Chasing the Light

by Jesse Blackadder

Ingrid followed her gaze and saw Lars climbing nimbly towards them.

  ‘I’ve found something he might be interested in,’ Lillemor said.

  ‘Oh?’ Ingrid didn’t really want to start a conversation.

  Lillemor stood silently beside her as Lars approached. He heaved himself up over the last boulder and stood next to them. The ledge felt crowded.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Rachlew,’ Lars said affably. ‘Isn’t this something? We must record this moment – thank goodness we have a photographer with us.’

  Lillemor smiled. ‘It’s extraordinary. And there’s something around the boulder you simply must see.’

  CHAPTER 46

  ‘Hold him tight, Mrs Wegger,’ Atle said. ‘He’s slippery!’

  Mathilde put her arms out and then staggered as he deposited the penguin into them. They swam as if they were streamlined, but away from the water, the creature in her arms was rotund and surprisingly heavy.

  ‘Got him?’

  Mathilde nodded, and then the penguin squirmed and freed himself from her grip, landing hard on the rocks at her feet. He bounced up and shook himself, unperturbed, then waddled away.

  ‘What about a chick?’ Mathilde asked.

  Atle shook his head. ‘They’ll try to peck you for food. The adults are more docile.’

  He approached another one. It stared up at him, seemingly unafraid. Atle crouched, let the penguin approach, then pounced and grabbed it. The penguin wriggled once or twice and then gave in.

  ‘Here, Mr Bogen, you hold it so Mathilde can stroke it,’ Atle said.

  Hans, who Lars had finally convinced to make the leap ashore, took hold of the bird and grunted under its weight. Mathilde pulled off her glove and let her bare fingers run over the penguin’s feathers. It felt nothing like a bird and more like she imagined a seal might feel.

  ‘Bring me that box!’ Atle called down to one of the boys, who scrambled for a crate sitting near the ledge and carried it up to them.

  ‘What are you doing with it?’ Mathilde asked.

  Atle took the penguin from Hans and bundled it into the crate. ‘The Consul wants to take a few home. He thinks he could establish a colony in Spitsbergen. It wouldn’t hurt tourism up there.’

  ‘Goodness.’ Mathilde stared down at the bird as it paddled its flippers. How would it survive the long trip back?

  ‘How many are you taking?’ Hans asked.

  Atle shrugged. ‘We’ll probably take a dozen Adelies and hope we’ve picked enough females. The Consul would love to find a pair of emperors, but they don’t nest around here so it’s unlikely.’

  ‘But what if you take one that has a chick?’ Mathilde asked.

  ‘The other parent can feed it, this late in the season. And if not,’ he gestured at the bodies littering the ground, ‘another handful dead won’t make a difference.’ He looked up. ‘Here they come. Good.’ He called out to the men hacking at the cliff face with ice picks. ‘Let’s get on with it. We don’t want to linger here.’

  Lars, Ingrid and Lillemor clambered down towards them. They reached the pile of rocks that had been assembled for the cairn and halted next to Mathilde.

  Hans brushed his hands on his trousers and gestured for Mathilde to go first. They squeezed onto the ledge where the flagpole had been jammed in a small pile of rocks. It was a tight fit.

  ‘Are you going to read the proclamation?’ Hans asked Lars.

  Lars looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m just going to say some thank yous and raise the flag. Mrs Rachlew has come across something rather disappointing, I’m afraid.’

  His voice and his expression were grim, Mathilde thought. Lillemor, on the other hand, had a slight smile on her lips.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hans asked.

  ‘There’s a cairn and a depot up there laid down by Sir Douglas Mawson,’ Lillemor said. ‘Dated February 13th, 1931. He’s named it Scullin Monolith, after his prime minister. We’re standing on Mac. Robertson Land, according to the proclamation he’s left there. The Australians have claimed this entire coastline.’

  There was silence. ‘But weren’t your men here before that?’ Hans asked Lars. ‘This is already named.’

  Lars nodded. ‘Several ships in my fleet explored here in January and February 1931, including the one Klarius was on. This area was named Lars Christensen Land in January, weeks before Mawson saw it.’

  Hans shook his head. ‘There’ll have to be some investigations. They can’t keep claiming lands we’ve discovered!’

  ‘Consul,’ Atle said. ‘I’m sorry, but we need to be getting back. The weather is unpredictable today.’

  Lars coughed. ‘You’re right.’ He stepped forward and waved at the two men who’d been holding the flag ready. ‘We’ll still raise the flag, of course.’

  As the men began pulling on the rope to raise the Norwegian flag, everyone took off their hats. Lars cleared his throat again and stood up straighter. His gaze fell on Ingrid.

  ‘I’d like to thank all of you for coming,’ he said. ‘And most of all I’d like to thank my wife, who’s patiently waited twenty years for me to bring her here.’

  Ingrid smiled and stepped forward to take the hand he was holding out.

  ‘My dear Ingrid,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry it took me so long to keep my promise.’

  Lars nodded to another of the crewmen who started pouring out coffee from a Thermos into tiny cups and handing it around. It steamed and started to cool at once. Mathilde put it to her lips, glad of the warmth. The cold was starting to feel oppressive.

  ‘I also formally put on the record that this place has been christened Klarius Mikkelsen Mountain, recognising that Captain Mikkelsen was the first to discover this area and name it Lars Christensen Land,’ Lars said. ‘He has done much for Norway’s scientific research in Antarctica.’

  Lars bent down and closed the wooden trunk. Two men picked it up and put it next to the flagpole. Everyone moved forward to heap the rocks around it.

  ‘Mrs Rachlew,’ Lars said, ‘could you take some photographs?’

  Ingrid and Lars posed together in front of the flagpole. Lillemor fiddled with the camera for a long time, holding it in front of her and looking down into the viewfinder. Lars and Ingrid began to look awkward.

  ‘I think it’s damaged,’ Lillemor said. ‘I’ll try, but the picture doesn’t look right. Stand still, the two of you.’

  She took a couple of shots, and the lever jammed after the third one. ‘That’s it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, Lillemor,’ Mathilde said. ‘There isn’t one of you!’

  Lillemor shrugged. ‘We’ll just have to remember.’

  ‘Back into the boat, please,’ Atle called.

  They clambered down towards the rock ledge. The tide had shifted while they were there and the water level was creeping up the ledge.

  ‘Quickly!’ Atle stationed himself near the ledge and two of the younger crewmen nimbly jumped across. Atle started a chain, swinging a person or a piece of cargo across with every receding wave until Mathilde thought they looked like a stream of penguins flinging themselves into the water.

  Everyone was focused on the crossing and Mathilde hung back. When she was sure no one was looking, she crouched down on the ground and slid her glove off. She must have gained weight on the boat, for her wedding ring was tight on her finger again and she had to twist hard to remove it. She held it in the centre of her palm for a moment, feeling its cold against her skin, then lifted a small rock, laid her ring on the ground underneath it, and put the rock back over the top.

  ‘Mrs Wegger, next please.’

  Mathilde stood up, shoving her glove back on. Before she could blink, Atle had helped her down to the ledge and she was leaping across the water to the boat.

  She was glad of it. Antarctica was too big. Too many sights, too many sounds, too overwhelming. It was no place for humans, she thought, but big enough to leave feelings there. She was ready to go.

  CHAPTER 47

  The mist and snow came dow
n quickly once they pushed off and within a few minutes the land was hidden, as if it had never been. The Beau Brownie seemed heavier on her lap as they turned away from the continent. Lillemor didn’t know if she was infuriated with the thing or secretly pleased it was damaged. There was no evidence now that she’d ever landed. No record of her standing on Scullin Monolith – a name she was happy to use in her own mind rather than linking the Mikkelsen name any more closely with the continent. The place would never be Lillemor Rachlew Mountain, or Cape Mathilde Wegger, that much was certain.

  All she had was the rocks, clacking in the pocket of her coat. She wished she’d thought to ask Marie what to look for, but the idea had only come to her once they’d landed and she’d seen the crewmen chipping at the cliffs. She’d climbed out of their sight, picked up as many rocks as she could comfortably carry and stuffed them in her pockets. Hopefully she’d chosen one or two that would be of interest to Marie.

  She was cold. They all were, she could see. The few sips of coffee on shore had given them some respite, but the snow was coming down again and some of them were wet from jumping back into the boat. Hans was visibly shivering, and she could see Atle stamping his feet, though he appeared unconcerned. She glanced at her wristwatch, but it had stopped. They must have been gone three hours or more from the ship, she thought.

  Normal time didn’t apply out there. They might have been rowing forever, the men straining at the oars, the snow piling up on their shoulders and thighs and on the floor of the boat. Icebergs loomed up out of the mist, frightening in their sudden appearance. They were dangerously close, Lillemor knew. Sharp cracks and creaks and distant rumbles issued from the mist, their sources invisible. Atle’s face was impassive but the tension in his body betrayed his concern. He put one of the oarsmen in the prow as a lookout as the boat crept slowly through the water.

  Lillemor wondered if she should have kept quiet. She’d been scrambling upwards in the crevice, searching for a rock seam of the sort she’d heard Marie describe, when she came around the corner and saw the cairn. The flag was gone, torn away by the wind she presumed, but the flagpole still stood wedged into the rocks, and she could see the corner of the box poking out at the side. She could have called for Lars then, but damn him, it was her discovery. It had been hard work to pull away the stones covering it and open the box. She’d pulled out a bundle of red fabric and unrolled it. An Australian flag, the maritime ensign, with its five bold stars making up the Southern Cross.

  Lillemor thought she’d be disappointed at the evidence someone had beaten them there, but to her surprise it was exciting. The great Mawson had placed the box there himself, had stood over it and read the proclamation claiming the land for Australia, then rolled the paper up and placed it inside, along with a jacket, some pemmican, a block of chocolate and the flag. She was, in all likelihood, the first person to open it since it was laid down.

  Scullin Monolith, on Mac. Robertson Land. Or Klarius Mikkelsen Mountain, on Lars Christensen Land. Four men vying for the honour of having their names appended to this continent. Two young nations, Norway and Australia, trying to prove themselves on the world stage as forces in their own right, independent from Sweden and Great Britain.

  She’d closed the box, stood up and turned around. If she walked out from around the boulder and said nothing, in all likelihood no one else would climb that far. It could be her own secret. She didn’t have to spoil their landing. If Mawson and the Australians had claimed that land, Lars would know about it soon enough.

  Then she thought of how he’d spoken to her that morning as she was sitting in the basket. I’d like my wife to step from the boat first. Even when it didn’t matter. And what he was prepared to do to Mathilde to keep her out of the way. He was ruthless. Why should she be any different?

  She had enjoyed the look on his face when he saw the depot. He wasn’t used to failing and she was pleased he now had some idea what it was like. Feel that, she thought. Feel what it’s like to have Mawson not bother replying to your application. Feel what it’s like to be refused a berth on the ship for no good reason. Feel what it’s like to come second, or last, or not be included in the race at all.

  On the other side of the lifeboat, Lars had his arm around Ingrid’s shoulder, keeping her close to his side, presumably for the warmth. Lillemor thought to find him grim-faced, but as she watched, a little smile played around the corners of his lips.

  Mathilde shifted next to Lillemor and moved closer. ‘It’s cold,’ she murmured.

  Lillemor put an arm around her so their bodies were pressed together. ‘That’s better,’ she said.

  Atle called a halt and stood up. He rotated slowly, trying to find a way through the mist. The snow was falling more heavily and the visibility was only about twenty metres.

  Atle bent down and picked up a loud hailer from under his seat. He put it to his lips and bellowed so loudly that they all started. ‘Thorshavn!’

  The snow muffled the sound and it seemed to stop dead. The silence around them pressed in, broken only by the soft slip-slip of the snow falling. In the distance came a rumble and somewhat closer an ominous cracking.

  ‘They should be here,’ Atle said to Lars. He put the loud hailer up again. ‘Thorshavn!’

  There was no answer. He directed the men to keep rowing slowly and remained standing.

  It was impossible to see, but they must have rounded the edge of a berg, for a sudden gust of wind hit the boat and it rocked. Atle sat quickly. The men kept rowing, blind. The snow was blowing sideways and they were pushing into a swell, the boat moving up and down.

  ‘We’re out of the ice lead,’ Atle said to Lars. ‘They can’t be far away.’ He picked up the loud hailer again and called into it.

  Lillemor felt to her bones what a lonely sound it made, unanswered. It was all very well to visit Antarctica. They could stand around on the rocks drinking coffee, they could read their proclamations, they could raise flags and lay down names, and by such acts feel themselves in control. But a single storm could bring them undone, no matter how close Thorshavn might be. Scott and his men had died only eleven miles from the depot that could have saved them, caught in their tents by a blizzard that raged for days. Twenty years ago, Mawson had made that last hundred-mile run alone and Lillemor suddenly had a sense of his fear. It was ridiculous; they’d only travelled four nautical miles from Thorshavn, but if they couldn’t find the ship again or if they capsized, fifty yards was as good as a hundred miles.

  How fast and how silently fear took over the boat. No one spoke. Atle called for the ship every few minutes, the men bent their backs and rowed, though to what purpose Lillemor didn’t know. They were out of the bay, they couldn’t see, they might be rowing away from the ship with every stroke for all they knew. The crewmen kept their faces impassive, as did Atle. The snow blew around them, the wind first on one cheek then on the other. Atle must be taking them in circles, she surmised. At least they weren’t simply rowing blindly out to sea.

  Mathilde reached over and gripped her hand. Lillemor could feel her shivering, with fear, or cold, or both, and her face was deathly white. Lillemor tried to smile, but she could feel her face grimacing.

  ‘Is there any more coffee?’ Ingrid asked.

  Lillemor shook her head in disbelief. They were lost, didn’t Ingrid realise? Their lives were at stake and she was asking about coffee!

  But Atle called a halt and they put up the oars then one of the men bent down, scrabbled under the seat and came up with the basket. He opened a Thermos flask and poured out tiny cups of coffee. The warmth of the coffee staved off the cold but Lillemor realised how hungry she was. She patted her pocket. She’d taken Mawson’s chocolate from the depot, intending to carry it back to Norway. She pulled it out and looked at it. The wrapper said Mac. Robertson’s. Mawson had named the land after a piece of confectionery.

  ‘Ah, some chocolate. Good thinking, Mrs Rachlew,’ Atle said. ‘May I?’

  He took the chocolate f
rom her, unwrapped it, broke it into pieces and handed it around. Lillemor made sure she took it last, and stuffed the wrapping back into her pocket.

  Ingrid was no fool, Lillemor realised. The injection of chocolate and the heat of the coffee raised everyone’s spirits a little. Eating and drinking, even in the blowing snow with the boat pitching up and down, was a trace of normality. Of course they’d find their way back.

  ‘I’m sorry you’re getting cold,’ Atle said to the passengers at large. ‘Thorshavn must have moved position, but she can’t have gone far and she’ll be looking for us too. I think we should all yell together so we’re louder. On the count of three, all right?’

  Shackleton had been lost in far more desperate circumstances, Lillemor recalled. His ship Endurance – Ingrid’s old Polaris – had been crushed by the ice and had sunk. After making it to Elephant Island with his men, he’d set out on a boat not unlike the one that carried them now, and had managed to sail across eight hundred miles of open sea to South Georgia. If Thorshavn were crushed, where would they go? They’d have to try and find one of the whaling ships, or Norvegia, but they were many miles away. Lillemor couldn’t even see the nearest iceberg.

  Their calls sounded desperate, and Lillemor thought that after a few repetitions they’d end up panicking and shrieking it.

  ‘I’ve an idea,’ she said, shifting to loosen her grip on Mathilde. ‘Let’s sing a song. Mathilde can lead us.’

  Mathilde shook her head. ‘I can’t,’ she said, through chattering teeth.

  ‘Yes you can,’ Lillemor said. ‘That one you sang the other day. We know it. What’s the name?’

  ‘“Gjendine’s Lullaby”.’

  Lillemor nodded. ‘We’ll all join in.’

  She squeezed Mathilde’s hand hard and leaned close to her ear. ‘We need you.’

  Mathilde took a deep breath.

  The first note came out, resonant and true, and swept over them like relief. They opened their mouths to join in, one after another. Mathilde’s voice soared and they followed, more or less in tune. One of the crewmen dropped into the tenor harmony, laying down a bed of sound below Mathilde’s voice, one that supported all of them. The sound rose up and into the snow, snatched and carried off by the wind.