Across Frozen Seas (13 page)

Is Seeley dead? I don't really care, all I want to do is go to sleep, but George is more alert. I feel myself being dragged from beneath the canvas into the cutting wind and snow.

“Leave me be,” I protest into the wind, “I want to sleep.”

“No!” the words are harsh even against the storm. “You must not. Get up, we will walk home.”

I look up into George's face. One side is covered in blood and the whole is gaunt and hollow, but the eyes still have that sparkle.

“Come on Davy boy.” The voice is the cheery one I remember from Marbacks and from our readings in the cold, wet streets of London. If my friend George Chambers thinks we can walk home then we can. I
will follow him anywhere. Painfully slowly, I struggle to my feet, leaning into the icy wind.

“That's it Davy, up you get. It's not far now. I'm going to save your life just as you and that old telescope saved mine. I've been lonely for a long time—all but a century and a half. But we're together now and this is my chance to repay you. You won't forget me now will you? Or the others? Tell our story Davy. It's been a long time hidden and needs told. Promise?”

I nod slowly.

“I knew you would. It's a good story isn't it? And we did have some adventures did we not? I don't think, despite it all, I would swap it for another meal of gruel at old Marback's.

“Come on, it's time to go. Take my hand.”

George holds out his hand and I reach out to take it. It is cold, colder than the snow around us but I don't care. We are together again, just George and I, teammates once more. George begins to walk through the blizzard. He walks backwards, never taking his eyes off me. I stumble along behind, holding that cold, cold hand. There is a light, behind George, getting brighter. And a doorway, leading to where? Without turning, George hammers his fist on the door. We stand together in the snow and wind, our eyes and hands locked. Then the door opens. A blinding light washes out, my legs give way and I collapse—into Jim's warm kitchen.

Several hours must have passed. I wake up wrapped in blankets before a roaring fire in Jim's livingroom. My feet and hands hurt, but at least I can feel them.

“Good morning,” says Jim from the chair across the hearth. “I phoned your folks to tell them you were all right. They were getting pretty worried. You are one lucky kid. People have frozen to death in a blizzard, just a few feet from their back door.”

“George showed me the door,” I reply tiredly. Then I look round. “Where is he?”

“George?” Jim looks puzzled. “Who's George?”

“George Chambers,” I say. Then it all comes back: the tent, the knife, the telescope, Seeley. George is just a dream. I blurt out the story of the tent and the pigsty. Jim sits silent and unblinking, picking up every word. When I am finished, he sits for a moment. Then he turns and calls down the hall, “Jurgen, come here please.”

Hesitantly, a figure appears from the shadows into
the firelight and I gasp in recognition. It is a boy about my age. He was slightly taller than I with a thin face and deep-set brown eyes peering out from under an unruly mop of sandy-coloured hair. A large bandage covers his cheek and part of his forehead. He is dressed in dark, loose-fitting, hand-woven clothes, patched in several places. Shyly, he looks down at the floor.

“This is Jurgen,” Jim is saying. “He is from the Hutterite colony down the road. It was he who found you in the sty and brought you in. He has been helping me around the farm and got trapped here by the blizzard. He was down at the barn checking on old Victoria. She gets upset and lonely in bad weather, so I rigged a rope line from the back door to her stall so I could check her even in a storm. Jurgen kindly offered to check on her this evening. He was following the rope back when he fell over you by the old pigsty. Gave himself a nasty gash on an old nail too. You were almost asleep and he had the devil's own job getting you to wake up and follow him to the house. I think you owe him your life.”

Through all this I don't take my eyes off the boy and he doesn't move.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you very much.”

Jurgen lifts his head and looks at me for a brief moment. He says nothing, but the sparkle in those eyes is one I know very well.

“He doesn't speak much English,” Jim interrupts our communion, “but with the little bad German I know, we get by. Danke Jurgen, you should get some rest now, schlaff.”

Nodding silently, the boy turns and disappears down the corridor. I look after him for a moment then turn to Jim.

“That was who rescued me all right. But he is also George from my dream. How can that be? How can I dream about a person for weeks before I meet him?”

“I don't know,” Jim replies thoughtfully. “The mind is a complex and poorly understood thing. Perhaps your experience in the blizzard imprinted Jurgens image onto the dream image of George or perhaps it is just a coincidence that they look alike.”

“Or perhaps,” I interrupt, “he really is George and there is some supernatural link between the historical George of my dreams and Jurgen, who saved my life.”

This time I am not going to let Jim pass my dreams off as wild imaginings. He sits for a long moment staring at me in the firelight.

“Perhaps you should tell me the whole story?” he asks eventually.

So I do. From the very beginning, I tell Jim everything. It is like a release. I feel like the ancient mariner in the poem, only able to rest after I tell my tale to someone. The whole story comes without any effort, and Jim listens to every word. By the time I have finished the fire is burning low. For the longest time Jim says nothing.

“You have an extraordinary tale to tell,” he says eventually, looking at me thoughtfully. Then he asks, “But who is the dream George?”

“I don't know,” I reply honestly.

“I think I do,” says Jim.

I stare at him for a moment before he continues.

“When I came back from visiting you, I did some digging. I figured that if Franklin and Fitzjames were real enough perhaps George Chambers was too.”

Jim leans over and picks up the book we had examined on my last visit. Flipping quickly to the back, he holds it open to me. The page is headed; Appendix 1:
Crew List The Franklin Expedition.
There follows a long list of names. My eye hesitates on the ones I recognize from my readings and dreams. Most are at the top of the list, officer's names.

Sir John Franklin—Commander Expedition

Commander James Fitzjames—Captain H.M.S.
Erebus

Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier—Captain H.M.S.
Terror

Graham Gore—Lieutenant H.M.S.
Erebus

Charles Frederick Des Voeux—Mate H.M.S.
Erebus

Edward Little—Lieutenant H.M.S.
Terror

Robert Thomas—Mate H.M.S.
Terror

Stephen Samuel Stanley—Surgeon H.M.S.
Erebus

Harry Goodsir—Assistant Surgeon H.M.S.
Erebus

There is also John Torrington—Leading Stoker H.M.S.
Erebus
and John Hartnell—Able Seamen H.M.S.
Erebus,
both dead of consumption and buried on Beechey Island beside my friend William Braine—Private, Royal Marines H.M.S.
Erebus.

But my eye lingers longest on one name I have come to dread and fear over the last few weeks. The name of a man my dream-self has perhaps killed,
Abraham Seeley—Able Seamen H.M.S.
Erebus.

It looks harmless enough as a dry fact sitting amongst so very many other sad names, but it will always bring horror to me whenever I see it.

I am gazing at Seeley's name when Jim leans over and gently turns the page. The list continues, and most of the names mean nothing to me, but one does. Right at the bottom is a name I had half expected to see, but cannot really believe is there.

George Chambers—Cabin Boy H.M.S.
Erebus.

It is a shock, but what really sends the shivers down my spine is the fact that the
Erebus
had two cabin boys. The second one is David Young.

It makes sense; after all, I
am
a character in my dreams, but I never expected to see it here in black-and-white.

“It's me!” the exclamation escapes almost unbidden. Jim nods slowly.

“That proves my dreams are true!”

“Perhaps.” Jim is speaking quietly. “There is certainly something strange going on here. You have dreamt of things you couldn't possibly know from reading. Whether they are true or imaginings, I don't know.”

“They're true,” I almost shout. Jim raises a hand.

“I believe perhaps they may be,” he continues. “But what is true for you may not be true for everyone. Without a doubt you have experienced something remarkable, and if you believe it, surely that is all that really matters.”

“Do you believe me?” It is important to me that Jim understands what has happened.

“Oh, I believe what you say. The problem is what it means.” Jim pauses and looks at me thoughtfully. “There is one more thing I can perhaps add to your story. Do you remember the Navy button I gave you?”

“Yes,” I say. “But it proves nothing.”

“True,” continues Jim, “But it was not the only thing I inherited.” Slowly Jim rises and fetches a small box from the mantle. As he does so, he continues speaking. “I always assumed that this had nothing to do with my ancestor's trip up north. I thought it was merely a personal momento which had survived the ravages of time. Now I am not so sure. Take a look.”

Jim hands me the box. My fingers are shaking as I open it. Inside the box, nestled on a bed of shredded paper lies a faded, worn lead figure. It is a toy sailor. There are only patches of white and blue paint left, but his hand is still held firmly over his eyes as he looks at some wondrous, exotic landscape.

“Jack Tar.” I breathe the words almost silently.

“It would seem so,” says Jim. “I have never shown this to you or to anyone else. I never thought it of any importance. I guess I was wrong. In any case, I think he belongs to you now.”

The ancient figure fits comfortably into the palm of my hand. I close my fingers around him protectively.

“Thank you,” I say. Neither of us need to say more. The story is told and George can rest now. But I cannot.

“My parents,” I ask. “Were they mad at me?”

Jim looks at me hard. “No,” he says, “not mad, but they were pretty worried with this blizzard coming on.
Maybe you should give them a call.”

Jim gets up and moves the phone to the table beside me. It seems to ring forever. Then I hear my Mom's voice. “Hello?”

“Hi Mom, it's Dave.”

“Dave.” She sounds tired. “Are you all right? Jim called to say you were out there. How did you get there in the blizzard? We were so worried.”

“Its okay Mom. I hitched out. I just got a little turned around in the yard. But I'm fine now. I'll stay here tonight and come home in the morning. I've got some stories to tell you.”

“Yes.” She sounds a little hesitant. “Your Dad and I have been talking, and we think we should all get together and discuss things. Anyway, there's lots of time for that. Your Dad wants to have a word. You get a good night's sleep, and we'll see you in the morning. I'm so glad you're all right.”

There's a moment's silence while Mom passes the phone over. I'm so ashamed of what I said earlier that I almost put the receiver down, but then Dad's there.

“Dave. How are you?”

“Fine Dad. Look, I'm sorry I made you and Mom worry so much.”

“That's all right. You're okay now and that's what's important.” There's a pause and then he continues. “Listen, I'm sorry I laid into you the way I did. I'm pretty stressed right now. Your Mom and I have been talking. She thinks it would be a good idea if she and I went to see Chris. She might be right too. Anyway, we'll
give it a try. We've also decided to put the franchise up for sale. I guess the economic climate isn't right just now.” There is another pause, then he continues. “Anyway, we'll talk about all that tomorrow.”

“Okay Dad.” This is very difficult for me. “Listen, I'm sorry too, about what I said—I mean, before I walked out. I had no right to say those things. It was....”

“Never mind,” he interrupts. I think he is finding this as hard as I am. “We'll sort it all out tomorrow. Right now you need to get some sleep. I'll come out in the morning, as soon as they get the highway cleared, and pick you up. Good night Dave.”

“Good night Dad.”

I hang up. I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. Jim has made up the spare bed for me. It is so comfortable, it is like sleeping on clouds. I feel more relaxed than I have in weeks. The dreams are over and my life can get back to normal. In the morning I will go home and resolve what I must with my parents. Maybe I'll even give Sarah a call.

I won't walk out again. When the right time comes, I will leave. I don't know what my own life will bring but I know now I will be able to handle it somehow. George has taught me that.

“Thank you,” I murmur into the darkness.

Just before I drift into a luxurious, dreamless sleep, I imagine I hear soft footsteps outside my door and the whispered reply, “You're welcome, Davy boy.”

THE END