When Bear Island receives no transmissions for two days, they’ll wire Longyearbyen to send help. Even if a ship can still get through, it’ll take another two days. So that’s four days at the earliest. Four days.
I try to believe that I can hold out till then. Come on, Jack, you’ve made it this far, just a little longer. But things are different now. There’s no moon.
Four days. It’ll be over by then.
I feel worst for Isaak. That makes me really angry. It’s not his fault. He didn’t ask to be brought here. It’s not his fault.
My writing on the page is a deranged scrawl, but I know that I’m not mad. This is not a delusion. It’s not some nerve storm brought on by solitude and dark. Something made Gus and Algie experience what they did. Something gave Bjørvik nightmares and opened the door of the doghouse and frightened the huskies away. Something terrified Isaak and trod the board walk outside.
Another thing just occurred to me as I was feeding logs to the stove. The trapper’s hut. When we tore it down, we chopped it up and added the logs to the woodpile. By now, I must have brought some of them inside.
And those times in the storm, when the wind blew the smoke down the stovepipe and out into the room. That black smoke griming the walls, making me cough. The trapper’s hut. I’ve breathed it in.
It’s inside me.
Later
The stillness is back. The dead cold windless dark. That’s the truth. The dark. We’re the anomaly. Little flickering sparks on the crust of this spinning planet – and around it the dark.
Just now, I looked back to the start of this journal.I don’t recognise the man who wrote it. Did he really spend a whole summer in endless light? Was he really so eager to reach Gruhuken? That strikes me as horrible.
Once he wrote that in the Arctic he would be able to see clearly, right through to the heart of things. Well you got what you wanted, didn’t you, you poor fool? This is the truth: what walks here in the dark.
Some people think of death as a door into a better place. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face . . . What if it’s not like that? What if there is no enlightenment, and it’s all just dark? What if the dead know no more than we?
Once when I was a boy I asked Father about ghosts, and he said, Jack, if they existed, don’t you think Flanders would be full of them? And I said, do you mean they don’t exist? And he said, maybe. Or maybe we just can’t hear them.
To be conscious in eternal night. You would pray for oblivion. But there’d be no one to hear you.
Is that how it is for what haunts this place? Is that what it wants for me? Trapped here for ever in eternal night?
Later
I’ve just realised the significance of what I wrote about the doghouse. Something opened the doghouse door.
It can open doors.
It can get in.
I’m not going to write this journal any more. No point. I’m finished with it.
I suppose I should leave it here on the table in plain sight, so that if anyone comes, they’ll find it and know what happened. But I’m not going to do that. This journal is mine: my words, and Gus’ too, the notes of our wireless exchanges pasted in the back. I’m going to make sure that it stays with me always.
So here we are: the final page. Nothing left to write.
Jack Miller’s journal.
The End.
17
I’ve strapped my journal to my chest with a length of canvas webbing left over from the dogs’ harnesses, and I’m wearing one of Gus’ shirts on top. If by some miracle I get out of this alive, I’ll tell him I mistook it for one of mine. If I die, I want something of his with me.
I’m sitting in my bunk in a mound of sleeping bags and reindeer hides. Five lamps are burning in the main room, and the stove is red hot (Isaak knows not to go near it). In here I’ve got the paraffin stove on the packing cases I pulled out from the wall, and a lamp on a chair beside me, and two torches against my thigh. It’s warmer in the main room, but I prefer it in here. My padded cell. I need solid walls around me. Even though there’s no reason why they should make me feel any safer.
I’m not going outside again. I’ve got plenty of firewood, and when I run out, I’ll chop up the chairs.
The bunkroom smells of urine. I’ve got a bucket and I’ve used it a couple of times, and Isaak has lifted his leg against the doorway, although not against my bunk. I don’t mind the smell. I like it. It’s emphatic and alive.
I’m rereading Gus’ book on the natural history of Spitsbergen. I find its stodginess reassuring. Sometimes I break off to talk to Isaak, or read him a bit, and he sweeps the floor with his tail. Sometimes I talk inside my head, and then it’s you I’m talking to, Gus.
Strange, that. Even though there’s only Isaak to hear, I still can’t talk to you out loud, but only in my head. I tell you what’s been happening. I rehearse what I’ll say if I see you again. That’s what keeps me going. The hope that maybe I will see you again.
I can feel my journal strapped to my chest, like a breastplate. Once, I wrote that I felt as if you were my brother, or my best friend. But now I think maybe it’s deeper than that. I don’t understand, I’ve never felt like this. And I’m glad I haven’t written about it in my journal. I couldn’t bear it if you read it and turned away.
And maybe if I do see you again, I’ll never find the courage to say anything to your face. So I’m going to be brave and say it now, fearlessly, out loud.
Gus. I love you.
18
I wake to darkness and dead cold.
In the instant of waking I know that I’m perceiving what cannot be – and yet it is. I am awake and I see it, it is real. Through the doorway I see it. It is standing in the main room looking out of the north window. It’s inside.
Now it’s turning towards me. I feel its rage. Its malevolence crushes me to my bunk.
I fumble for my torch. Can’t find it. Can’t get untangled from the sleeping bag. I knock over the chair beside me. Glass shatters. A stink of paraffin.
I find the torch. The beam veers crazily off scattered shards, a slick of paraffin. Isaak is huddled against my bunk. His eyes bulge as they follow something that moves out of sight behind the doorway.
Panting, I fight my way out of the sleeping bag. The torch slips from my fingers and hits the floor and blinks out. Whimpering, I fall to my knees and grope for it. I can’t find it. Can’t see my hand in front of my face. I feel for Isaak. He’s gone. I try to call him but my throat has closed. Pain shoots through my palms, my knees. I’m crawling on broken glass. My fingers strike wood. Wall or bunk? Where am I?
Footfalls. Heavy. Wet. Uneven. Behind or in front? Which way? Which way?
I feel its rage beating at me. Sucking the air from my lungs.
Isaak is whimpering. I rise to my feet and blunder towards the sound. I crash against something hard, I burn my hands on hot metal and fall. Still that heavy wet irregular tread.
Wheezing, I crawl across the floor. I sense space opening up around me. I see a faint red glimmer. The stove. Christ, I’ve gone the wrong way. I’m not in the bunkroom, I’m in the main room, there’s no way out.
Cornered, I spin round. The stove door is open. I see the glow within. It casts no light, only deepens the blackness. I can’t see, but I feel the rage. Close. Coming for me.
Staggering to my feet, I blunder past the stove and into the bunkroom. Darker in here. Hand over hand, I feel my way past the bunks. In my stockinged feet I slip, lurching against the packing cases. The portable stove goes down with a crash. I can’t find my way past the packing cases. Can’t find the hall. I stumble against something clammy and cold, something that gives beneath my fingers like mouldy sheepskin. Dread clamps my chest. I can’t move. My mind is going black. I can’t bear it. The rage, the malevolence, I can’t . . .
Isaak is scrabbling frantically at the door. I cannon towards the sound. I skin my knuckles on wood. The door. The door. Isaak shoots past m
e. I’m in the hall. Colder. Darkness presses on my eyeballs. I’m sharply aware of the hatch overhead and the roof space beyond. I feel my way. Guns. Hooks. Waterproofs. Cold stiff sleeves brush my face. My feet tangle in harnesses. Isaak has found the door. I claw at it. I can’t find the handle. I’m in the porch, battling a thicket of ski sticks and shovels. I wrench open the door and burst out into the night.
The cold is a wall. I run into it, my feet crunching in snow. Cold rasps my throat, it bites my flesh. No moon. No stars. Only faint grey snowglow to tell up from down. Isaak streaks past me towards the shore. I run after him.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see the cabin windows flickering yellow. They look wrong. That’s not the steady glow of lamplight, it’s the leap of flames. The cabin is on fire.
I lurch against a boulder. I push myself off and run. I trip over Isaak. He stands tense and still, his ears pricked. Listening.
Clutching his scruff, I hear nothing but the hiss of wind.
Again I glance over my shoulder. The fire in the windows has deepened to orange. Dark against the glare, I glimpse a wet round head. I can’t tell if it’s inside the cabin or out. It’s watching. It knows where I am.
Isaak squirms out of my grip and shoots off. I can’t feel my feet, but I stumble after him. My only thought is to get away.
On the shore, the wind numbs my face. The whale ribs glimmer redly. I hear the suck of water, the clink of ice. I’ve reached the sea. I’ve nowhere left to go.
I’ve got no coat, no hat, no boots. I won’t last long. I’m past caring. Though I hate the thought of leaving Isaak on his own.
He stands alert, swivelling his ears to catch whatever it is he’s hearing. His tail is high. It takes me a moment to understand. He’s not afraid any more.
At last I hear what he hears. A distant splash of oars. I blink in disbelief. Now I see it: a point of light rocking on the water. A rowing boat.
A splintering crash behind us as a window blows out. Falling to my knees, I cling to Isaak. The fuel dump by the porch will be next to go.
I crouch at the edge of the black water and wait for the boat to pick us up.
Eriksson is at the oars, with Algie and two burly sealers, but it’s Gus I see.
Moaning, I splash into the shallows. I fall into his arms.
‘Steady, old man, steady. Jack – your feet! Where are your boots? Oh, Jack!’ His voice is gentle and he’s stroking my back and talking all the time, as if I were a dog.
There’s a whump and a rush of wind, then a deafening boom. We watch blazing debris soar skywards, then crash to earth. The cabin has become a deep red throbbing heart.
Men are lifting me into the boat. I’m moaning for Isaak. Someone throws him on top of me. Now the sealers are pushing off and Gus is wrapping my feet in Algie’s muffler and flinging a blanket round my shoulders. Dimly, I make out Algie’s white, shocked face. I try to speak but I can’t. I can’t even shiver.
There’s plenty of room in the boat for six men and one dog, but I huddle in the stern, with Gus on one side, Isaak on the other. Isaak is pressed against me. His forelegs are splayed, his claws digging in. He’s scared of the sea. Numbly, I see the lights of the Isbjørn further out in the bay, blinking her message of sanctuary through the dark. I’m with people. I’m with Gus. I can’t take it in.
The boat rocks on the swell as we head for the ship. I lean against Gus and watch Gruhuken burn: a crimson so intense that it hurts to look. I can’t drag my gaze away. I stare at the flames shooting into the sky. The fire sends flickering fingers of light towards us over the water. But we’re too far out. It can’t reach us now.
I begin to shudder. Gus says that’s a good sign. He’s still talking to me, softly, continuously.
Beside me, Isaak stiffens. I feel his hackles against my cheek. My heart stops. There are seven men in the boat. Next to Gus – a wet round head.
Isaak goes wild. I’m shouting, clutching him, trying to drag Gus away from that thing. Men are yelling, standing up, the boat’s rocking wildly. Isaak is desperate to get away, I can’t hold him. He’s overboard. Gus isn’t there any more. I’m screaming his name, reaching for him. I can’t get to him, he’s too far out.
I jump in after him. The cold is a hammer to my chest. The sea is dragging me down. In the darkness, my hand touches his. I grab it. My chest is bursting. I’m trying to haul him upwards, but my fingers are numb, he slips out of my grip. Flailing, I strike a body. It isn’t Gus. My hand clutches something soft as mouldy leather.
I struggle, I kick myself free. Up to the surface, choking, spitting out seawater. I catch a choppy glimpse of the burning camp.
Against the glare, a black figure stands watching on the shore.
19
I didn’t die.
The boat didn’t capsize, and those on board pulled the survivors from the sea and rushed us back to the ship. For two days I lay in my old bunk, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Algie told me why they’d arrived at Gruhuken when they did. They’d been so concerned after our last wireless exchange that they’d persuaded Eriksson to set off at once. That’s what saved me: the fact that I couldn’t convince them that nothing was wrong.
It killed Gus. He was the only one who died. One of the sealers fell in too, but was pulled alive from the water, and Mr Eriksson lost the tips of three fingers to frostbite. Algie survived unscathed. Or so he maintains.
Gus’ body was never found. Perhaps the current bore him out to sea. Perhaps he never escaped Gruhuken.
I swore I would never write another journal, but yesterday I bought this exercise book. Why? Maybe it’s because tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of Gus’ death, and I feel the need to give an account of myself. Although I’m not sure to whom.
On the journey to Longyearbyen, we didn’t speak of what had happened, but one afternoon, Mr Eriksson visited me in the sickhouse. I wanted to thank him for risking his ship to rescue me; and he wanted (he later wrote) to tell me how sorry he was that he hadn’t warned us that Gruhuken is haunted. But who would have believed him? In the end, neither of us could find the words, so we smoked in silence. Then I told him what had happened in the cabin, and what I’d seen in the boat. He kept his eyes on the floor, and when I’d finished, he said, ja, the thing in the boat, I saw it also. That’s the last time I ever spoke of it.
What I didn’t tell him is that Gus saw it too. I glimpsed his face as he went overboard. I can’t bear to think of it.
It’s my fault that he died. It was for him that I stayed at Gruhuken: because I wanted to impress him. I pitted myself against it, but it was Gus who died. I think of that ten times a day, every day.
A year after we returned to England, I had a letter from Mr Eriksson. He told me he’d gone back to Gruhuken to search for Gus’ remains, but hadn’t found them. He said he was sorry he hadn’t been able to raise a cairn over the bones of our friend. And he said that he’d done what he could to warn others to stay away, by stringing coils of barbed wire along the shore, and ‘other things’ which he didn’t describe.
He had no need to explain why he’d done all this. We both know that what we saw that night is still there.
I find it hard to believe that Eriksson had the courage to return to that terrible place. I can’t imagine such bravery. I certainly don’t have it. But I do seem to possess a rudimentary sense of honour, because I confessed to Gus’ parents. I went to see them and told them that when he fell ill, it was my decision to stay at Gruhuken alone. I told them it was because of me that he came back. Because of me that he died.
I thought they’d hate me. But they were grateful. Algie had told them how I’d jumped overboard to save their son, and they could see that I was shattered because I’d failed. They thought me the very pattern of what an Englishman should be. They’ve been wonderful to me, and I can never repay them. They helped us settle things about the insurance and the equipment we’d had on loan, and Gus’ father had a ‘quiet word’ which kept the press
off the story. They found a specialist for my frostbite, and another to help me adjust after the surgeon amputated my foot. Algie told them about my nightmares and my terror of the dark, and they found a sanatorium – in Oxford, as far from the sea as one can get.
They found this position for me, too. I’ve been in Jamaica for nine years. I work at the research station of the Botanical Gardens in Castleton. My duties are administrative and botanical. I can no longer tolerate physics. It appals me. And plants bring me closer to Gus.
The work is predictable, and I need that more than anything. I perform each task at a set time, according to the weekly plan I’ve written in my book. My book also prescribes times for meals, walks, reading, sleeping, gardening and seeing people. Algie says I’ve become as bad as a German – and he ought to know, after three years as a POW – but I think he understands. I cling to my routine because I lost it once. It reassures me. Even though I know that security is an illusion.
I like Jamaica. The tropical nights are almost the same length all year round, with no lingering twilight to fray the nerves. I like the vivid colours in my garden: the scarlet ginger lilies and yellow cassia trees, the poisonous pink oleanders. I like the incessant, noisy life: the insects and the whistling frogs, the chattering birds.
My house is in the hills, in a jungle of palms and tree ferns, by a towering silk-cotton tree. The locals call it a ‘duppy tree’, ‘duppy’ being the Jamaican word for ghost. That doesn’t trouble me. The local idea of ghosts strikes me as touchingly naı¨ve.
My verandah has a view of green mountains. Hummingbirds sip the flowers which hang in curtains from the eaves. There’s a stephanotis – my cook says the waxy white blossoms are flowers for the dead – and a climbing vetch she calls ‘the overlook’, as it wards off the evil eye. The road to Castleton is a murmurous tunnel of giant bamboo, and that’s good, as it means I can’t see the sea. It’s only a few miles away, but I never go near it, except once a year.