Afterlands (16 page)

Jan. 19
,
A.M
.
Fair with light, variable winds. Joe and Hans hunting again, despite the outrage of our recent theft. Yesterday, five miles from the huts, they found water, and saw a number of seals; but it was blowing heavy, and very cold. Joe says he tried to shoot, but that he shook so with the cold that he could not hold his gun steady, and that his fingers could not feel the trigger of his gun, and so the seal escaped. The wind moderated in the night, but it was so cold that all the holes froze up. I think the sun must soon show himself above the line of icebergs to the south, and I hope it will cheer us, and give us all strength; for Joe, like Tobias, is not very well. I hope he will not get down truly ill, for we depend greatly on him. Were it not for “little Joe,” Esquimau though he be, many, if not all, of this party must have perished by now. We survive through God’s mercy and Joe’s ability as a hunter.

Night
. Clear and cold, the glass showing from minus 35 to 38°. I stopped outside as long as I could, trying to keep an eye on the store-house, and also admiring the beauty of the stars. The northern constellations seem more brilliant here than I ever noticed them at home. Ursus Major and Minor—if I remember right, these regions are named for the Northern Bear,
—Orion, Andromeda, Cassiopeia, the Pleiades, and Jupiter, so bright—part of Draco too. What a splendid night it would be for telescopic observations! The air so clear and pure, there is neither cloud nor fog, nor any visible exhalations from this icy land, or, rather, frozen sea, to mar the crystal clearness of the atmosphere. I wish I could also take observations, so as to ascertain our position, but “Count” Meyer continues to refuse me the loan of any instruments. At any rate, the cold pinches, and I had to leave the stellar beauties, and my watch on the store-house, and crawl into my dirty burrow to keep from freezing.

Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel
. Yes, but maybe also the last haven of the hungry, the demoralized and the desperate.

These days Kruger rarely speaks. He and Meyer’s troops find little to say to each other, and Jackson and Herron, who would have to speak to him in English, are afraid to use the
Verbotene Sprache
. Clearly Jackson sees this state of affairs as shameful. He avoids Kruger’s eyes. Herron, meanwhile, tries to catch his eye whenever possible, to send him looks—rueful but helpless expressions of regret, furtive twinklings of amusement, even mockery. And a moment later he will be snapping to Meyer’s command. Yet Kruger finds it impossible to dislike him. He is simply too well-meaning and sweet-natured, a natural talker now forced to imprison all his talk inside him. Besides, unlike Kruger, he and Jackson have no choice but to collaborate. Being German is the only thing that has protected Kruger, so far, in his frank contempt of the Count.

It’s late morning and Jackson, in long underwear, has risen to relight the lamp. His broad, wasted shoulders are bunched up around his face. He’s sucking air in through his teeth. There’s “breakfast” to be fixed. He shakes Herron’s feet. The others are still asleep in their bags with their rifles. Anthing also sleeps with Kruger’s and Jackson’s confiscated rifles, as well as the cooking implements—an arrangement that forces him to lie stiff as a plank, inflaming his mood more by the night.

The sooted and bloody hut looks like an abattoir after a fire, yet now Kruger discerns a faintly glowing pink patch on the wall above Meyer’s body. For a moment he assumes it must be a reflection of the match that Jackson has just lighted.

William … have a look at that wall.

Just noticed it myself, says Jackson, letting the match go out as he stares.

Herron sits up, starts to wiggle out of his bag. The glow is spreading across the wall like an aurora or ectoplasm over Meyer’s foetal form.

Herron is up and pulling on his fox-fur breeches, yanking his parka out from under the rancid bedding. Come on then, lads! Euchre the lamp, we’ve the real thing now!

Kruger and Jackson crawl after him down the dark passage and emerge like half-blind whelps into the salmon dawn: sunrise and sunset at the same time. Fifty yards to the south stands Tyson, his back to them, silhouetted between the other huts. Herron gasps, stands and launches into a drunkard’s wobbling jig. Jackson stays kneeling with eyes squinted, a broad grin distending his yellow face. For the first time in years Kruger whispers
Mein Gott!
He can’t take his blinking, light-needled eyes off the sun’s hallowed face, just as he could not look away from that dead seal. Now any source of heat is transfixing. Herron’s jig is joyous yet also frantic—the capers of a condemned jester trying to placate a remote, inscrutable king. For the first time since Christmas Jackson sings in his wistful baritone,
From Greenland’s icy mountains, from India’s coral strand … Where Afric’s sunny fountains roll down their golden sand. …
As the sun edges higher—as high as it will reach today—its colours subtly alter, persimmons and peaches shading into clover-honey, yolk-yellow, buttermilk-yellow, so the seamed and buckled pack ice spanning southward to infinity is steeped in rich new hues.
Can we whose souls are lighted … with wisdom from on high … Can we to those benighted, the lamp of life deny?
The light saturating the ice-plains glitters on the turrets and beryl palisades of icebergs massed to the southeast, and to the east and west as well—nothing but ice—although last night Meyer repeated that his navigational readings prove Greenland to be at hand. And the sun’s return will surely make him eager to set off.

Herron quits dancing and tries to light his meerschaum pipe, his fingers shaking.

My God, Kruger whispers. As beautiful as the face of a woman you love.

What? My word, Kru, you’re white as frumenty.

The sun, I mean.

I heard you right enough, Kru, I just wouldn’t have reckoned you for the romantic sort.

It’s the one sort of patriotism I can believe in.

You’ve been in love, then, a scoffer like yourself? Herron grins. You’re in love now?

In a light tone Kruger says, A scoffer conserves his love, that’s all. He awaits his occasion. A sentimentalist scatters his soft love over everything—a little here, a little there.

Well, tell us her name then.

You know what Goethe’s last words were, Johnny? Goethe, the most rational of men.

Jackson stops singing and listens.

I do, says Herron. I’ve heard them reported. More light, more light!

That’s just what the scholars pretend. The real words were Gretchen … Kitty … Charlotte … Christiane … Marianne … Charitas … Frederike … Eva … Heidi …

Jackson and Herron start laughing.

When I get home, says Herron, first thing I do is find a girl to marry me.

Jackson says, That’s the last other expedition I’ll ever sign on for.

I too, says Kruger. Though we’ll not be looking our best.

Speak for yourself, Kru! Lads, where’s your pipes, we’ve a celebration to make.

Finished, says Kruger, New Year’s Day.

Well, I’ll spot you both a puff.

You will indeed.

The other men emerge behind them one by one with gasps and choked hurrahs. The other snowhuts are also emptying. Merkut and her children—except for Tobias—appear, and Merkut begins a trilling and jubilant chant,
Aliannai, aliannai!
Tukulito and Punnie walk over to join Merkut, then Tyson leads the whole group across the no-man’s land of snow between the separate camps, past the storehut. Without a word from Count Meyer, the men stroll south to meet them. Like a Christmas truce between entrenched armies of the future.

Good morning! calls Tyson with a brisk wave, a white smile—something of his old robustness. Only he and Meyer and Anthing are armed, pistols in their belts. The two groups stand civilly on opposite sides of the border, which the night winds have as usual erased, though by now everyone knows its position. Punnie and Succi smile playfully up at Kruger, who smiles at Tukulito. She looks down at the ice—not like herself. Her cheeks are the colour of the sun just now.

A good morning to yourself, Lieutenant! says Meyer.

For a moment it seems goodwill is going to prevail between the Nations.

Your readings, Mr Meyer, suggested we should not see the sun for four more days. So this surprise is a most welcome—

That is so! I have erred slightly. But given the conditions, Lieutenant …

You walk upside down again? Punnie asks Kruger, who laughs like a boy, his joy at the sunlight uncontainable. Tyson squints pointedly at him, then says, This error is benign enough, Mr Meyer. However, it means we are not where you have told the men we are—close to Disko. I bring this up only to ensure that—

But even with this error considered, we
are
close, Lieutenant. And if we should pass Disko, we lose our last hope. There is food there, tobacco, rum, all of it the properties of this expedition. We must … what in devil’s name are you doing, Krüger?

I’m sorry, Punnie, I haven’t the strength anymore.

Saluktualugavit!
she tells him, nodding.

You’re too scrawny, Tukulito translates, something like a smile tickling the corners of her mouth.

Aufstehen, Krüger!
barks Anthing,
sofort!

But only
look
in that direction, Tyson tells Meyer with the lightning impatience of a man unused to having to plead. All of you, look! To eastward there is not so much as a mirage. How can you possibly believe that—

We simply must have those provisions, Lieutenant. We set out tomorrow.

Mit der Sonne!

Punnie and Succi seem unperturbed by the rising voices. They amuse themselves trying to pull Kruger across the deleted frontier, one grabbing each of his hands. Augustina brazenly crosses the line, slyly circling round behind him, giggling.

Now listen to me, men! I have sailed these seas too often to be deceived in our course. The straits here are three hundred miles across, and Disko is a high, rocky island—think back to our stop on the way north. If we were anywhere near it, we
must
see it. I have been whaling many times there and I know all the coast south of it well. You would never manage, never—

Nevertheless! says Meyer.

Kruger chuckles—a younger and younger sound—as he is dragged and pushed south by the children. Meyer tears off his mitt and draws his pistol which makes Tyson do the same. Then Anthing. Merkut gasps. Tukulito moves with startling speed and grabs Punnie. Meyer is aiming not at Tyson but at Kruger. Kruger shoves Succi and Augustina well clear of him. Meyer thumbs back the hammer, the cylinder turns with a sharp click, the huge pistol shakes in his hand. The sisters lie stunned in the snow. Succi wailing. Kruger stands limp, staring up at Meyer from under the ledge of his brow. Even now it’s all he can do to keep his mouth shut. Meyer speaks in German with an old man’s weak and peevish quaver: This is the end of your insubordinations, Roland Wolfgang Krüger. Also of your stealing. You have shown yourself to be a traitor to your compatriots and to the Fatherland. We shall see to you shortly. Herr Jamka, Oberleutnant Anthing—take him into the hut!

Kruger casts a searching glance at Tyson. Tyson looks away. The man holds his own Colt revolver upturned by his cheek, but is not about to intervene. And Kruger sees it plainly. Tyson will not risk violence in order to keep any of these troublesome Germans from killing each other—or, he still fears they’re trying to trick him into a fight, and is refusing to be drawn in. Only Tukulito, glancing back as she rushes off with Punnie, meets his gaze. Her eyes seem to swell briefly, to send a signal like two widening ripples in a pond. It feels like farewell.

The wind is gathering itself outside. Ebierbing, tired from hunting, has been asleep since after the evening meal. The qulliq is burning low, its flame a pallid amber. Little blubber remains. Faint sounds of discord drift over from the crewmen’s iglu, but as soon as they’re audible the wind erases them, a chamois wiping words from a slate. Tukulito keeps waking and dozing off. She wakes again. Ebierbing is easing her over, onto her belly, lifting her hips. She sighs, reaches a warm hand slowly back for him. This has not happened for some time. Cold dry drafts, then the shocking heat of contact. Beside them, the lieutenant lies very still now, snoring softly, no longer grinding his teeth. Ebierbing must be thinking the same thing as she—that Tyson is awake, a fact that she can tolerate, here, so long as Tyson at least pretends to see nothing. As her husband strains his way into her parched body he whispers to her in Inuktitut, This man suffers so without his wife … and his situation here is so difficult. You should comfort him some night. Maybe tonight, when I’m asleep again.