Midnight Sun

by Ramsey Campbell

  As soon as Ellen headed for the bedrooms to say goodnight to the children, Ben came after her. Of course he wanted to bid them goodnight too, yet his behaviour seemed indefinably childlike; surely he wasn't trying to avoid being left by himself. She kissed Margaret and Johnny, snuggled their duvets under their chins, turned out the lights in their rooms. Ben murmured "Get some sleep now" with an urgency he ought to realise would be counter-productive, and lingered in the dark with them until Ellen was downstairs. "Another game?" he said as he came down.

  "I'd just like to sit and look at the tree for a while."

  "We both will." He switched off the overhead light and sat on the edge of a chair. Shadows of branches patterned his face, reflections glinted in his eyes like shards of ice. He was gazing so intently into the depths of the tree that he made her feel as if she was overlooking something in there. "Do you want to talk?" she said.

  "No need."

  It must be a trick of the light which caused the needles on the branches to appear identical wherever the bulbs illuminated them. The pattern drew her gaze into the unlit depths, and she felt as if the branches were reaching for her until she closed her eyes. That was more peaceful, almost enough to send her to sleep, except that whenever she began to drowse the silence lurched towards her, stopping her breath. She felt suspended between sleeping and consciousness by the silence which was displaying her heartbeat, making it seem both to be growing louder and quicker and to have detached itself from her. Then she realised that not all the soft dull sounds were her heartbeats. Some of them were at the window.

  Her eyes sprang open. For a few seconds she was dazzled by the tree; then she saw Ben watching her awaken. His smile widened, glistening as if his mouth was full of ice. "It's here," he said.

  Angered by the shiver which his words sent through her, she pushed herself out of her chair and stumbled to the window. She wasn't fully awake yet; she had to grope among the folds of the heavy curtains in order to locate the gap. The patting at the window sounded as impatient as she was. Chilly velvet snagged her fingernails, and then she found the opening. She parted the curtains and stuck her head between them.

  The night flocked to meet her. It was snowing so heavily that the lights of the town appeared doused. Flakes almost as large as the palm of her hand sailed out of the whiteness and shattered on the window. She had never seen snowflakes so crystalline; in the instant before each of them broke and slithered down the glass, they looked like florid translucent stars. She peered past them, wiping her breaths from the window, and managed to distinguish a glimmer of the lights of Stargrave drowning in white. Beyond the town and the railway line, a mass like veils as tall as the sky was dancing on the moors. She was gazing entranced at the snow, feeling her breaths becoming slower and more regular as the colourless onrush appeared to do so, when a dim figure rose out of the snow and came towards her.

  It was Ben's reflection. His face was a featureless pale mask which seemed to be trying to swarm into a new shape. She turned to him so as to dispel the illusion, and found he was closer to her than she'd realised. His eyes and his smile looked illuminated by the snow. "Shall we get them?" he said.

  "What?"

  "You mean who."

  "It can wait until the morning, Ben, surely. If we wake them now they'll never go back to sleep."

  "Maybe they're still awake. At least we can go and see."

  As soon as she let the curtains drop, he padded through the shadows which rooted the tree to the floor. She caught up with him on the stairs, but the snow was ahead of them, thumping softly and insistently at the windows of the children's unlit rooms. The breathing beyond the ajar doors told her that Margaret and Johnny were asleep. "They can have a surprise tomorrow," she whispered.

  "That's true," he said with an odd shaky smile. "Let's go and watch."

  When he ran upstairs she made to quiet him, but he must be tiptoeing. Apart from the sounds at all the windows the house seemed hushed as a snowscape; even her own footfalls sounded muffled to her, and she felt as if she was in a dream. She joined Ben as he opened the workroom door.

  The night was beyond it, swooping luminously towards the house. When he took her hand and led her to the window, Ellen felt as if she was walking into darkness much larger than the room. The snow must be rushing down from the moors above Stargrave, but it looked as if it was rising from the forest in a ceaseless wave and homing in on the house. She was hardly aware that her hands were grasping the far edge of the desk so as to have something to hold onto. There were so many patterns in the air that she felt dizzy, almost disembodied – so many patterns moving in so many different directions that they seemed to be taking the world apart before her eyes. The whiteness streamed out of the forest like the seeds of an unimaginable growth; the sky seemed to sink towards her, an endlessly prolonged fall. She felt as though everything, herself included, was slowing down. Stars of ice exploded on the windows, and she thought that soon she might be able to distinguish the shapes of the flakes in the air.

  She was distantly aware of her breathing and of Ben, resting his chin on her shoulder as if she had acquired a second head. When he commenced stroking her, his hands moving down her body with exquisite slowness, those sensations felt distant too. She thought he was describing patterns on her skin, patterns which seemed part of the dance of the snow; he might almost have been using her body to sketch what he was seeing. As his fingertips moved down her thighs she opened like a flower. Her flesh had never felt so elaborate, so capable of growing unfamiliar.

  She wanted to reach for his hand and lead him to their bedroom, but the flood of snow was blotting out her thoughts, and she couldn't let go of the desk. She pressed her spine against him as he lifted her skirt and slipped her panties down. When they fell to her ankles, her distant feet moved automatically to kick away the garment, and then his penis reared up into her.

  It was so cold that she gasped and began to shiver uncontrollably with shock or pleasure or the all-embracing chill. Patterns surged out of the night, his fingers roamed intricately over her as he rose higher and higher within her, waves of shivering spread to the limits of her body and seemed to pass beyond them. When he came, it felt like ice blossoming. She pressed her lips together for fear that the cry she was battling to suppress would bring Margaret and Johnny to see what the matter was.

  Her shivering abated somewhat as he dwindled gradually within her. Her skin was tingling so much it felt unstable as a bubble, and her legs continued to shake. When she closed her eyes and leaned back against him the onrush of patterns lingered on her eyes. "Let's go to bed. I'm cold," she said.

  "Yes, that's enough for now." He took hold of her so firmly that she felt safe in keeping her eyes closed as he guided her away from the window. "It's going to be colder," he said.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  At first Ellen knew only that she couldn't move. The weight which had gathered on her torso was so massive that it was forcing her arms and legs wider, as if her limbs were straining to become symmetrical. She felt as though she was turning into a sign – of what, she didn't know. In a moment she realised that the mound which was weighing her down was herself.

  If she was pregnant, so was everything around her. Stargrave and the trees and crags and moors were swollen with a new life which was taking shape in utter silence, the silence of the life it was supplanting. If she succeeded in moving or even in making a sound, might that at least slow down the change?

  She became aware that Ben and the children were somewhere close to her, though she couldn't hear them breathing. She had to rouse them. She drew a breath which shuddered through her, and the convulsion of her body went some way towards releasing her from the paralysis. She was able to raise her head shakily, despite the burden which was sprouting from her face.

  It took her some time to see that the white glow was emanating not only from her surroundings and from the sun in the black sky but also from herself. Then her dazzled eyes adjusted, or reverted to a state s
ufficiently familiar to let her see with them, and if the sight which met them couldn't make her cry out, nothing could: the sight of Ben and the children and herself.

  Though the cry stuck in her throat, it wakened her. She was lying in bed, arms and legs splayed, a mound which must be of the quilt looming over her. There were no sounds at the window; the silence seemed as profound as it had been in her dream. Despite the stillness or because of it, she felt as if something immense was surrounding the house. "What is it?" she wanted to know.

  She wasn't aware of speaking aloud, but Ben answered from beside her, sounding fully awake. "The last day," he said.

  His response made so little sense to her except in terms of her dream that she felt as if she hadn't wakened after all. Now that she knew he was there she wasn't afraid to go back to sleep, so long as the dream wasn't waiting. Sleep claimed her almost at once, and then there was only stillness until Johnny and sunlight came into the room. "It's snowed lots," he said excitedly. "Come and look."

  "I know it has, johnny. Just let me wake up." She was trying to decide to her own satisfaction what had happened last night. She and Ben had made love in front of an uncurtained window and a blizzard; no wonder she'd felt so cold and so odd. She heard Ben on the floor below, telling Margaret to come to her bedroom window. It was a day for the family to be together, Ellen thought, not for her to muse in bed. "Let's see what the night's brought," she said, and Johnny ran the curtains back.

  For a moment she could see only whiteness beneath the sky, and she felt as if she was back in her dream. Then she saw the simplified outlines of the moors, barely distinguishable beneath the frozen sea of white which stretched to a parade of clouds at the horizon, clouds which looked as if the snow was beginning to ornament itself and reach for the blue sky. To Ellen the landscape appeared incomplete, waiting for its details to be filled in. If it seemed somehow ominous, that was the fault of her dream, and she mustn't spoil the day for the children. "Looks like a good start to the holidays," she said, and chased Johnny down to the bathroom.

  She was in the shower, having ensured that Johnny didn't just pretend to wash his face and brush his teeth because of his eagerness to play, when she heard his voice through the downpour. "Pardon?" she called.

  This time Margaret shouted it with him. "We're going to have a snowfight."

  For no reason she could bring to mind, Ellen was suddenly nervous. She turned off the shower and pushed back the clinging plastic curtain. "How deep is it out there? Better not go too near the woods."

  "They can't do any harm. I'll be seeing they don't go far," Ben said outside the door. "They may as well make the most of the day."

  She heard the children racing downstairs and Ben's tread following them. She stepped dripping out of the bath, fumbled with the slippery doorknob and hurried onto the landing, towelling herself to keep warm. "Ben, come here a minute."

  He looked up over his shoulder, then his body turned towards her. Below him in the hall the children were stuffing themselves into their anoraks. He put his finger to his lips as they ran to the front door and slammed it behind them. "Thought of something?" he said.

  "Did you talk to me during the night, or did I dream it?"

  "Depends what you think you heard."

  "Something about the last day."

  "Sounds more like a vision than a dream if you heard a voice saying that. Maybe painting and taking my story over have opened up your mind."

  All this seemed so irrelevant it only made her more nervous. "But was it you I heard?"

  "Would you like it to be?"

  She lost patience with him. "I thought you were going to keep an eye on the children."

  "I won't leave them alone." His expression flickered as he turned away. "Don't let's drift apart now," he said, and strode out of the house.

  She heard his footsteps engulfed by snow as he pulled the door shut, and then the children shrieked. She would have smiled, imagining him pelting them with snow, except that she was trying to determine what expression she'd glimpsed on his face. Really, it was unfair of him to talk about drifting apart as if she should blame herself; he was the one who was playing word games. Still, she could be joining in the fun instead of brooding. She pulled on a sweater and jeans and ran down to find her boots in the cupboard under the stairs.

  She was shrugging on her anorak as she dragged the front door open and stepped outside. "Where are you?" she called.

  Beyond the doorstep, the snow was up to her ankles. She could see how the children had had to pull their feet out of their footprints, whose outlines were crumbling. Quite a few of the prints had been trodden down by their father. Except for their trail, the snow was as unbroken as the silence between the squeaks of snow crushed under Ellen's boots. Ben and the children must be lying in wait for her, she thought, and prepared to dodge as she followed the trail around the outside of the garden wall, up the track towards the crowd of white figures which had grown fatter and more featureless overnight. The figures moved apart as she approached, and just as she passed the corner of the garden, snow flew at her. She ducked, more out of nervousness than to avoid the snowballs, and scooped up a handful to shy at the children as they dashed away from crouching behind the wall. "Don't hide from me, all right?" she said.

  She meant that for Ben too, and when he rose from among the swollen figures she flung as much snow as she could pick up in one hand at him. He seemed content to watch while she and the children played; even when the children scored hits on him he responded only with a smile so untroubled it looked secretive. Before long Ellen's feet began to ache with cold. "You play with the children for a while, Ben," she said. "I'm going to make something to warm us all up."

  She sat on the stairs and pulled off her boots, one of which proved to be leaking. She changed her sodden sock and made for the kitchen. She was expecting to see Ben and the children outside the window when she raised the blind, but they were under the trees. The forest crouched over them, a mass of white poised to draw them into its bony depths, where the treetrunks appeared to shift as whiteness glimmered between them. Ben and the children were each rolling a snowball towards the house, and she turned from the window, telling herself not to be so ridiculously nervous.

  When she went to the window to announce breakfast she saw that Ben had piled up the three giant snowballs like a totem-pole. He'd rolled the largest against a group of the smaller figures so that they propped up the construction, and Ellen thought they looked as though they were worshipping it. "It hasn't got a face," Johnny said to his father.

  "It will have," Ben said. "I think we're being summoned."

  Ellen enjoyed the sight of colour returning to the children's faces while she ate breakfast. "Will you play with us again after?" Johnny asked her.

  "I'd like to get some new boots first. Did I just make a joke?"

  Ben looked mysteriously amused again, and oddly wistful. He reached across the table and laid his icy hand on her wrist. "1 was thinking how trivia becomes part of us all and how easy it should be to slough it off."

  "Is anyone coming with me while the others wash the dishes?"

  "Me," the children chorused.

  "I don't mind. You won't be going anywhere," Ben said.

  She shooed the children to the bathroom, and was ready with anoraks and scarves and gloves and a deaf ear to protests when they ran downstairs. From the front doorstep she saw Ben at the sink, the snow figure towering over him. "Shall I bring you anything back?" she called.

  He raised his head but didn't turn it. "Only what you have to."

  The white silence seemed to mute the slam of the front door. A bird flew away across the moors, its song chipping at the stillness, and then there was only the frustrated revving of a car engine somewhere in Stargrave. "What did he mean?" Margaret said.

  "Ourselves, I suppose."

  "Why is he being like that?"

  "Because he's a writer, sweetheart. He gets on my nerves sometimes too. He wasn't saying he didn'
t want us. I'm sure he meant anything but."

  "I think he's all right," Johnny said, and Ellen didn't know if he was expressing loyalty or reassurance or a hope. "Race you to the road," he said, nudging Margaret, and skidded away down the track.

  "Mind you don't twist your ankles," Ellen called after them, and trudged in pursuit, slowed down by her climbing boots. As she led the children along the muffled dazzling road towards the hushed town, the hard surface under the snow cracked, sinking her heel into a frozen puddle. She imagined the whole of the road being as precarious, undermined by the cold, ready to give way. She was beginning to wish she had left the children with Ben; she might have made more headway on her own. Because the snow was silencing their footsteps, she had to keep glancing back to confirm they were behind her, a tic which only aggravated her reawakened nervousness.

  It took her a quarter of an hour, more than twice as long as usual, to reach the first pavement. All the houses were top-heavy with snow. Despite the screech of spades on flagstones as shopkeepers cleared snow from in front of their premises, the town seemed laden with silence. Above the streets full of parked cars sheeted with snow, Ellen heard children playing on the common, their distant voices thin as birdcalls. From the foot of Church Road she saw them, tiny figures dressed in bright colours which kept being obscured by explosions of white. The forest reared above them like a wave about to break, but why should that make her uneasy? "Come on, let's get your poor old ageing mother something to keep off the shivers," she said.

  She was sitting on the only chair the cluttered shop in the station building was able to accommodate, and pulling on Wellingtons which tied at the knees, when Sally Quick found her. "For once we could use a few more walkie-talkies," Sally said.

  "Surely there can't be anyone out on the moors in this."

  "Only the farmers, I hope. I was meaning the phones. The lines must be down somewhere with the snow. We can't even phone across town at the moment. Don't say you were expecting your publishers to call."