Outside it’s minus nine, with a south wind hissing over the snow. The barometer is falling. I wonder if we’re in for a storm?
When I ‘spoke’ to Algie, I asked if there was any change to when they’d be coming back. He said no, but he didn’t go into detail. Previously, he’d said ‘at least two weeks’. That was on the 29th of October. Which means they’ll get here on the 12th of November – at the earliest. Eleven days from now. If I stick to my rules, I might be able to hold out till then.
Just now, I made my last check before turning in. There’s a bright crescent moon. The bear post casts a long, thin shadow, reaching towards me.
If only I couldn’t see the bloody thing at all.
2nd November
I was finishing breakfast when it occurred to me that since waking up, I’d already checked the post at least a dozen times.
That did it. I slammed down my mug. ‘Bloody hell! This has got to stop!’
Running to the bunkroom, I grabbed an armful of blankets and hurried about, tacking them over the windows. There. You’ve been moaning about having no curtains. Well now you do.
It worked for about an hour. Then I drew back a corner and peered out.
And of course the post was where it’s always been: a little closer than I’m comfortable with, but no more and no less than it was before.
From now on, I’m going to try an alternative strategy: acknowledge the obsession, but limit it. You’re allowed ten checks a day – and no more.
I’ve left the ‘curtains’ in place, though. I can pin them back if there’s anything to see, but for now, they’re a distinct improvement.
The wind is moaning in the stovepipe, and somewhere a corner of tarpaper is flapping. I’ll have to see to that.
Later
I’ve just come in from the five o’clock readings and I don’t know what to make of it.
The readings themselves were straightforward. Decent weather, minus ten and still the wind blowing from the icecap, but the sky is clear, with a spectacular display of the Northern Lights. The camp, the shore, the icebergs in the bay – all were bathed in that wondrous pale-green light. I no longer find them intimidating. They’re reassuring. After all, they’re merely a physical phenomenon: the result of particles from solar flares bombarding the atmosphere.
The dogs bounded up to greet me – they’re taking to their new-found freedom wonderfully well – and I fed them some brandy balls. Then, whistling through my teeth (shades of Algie!), I trudged round the back of the cabin to the Stevenson screen. Isaak came with me and I gave him some butterscotch (as he knew I would). He came back with me too, and we followed the guide rope to the radio masts, then looped behind the cabin. We’d turned the corner past the outhouse and were heading for the porch when something brought me up short.
Surely the bear post was slightly closer than before?
Isaak nosed my thigh, wondering why I’d stopped. I ignored him and took out my torch. He looked up at me and doubtfully wagged his tail. Emboldened by his presence, I walked to the north window, then turned and paced from there to the bear post and back. Two and a half paces. Only two and a half. Before, it was three.
Unless I’d unwittingly lengthened my stride, which is perfectly possible. But I couldn’t bring myself to try again.
Back in the cabin, I had a stiff drink, a couple of cigarettes, and a stern talk with myself. Logs don’t move on their own. The fact that the bear post appeared closer is because it was easier to see, and that’s because of the Northern Lights.
My conscious mind accepts this. But the deeper part – the part which remembers the darkness of the caves – wonders if I might be wrong.
3rd November
What utter rubbish I wrote last night. ‘The darkness of the caves’! I’ve been letting that bloody thing get to me. It’s got to stop.
Well, it certainly has now.
Today was awful. When I wasn’t peering through the window, I was telling myself not to look; which meant that even when I was doing something else it was constantly on my mind. It was so exhausting that after lunch I had to take a nap.
I woke at three, bleary and thick-headed. The first thing I did was drag myself to the window for another check.
I was about to peel back the curtain when I realised what I was doing. Christ, Jack, if you keep on like this, you’ll lose your mind.
‘I’m not having this!’ I shouted. ‘I’m not having it!’
Dragging on my clothes, I grabbed a torch and an axe and flung myself out into the dark.
The dogs surged about me, sensing that something was up.
‘I’m not having it,’ I panted.
I kept saying it over and over, like a protective charm, as I swung the axe and chopped the bloody thing down. I aimed low, to avoid the dark stains higher up, I didn’t want my axe touching them. The post was hard as granite. It didn’t want to be chopped down. The dogs stood behind me in a huddle, silent for once. When at last the post groaned and crashed into the snow, they raced off with their tails between their legs.
Panting, chest heaving, I hacked the wretched thing to chunks. I left them lying in the snow. There. That’s one lot of driftwood I won’t be adding to the woodpile. The thought of letting it inside the cabin is utterly repellent.
I’ve just looked out of the north window. Good. Very good. Nothing but a snowy curve down to the sea. I can’t even see the pieces. And it’s begun to snow, so soon they’ll be obliterated. It’ll be as if that bloody post never existed.
I should have done this weeks ago. I can’t imagine why I didn’t.
Later
The storm blew up an hour after I chopped down the post. Thick snow whirling, wind howling and rapping at the windows.
My first thought was that I’d summoned it. I’d loosed the demon of the storm. Good old cause and effect, the human instinct to jump to conclusions. It’s nice to know that my powers of reasoning aren’t much better than those of a savage.
My next thought was the dogs. This storm could last a while. What do I do? I can’t bring them inside, they’d wreck the place. I’d better feed them now, before it gets any worse. As for water, they’ll have to make do with snow. At least there’s plenty of that.
We keep the dog food in the roof space above the hall, where the seal meat stays frozen. Thanks to Algie, there’s plenty of that, as well as crates and crates of dog pemmican. Cramming hunks of seal meat in a sack, I opened the door – and the wind hit me like a fist. Flying ice scoured my face (I’d forgotten my balaclava helmet). Bent double, I battled along the boardwalk, the wind screaming in my ears and tearing at my clothes. Through the slit of the doghouse doorway, my torchlight revealed snowy mounds that erupted as I flung in the meat. The dogs seemed unfazed by the storm, and delighted at their early meal.
Fuel, I thought as I struggled back. Logs and a drum of paraffin.
It took hours to drag it all into the hall. Then I had to clear away the snow that had found its way in, too.
It’s nearly midnight, and still the blizzard is battering the cabin. It’s flinging snow at the windows like pebbles, and moaning in the stovepipe. It’s making every plank creak and groan. God, I hope the roof stays on. I hope the windows hold. The shutters are in the emergency store at the other end of the bay. Might as well be in Timbuktu.
But in a strange way, I welcome the storm. It’s a known, physical force: a rush of snow-laden air, generated by pressure differentials. These are things I can understand. And it’s better than the stillness.
6th November
Three days and no let-up. The storm never stops for an instant. The din is indescribable, a booming like a train, a wailing in the stovepipe. I’m finding it rather tiring. Even when I’m asleep, I dream of trams rattling and screeching. I can’t remember what silence is like.
I can understand why the Vikings believed in storm giants. I keep having to remind myself that there is no intention behind this. It feels so angry. As if it wants to tear apart th
e cabin and carry me off into the night.
Reaching the Stevenson screen is out of the question, but I’ve kept up my contact with Ohlsen on Bear Island (thank God the wireless masts have held firm). In my transmissions I affect a seasoned old campaigner calm. ‘IT’S A BIG ONE STOP SNOW UP TO WINDOWS STOP TIME TO CATCH UP ON MY READING! I exchange messages with Algie, and through him with Gus. BIT OF A BLOW STOP SCREEN MUST TAKE ITS CHANCES STOP AT LEAST IT’S KEEPING THE BAY FREE OF ICE STOP DOGS FINE STOP I THINK THEY LIKE IT! Algie’s replies are jaunty and Boy Scoutish. JOLLY GOOD SHOW JACK! WE KNOW IT TAKES MORE THAN A BIT OF A BREEZE TO SHAKE YOUR NERVE! You’re right about that, Algie old chap. Unlike you, I’m not one to get in a blue funk because of a few bad dreams. But then you know that already, don’t you, old man?
Clinging to my routine, I take my walks inside the cabin, making careful circuits about the main room and berating myself if I lose count and have to start all over again. Which I often do.
I try once a day to take food to the dogs, but in reality it’s more like every other day, so when I do, I give them lots, to make up for it. Each time I have to chop away the wind-packed snow blocking their doorway. They seem all right, if a bit cowed, but I worry. What if they suffocate? What if I can’t get to them and they eat each other? When I’m in the cabin, I talk to them through the bunkroom wall – or rather, I shout – and they yowl back. At least then I know they’re still alive.
To think there was a time when I actually liked snow. It’s horrible. Stinging your eyes. Blinding you, leading you astray. Each time I open the door I let in a whirlwind, and have to spend ages clearing it up (although I admit that this helps keep the water barrel full). And still the snow finds its way in, sifting under doors and through hidden cracks I never knew existed. Frost is beginning to crust the inside walls of the cabin and gather under the bunks. You wouldn’t think it could get as far as the main room, but it does. I spend hours scraping it off. Mopping up damp, drying towels over the stove.
That stove. Before, it was merely temperamental. Now it’s diabolical; although I can still get it to light if I splash the logs with paraffin. But three times – three times – a particularly savage gust of wind has blown a great cloud of smoke down the stovepipe and out into the cabin. Which leaves me black as a chimney sweep, coughing up my lungs, with hours of cleaning ahead. That’s the storm’s vicious little joke. Ha ha ha. Despite my efforts, the walls are now grimy with soot. It’s got into the wood, I can’t scrub it clean.
To cheer myself up, I flouted my ration plan this evening and put our Christmas bottles of champagne to cool in the porch.
To cool? Jack, have you gone daft?
Both bottles froze within minutes, and burst with a sound like a rifle report. I picked out the broken glass and salvaged what I could: a large bowl of frozen mush. I’ve been eating it with a spoon. It’s delicious.
Bit strong, though. Whoops. Jack you’re drunk. Or ‘tipsy’, as Gus would say. Off to bed with you.
8th November
Six days and still blowing.
Four days to go till Gus and Algie get back. Although that’s only my guess, and Algie did say ‘at least’ two weeks. And if the storm keeps up, they wouldn’t even set out.
That champagne was too much for me, I went down like a stunned ox. Bit of a sick headache this morning, but Algie’s Effervescing Morning Powder put me to rights.
You’re prevaricating, Jack. Out with it.
As soon as I got up, I went to the north window and peered into the swirling grey. The bear post was back.
Feverishly I rubbed my breath off the glass. There it was. Straight. Tall. Not possible. You chopped it down. You hacked it to pieces with an axe.
The storm must have thrown up another log from the shore. But then why does it stand so upright and still? And isn’t it closer than before, and a little to the right? Nearer the porch?
A gust of extraordinary violence struck the window, and I drew back. When I looked again, the post was gone. All I saw was snow, twisting in columns in the screaming wind. There was no post. There never was a post.
That was five hours ago. Since then I’ve managed to get a sack of seal meat to the dogs. I’ve told Bear Island that I’m fine. I’ve eaten a tin of boiled mutton and another of pears. And I’ve smoked a whole packet of Player’s.
I’ve also flicked through this journal, which was a mistake. I’m shocked at how my handwriting’s changed. I used to write a neat copperplate hand, but since I’ve been alone, it’s degenerated into a spidery scrawl. Without reading a word, you can see the fear.
When the storm blew up, I wrote that I welcomed it. All that about pressure differentials and things I can understand. Bollocks. The constant din, the screaming fury. It’s wearing me down. Grinding away my defences.
9th November
I woke to silence. Unbroken, unbelievable silence. Not a whisper of wind disturbing the peace.
The blanket over the bunkroom window had come down, and I was lying in moonlight. The windowpanes were silver squares criss-crossed with black. Putting out my hand, I felt the light seeping into my skin. I was an underwater swimmer, floating in light. Beautiful, beautiful light. I was so grateful I wanted to cry.
At last, disentangling myself from my sleeping bag, I pulled on my clothes and padded to the window.
There before me hung the full moon: huge, shining, golden. Every detail of camp lay sparklingly revealed. Where the bear post had been, I saw only a gentle curve of snow.
Like a recovering invalid, I shuffled about the cabin, tearing down blankets to let in the moon. I got the stove going. I didn’t light any lamps. I didn’t want anything to diminish that miraculous light.
Soon I would go out and tend to the dogs and see if the Stevenson screen was still there, but not yet. The moon drew me. I wanted to gaze and gaze. I hated to waste a moment.
At the north window, I cupped my hands to a pane and peered out.
The storm had cleared the ice from the bay. The moon cast a path of beaten silver over the sea, leading away from Gruhuken. ‘Beautiful,’ I murmured. ‘Beautiful . . .’
I watched it rise higher. I watched it gradually change from gold to silver, losing none of its brilliance. My breath misted the pane. I cleared it with my sleeve. When I looked again, a thin haze of cloud had dimmed the moon to inky blue.
At that moment, I sensed I was not alone.
With my nose pressed to the window, I felt horribly vulnerable, but I couldn’t pull away. I had to look.
Where the bear post had been, a figure was standing.
Around it the snow glimmered faintly; but no light touched what faced me. It cast no shadow.
It stood utterly still, watching me. In one appalling heartbeat I took in its wet round head and its arms hanging at its sides, one shoulder higher than the other. I felt its will coming at me in waves. Intense, unwavering, malign. Such malevolence. No mercy. No humanity. It belonged to the dark beyond humanity. It was rage without end. A black tide drowning.
And still I pressed my hands against the pane. I couldn’t pull away. A dreadful communion.
I don’t know how long I stood there. At last I had to breathe, and the pane misted over. When I’d cleared it, the figure was gone.
I ran to the west window and peered out. Nothing. The radio masts mocked my terror. I ran to the bunk-room window. Again nothing. I ran back into the main room and halted to listen. All I heard was the painful thudding of my heart.
The clouds had cleared, and once again the moon shone bright. The snow in front of the cabin was smooth. Innocent. Nothing to show that something had stood there. But it had. It had. I had felt its will. Its malevolence beating at me.
At me.
I’ve been wrong, wrong, wrong.
This is no echo.
13
9th November, later
I stood three feet from the window, staring at my reflection in the pane.
If only I could believe that what I’d seen had b
een myself. But when you see yourself in a dark window, you see yourself: your own face and build. What I’d seen had had no unkempt beard, no wild hair sticking up all over its head. It had no face.
What is it? What does it want? Why is it angry with me? Is it because I destroyed the hut? What can I do to appease it?
Behind me, a crackle of static. The lights of the Eddystone flickered to life. I must have switched it on as I hurried about taking down blankets from the windows, although I didn’t remember. And yet there it was. A transmission.
My knees buckled. A transmission. Was that what I’d just experienced? Something forcing its way through, like blood staining a bandage?
From the doghouse came urgent yowls. The storm’s over! We’re hungry!
In a cracked voice I called to them that I was coming soon.
Once again, tatters of inky cloud were drifting towards the moon, like a hand reaching to cover it.
Without taking my eyes from that bright, bruised face, I put on the head-phones and grabbed my notepad. I had to keep watching the moon. If I didn’t, clouds would hide it again and then . . .
GUS HERE STOP
Gus?
Against doctor’s orders, he’d made Algie take him to the wireless station.
My hand shook as I tapped an inadequate reply. HOW ARE YOU?
SORE BORED CROSS HOW ARE YOU?
FINE STOP
REALLY?
My finger paused on the key. YES REALLY, I replied. BAD DREAMS BUT BETTER NOW STOP
The answer came in a swift staccato rattle. JACK ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? MR E IS HERE CAN FETCH YOU IN TWO DAYS STOP
NO AM FINE STORM LONG BUT FINE NOW STOP
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