Under a Pole Star

by Stef Penney

  .

  He takes out his sextant and begins to plot their position. What he wants to do more than anything is crawl into his sleeping bag and pull a blanket over his eyes, but you don’t give in to tiredness while there is work to be done. He has learnt the Eskimo trick: you tell yourself that to behave in any other way is impossible, and then it is.

  Next morning, the smoke is still there. It’s very odd; odd that there should be a fire at all, doubly odd to be a fire they can see from so far. It is not a regular campfire, and there is no wood here, nothing that burns. He asks Sorqaq what he thinks. He has heard of burning cliffs in Greenland – seams of coal that smoulder of their own accord. Could that be what this is? Even studying the smoke through binocu­lars until his eyes water, it is too far off to learn more. Jakob feels a stirring of unease.

  ‘How far is it, do you think?’

  Sorqaq stares. ‘If the ice is good, a day, maybe.’

  ‘I think we must go and see what it is. Maybe someone is in trouble.’ He looks at Sorqaq with the hint of a plea. ‘Just in case.’

  .

  By the time they have crossed the ice again, the smoke has vanished, but having fixed its position, they strike south. They finally round a headland to see a narrow valley running up to the mountains. Their best guess is that the smoke came from here. The snow on the northern slope is melting; patches cling on in hollows, dappling the grey gravel. There is no sign of anything else, no hint that anyone is here or has been here. Beyond the valley, the coast steepens to forbidding cliffs. Jakob decides to trek up the valley for a few hours, and then, if he finds nothing, they will give up, go back. He tells Sorqaq to stay with the dogs, who deserve a rest.

  .

  Convinced, after a couple of hours stiff climbing, that he is wasting his time, Jakob stops for breath. It is a still day; there is no sound other than his breathing, and the trickle of snowmelt under the gravel. No sign of smoke. Perhaps they imagined it, or – whatever it was, some oddity of the north – has vanished as mysteriously at it came. He takes out his binoculars, scans the valley, and there it is again: a dark feather, barely distinguishable from the grey gravel. He finally identifies a tiny smudge nearby as a tent. Surely the British? But nothing else. No movement. If the occupants are gone, why the fire? He starts to climb again, regretting the rifle he left with Sorqaq. The unease he felt earlier returns, sharpens to a point. He stops, fills his lungs and shouts to the drab, silent valley. After several seconds, someone crawls out of the tent, stands up. Even when they are on hands and knees, in trousers and parka, and are far away, he knows it is her.

  As he approaches the tent, she comes towards him. He hasn’t seen her since Christmas, when they parted on terms of something like armed neutrality – a hopeless impasse. There has been no reason for them to meet again. He notices her hair is in an untidy plait down her back, that her face looks odd, her eyes reddened. He realises with a shock – a cold premonition – that she has been crying. She says, in a voice that trembles and almost breaks, ‘You came.’

  He goes up to her and then, somehow, without any thought at all, she is in his arms. Her hair flutters against his mouth. He is breathing hard, his heart pumping with the effort of climbing uphill.

  ‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’

  She pulls away, and he can see the gleam of tears on her face. She turns to look over her shoulder.

  ‘Yes, but . . . he’s dead.’

  ‘What? Who’s dead?’

  ‘Come and see.’

  She leads him towards a second tent, which he hadn’t noticed until now – it has been collapsed into a heap of canvas. Jakob smells a sweetish odour before she lifts the open end of the tent. He sees a single, stockinged foot, crouches down and pulls up the canvas. A cloud of flies bursts out and hits him in the face. Holding his breath, he pushes up the canvas again until he can see the rest of the body – and a man’s head, spoiled and blood-matted and crawling with flies. Glints of blond hair are visible in the brown mess. He drops the canvas back over the awful thing, crawling out backwards, brushing flies off his face, spitting them out of his mouth. He has to walk away to gulp clean air before he can turn back to her.

  ‘Three, four days ago, we camped here. I was in my tent . . . I was woken by a shot. I came out. Tateraq was standing here, holding his rifle.’

  She hesitates.

  ‘He said Ashbee shot himself.’

  ‘Where is Tateraq?’

  Flora looks up the valley, to the ice cap. ‘He left. He took the dogs and left.’

  ‘He left? When is he coming back?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s coming back.’

  Jakob is silent. To abandon someone alone, here, without dogs, is unthinkable. Without dogs, you cannot travel. Without dogs, you die.

  ‘You’re sure he didn’t go for help?’

  She nods.

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  She exhales sharply.

  ‘I suppose it’s possible that Ashbee shot himself, but I can’t think why he would. He gave no sign. And to do so in a tent, lying down like that, with a rifle . . .’

  ‘Is his rifle here?’

  ‘Yes. I tried . . . you know, to see if you could pull the trigger . . . Perhaps someone taller could do it, or if you used something . . .’ She shakes her head; she doesn’t believe it.

  ‘Can I see it?’

  She walks back to her tent and picks up a long-barrelled Martini-­Henry. The gun is more than four feet long; Jakob knows perfectly well that a man could not reach the trigger while holding the barrel to his head.

  ‘This was in the tent with him?’

  Flora nods. ‘Beside him.’ She pauses. ‘It hadn’t been fired.’

  ‘So Tateraq shot him.’

  She half laughs. ‘I don’t . . . know!’

  ‘Do you think he shot himself with Tateraq’s rifle?’

  She shakes her head. Jakob looks around, up the valley, where the snow is still thick. Tracks are visible, leading into the mountains. That was the way they came, and the way the sled went back.

  ‘Was there any reason why they might have quarrelled?’

  There is a long pause, then she says, ‘I think they might have quarrelled because of me.’

  ‘Can you explain?’

  She keeps her eyes on the hillside. Her voice is flat and quiet.

  ‘Ashbee came to me a few days ago and said that, of all the things he had to do, he didn’t expect to have to defend my honour. I told him that people make silly comments, but it doesn’t mean anything. I’d heard harsh words between them. Tateraq was sullen. I didn’t know why. I thought, anyway, with Ashbee there, there was no reason to worry . . .’

  ‘Nothing else had happened – before this?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Then, after Ashbee died?’

  ‘The thing was . . .’ She closes her eyes for a moment, her voice no more than a whisper: ‘He didn’t die. Not right away. I went into the tent and he was making a terrible noise, a kind of snoring, but his eyes were open . . . He looked at me and, it wasn’t clear, I think he said, “I tried . . .” then he started swearing. I told him he would be all right . . .’ She looks at Jakob at last, her face collapsing. ‘But I knew he wouldn’t be.’

  He lays his hand on her arm. She takes a great, shuddering breath.

  ‘I went outside again, and Tateraq said, “We have to go; there’s nothing we can do.” I said we couldn’t leave while he was still alive. Tateraq was harnessing the dogs to his sled – all the dogs. The way he looked at me, it was . . . I thought he might kill me too. I got my rifle and . . .’ She grows suddenly calm. ‘I told him to go, and, if he didn’t hurry, I would shoot him. Then he left.’

  ‘He didn’t try to hurt you?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘When was
that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Three days ago?’

  ‘And how long was Ashbee . . .’

  ‘He died the next day. I think. I gave him laudanum. I started burning the other sled. I thought Ralph might see the smoke, and come.’ Her voice breaks up into a moan of anguish. ‘I stayed with him, as much as I could, but I couldn’t do anything for him!’

  Jakob glances towards the heap of canvas. He cannot imagine what that would be like.

  ‘That injury was bound to be fatal. He probably wasn’t even aware.’

  ‘Then the noise stopped. I thought I must bury him, before I . . .’

  Jakob looks towards the ice cap. Without dogs, she could never have got back – she would know that as well as anyone. He feels a surge of fury against Tateraq. To abandon someone here is as sure a way of killing them as a bullet.

  ‘I started digging a grave, but it’s so hard.’

  She shows him a shallow trench in the frozen gravel.

  ‘I’ll do it. Do you have food?’

  She nods.

  ‘Can you get something to eat? And water.’

  He takes off his parka and, picking an unburnt slat from the fire, starts to dig. The ground is like iron; an inch below the surface, the gravel is frozen solid. He kicks away the smouldering timbers and attacks the earth where the fire has softened it. When he has hacked and scraped a big enough hole, he drags Ashbee’s body into the trench in its canvas shroud and piles gravel over it. Then he hunts for rocks to cover the grave, to keep foxes away from his remains. Despite the low temperature, he has to take off his shirt, and, by the time he is finished, his skin is grey with sweat and dust. Flora hands him a towel and he scrubs off the worst before putting on his shirt and parka. She has made stew, and tea, and brings out a bottle of brandy. They sit at some distance from the grave.

  ‘Where are the others? How did you come to be so close by?’

  ‘Sorqaq is down at the shore, with the dogs. We were across the strait. He saw the smoke. I had a feeling something was wrong.’

  He looks at her and sees a tear slide down her face.

  ‘It must have been terrible, but it’s all right now. We’ll see you safe.’

  ‘You can’t change your plans for me.’

  ‘We’ll find a way. Don’t worry.’

  Jakob rolls a cigarette and works his shoulders, muscles complaining from the digging. Tomorrow it will be worse. He looks at his watch: already three o’clock in the morning.

  ‘I keep thinking I should never have come.’

  It is the first time he has heard her express doubt. He looks at her, but her face is half hidden by hair.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘If I weren’t here, or if I weren’t a woman, there wouldn’t have been this quarrel. Ashbee would still be alive. All I wanted was to be treated as anyone else would be treated. I love this place. But no one can forget what I am. My father stopped bringing me north, because of the men . . . They changed. I tried to be just like them. I dressed like them, but it made no difference. A child is just a child, but a woman is a . . . danger. I poisoned the ship by being there. I’ve fought it, and Freddie fought it for me, and Ralph fights for me. But even Tateraq, even he, whom I played with, who was my friend . . .’

  She puts her face in her hands and digs her nails into her scalp until the knuckles go white.

  ‘I didn’t like him,’ she says, and bursts into tears.

  Jakob moves to sit closer to her – rather gingerly – and puts his arm round her shoulders. She doesn’t resist. Her whole body shakes.

  ‘It isn’t your fault,’ he repeats, his mouth close to her hair.

  It isn’t her fault, but there is an extent to which what she says is true.

  .

  With what they can carry, they walk down to the shore. They agree to say little about what happened – Jakob tells Sorqaq that Ashbee died in an accident, leaving Flora on her own. Sorqaq gazes shyly at her and says he is most happy – qooviannikumut – to see her safe. Then he takes an empty sled to fetch from the British camp whatever they can use.

  .

  Flora sits on a rock on the shore, gazing out over the strait. The sun shines relentlessly. Jakob wonders how much she can have slept over the last few days. When he asks her, she doesn’t reply at once. He himself is so tired his head keeps dropping forward on to his chest. Sorqaq pitched their two-man tent, but he doesn’t want to leave her out here alone, and she refuses to take it. He is half asleep when she finally speaks.

  ‘I lost hope, more than once. After I’d had the fire going for two days, it seemed impossible that anyone would see it. I was going to leave, try to get back, but, you know . . . I thought, Is this where it ends? I thought, What have I done in my life that I want to remember?’

  Jakob waits for her to go on.

  ‘All I kept thinking was, at least I spent a small part of it with you. That was what I wanted to remember.’

  Her voice is so quiet, he isn’t sure he’s heard correctly. All he can see of her face is the curve of her cheek.

  ‘With me? Did you say—?’

  ‘That’s why I never congratulated you on your engagement.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘I’m not engaged, Flora.’

  She turns her head slowly. ‘Meqro said you were engaged to Dr Urbino’s sister.’

  ‘No! We are friends, but . . . God, I said that to discourage . . .’ He groans. ‘God almighty!’

  ‘You’re not engaged?’ She turns her head towards him, just a little.

  ‘No! Did you mean that?’

  She looks at him with a fierceness that is almost menacing. ‘I couldn’t bear to think of you with someone else.’

  Jakob pushes himself to his feet, wondering if he has fallen asleep and is dreaming. He goes to her.

  She looks up at him and says, ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t braver.’

  He kneels beside her and puts his arms around her, filled with new strength, an unstoppable power, and she leans into him with a sigh. Her hand closes tightly around his forearm, and he hears her say, ‘Oh.’

  ‘My dearest, darling Flora.’

  Her forehead is a cold stone against his cheek; his hand is on her hair, pressing her to him.

  ‘I never stopped thinking about you.’

  Chapter 50

  Thule, 79˚12’N, 93˚50’W

  June 1898

  An ice cap covers the high parts of the island, but it is a gentler landscape than that of Ellesmere or Greenland. Glaciers ooze off the mountains and, by early summer, rivers pour down the valleys; hillsides are bare of snow. Under the sun, it seems a land of plenty: they find the first grasses poking through gravel, the first moss. Birds and animals appear with the new growth – ptarmigan and snow buntings, foxes and hares; gracious, ceremonial musk oxen. Where they have come from, how they survive the winter, is a mystery.

  They cross a plain where every piece of rock shows traces of life – fossils that tell of a temperate ocean, swamps, forests, a multitude of creeping things – but there is no sign that humans ever lived in this place. It is possible that they are the first people to set foot here. Jakob is torn between frustration and joy; each place they stop offers untold riches, but, if they are to keep to his plan, there is no time to do more than wonder at them.

  After weeks of travelling, they know that what they have found is indeed an island. The tortuous coast took them south, west, north again – until they reached the shore of this wide fjord, facing west over the Arctic Ocean. The island is huge: their part of the journey alone has covered three hundred miles. On the far side of the fjord, they can just make out some black dots, and those dots are Welbourne and Aniguin. When they join them, they will, between them, have completed a circumnavigation of this new land. Staring through binocu
lars to the west shows an unbroken plain of sea-ice. There is no land visible beyond this. He calls the island ‘Thule’.

  .

  They take turns to study the moving figures on the opposite shore – too far to know if they have been seen, in turn.

  ‘We’ll camp,’ says Jakob. ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough.’

  Sorqaq offers to cross the fjord right away; although there is no darkness, at night the ice will be safer.

  ‘I’ll bring them back tomorrow,’ he promises, grinning. ‘Not too early.’

  The ice in the fjord is covered with a film of meltwater that reflects the sky like a sheet of metal. Sorqaq says it is safe, but watching his sled set out across the sheet of water brings Jakob’s heart to his mouth. They have both become very fond of him. The sled skims through blue and white space, sky above and sky below, shimmering into insubstantiality. They watch him dwindle, until he too is a dot.

  Jakob and Flora are alone for the first time in three years. He turns to her, takes her by the hand, and says, ‘Come.’

  Sorqaq offered to leave them alone almost at once. On that first day, he arrived back at the beach in the morning to find Jakob asleep, slumped against a rock, with Flora curled on her side, her head in his lap and his hand on her hair. Jakob started awake to see Sorqaq’s delighted grin, his pantomime of being quiet.

  ‘I knew!’ he claimed, later. ‘I’m happy – my friend and my sister! Aja, it is good.’

  Once they had crossed the sea-ice again, Sorqaq assumed that he would be sleeping in Flora’s one-man tent – in the natural course of things, when a man and a woman married, they went off on their own, so that they could get to know each other. Jakob said he would ask Flora what she wanted; the kallunat did marriage, as they did many things, differently. Their ways were inexplicable. And when he related Sorqaq’s suggestion, Flora looked at the ground and shook her head.

  ‘I’m already inconveniencing you by being here. I don’t want to disrupt your plans any further. I don’t want to . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence, but Jakob thought he understood. Despite his reassurances that she wasn’t inconveniencing either of them, that her belongings weighed relatively little and that nothing could make him happier than her presence, she was as tense and serious as when they had first met. For his part, Jakob found the horror he had seen in the tent almost embarrassingly easy to forget: Ashbee was a man he had barely known, and hadn’t much liked. And there was so much to see, so much to be done. Every few hours, they stopped so that he could take readings and sketch the outlines of the coast, to photograph the mountains and glaciers, to collect specimens, but then they pressed on, hurrying to make their miles. There was more work than he could accomplish in a dozen seasons, and he found that he had forgotten the dead man for large chunks of every day. But Flora was accountable for him. She had sat beside him as he died, listened to his last, appalling breaths.