Dark Matter (14 page)

I did go out at noon, and again at five. Both times, the dogs gave me a rapturous welcome and came with me to the Stevenson screen. They seemed completely at ease. I found that intensely reassuring.

I haven’t been near the bear post since it happened. To reach the screen I took the back way, turning right out of the porch and looping round behind the cabin. I’m going to do that from now on.

A few minutes ago I went to the window. I saw the shadowy shapes of the dogs, peacefully gnawing chunks of seal in front of the cabin. A light wind from the icecap is blowing spindrift over them, but they don’t seem to mind. I haven’t tied them to their stakes. I don’t see the point. They’re not going to run away. And like this they can warn me of bears.

It’s such a normal sight. Inside, too, everything’s
normal. Bright lamps, crackling stove. A whisky at my elbow, one of Hugo’s cigars between my teeth. When I look at myself in the shaving mirror, I see no horror, no fear. Nothing to connect me with the wild-eyed man who was retching into the slops pail a few hours ago.

What I’ve got to remember is that others have overwintered here and they too must have experienced things –
but they managed.
Well, so shall I. I won’t let this beat me.

So I’ve decided on a few ground rules.

First. I’ll no longer kennel or tether the dogs, but will let them roam freely around camp. I’ll wedge the door of the doghouse open, so that they can come and go as they please, but still have shelter. I don’t think they’ll come to any harm. They were bred for the Arctic.

Second. I’ll draw up a ration plan. It’d be unthinkable if Gus and Algie return to find that I’d squandered our supplies.

Third. I’ll cut down on the drinking. (OK, that one starts tomorrow.)

Fourth. No more than nine hours’ sleep a night. In this endless dark, one can easily sleep twelve hours or more – but that must be resisted. I
have
to maintain a structure. Sleeping time, eating time, work time. That’s the ticket.

Seeing these rules, neatly numbered on the page, is extraordinarily comforting.

And it’s good to know that outside there are eight watchful huskies patrolling the camp.

A good day. I slept the regulation nine hours without dreaming, and was woken by Gus’ alarm clock.

My new rules are working. When I’m not busy with the usual tasks, I’m tiring myself out with new ones: cleaning, laundry, weather proofing the doghouse with tarpaper securely tamped down and lots of straw bedding inside. I check the bay for ice (so far, thank God, it’s clear). And when I’m in the cabin, I keep the wireless on. I have chats in Morse with Ohlsen on Bear Island. And this afternoon I ‘spoke’ to Algie again. He told me that Gus is doing well, and I told him about my new rules (but not that I’m letting the dogs run wild). Twice he asked if I’m ‘all right’, and I said I’m fine. Stonewalling him gave me a perverse kind of pleasure. If he wants to keep things on the surface, then so will I. He knows what kind of place this is. He knows what he fled and I didn’t.

But what does that matter? My rules are working, that’s the point.

Things would be back to normal if it wasn’t for a ridiculous habit I’ve developed of peering out of the north window to check on the bear post. It’s ludicrous, I know, but I need to reassure myself that it isn’t quite as close to the cabin as I’d thought.

Of course each time I look it’s exactly where it ought to be, a good three paces from the window. But here’s the irritating thing: afterwards, when I’ve been busy on something else, the doubt creeps back. In my mind’s eye the post is closer, and nearer the door, as if it’s about to gain entry. I know that’s preposterous, but I still have to go to the window and make sure. Which means that whatever I’m doing, the wretched thing is never far from my thoughts.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 the 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.