot hold us forever, then she would be our fastest and surest way back home. I feel that, with our strength restored by fresh food, we would be best advised to return here and attempt a passage later in the year.”
I fall silent, amazed at my temerity. But they do not seem in the least put out by my musings.
“Well put boy,” says Crozier. “I see you have not wasted the long hours of darkness. We think alike. Stay in the Navy when we get home. I warrant you’ll make an officer in the end. Now go and get some rest. We have a journey ahead of us and you will need strength for it. Fitzjames and I will consider your advice.”
As I struggle back out into the biting wind, Neptune shuffles over and falls into step beside me.
“Well old boy,” I whisper, “you won’t believe me, but I have been giving advice to the commander and it is in line with his own thoughts.”
Neptune lifts his head and looks up at me with sorrowful eyes as if to say, “Good for you, but I hope you are both right.”
The dog and I have become inseparable. In one sense, he has taken the place of George. I reach down to scratch his ear. When I stand, Seeley is there before me.
“Been telling tales to the officers have you boy?” he sneers. “We ain’t good enough for you with all your fancy book learning.”
Neptune, who has developed a strong dislike for Seeley, growls deep in his throat.
“And that filthy beast,” Seeley continues. “He’s scrawny enough but I reckon there is enough fresh meat on him for one good stew.”
Seeley aims a kick at Neptune and catches him square in the side, bowling him over in the snow. I leap forward and swing wildly, catching the unprepared Seeley full on the jaw. As much in surprise as from the force of the blow, he falls to the ground. It is the opportunity Neptune has been waiting for. In a flash he is on his feet and lunging for Seeleys face. His teeth sink into Seeley’s left cheek and the man screams. Flailing madly the sailor tries to escape, but Neptune holds his grip. Shouting at the top of my voice, I grab Neptune’s collar and manage to pull him away. Blood covers Seeleys face and
is splattered on the snow. He struggles to his feet.
“That damned dog’s dead,” is all he says as he staggers off to find the surgeon. Neptune, what have you done?
The single shot seems to echo forever across the bleak landscape. My tears are hot, but they freeze in the wind before they are halfway down my cheeks. I pleaded with Fitzjames, but it did no good. I pleaded with George, but he just shrugged; what could he have done anyway? I even pleaded with Seeley, but he was merciless.
Seeley stands nearby, watching me. The left side of his face is heavily bandaged, but enough is showing to let me see that he is smirking. He was as good as his word. Neptune is dead and I am more alone than ever.
CHAPTER 13
The morning after Neptune died, I awoke crying. I hadn’t cried in years, yet here I was lying on a soaking wet pillow over a dream. My dreams were changing. The sense of companionship and adventure was gone, a huge black cloud was hovering above me. But I had to see them through to the end and, though I still craved the nights and the stories, their sadness lingered throughout the days. Of course, I couldn’t blame all my misery on my dreams. My parents’ problems were also getting worse.
I felt trapped. I would lie in bed at night and listen to them shouting at each other through the wall. I worried that the fights would get so bad that they would split up and then what would I do? Sometimes I wanted to scream at them to shut up. Why were they doing this?
Around the time I dreamt that Neptune was shot, Mom and Dad’s fights began to get worse. In the past, they had always tried to hold off until I was out of the room. It didn’t make much difference, but at least it gave me the opportunity to slip out of the house unnoticed if things got too bad. Then I would go and hang out at the mall or the video arcade for a few hours until things had calmed down. But that day Mom didn’t hold back. She tore into Dad for all his mistakes right in front of me. I think he knew deep down that she was right, but he couldn’t admit it out loud. Pretty soon they were screaming at each other about something that happened years ago and had nothing to do with the stupid chicken place.
