I still have the journal I wrote at Gruhuken. It was found on me after they hauled me from the sea. As I sit at my desk, I can see it lying on top of my bookcase. It’s warped and salt-stained, and I picture my words inside, bleeding together. I’ve never opened it. I never will.
Gus’ shirt was taken off me and destroyed before I regained consciousness, so I have nothing of his. Hugo offered to send me the photograph that was taken of us in Tromsø, dressed up in our new winter gear. I said no. I couldn’t bear to see us so hopeful and unaware.
It occurs to me that I haven’t mentioned Bjørvik. On our way back to Longyearbyen, Mr Eriksson put in at Wijdefjord and asked the trapper if he wanted to leave with us, but he said no, he would overwinter as planned. He said to tell me he was sorry about my friend, and relieved that I’d survived. Three days before Christmas, two of the dogs, Anadark and Upik, turned up at his camp. They were starving and terrified, but he nursed them back to health, and in the spring he sent word to Algie, asking what should be done. After conferring with me, Algie sent money to compensate for their upkeep, and told Bjørvik to consider them his, with our thanks. He sold them to the mine manager in Longyearbyen for an excellent price. I’m glad. He’s a poor man, and the money would have meant a lot to him. And I’ve no doubt that Upik and Anadark have adapted to life with their new pack.
Of the other dogs – Pakomi, Kiawak, Svarten, Eli and Jens – no trace was ever found.
Isaak is with me. The sealers hauled him out of the sea, and during those first days on the Isbjørn he never left my side.
Dogs are a religion to Gus’ parents, so they understood that we couldn’t be parted. After Isaak had spent months in quarantine, we were reunited, and we’ve scarcely been separated since.
It’s because of Isaak that I took this house, as it catches the sea breeze in the morning and the land breeze in the evening. He’s adapted surprisingly well to the heat – by which I mean he’s become lazy. I’ve built him a shady pergola in the garden, with a wading pool, which he loves. We take our walks in the cool of the dawn, and although there are no rabbits, he’s the terror of the mongoose community. Twice a day, we have the ceremony of de-ticking. He adores that, as it means he has all my attention. He more than holds his own with the local mastiffs, and some of the puppies born to the neighbourhood bitches have a distinctly husky-ish appearance.
I don’t know what I would have done without him. He’s my best friend, the only living creature I can really talk to, and a precious link with Gus.
In his undemonstrative way, Algie has also become a good friend, although in the beginning I blamed him; he should never have allowed Gus to come on the rescue mission. Then I realised that Algie blames himself quite enough already, without me making it worse.
I value his friendship, but we never talk of Gruhuken. He’s never spoken of his experiences there, nor asked about mine. So that is always between us.
Occasionally, I correspond with Hugo, but I’ve only seen him once. It wasn’t a success. We both knew that he is on one side of the divide, and I on the other. Because he never saw Gruhuken.
My life here is a good one, I think. It’s only in October and November that I have a bad time. When I wake to darkness and I’m back in the polar night, hearing a heavy wet irregular tread.
Every year on the anniversary of Gus’ death, I make my pilgrimage to an isolated beach on the north coast, where I can be sure of being alone. I go at midday, when the sun is at its fiercest, but I still have to nerve myself to do it. I don’t sleep well for a week before. But I haven’t funked it yet.
The sea here is nothing like Gruhuken. Tiny fishes dart in the turquoise water, and pelicans glide overhead. But it’s the same sea. And though I stand on this white sand before the warm little waves, I know that at Gruhuken, it’s the deep of the polar night.
When I’ve mustered my courage, I can just bring myself to crouch at the water’s edge and dip in my hand, and hold it there while I talk to Gus. It’s a kind of communion. But it’s a dangerous one, for I know that I’m also communing with Gruhuken, and with what walks there in the dark.
When I sat down to write this, I didn’t know who it was for, but I do now. This is for you, Gus. This is how things have been since I lost you.
And maybe tomorrow when I go down to the sea, I’ll burn these pages and scatter the ashes on the waves, and they’ll reach you, wherever you are.
Recently, I’ve begun to wonder if perhaps your parents were right not to blame me for your death. Perhaps you didn’t come back to Gruhuken to save me, but only to salvage the expedition. Maybe you didn’t feel for me what I felt – what I still feel – for you. I’ll never know.
But I can take that. It’s not the worst of it. The worst is not knowing if you’re still there. Are you, Gus? Are you there in the black water? Do you walk on the shore, in the dead grey stillness among the bones? Or were you snuffed out like a spark, all trace extinguished? Oh, I hope so. I can’t bear to think of you still there.
Because I know that I can never go back. Not even for you, Gus. Not even when I remember how it was in the beginning: the guillemots on the cliffs and the seals slipping through the green water, and the ice talking to itself in the bay.
THE END
Author’s Note
I first visited Spitsbergen in summer 2007, when I travelled by ship around the whole archipelago, putting in at many beautiful, desolate places, including ruined mines and trappers’ camps. I’ve drawn on that voyage for Jack’s experiences at the time of the midnight sun, and for his initial impressions of Gruhuken. Last winter I returned to Spitsbergen – to reacquaint myself with huskies, to do some snowshoeing in the dark, and to get the feel of the polar night.
Concerning Spitsbergen as it was in the early twentieth century, including the lives of trappers, sealers, and those who made scientific expeditions to the islands, I’m particularly indebted to the following: The Diaries of Thorleif Bjertnes (Nordaustlandet 1933–34) (translated by Lee Carmody, Svalbard Museum, 2000); Spitsbergen: An Account of the Exploration, Hunting, Mineral Riches and Future Potentialities of an Arctic Archipelago (R.N.R. Brown, London, 1920); A Woman in the Polar Night (C. Ritter, London, 1955); With Seaplane and Sledge in the Arctic (G. Binney, New York, 1926); Under the Pole Star – The Oxford University Arctic Expedition 1935–6 (A.R. Glen, London, 1937).
However I should make it clear that the characters in the story are imaginary, and weren’t intended to resemble any of those who took part in the real expeditions, which for the most part had happier outcomes than Jack’s. And in case anyone is tempted to seek Gruhuken on the map, it doesn’t exist. Moreover it’s not to be confused with the headland named Gråhuken, where a redoubtable trapper’s wife once overwintered (see A Woman in the Polar Night, above). I made Gruhuken up, and as far as I know, its precise topography isn’t to be found in Spitsbergen.
I’d like to thank the people of Longyearbyen for their warmth and helpfulness, especially my guides on numerous occasions, as well as the friendly and diligent staff of the fascinating Svalbard Museum. As always, my thanks go to my publishers, Orion, for their boundless enthusiasm and support, particularly my editor Jon Wood and assistant editor Jade Chandler; and to my wonderful agent, Peter Cox, who has encouraged me since I first mooted the idea for this story, almost a decade ago.
Finally, I’d like to stress that although Jack’s impressions of Longyearbyen in 1937 were dismal, it has changed a bit since then. I’ve always found it a delightful michelle paver place, both in summer and winter. It’s well worth a visit, whether you love the Arctic or are simply curious to experience life in the far north.
Michelle Paver, 2010
Table of Contents
Also by Michelle Paver and published by Orion
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
; Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Author’s Note
Michelle Paver, Dark Matter
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