Midnight Sun

by Ramsey Campbell

Of course Johnny knew he might have to wait. The weather man had said that when the snow came it would start in the far north and mightn't be here for weeks. All the same, that meant the weather man didn't know exactly when it would start, and surely it couldn't do any harm if Johnny just looked at the sky now and then to see if the clouds were here yet. Before long he was doing so partly to irritate Margaret, once he saw that it would make her turn her eyes up and pull her suffering face. She was really as excited as he was, only she was trying to seem grown up. But being grown up didn't mean that you had to act as if you were bored all the time, because Johnny could tell how much his father was looking forward to the snow.

  Sometimes Daddy seemed to lock himself away inside himself, especially when he was writing a book, though Johnny's mother never behaved like that when she was painting. At these times Johnny always felt that his father was storing up secrets, getting ready to present them to the family and everyone, and now he could tell that his father had a new one. That morning he'd wakened to see Daddy standing in the bedroom doorway, watching him.

  He'd looked to Johnny as if he'd had a surprise for him but had forgotten what it was. When Margaret had come out of her room to say hello, their father had given her a quick hug and plodded downstairs as though he hadn't quite known where he was going. They'd heard him switching on the television and had followed him in time to see the forecast. Johnny was sure that his father had known it was coming – that it was part of the secret he had in store for them.

  Did his mother know? Johnny didn't think so; when she had come downstairs she'd seemed to wonder why Daddy was looking so pleased with himself. "Mummy," Johnny had told her, "there's going to be snow everywhere for Christmas."

  "That should please some of us. How soon, Ben? How heavy?"

  "As heavy as you'll ever see."

  Johnny hadn't thought the forecast had been quite so extreme, but Daddy often used words to make things bigger. "Not for a few days, though," Mummy had said as if she was making a wish. "I can do without going into Leeds on a Saturday so close to Christmas."

  "You won't have to."

  They were referring to a secret the children weren't supposed to know, about Christmas presents which needed to be bought in Leeds. "We'd better start building up our strength for the winter," Mummy had said, heading for the kitchen. "Come and talk to me if you like."

  Above the boisterousness of the children's programmes which he and Margaret agreed between themselves to watch, Johnny had heard his mother saying "Were you as lonely as I was? I felt as if a piece of me was missing." He'd squirmed with embarrassment and tried not to listen, until his mother had asked "Where did you get to last night after you came home? Couldn't you bear waiting?"

  "I don't mind when 1 know it's worth waiting for."

  When the aroma of breakfast had enticed Johnny to the kitchen he'd found his parents holding hands. They'd kept touching each other throughout the meal as if to make sure the other was still there. Rather than giggle, Johnny had gazed at the sky above the swollen forest. "I don't think you'll be seeing it yet," Mummy said eventually, "not out of a clear sky."

  He didn't quite know how to describe the sky above the forest. "It isn't clear," he said.

  "Neither is your head," Margaret informed him.

  "No arguing for the sake of arguing," Mummy told them, "or there'll be no more late nights."

  "Only earlier ones," Daddy said.

  "You might try to help."

  "I'll take them out, shall I?" he said, and asked the children "Where shall we go?"

  "Leeds."

  "Richmond," Margaret said, "to see what my next year's school looks like."

  "Maybe your father would rather not drive after he came so far last night."

  Certainly something had just bothered him, and Johnny didn't see how it could have been the mention of next year. "How about a walk somewhere?" Daddy said.

  "In the woods," Johnny shouted.

  "Margaret?"

  "If you like." . "How about you, Ellen? You'd like to see how the forest is now."

  "I would, but not today. Too much work. Speaking of which, I scribbled down a few thoughts about our book. They're on the desk."

  "Couldn't you find any paper?" He got up at once, as if he couldn't bear to be in the same room with the joke. "Let me see what I think."

  Mummy cleared away his plate, having given Johnny the bacon his father hadn't touched. As soon as she heard the workroom door close she said "Go easy on your father today, both of you. I think yesterday took quite a lot out of him."

  When they'd helped her clear up after breakfast and their father hadn't reappeared, Johnny wondered if he'd fallen asleep at the desk. Perhaps he had only been taking in what he'd found there, because after a few minutes which made Johnny feel shivery with impatience he came downstairs, so quietly that nobody noticed until he was in the room. "You've far more sense of the book than me," he said. "I've no life to give it, but you have."

  Mummy took his hand again, looking so girlish that Johnny made a face at Margaret, who frowned reprovingly at him. "You haven't finished it," Mummy said.

  "I already had before I went away. It's your turn now. Keep my name with yours on the story if you want to."

  "Of course I want to. But Ben, you're the writer here."

  "What do you two think? Should your mother tell her story while she can?"

  "Yes," they cried.

  "Don't let your imagination go back to sleep," he told her, and gazed at her until she nodded. "Get ready for the cold, you two, and we'll be on our way."

  "Bathroom first," Mummy said.

  "No need to rush," he called as Johnny raced upstairs. "We've all the time in the world."

  Johnny tried to be patient while his sister took ages to brush her hair. He zipped up his fat anorak and dashed out of the house. The sky above the moors was frustratingly clear, and the bright blur above the forest had to be a kind of mist, something to do with all the snow which had stayed on the trees. Johnny squinted at it as he marched ahead of his father and Margaret. It could hide something as big as the forest, he thought, and imagined a huge flock of birds or insects, millions of them with just enough space between their bodies to let them hover. He imagined them exploding out of the mist like a blizzard, and stopped short of imagining what they would look like – not like birds or insects at all. He stumbled on the track and touched the icy skull of a figure as tall as himself, which jolted him out of the daydream.

  He must have been like that while he was sleepwalking, he thought, and that was why he couldn't remember doing so. His mother was smiling through the kitchen window, Margaret was ducking in case he meant to fling snow at her; neither of them appeared to have noticed anything unusual above the trees. His father had overtaken him and was striding past the allotments towards the forest, above which was only a misty blur. Johnny avoided looking at it as he tramped across the crunchy grass to the trees.

  The hovering mist steeped the forest in a twilight in which the treetrunks, which resembled scaly bones, appeared to glow. As soon as Johnny set foot on the path between them he saw his breath. He ran along the path, searching for trees he could shake to dislodge snow from them, trying to run far enough to be out of sight of his family and lie in wait for them. But the trees wouldn't shake; when he threw his weight against a trunk, that didn't bring down even so much as a snowflake. For a moment he thought the others had sneaked behind him, and then he saw them approaching on the path, his father's eyes gleaming in the forest twilight, Margaret rubbing her arms with her mittened hands. She looked ready to suggest going home out of the cold, and so Johnny shouted "Let's play hide and seek. Daddy can be It."

  Their father went to the nearest marker post, which was painted with a blue arrow, and stared brightly at them before closing his eyes. "You'll be found, I promise," he said in a voice like a wind through the trees. "Off you go."

  When Johnny saw that his sister was staying near the post he raced on tiptoe into the
forest. By the time his father had counted thirty aloud, johnny had run far enough for the path and his family to be invisible for treetrunks. He darted behind two trees which grew very close together, and crouched to peer between them. He heard his father shout "Fifty" to announce that he'd finished counting, a shout which sounded tiny in the silence. Johnny crouched lower, waiting to catch sight of his father. He was still watching, and listening for movements in the hush which felt as if it was pinned down by all the trees, when he sensed that his father or Margaret had crept behind him.

  No, not them. Their breath on his neck wouldn't be so cold, and even if both of them were standing there, their presence wouldn't feel so large. He swung round, sprawling on fallen needles. There was nobody to be seen, only trees like an enormous cage, but for an instant he felt as if whatever he'd sensed at his back had just hidden behind all of them at once. It had to have been the twilight, and the breath on his neck must have been a stray breeze. All the same, he was glad when he heard his father shout "I see you, Gretel" and Margaret's squeak of dismay, because then he was able to dash back to the marker post without fear of being made It.

  When Margaret began to count he ran off the path. Though she was almost shouting, her voice immediately sounded even smaller than his father's had. Johnny dodged away from his father, who was also heading deeper into the forest, and hid in the midst of a circle of five close trees. He saw his father vanish among the trees to his left, and could just hear Margaret still counting, and so surely he was wrong to feel as if he wasn't alone in his hiding place. He glanced all around him, and then up. Of course, the mist was as close as the treetops to him. The pale blur above the branches laden with snow made him think of a patch of a face – a face so huge that he was seeing too little of it to distinguish any features. The thought of a face as wide as the forest and hovering just above it sent him fleeing towards the marker post as soon as he heard Margaret stop counting.

  "I see Johnny," she called almost at once, and beat him to the marker, though without much enthusiasm. When he skidded onto the path, kicking needles across it, she said "I don't want to play any more."

  Now that she'd admitted it, he didn't need to. When he shrugged so as not to seem too eager she called "Dad, we've finished playing."

  Perhaps Daddy thought she was trying to trick him, because he made no sound. Was he stealing towards them or standing as still as the forest? "We aren't playing any more," they shouted more or less in chorus, but the silence seemed to cut off their shouts as soon as the sound reached the first trees. "He's going to scare us," Margaret wailed.

  Johnny couldn't tell if he shivered then or if the forest did. For a moment he thought the trees had somehow drawn together, then that something had inched towards him and Margaret between far too many trees. He could hardly see beyond the nearest trees because of the fog of his breath. When a figure appeared to his right, between trees so distant they resembled a solid scaly wall, he wasn't sure that he wanted to see what it looked like.

  He sucked in a breath which tasted like a stream of ice, and saw that it was his father. It must have been the cold which had made him look different – the blurring of the air – but as he advanced deliberately towards the children, his face was so blank and pale that Johnny felt anxious for him. Then his father saw that Margaret was shivering, and an expression of concern developed on his face. "Is the cold getting to you?" he said. "We'd better speed up our progress."

  "Can't we go home now?" Margaret said.

  "Why, we haven't got anywhere yet. We've hours before it's dark." He turned along the path, walking so fast that the children had to trot in order to keep up with him. Johnny supposed that was meant to keep Margaret warm, or was his father in a hurry to be somewhere? His father's face had become expressionless yet purposeful, and Johnny wondered if it was possible to sleepwalk while you were awake.

  Now they were almost at the point where the path began to curve out of the forest. Daddy left the path without breaking his stride and headed deeper into the forest, into the maze of pines which reminded Johnny of giants or insects, thin scaly bodies rising to bunches of legs with claws of ice beneath their blank white heads. Their stillness made the entire forest seem about to pounce. He would have followed his father if Margaret hadn't stopped on the path, protesting "Daddy, you'll get us lost."

  "No need to be afraid." He twisted round and beckoned, his feet moving in an odd little dance as if he was unable to keep still. "This is the last place on earth I'd lose you. Quite the opposite."

  "Mummy wouldn't want us to go where there aren't any paths."

  "There are paths, believe me. You'll see." But her mentioning Mummy had affected him. At first he looked angry and then, as he glanced at the poised silent forest, his face cleared. "She ought to be here," he murmured. "It should be all of us."

  He returned to the path so abruptly he might have been pushing himself away from something. He looked bewildered, and on the way to renewed blankness. "We'll go back for your mother."

  "She'll be busy," Margaret told him.

  His eyes gleamed a warning; then he smiled, so vaguely that he mightn't have known why. "Perfect," he said. "If we wait there'll be more to see."

  As he led them along the path towards the moors he kept glancing behind him into the pines, though he appeared to have forgotten what he was looking for. Johnny didn't like to speak until they were well along the path. "What are we going to see if we wait?" he said at last. "More snow?"

  His father beamed at him as if Johnny had solved a problem. "Snow like you've never seen," he said. "The winter to end all."

  THIRTY-FOUR

  It didn't start snowing for almost a week, and then only on television. Johnny saw it on the children's news, and shouted for them all to come and see. There were blizzards in the north of Scotland. Queues of sluggish vehicles turned even whiter in the seconds they were on the screen, their yellow headlights dimming; people masked with scarves leaned into the white wind so as to stay on their feet; a flock of sheep would have been indistinguishable from the blizzard except for their eyes. When a pine forest filled the screen Margaret thought for a dreamlike moment that it was Sterling Forest, all its colours swallowed up by white. "It's coming," Johnny cried.

  "It won't be as bad as that here, will it, Mummy?"

  "What's bad about it?" Johnny complained as if her saying so would keep it away, baby that he was. "It looks good. I thought you liked snow."

  "Not that much."

  "Let's wait and see what the forecast says," Mummy said.

  That wouldn't be on for almost an hour. Margaret went up to her room. The floor above was dark; her father must have switched off the workroom light to help him imagine his story. She left her bedroom door open so as to have the rest of the house for company, and took down from the shelves in the corner by her overloaded wardrobe the big Grimm Brothers book.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and opened the book on her lap. When she was Johnny's age she'd read it so often that if she held it any other way the pages sagged forward on the strip like a bandage to which they were glued. It fell open at the story of Hansel and Gretel, and she remembered the name her father had called her in the forest as some kind of joke. Perhaps she was too old for the story; the burning of the old woman seemed pointlessly violent and cruel. She tried the Hans Andersen book instead, but that seemed even bleaker; the thought of the Snow Queen made her shiver. She left the books in Johnny's room and put on her headphones to listen to one of Ramona's tapes of Pile of Cows, the rock group from Leeds, until Mummy called "Dinner in five minutes."

  Margaret was down in time to see the long-range forecast, and so was her father. The forecaster, an owlish man whose expression suggested that he was keeping a joke to himself, stood with his back to a map of Europe across which whiteness was crawling. The map turned into one of Britain, and it looked to Margaret as if a white claw was closing around the island. Blizzards were expected in the south of England by the weekend. "Why can't t
hey be here?" Johnny complained.

  "Suppose it's like that for weeks here, Mummy? How will we live?"

  Her father gave Margaret a dazzling smile. "You'd be surprised."

  "I'll go into Leeds tomorrow to stock up on provisions. We've plenty of room in the freezer."

  "Had enough pictures of snow?" Daddy said, and switched the television off. "They won't bring it any sooner."

  Johnny thought they might, Margaret knew, though his expression only admitted that when he thought nobody was watching. As they took their places at the dining-table she said "I put my old fairy-tale books in your room. They're yours now."

  He thanked her and cheered up at once. "The old stories never die," Daddy said.

  After dinner Johnny kept parting the curtains to look for a snowfall until even his mother lost patience with him. He was making the house feel surrounded, Margaret thought – making the night outside feel almost solid, and pregnant with snow. It reminded her of last Saturday in the forest, when she had become acutely aware of the weight of snow on the branches and afraid they would give way, burying her and Johnny and her father. No longer liking snow as much as she used to must be part of growing up.

  So many unfamiliar things were. At least Ramona had been through them too: feeling lonely when you didn't expect to, and wanting to cry for no reason, and finding your brother becoming more and more of a pain. The idea that as Margaret grew up, her feelings might keep growing bigger too, dismayed her. She could talk to her mother about the way her body would soon be changing, but she didn't like to mention her feelings, because they seemed somehow disloyal to the family. And now there was something else she couldn't tell her mother – that she was afraid the snow might catch her on the way back from Leeds.

  She lay in bed that night feeling helpless and childish. She was being sillier than Johnny; she'd heard what the forecast had said. When she wakened in the morning she felt as if she hadn't slept. She stumbled to the window, her feet tangled in the duvet. Towards the horizon the moors were white as if the snow was waiting there; but the whiteness was mist like a huge lingering breath. She had a quick wash and ran downstairs to watch the forecast. Snow had closed over the southern tip of England and was inching northwards across Scotland. The map showed cold suns multiplying over the rest of the country, displaying their rays like wings. They made Margaret think of angels, new lights in the sky, Christmas, though they would be gone by then. All that mattered was that the forecast showed her mother would be safe.