This morning, Algie and I were on deck when Gus called us down to the saloon.
We knew at once that something was wrong. Eriksson sat in stony silence, his hands spread flat on the table. Gus’ face was set, his blue eyes glassy with anger.
‘Ah, gentlemen.’ He greeted us in clipped tones. ‘It seems that Mr Eriksson here refuses to take us to Gruhuken.’
We stared at the skipper. He wouldn’t meet our eyes.
‘He says,’ Gus went on, ‘that he’ll take us as far as Raudfjord, but no further . . .’
‘But that’s forty miles short!’ cried Algie.
‘. . . and he says,’ continued Gus, ‘that these were always his orders. That he’s never heard any mention of Gruhuken.’
The blatancy of the Norwegian’s lie astonished me. And he didn’t back down. In fact, he put up quite a fight. He insisted that he’d been chartered to take us to Raudfjord and no further. We said this was nonsense,
our goal had always been Gruhuken. He said there was good camping on Raudfjord. We pointed out that Raudfjord has no icecap, and we’d hardly have gone to the trouble of bringing a sledge and eight dogs if we didn’t need them. He said he knew nothing of that. His ship had been chartered for Raudfjord, and to Raudfjord she would go.
We reached stalemate. Algie muttered something irrelevant about legal action. Gus seethed. The Norwegian crossed his arms and glowered.
Behind his granite demeanour, I sensed unhappiness. He hated reneging on his charter. So why was he doing it?
Before I could say anything, Gus placed both palms on the table and leaned towards the skipper. His usual genial manner was gone. In its place I saw the assurance which comes from generations of command. ‘Now look here, Eriksson,’ he said. ‘You will carry out the job for which you were hired. You will take us to Gruhuken – and there’s an end of it!’
Poor Gus. Maybe that works on his father’s estate, but not with a man like Eriksson. The Norwegian sat like a boulder, immovable.
I decided it was my turn. ‘Mr Eriksson,’ I said. ‘Do you remember our first night on board? I asked you why you chose to overwinter on Spitsbergen, and you
said it’s because there a man can breathe with both lungs. I took that to mean that you felt free. Free to make your own decisions. Was I right?’
He didn’t reply. But I had his attention.
‘Don’t you see it’s the same for us?’ I went on. ‘We thought long and hard about where to site our camp, and we chose Gruhuken. We chose it. We made a decision.’
‘You don’t know what you are doing,’ he growled.
‘Now look here,’ cried Gus.
‘Oh, I say!’ exclaimed Algie at the same time.
Without taking my eyes from Eriksson’s, I signed them to silence. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You don’t know,’ he repeated.
‘Then tell me,’ I urged. ‘Come now, you’re an honourable man. And yet you’ve gone back on your word. Why? Why don’t you want to take us to Gruhuken? What’s wrong with it?’
His face darkened. He glared at me.
For a moment I thought he was going to tell me. Then he leapt to his feet and struck the table with both fists. ‘
Helvedes fand!
As you
wish!
To Gruhuken we go!’
There’s some drift ice in the bay, but also plenty of open water, and Mr Eriksson has dropped anchor a hundred yards from the beach. We wanted to go ashore and explore, but he said it was too late, and the crew was tired. After yesterday’s row, we thought it best to humour him.
After dinner, I went on deck and listened to the ice talking to itself. I fancy it sounds different from the ice we encountered further south. Sterner, harsher. But that’s only my imagination.
We had a clear run up the coast and round the north-west cape, although the weather remained overcast and foggy. As we headed east, our anticipation grew. Only a few miles left to go. Gus and Algie leaned over the side, counting off landmarks on the map. I went to the wheelhouse to make one last attempt with the skipper.
‘Mr Eriksson,’ I began, with a poor attempt at geniality.
‘Professor,’ he replied without taking his eyes from the sea.
‘I don’t wish to offend you,’ I said carefully. ‘And I’m not suggesting that you haven’t been straight with
us. But I’d count it a favour if you’d tell me, man to man, why you don’t want to take us to Gruhuken.’
Still watching the waves, the Norwegian adjusted course. For a moment his glance flicked sideways to me. Something in his expression told me he was wondering if I could be trusted.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘All I want is the truth.’
‘Why?’
I was startled. ‘Well . . . isn’t it obvious? We’ll be there a year. If there’s some problem, we need to know about it.’
‘It’s not always good to know,’ he said quietly.
‘I’m – not sure I agree with you. I think it’s always best to know the truth.’
He gave me another odd look. Then he said, ‘Some places . . . they make bad luck.’
‘What?’ I was taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Gruhuken. It’s . . . bad luck. Things happen there.’
‘What things?’
‘Bad things.’
‘But what? Tricky currents in the bay? Bad weather off the icecap? What?’
He chewed his moustache. ‘There are worse things.’
The way he said that. As if he couldn’t bear to think of it.
For a moment I was shaken. Then I said, ‘But Mr Eriksson
. Surely you don’t believe that a place – a mere pile of rocks – can make bad things happen?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Then what?’
Another silence.
Exasperated, I blew out a long breath. That was my mistake. His face closed and I knew that I’d lost him.
Shouts from the deck. Gus and Algie were beaming and waving at me. ‘Look, Jack,
look!
’
While I’d been talking to the skipper, the weather had undergone one of those sudden Arctic reversals. The clouds had lifted. The fog had cleared.
That first sight of it. Like a blow to the heart. The desolation. The beauty.
A fierce sun blazed in a sky of astonishing blue. Dazzling snow-capped mountains enclosed a wide bay dotted with icebergs. The water was as still as glass, mirroring the peaks. At the eastern end of the bay, tall cliffs the colour of dried blood were thronged with seabirds, their clamour muted by distance. At the western end, shining pavements of pewter rock sloped down to the sea, and a stream glinted, and a tiny, ruined hut huddled among boulders. The charcoal beach was littered with silver driftwood and the giant ribs of whales. Behind it, greenish-grey slopes rose towards the harsh white glitter of the icecap.
Despite the cries of gulls, there was a stillness about
it. A great silence. And God, that
light!
The air was so clear I felt I could reach out and touch those peaks, snap off a chunk of that icecap. Such purity. It was like heaven.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
I turned to Mr Eriksson. ‘Is that . . .’
He nodded and sucked in his breath, like a gasp. ‘Ja. Gruhuken.’
Our fourth day at Gruhuken. I’ve been too exhausted to write.
This morning we finished unloading the ship. That meant lowering eighty tons of supplies (and dogs) into the boats and rowing them ashore; except for the fuel drums, which we floated into the shallows. I had an anxious time with my wireless crates – if anything gets wet, it’ll be damaged beyond repair – but thank God, they made it OK. Then I had to protect them from the dogs, who were racing about, christening things. And when a husky is loose, it eats whatever it finds: windproofs, rucksacks, tents. It wasn’t long before Gus and Algie saw sense and tied the brutes to stakes. At first they complained with ear-shattering yowls, then they realised it was hopeless and settled down.
I’ve enjoyed the hard work after being cooped up on
the
Isbjørn
. Every ‘night’ – these strange white nights that I still find magical – Mr Eriksson and the crew go back to the ship to sleep, but we’re keen to take possession of Gruhuken, so we’ve pitched our Pyramid tent on the beach, at the head of the bay. Our reindeer-hide groundsheets are supremely comfortable, and not even the seabirds keep us awake.
We’ve been so busy that at times I’ve hardly noticed our surroundings. But sometimes I’ll pause and look about, and then I’m sharply aware of all the busy creatures – men, dogs, birds – and behind them the stillness. Like a vast, watching presence.
It’s a pristine wilderness. Well, not quite pristine. I was a bit put out to learn that there have been others here before us. Gus found the ruins of a small mine on the slopes behind camp; he brought back a plank with what looks like a claim, roughly painted in Swedish. To make the beach safe for the dogs, we had to clear a tangle of wire and gaffs and some large rusty knives, all of which we buried under stones. And there’s that hut, crouched among the boulders in a blizzard of bones.
Gus asked Mr Eriksson about it. ‘So were there trappers here too? Or was it the miners who left all the bones?’
Mr Eriksson sucked in his breath. ‘Ja.’
Gus raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, which?’
The Norwegian hesitated. ‘Trapper first. Miners later.’
‘And after them, no one,’ I said. ‘Not until us.’
Mr Eriksson did not reply.
I’m glad to say that relations with him have improved, and he and his crew have worked like demons to help us set up camp; almost, Gus remarked, as if they’ve a deadline to meet.
And maybe they have. With every day that passes, the midnight sun dips nearer the horizon. In a week, on the 16th, it’ll disappear for the first time, and we’ll experience our first brief night. Mr Eriksson calls it ‘first dark’. Algie’s planning a little ceremony involving whisky to usher it in, but Mr Eriksson disapproves. He seems to think we shouldn’t joke about such things.
I’ve told the others what he said about Gruhuken being unlucky. Gus was briskly dismissive, and Algie said I shouldn’t indulge the man’s penchant for superstition. Secretly, though, I think they were relieved that it wasn’t worse. I feel better, too. Now it’s dealt with. Out in the open.
This morning, after the last crate was brought ashore, the
Isbjørn
set off on the forty-mile trip to collect our boats, coal, and the materials for the cabin. It’s good to be on our own, a sort of dress rehearsal. And it’s given us a chance to explore.
Leaving the dogs tied to their stakes, Algie took his
rifle and headed off to hunt, while Gus and I went for a wander to the bird cliffs at the eastern end of the bay.
The weather has been perfect since we arrived, and this was another brilliant, windless day; surprisingly warm in the sun, only just below freezing. The sea was a vivid blue, mirroring the mountains, and out in the bay, I spotted three bearded seals basking on ice floes. I took deep breaths of the clean, salty air, and it went to my head like wine.
Nearer the cliffs, the smell of guano took over. We scrambled among the rocks, Gus pausing now and then to identify yellow Arctic poppies and brilliant green clumps of saxifrage. He’s fascinated by nature, and likes pointing things out to me, the ignorant physicist. I don’t mind. I quite enjoy it.
The cliffs echoed with the guillemots’ rattling groans. Craning my neck, I saw the sky speckled black with birds, like dirty snow. Thousands more perched on ledges. In the shadow of the cliffs the dark-green water was dotted with white feathers. Among them paddled guillemot chicks. Fluffy and flightless, they rode the waves uttering high, piercing cries.
‘Poor little scraps,’ said Gus. ‘They spend their first three weeks on a ledge, facing the wall. Then they jump off, and if they’re lucky they hit the water and swim out to sea with their parents.’
‘If they’re lucky,’ I remarked. I’d just seen a gull swoop down and swallow a chick whole.
‘Not much of a life, is it?’ said Gus. ‘Three weeks with your beak jammed against a rock, then you jump off and get eaten.’
A lone chick was bobbing on the swell, peeping. Maybe it’d got separated from its parents, or maybe they’d been taken by the Arctic foxes which haunt the feet of the cliffs like small grey ghosts.
As we made our way round the headland, we heard the distant report of Algie’s rifle. We watched a big, thuggish gull bullying a guillemot into disgorging its fish. Gus found a reindeer skull, and showed me its worn-down teeth. He said it would have died of starvation, albeit with a full stomach, as it could no longer chew its food. Sitting on the rocks, we basked in the sun, and I thought about the beauty and cruelty around me.
Without preamble, Gus said, ‘The other day, I didn’t express myself very well. What I was trying to say is that I don’t think you’ve missed your chance.’
I felt myself going red.
‘What I mean,’ he went on, ‘is that although your family had a hard time of it, that needn’t drag you down, too.’
‘It already has,’ I muttered.
‘I don’t accept that. You’re here. This is a new beginning. Who knows what it’ll lead to?’
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ I retorted.