Читать книгу The Still Point - Amy Sackville - Страница 15

Fog and freeze

The earth turned under the ship, relentless, until the shore was swallowed by the horizon. Below decks, he discovered Emily’s last act of love; unpacking his case of warm clothing, he found among the long-johns and the socks a photograph of her, smiling in the snow, a brief pledge of love written on the back (the ink, when it was found with his body, had almost faded). The photograph Lars Nordahl placed on his captain’s breast when he buried him now sits alongside Edward’s on Julia’s desk. It is not formally posed, or if it was, the subject could not be persuaded to contain herself; framed by frosted pine trees, a laughing, flushed young woman (so much younger, thinks Julia, than she herself is now) in a fur-trimmed jacket and hat. This, Julia thinks, is surely Edward’s Emily, as if the picture was taken from an image in his mind. This was the version of her that he was to carry with him. If, when he found it, Edward Mackley shed a tear, it is not for us to judge him, for heroes too love their wives and fear death.

He would soon address his crew. He would commend them for their valour. He would set out the schedule of their days, the programmes of exercise, mealtimes, watches, all the necessary measures to keep minds and bodies shipshape. He knew that with adventure comes exhaustion of the spirit, that awe is eventually tinged with boredom; he had lived already through an Arctic day and he knew the longing for darkness, the ache behind the eyes which one cannot tear away from the ice even as they burn from it. And he knew that then the night comes, interminable. The captain’s address would not be touched with pain, or dolour, or yearning, however; it was a rousing speech full of ambition. It is there in the ship’s log.

The ship’s log was brought to London by the last of the Norwegian crew. The second diary was found, as we know, along with the telescope at the last camp that Edward and his party made on the ice; the same snow-stained pages that Julia earlier abandoned, filled with frozen regret, the record of the yearning he had denied himself on board. But by then he had no crew to speak of, let alone to speak to, and could afford himself a little honesty.

As the ship headed out into the Barents Sea, the summer fog closed all around them; the Varanger Peninsula had not long vanished over the horizon before everything else vanished too. It was not the clear bright blue that Edward might have hoped for. For five days they passed blindly through it. On deck, the men’s morale was as damp as their clothing; droplets clung to their beards and eyebrows, to be wiped away with a sodden glove. Water ran down their necks, it saturated their skins; soaked cuffs clung about their wrists. They were nothing but leaden smudges in the featureless air; only as they drew close could they recognize each other, put names to the shades they’d become.

Sometimes it would clear enough to reveal the three masts above them, the sails furled in the useless stillness. These pockets of misted visibility were worse, somehow, than the seamless blanket of the heavy fog. The men shuffled on wetly in the silence. Edward imagined himself on a ghost ship, cords and torn sails hanging listless on the yards, their bones full of the chill, all light gone from the world and their eyes. He began to feel that Persephone had tricked them, leading them into a pale grey afterlife; they had already reached the end of the world and were condemned to sail for ever in this sunless void.

It went on for days. They kept to their cabins, emerging only for the hourly night watch which dragged by for each of them in turn, with nothing to watch for. Whales, walruses, Krakens from the deep could have passed their flank by inches, and only the sudden roll in an otherwise waveless sea would have betrayed them. The dogs, battened down in their kennels on deck, rested their muzzles on their front paws and looked mournfully up at their Russian keeper with flat, saddened ears, every coarse hair tipped with dew. The Norwegian crew were stoical, but Edward’s English companions did not know these seas, and had expected splendours after the beauty of the hard, cragged coast they’d set out from. Only Samuel Freely, who had sailed with Edward for the Northwest Passage seven years before (netting and pinning a host of Arctic Whites en route), knew what a northern summer was. Still, his spirits were as numb as his fingers, and he could summon for his friend little comfort. Mealtimes were dismal affairs, false jollity washed down by disappointment. They moped below decks and turned in early.

On the sixth day a bank of dark blue appeared to starboard, as if a line of ink had been drawn across the centre of a wet page; it seeped at the edges, but there it was, undeniable, darkening and hardening into contours as they watched. And as the air cleared they became sure that what they could see was land, not some trick of the water and light. Within hours, the bird-streaked coast of the islands of Nova Zembla emerged from the ocean, black and grey, crammed with the squawks and settling feathers of the summer nesting. They navigated the strait around the tip of the southern island and emerged into the open Kara Sea, stretching north, north, to a watery horizon. A blue sky arced glorious over them, almost liquid where it touched the sea and seemed to soak into it. The men stretched out on the deck in their sun goggles, lolling against each other, as if the ship had transformed into a lido. With the wind in the sails, they sped forward. How lazy, they laughed, adventure could be. To the Pole, they cried, and don’t spare the dogs!

In his cabin, a month after leaving his wife on the shore, Edward woke in half-darkness and knew that dawn was close; and something else too. They were nearing ice. He could feel it. He knew where he was from the moment he woke; for the first time since they left the coast behind them, he did not expect to find her beside him. The sea shifting under him had become his own lymphrhythm. And he knew, too, that the sea was beginning to freeze, although it was not yet August; without so much as standing up from his bed, he knew it. He could smell it, although it was scentless. Across the bridge of his nose, under his eyes, like a frozen sneeze he felt the pinch of it. Ice.

He dressed quickly, pulled on boots and gloves and coat and left his cabin. Only Janssen, the cook, was awake below decks, peaceful and floury in the galley. Edward’s stomach, tight with excitement, barely registered the comfort of the baking bread; it was knotted up with that other evasive but undeniable scent, ice, ice.

He came out on deck. Lars Nordahl was on watch. Edward was wary of him — he’d been ship’s mate on many a whaling vessel, recruited in Trondheim (with the bulk of the crew) for his experience and the respect he commanded, and he thought of this explorer’s expedition as a well-paid whim. He was liked by the men, powerful, broad, with a mass of copper hair, and Edward had to struggle against the awe of the child within himself who had dreamed of Vikings.

‘We’re nearing the ice, Nordahl.’

The Norwegian, gazing north, did not turn. Edward joined him at the rail and saw it was not insolence that kept him silent; it was the same taut thrill that had gripped his own dreams.

‘I felt it in my nose when I woke this morning.’

Lars turned his large head and looked down, impressed, at his captain for a moment, before turning his gaze back to the sea. In the quiet morning, this jocular, expansive man was subdued. In the pit of him, a depth of calm like the fjord he was raised beside lay placid, and his spirit was stilled by the palemisted dawn.

‘Frazil, Captain,’ he said, with a nod to the water. ‘And grease ice further out. Your nose told you true.’

The sea they were sailing had turned glutinous; it rolled without breaking, its dark surface covered by the rough-silk sheen that was the first sign of freezing.

‘We’ll reach the first floes in days.’

‘It’s early in the year for that, Nordahl. But I believe you’re right. It seems it will be winter soon enough.’

Mare Congelatum, it is called on ancient maps. The sea congealing.

Julia holds the edge of her desk and feels her hands clench around imagined metal, feels the chill crystallize; as a child, she stood so on a ferry to France, at the back of the ship, which, she had learned, was called the stern; and with a suitably stern, resolute expression she imagined herself an adventurer.

I would be brave and strong like Edward, I would sail through the floes, I would not die in the snow; the whip and cling of my skirt in the salt wind, the ice-white cliffs become a great frozen wall.

Emily, almost home now, sees the English coast loom out of the grey dawn, and holds fast to the handrail to steady her mind. She gathers her skirts about her as she steps onto the gangplank and imagines that the next time she sets foot on a ship, it might be to meet her husband, home from the sea. She breathes the brackish air, the last of the sea-mist freshness mixed with the pungent, gritty odour of the shrimp hauled onto the docks; she wonders if she will ever sail again. She will not.

Edward’s hands grip the rail, his black eyes bright. The Pole draws closer. He is returning to the frozen sea.