Lightning Scarred

by Carolyn Ivy Stein

  "Why use an artist if you have a camera?" she'd asked.

  "Cameras are tricky in the Arctic and may not work right. Artists can show the color, which we also need. You have to choose which is best for each situation. We need everything we can possibly get. It costs a lot to make an expedition of this sort. We can’t miss recording a single moment."

  It took a while to get used to the routine on the ship, but it was definitely a routine, with long, slow days that Raisa used to draw, paint, and learn the camera. Everything depended on her art. If she didn't succeed her family would be poorer from the lack of her income. With no passage to New York City it will all have been for nothing. So, she practiced endlessly, perfecting the color, the emotional tone of the art, everything she could think of. It took longer, but the art was better.

  She'd expected cleaner air as they made their way to the Arctic, but the ship frequently used the steam engine, which meant choking clouds of coal smoke would sometimes waft her way and the ever-present ash turned everything a bit gray and gritty.

  One day, as she made her way to the captain's cabin to ask for candles and a bit of wine to celebrate Shabbat, she heard her name mentioned amidst an argument. She crouched, pulled out her pad, and started to draw as she listened.

  She heard Peterson yell in a voice filled with anger, "Raisa's useless."

  "She lied? She can't draw?" It was Captain Bowers, his even tone was a contrast to the near-shout of the other man.

  "Oh, she can draw and paint just fine. She's a lady painter in every sense of the world. Everything has to be pretty; everything takes a year and a day."

  Raisa clenched her jaw and her hand tightened on her pencil. What's wrong with pretty? Wasn’t art supposed to be pretty?

  "Is there a problem with pretty?" Captain Bowers asked, and Raisa was suddenly grateful to the gruff old man who hadn't said more than a few words to her since she come aboard the ship.

  "She produces one, maybe two, pieces of art a day. That's it. And it's not all drawn to scale. Because it's Art with a capital A. Just useless."

  Her ribs throbbed against the pounding of her heart. Useless. No. That couldn't be. Her art was good. Wasn't it?

  "We don't have time to turn back. Work with her. See if you can explain it."

  The door open with a bang and Raisa looked directly into Peterson's startled face. She tried to look as if she hadn't heard anything but they both knew it wasn't the case.

  The following day Peterson gave her a crisp order to take more photographs, but she knew that if they had wanted photographs, they wouldn't have hired an artist. She needed to get faster, less pretty. She needed to produce more, and it needed to be better.

  The next day she tried to produce more, but as hard as she tried it just didn’t work. When she worked faster, the work was bad. When she tried to improve it, her corrections just ruined the drawing. She knew she should ask Peterson for details of what he expected, but she was afraid that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to draw at all, so she kept drawing until her hands went numb. She shook them out, sending out a brief prayer to the Almighty. Please, if it is your will that my father gets to New York, help me draw. She tried again. Perhaps they were too far north for the Blessed One to notice her prayer.

  Her hands and upper back ached each night when she rolled into her bunk, one of twenty built in pairs into the hold, with drawers under the lower bunk for clothing. She slept in the upper bunk because she was light and a girl. When she sat up, she could touch the thick felt that covered the wood. She was told that there was more between the ceiling and the deck above to keep out the frost and cold. It was the most luxurious travel accommodations she’d ever experienced.

  The rest of the crew slept in the same room she did, except for Peterson and Captain Bowers, who had private quarters. The crew was friendly enough, treating her as if she were a younger sister. Her only complaint was the snoring. Coming from so many throats it felt as if it vibrated the very boards. Still, she adjusted to it faster than she thought she would.

  After Peterson’s complaints, she could barely look the men in the face. Did everyone know of her failures? It was a small group. People gossiped.

  Each morning she headed to the galley with the men for breakfast, which was surprisingly good and plentiful. They breakfasted on oatmeal and sausages or bacon, dense biscuits and preserved fruit made an appearance every other day. She avoided the meats and judiciously chose not to ask about the fat used in the biscuits. If God wanted her to keep kosher aboard ship, he shouldn’t make it impossible. She ate far better here than she had in Nova Scotia.

  After the third day of trying and failing to get the drawings right, she retreated early to her bunk and buried her head in her pillow, taking loud gasping breaths to keep from crying. She had to get better. She had to. Why did it have to be so hard?

  Even with the blankets over her head she heard the bell ring, calling everyone to the deck. She didn’t think it meant her. She was useless. Right? But it made no sense to rebel and upset people. Things could always be worse.

  As she emerged from the lower decks, Peterson grabbed her hand and half-pulled her to the surface. “Where is your notebook? The camera?

  “On my bunk.”

  “Get them. Quickly!”

  She hung from the ladder and dropped to the floor with a thump. She grabbed her gear from the bed and headed back up. When she was finally on the deck with the rest of the crew, she could see why they wanted her.

  In front of the ship there was a large ice arch big enough for two or three ships which looked as if had captured the aurora borealis. But it was the middle of the day, and the aurora borealis only appeared at night. She dropped the camera, which was seized by one of the other scientists, and began sketching furiously.

  Inside the swirl of mist and color, bits of lightning flashed. She tried to record the phenomena, losing herself as she focused on the strangeness of it. Was that singing she heard coming from the center? Never mind. Keep sketching.

  She vaguely heard Peterson say, “Captain Bowers, can you bring us closer to the phenomena. We need to get measurements.”

  The ship maneuvered closer and now she could feel the lightning flashes, the tingle of ice crystals in the air, and she could clearly hear a strange soothing song, as if from a thousand celestial voices. Angels? In the Arctic?

  In moving the ship to bring it closer so that the new phenomenon could be studied, the prow of the ship touched the edge of the mist and suddenly it engulfed them.

  Swirling colors, strange mists, and sparks of electricity abraded her skin. Looking up, she saw all manner of people and ships from many places and times, as if all of time had been compressed into this very singular moment.

  The singing voices solidified into one voice singing directly to her. Was that “Lecha Dodi,” the song that traditionally heralded the start of Shabbat? When she focused in on the words or the notes, they fractured into another song.

  “Welcome, Raisa,” said an achingly sweet voice. “My daughter, you are very welcome here.”

  Raisa’s heart slammed against her chest. Her stomach churned and the world became a dizzying cloud of light and sound. She could barely hold her pencil, but she continued to draw, as if the very day depended upon it, as if the ship required the pencil marks to continue its passage through the strange gateway.

  When the mist finally cleared, the sea was changed. Where the water’s surface had been clear with occasional ice floes, now it was mostly ice floes with an occasional bit of sea. The sky had darkened to dusk. Looking down, Raisa spotted a city below the ice. She sketched it as quickly as she could, but it disappeared under a stretch of fog, then reappeared again, allowing her to add to the sketch.

  Everything seemed different than it had, but strangely familiar, as if she were looking at the world through a mirror. She sketched the ice and the coastline. She sketched the strange white bears, someone dressed in sashes.

  “Captain, this is Thule. I’ve r
ead about it,” said one of the sailors.

  Peterson growled, as fierce as one of the bears on the ice. “Thule is a legend, nothing more. We are a science expedition, not a chaser of legends.”

  The captain choked. “Where are we?”

  “I’m having trouble getting our bearings, Captain,” said the navigator.

  The ship drifted into an ice floe and the impact shook the ship and everyone on it. Peterson dropped the camera and it skittered to the edge of the deck. Raisa was barely able to hold onto her notebook and pencil and continued sketching, single-minded and focused on her duty. She used everything she had learned to memorize and sketch the landscape and the creatures.

  “Oh, my daughter you are an artist. Very nice. I can help.” It was the silvery voice again. Raisa thought of the voice as Shabbat.

  Her hands tingled though her body still ached with the effort. She drew faster. It was as if she, her art, and the landscape had become one. Drawing was no longer separate from her, something she merely did. It was who she was. The landscape that came to life under her fingers spoke through her.

  Warmth radiated through her body, as if her fingers had kindled a fire and it was spreading through her veins. She felt like laughing, but she poured it all back through her fingers.

  The ship continued to make its way through the ice choked passage. Mist floated across the ice floes surrounding the ship and retreated like graceful forest nymphs spreading their diaphanous cloaks across the ground. Everywhere Raisa looked she saw something incredible. Here a coastline sculpted in animal and human forms, shimmering with rainbows. There a pack of sea unicorns with long pointed horns cavorted in the waves. Her hands moved faster and faster across the page, but through some miracle, the drawings emerged whole and beautiful, though her hands cramped and hurt.

  “Where are we?”

  “Thule,” came the same sure voice.

  There was more mist and the ice closed around the ship again.

  “Get us out of here before we have to use the explosive charges,” Captain Bowers shouted.

  “How? I can’t get our bearings,” the navigator said.

  “Take us back through the ice arch.”

  “Where? I don’t know where it is. None of this is on our charts. Our instruments won’t work.”

  Raisa looked up, momentarily distracted from the beauty unfolding around her, suddenly aware that she was shivering in the extreme cold.

  The ice arch was gone. We need a map. But how?

  She flipped back through her drawings; there were so many. Page after page, drawn faster than she had ever drawn before and with more precision and beauty. Could she make a map from them?

  “My daughter needs a map? Bend to your task. I need you alive for my mission and you cannot live here, right now.”

  Raisa found her fingers drawing a map, as if one lived behind her eyes just waiting for the moment to be produced through her cramped fingers. She pushed on, though the rest of her body, the parts unnecessary for drawing were cramped and pained. The map that emerged looked strange to Raisa’s eyes, but exactly like the maps she’d seen spread out on the captain’s table the day she’d overheard Peterson complaining about her.

  “Go now,” said the voice of Shabbat. “Go before the Blessed gateway ices up and closes. You will be trapped if you do not make haste.”

  In that moment, she saw a pale otherworldly figure of a beautiful woman, her hair as dark as Raisa’s own. In her hands, glowing as if it were made of the aurora borealis, she saw the tree of life embroidered in the air as if it were the cover on the holy Torah.

  Raisa stared at the majesty of Shabbat, resplendent against the ice. She suddenly wanted to apologize for not lighting the candles, for eating the biscuits without checking on the fat, for all of her sins against God and tradition.

  Shabbat did not seem to care. She spread her warmth over Raisa and said, “Go daughter bring them the map. Leave before the portal closes. Do good in the world and I shall be with you.”

  She disappeared and the spell that transfixed Raisa broke. She gathered up her sketchbook and pencils. “Captain, I have a map and pictures of the landscape. We can use them to find our way back.

  Peterson scoffed. “How is that possible? No one could draw that quickly. Certainly not you; not any girl. And what do you know of map-making? It’s not art; it’s science.

  “Let's see, Raisa,” said Captain Bowers.

  Raisa handed her notebook to him, and the navigator bent over the captain's shoulder as they examined the drawings.

  “It's good, sir. Really good.” The navigator seized the book from the captain’s hand. “I can use these to find our way back. Her drawings of the shore and ice artifacts are clear. We’ll be able to navigate using them as reference points if we have to.”

  The captain smiled at her. “Good job, Raisa. Looks like you’ve earned your keep today.”

  She was warmed and filled with joy. A peace comes over the world when Shabbat spreads her cloak and Raisa felt it now. She hoped she could keep this feeling, but the world has many distractions. Who knew what would happen?

  A month after arriving in New York City with her parents and younger brother, Raisa found herself in a large auditorium in Brooklyn. The invitation made out to to her and her family came from the Honorable Charles P. Daly, president of the American Geographical Society.

  She sat on the stage, along with the scientists and the captain of the Fortitude, sinking into the plush comfort of the stage chairs, gazing across the sea of velvet seats filled with men in fitted jackets and straight brown pants. She stared into the crowd and looked for Mr. Wellstone, whose wedding had made her adventure possible, but she didn’t see him amongst the men. The women in the audience wore stylish narrow skirts and bustles with colorful little jackets with rows and rows of buttons. A glittering chandelier that would have been at home in a Czar’s palace swayed gently, spreading its light across the gilt-covered walls.

  The mélange of voices sounded as distinct as the sounds of the sea. She let them wash over her as she imagined how she would draw the people here. She itched to grab her pad and pencil, but it wouldn’t do.

  She knew she wasn’t as beautifully dressed as the women who filled the seats. But she was on stage, well away from close inspection. Her parents were both adept at preparing one for acting. They knew what would show and what wouldn’t, and they’d helped her dress. She smiled at them.

  Her mother had found her some clothing so that she could present herself well, but it was all borrowed and they fit her about as well as the gear she been issued on the ship. Still a few pins, some needle basting, and voilà she looked great, as long as she sat or stood very carefully to avoid ripping the dress. Captain Bowers handed her a mint and she popped it in her mouth, enjoying the fresh stinging taste.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests,” said the Charles Daly in a loud sonorous voice. “We are here to present to you wonders from the far north. You know about the Greely Expedition that met such a tragic end. And the Polaris. This is something even greater. What you will hear will curl your hair. What you will see, you will never forget. It is my pleasure to introduce to you Captain Bowers to reveal his adventures in Thule.”

  The captain stood and introduced the crew and Raisa. After that, the evening passed quickly. No one asked Raisa any questions, for which she was intensely grateful. She had no idea what had really happened that day when they passed through that strange gateway into the land of Shabbat, but she knew she would carry it with her for the rest of her life.

  Her fingers hadn’t stopped itching since they’d returned. She had to draw, to make manifest the world around her or go mad. She blessed God for the gift of her talent that brought her and her family to this wondrous city. As wondrous as the frozen land of Shabbat—or Thule as everyone else called it—had been, New York City was even more so.

  It sparkled. It lived. It welcomed all of them.

  Edda - Pytheus’ Voyage to Thule
<
br />   From the Terror Edda discovered in the sunken HMS Terror

  Jörd

  Each morning the same. Jörd stared through columns of ice in Thule.

  Madness! Howling loneliness and affliction.

  Jörd's sorrow rang through her icy prison.

  * * *

  As large as the giantess was, her sorrow was larger.

  She could not be consoled. Not by the ice witches.

  Not by the cunning Kaneedma with their furry wisdom.

  Not even by the wind itself, as it repeated and magnified her lonely howls,

  trying to console the lonesome goddess.

  * * *

  She could not be consoled, though she stopped weeping.

  Worn clear through, emptied of tears, Jörd sang to the night sky.

  Her song landed far to the south, in the iceless summer.

  * * *

  Pytheus of Massalia

  Only Pytheus, beloved navigator of the southern people, heard Jörd's shivering refrain.

  The melody of longing and adventure pierced his heart.

  He swore to find her. He would cross from iceless cliffs to icy fjord.

  A stalwart mariner, Pytheus was radiant to his gods, who loved him over all others.

  * * *

  Pytheus sacrificed half a herd of white goats to his many-breasted goddess, Artemis of Massalia.

  She did not answer.

  He promised his southern goddess anything for her aid in the voyage north.

  Still she did not respond.

  So Pytheus took his ship, painted with two unblinking eyes on either side of its prow, and selected the bravest of his crew to accompany him.

  They sailed beyond known lands and across the high waves to Thule.

  * * *