My good humor lasted only as long as it took for me to see the look on the doctor’s face as he descended from Galloway’s bedchamber.
“He will not last the night,” the doctor said. “I am at a loss to say why, but it looks like a virulent consumption to me. He is comfortable, which is a mercy, and he has been asking for you these past ten minutes.”
I passed Jennings on the upstairs landing—the poor man had fresh tears in his eye, for he was as close to his master as any friend—and I clapped him on the shoulder as I passed him by and went into the room.
James was indeed going fast—the sunken, wasted thing on the bed was hardly recognizable as the man we had had brought upstairs a scant few hours ago.
“It is so cold and dark now,” he said as he saw me enter. “And I can taste the sea. I think I understand—the lady was almost right earlier. The scrimshaw is indeed haunted. There is an essence trapped there. But it is not the lady’s Captain—never the Captain.”
He gripped my hand again, and it was as cold as a lump of ice in my palm.
“Don’t you see—it is not the Captain—it is the whale itself—teeth and all, trapped in the board, forever dark, forever singing.”
His eyes fluttered, and he grabbed at a last breath, enough for a final snatch of whispered song before he went down into the deep, never to return.
He sleeps with the fish, in the dark, in the deep,
And the Dreaming God is Singing Where he Lies.
Chekhov turned down Stoker’s invitation to London last summer—a death in the family, and a subsequent calling to prison work in Siberia means that a trip halfway around the globe in the other direction is out of the question for the foreseeable future. Which is a dashed shame, as the Russian has been producing some top-notch short stories in recent years, and I for one was keen to hear him relate one in person.
But alongside his letter of regret, there came a dozen, handwritten sheets in a small, neat hand. Stoker gave us a fine reading, and I have transcribed it here. It was not quite the same as having the man himself at the table, but I am glad of the story, although it necessitated several brandies and a roaring fire to make me feel warm again after its telling.
Here is his tale.
AT THE MOLENZKI JUNCTION
Anton Checkov
Petyr Andreovitch spent the evenings of his first year as junction master at Molenzki in keeping a detailed record in his journal of every train that passed, every point that was changed, and every transaction between himself and the engine crews. In the second year he recorded the passing of trains while practicing his violin. By the third year the trains passed, Petyr changed the points, then he returned to his cottage—which was more of a hut than a dwelling. There he drank copious amounts of the local vodka provided to him by the women of the nearest village, some three miles away down a long track, and wept for the loss of his youth and vigor.
The winter of ‘87 was a long, harsh one—by the end of February, Petyr was coming to the understanding that his supply of vodka was not going to last out the season, and there had been no visitors from the village since Christmas to replenish his stocks. He could not barter any liquor from an engine crew, for there had been a bridge collapse fifty miles away in the highlands and no train had passed for a week. Nor were any likely to come through until after the spring thaws—which was too far in the future to contemplate without the curtain that vodka could bring to cover his dismay at the thought of it. He had plenty of food—potatoes and flour—enough firewood, even if he had to burn the wood store itself, and no shortage of candles or lamp oil. He was unlikely to expire, but the thought of being both sober and cold filled him with such dread that he resolved he must make a foray himself to the village in search of vodka.
He got up at dawn, aware that such a journey was not to be undertaken lightly in midwinter. He wrapped himself in wool and furs, stuffed his boots with old paper and wore two sets of gloves, a lined cap pulled down over his ears, and a scarf wrapped across his nose, mouth and chin. He also took his hunting rifle—in the summer it was used for rabbits for the pot, but today he might need it to keep himself from becoming supper for the local wolves, who had been howling piteously for weeks now, day and night. Only when he was certain that no cold could reach him, and that his gloves did not interfere unduly with the operation of the rifle, did he venture out of his hut and onto the path to the village.
It was a crisp, bitterly cold morning, and for the first mile he made good time on a hard, crusty layer of old snow that had firmed to an icy roadway. Despite his attention to his warmth, cold did start to seep upward from the soles of his feet, starting to bite at his ankles, but he fortified himself with thoughts of vodka and ploughed onward.
Such had been his progress that he was harboring hopes of reaching his goal well before time for lunch, but even as he thought it, his progress slowed as he descended into a small valley and found the snow to be much softer, and much deeper. The reason for his lack of visitors became all too apparent as he was faced with drift after drift, each larger than the one before. His strength was going fast, the cold and the effort of pulling himself through the snow dragged at him with every step. Only the thought of vodka kept him moving forward, but eventually, as the sun was at its highest point in the sky, even the lure of liquor was not enough. He sat, leaning against a tree trunk, coming to the realization that, not only was he not going to reach the village, he would now have a mighty struggle to return back to the hut before night claimed the forest trail once more.
Cursing his own weakness and folly, Petyr started to retrace his steps. The cold had spread now, above his knees, into the large muscles of his thighs. He had to lean on the rifle for support, and even then he tumbled, thrice, in the space of ten minutes. The sky darkened as clouds lowered and light snow fell.
Somewhere to his left, a wolf howled. Somewhere to his right another answered. This was not the first time that vodka had got Petyr into trouble—merely the first time that the lack of it had caused him so much anxiety.
He forced himself to move faster, but that brought its own problems, as he fell more often, tumbling and cursing in the snow like a babe who has not yet coordinated his legs and his head. Wolves howled again, closer, and sounding hungry. Petyr decided that discretion was the better part of valor and, despite being slowed by the lack of a crutch, cradled the rifle in his arms and pushed—slower now, and slowing still—through the thickening drifts.
He heard rustling in the trees to his left. Without waiting to confirm the vulpine predator, he fired the rifle, the crack of the shot almost deafening in the still air in the hollow. There was no yelp, no answering howl of pain, but he was allowed to travel a hundred paces or so unmolested before a gray shape came into view ten paces to his right. He raised the rifle, but the wolf slid away immediately, into the safety of the trees.
Petyr was not fooled—he was being hunted—and it was only a matter of time before the beasts grew hungry enough to force their attack. He needed to find a safe spot from where he could defend himself, but all around was forest—the domain of the wolf.
He pushed onward. The falling snow got heavier still, such that he was hard pressed to ensure that he stayed on the path; should he stray to either side the wolves would have him in minutes. He had to fire twice again—his targets closer now, but still just as elusive. But he was finally making progress—he had almost climbed back up out of the valley. He was congratulating himself that he would very soon be on firmer ground—and equally as soon in sight of the railway line and home—when a gray shape leapt from behind him and landed on his back, forcing him face first into the snow.
Only his furs saved him from the biting jaws and digging claws of a large male. He tried to roll, but the weight of the beast was too much. He did, however, manage to get the rifle up in front of him. The wolf bit down on that instead of his arm and howled in agony as its teeth met metal and were found wanting.
The beast backed off, and Petyr was ab
le to stand, but his way ahead was now blocked. There were three wolves on the path between him and home, and three more behind him. He raised the rifle, ready to shoot, but the trigger refused to budge, either frozen solid or bent somehow by the bite of the large male, who was even now creeping closer again, despite bleeding heavily around lips and gums. Petyr showed it the weapon, hoping to appeal to some innate fear the beast might have of the rifle, but the male smiled back, mocking his show of bravado. It tensed its back legs, ready to pounce, and Petyr said a silent prayer, asking God to forgive him for the weakness for vodka that had brought him his early death.
He closed his eyes—and was even ready to go—when there was a new sound in the air. A high, feminine singing, so pure, so full, like a dash of cold water on a warm summer day. He did not understand the words, the language was completely foreign to him, but that was of no matter, for the wolves seemed to comprehend it perfectly. They became as meek and docile as a family of well-trained hunting dogs. They had already backed away from Petyr as the singer herself walked into the hollow.
Her face—indeed every part of her—was hidden beneath a voluminous white cape, lined with even whiter fur. Petyr had once seen an ermine stole, but this looked even finer and more luxurious, thin, soft fur that wafted and seemed to breathe for itself, although the wind had dropped to the merest whisper.
She came forward with no apparent effort, almost gliding on top of the soft snow, and a hand was put out from the robe—pale, white china with blue veins, cold to the touch as Petyr took it and allowed himself to be led away. He walked, his head spinning with the song, as she led him along the path toward the junction house.
The wolves followed at their heels, raising their voices for each chorus, but Petyr felt no fear, only a cold, calm, certainty that all would now be well.
***
The snow was coming down heavier as they left the forest and approached Petyr’s hut. He thought the wolves might depart at that point, but they followed the woman all the way up to the door, and lay outside on the small platform that served as a porch, while the woman—still singing, still lost beneath the fur cloak—led Petyr into his home.
His weariness was so extreme that he immediately slumped on his cot, too tired to even consider lighting the stove. The lady, for that is how he had come to think of her, saw to the household duties. Petyr must have slept for a time, for he merely seemed to blink, open his eyes, and see the stove alight, a pot of thick stew brewing. The lady’s song filled the house—not with warmth, but with a blue cold that yet seemed calming, soothing to some part of Petyr’s soul that had been missing it without knowing. He forgot all about vodka, forgot all about the trains or a possibility of thaw, all he needed was the lady and her song.
When she threw back the hood of the cloak, she was as beautiful as he might have hoped—as porcelain perfect as her hand, eyes as blue as a summer sky, hair as soft as the fur of the cloak. The only sign of other color were two high red spots on her cheeks that got redder still as she bent and kissed his hand. A wave of perfect tiredness swept over him and he slept in a dreamless, soft, blackness so appealing he never wished to leave.
Time, as it does, passed.
Petyr existed in a dream filled with cold and song and the ministrations of his pale lady. She never spoke—she never had to—she sang, and just outside the door the wolves sang with her. They brought her food—rabbit and duck and root vegetables dug from the ice with their paws, laying it in the doorway as if in tribute. In return, she sang for them, and they howled their joy to the icy stars.
Petyr stayed abed—he felt distinctly more comfortable there, and felt no desire to rise. The thaw showed no sign of coming any time soon, his lady’s song delighted him utterly, and nothing else seemed in any way deserving of his attention. Day and night, night and day she sang, and the wolves provided their choral accompaniment, and after a time Petyr found his own way into the song and was able to raise his voice with theirs. He noted, distantly, that his skin seemed to have taken on an almost opaque, bluish tone, while all the time the lady grew pinker and more robust—but he cared not, for he was lost with the pack, lost in the song of winter.
But his almost religious fervor was to be short lived. The cold broke some days later and melt-water dripping from the eaves announced the coming of spring. And with that the lady’s song faltered, began to fail, and Petyr started to think, for the first time since their meeting, that perhaps he might need some vodka.
The wolves came less frequently, until one day Petyr stood, on weak legs, and got out of bed, raised by the whistle of an approaching train, which arrived just as he finished dressing. He exchanged pleasantries with the driver, each of them welcoming the coming of warmer days, and then the train pulled out. It was only when he returned to his hut that he noted that his lady had gone with it.
She too had been waiting, waiting for her connection, waiting at the junction.
All spring and summer Petyr waited for her return, waited for the song. Women came from the village with vodka but he sent them away, angry at their approach. It was his time to wait now, hiding from the summer sun inside his hut, his skin too pale to expose to such fire. He started singing as soon as the leaves turned brown and every night he sat on his porch under the stars—waiting at the junction.
Cold—blue cold that seeped into his bones and filled him up—came one night in November. He raised his voice in foreign song and walked out into the forest.
His pack joined joyfully in the chorus.
Jules Verne has been a literary hero of mine for as long as I can remember, so it was with great delight that I welcomed him to our little dining club this summer.
I knew before our meeting that he was indeed a great man of letters, but I did not expect him to be quite so humorous, being full of bon-mots and anecdotes, mostly relating to his newfound role in French provincial politics. What with that, and some in-depth insight into his methods of research during his writing of his tales of scientific adventures, we had quite the most pleasant evening.
When it came time for his story, I had some misgivings about requiring his tale to take a supernatural turn. But, being the gentleman that he is, he understood the need to conform to ‘house rules’ and gave us a story worthy of the club, although it has certainly been stamped with his own particular brand of scientific speculation.
Here is his tale.
TO THE MOON AND BEYOND
Jules Verne
Ever since man first looked up at the night sky, he has wondered about the moon, that great white lady who circles us constantly, like a predator circling its prey, merely waiting for a weakness so that it may pounce. Maps of her surface have been made, each more detailed than the last as our lenses grow stronger to match our boundless curiosity at something that seems so near and is yet so far outside our grasp. It has remained the stuff of infinite possibilities, the stuff of dreams and dreamers.
Alain Deloit was one such dreamer. Ever since boyhood he had been one of those who looked up and wondered. But Alain was made of different materials than the rest us, for from a very early age he determined that he would act on his dreams—he would go up into the sky, and investigate that which had been beyond every man before him.
Of course, such thoughts could not be voiced too strongly in public, for fear of being thought rather eccentric, or perhaps even mad. Alain kept his work to himself, calculating and theorizing and, eventually, building in the secrecy of a ramshackle barn situated at the rear of his family property in Western Brittany, and far from the eyes of the scientific community. Only when he deemed himself ready did he venture forth to Paris and the great universities to expound on his theory as to how his proposed journey might be undertaken. As you might imagine, he met with closed doors, closed minds, and found very little success. Although his theory might indeed be mathematically sound, without a demonstration of its engineering principles it would be all for naught, for no man of science would deign to give it the time of day for fe
ar of public ridicule.
This proved somewhat of a quandary for Alain, for although he was a capable engineer in his own right, he simply did not have the financial wherewithal for the degree of construction and building that would be necessary for such a grand undertaking as he had in mind.
Alain was almost resigned to returning to Brittany and being content with his dreams when destiny took a hand. Word of his visit to Paris had reached the ears of a reporter for Le Monde, and this ambitious young man, Vincent Thibaut, sought Alain out in a café as he was considering a croissant and the next stage of his journey.
At first Vincent was as skeptical as any of the grand scientists—he was hoping merely for a comical story that might keep readers amused of a summer morning rather than having any great hope on uncovering a scientific breakthrough. But there was something about the man he met in the café that impressed Vincent, something in his demeanor that spoke of a simmering greatness just waiting to be uncovered. Vincent was a stoical man and not prone to flights of fancy, but Alain was so full of joy and exuberance in his dreams that the reporter could not fail to be carried along by the Breton’s enthusiasm. By the close of their café meeting, Vincent had agreed to make a trip to Quiberon, and on to the coast beyond, that very weekend to see the grand experiment for himself.
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