Northwest Passages Read online

  “Well”—Peter paused, and looked suddenly shy—“sometimes women . . . that is . . . when they’re going to . . . well, when someone else is on the way . . . ” His voice trailed off, and Eliza realised what he meant.

  “No, Peter, I’m not going to have a baby; leastways, not yet.”

  “Aye. Just thought that . . . Plenty of time, eh?” He rose from his chair. “Are you coming?”

  “In a few minutes, Peter; I have one or two things to do, then I’ll be in.”

  “Right. Don’t be too long.”

  “I won’t, Peter.”

  She continued sitting after he had disappeared into their tiny bedroom, closing the door behind him. She knew that he would be asleep within moments of his head touching the pillow, and she sat waiting patiently until she heard the creak of the bed. Then she stood up and moved to the door, opening it wide and passing through so that she could stand in front of the house and feel the wind upon her hot face. She did not mind being outside at night; the darkness pressing down was every bit as merciless as the sun, but at night she could not see the vast landscape stretching away from her in all directions; could pretend that there would be houses, roads, signs of life visible were it not for the blackness which shrouded these things and hid them from her sight.

  Peter did not feel this way. He exulted in the land, the space, in everything that made her shrink back and pull away. Mrs. Oleson would not have felt the way Eliza did. She had been strong, Peter said; the land had not frightened her. Hearing the way her husband spoke about the dead woman, Eliza knew that she could never speak of the way she herself felt, never let him know the thoughts which chased around inside her head as she went about her daily routine.

  She looked back at the house, silvery in the moonlight. How flimsy it was! She tried to picture the house in winter, buffeted by wind and snow, and wondered how they could hope to keep safe in so meagre a shelter. She knew that it was possible to freeze to death in a house here; and what of Mrs. Oleson? She had frozen to death within sight of her own house, had got lost within a few feet of safety. She had never in her life imagined a place such as this, and no one had thought to warn her of it: not the smiling agent, who had been full of the promises of the new land and free with pictures that did nothing to show the reality of it, and not Peter, who had never once mentioned that they were so far from anyone, that days could pass when she would see no one but him, that a person could lose her way just a few steps from her own door, and wander the snowbound prairie, alone, unheeded, until she froze to death.

  Eliza felt a surge of anger, sudden and biting: at the land, at the agent, at Peter. She hated them, hated them all. They had all lied to her, or if not lied then failed to speak the truth, to tell her how alien this place was, how lonely she would be, how she would feel the sky and the land beating down on her until she felt she had to scream and hide, find a place of safety. She wanted to scream now, scream to the uncaring heavens, to the stars shining coldly. She actually felt a scream rising, and clenched her hands so tightly that her nails, blunt as they were, dug semi-circles into the flesh of her palms.

  A thread of movement out of the corner of her eye made her turn her head, eyes scanning the darkness. Had Peter come outside? No; the movement had been in the direction of the barn, and Peter could not have walked there without Eliza seeing him. There was no one, and nothing, there that she could see.

  The Eliza of two years ago, of the new hat and blue ribbons, would have strode to the barn to see what was there. Now, however, she began to shiver, and backed towards the house, not wanting to turn her back on the barn until she was within reach of safety. She stumbled over the door sill and almost fell, and had just enough presence of mind to not slam the door. She was glad the curtains were drawn over the windows; the thought of something looking in was unbearable.

  Peter was sound asleep, as she had known he would be. Quietly, furtively, Eliza undressed and slipped into her nightgown, then lay down on the bed and pulled the sheet over her, despite the warmth of the night. She wanted to move closer to Peter, cling to him, but she did not want him to wake, so she lay rigid on her side of the narrow bed, eyes closed, mouth set firm, her hands at her sides, formed into fists. At some point she slept, and was mercifully untroubled by dreams.

  She said nothing of this to Peter next day. Her anger had passed, leaving her feeling weary to her very bones, unrefreshed by sleep. He was out all day, breaking land for next year’s planting; every acre which he broke now would mean a larger crop the following season. When he came home, tired yet satisfied, speaking confidently of what they were accomplishing, she found she could not talk to him of how she felt, could not tell him that the vastness of the land terrified her, that she felt as if someone were watching her always, that she was desperate for human contact, the sound of voices, the sight of people and places. The only voice she heard—other than Peter’s—was the one that called her name across the fields, the one which she had at first thought was the wind. But now she knew better; she knew who was calling.

  Mrs. Oleson.

  She knew it was Mrs. Oleson because she had seen her again that day, standing once more by the barn, silent, watchful. She was tall and fair-haired, and Eliza knew that her hands, could she see them, would be rough and chapped from working in the fields alongside her husband; she had to, Eliza knew, because it was the only way in which all the work would get done, the only way in which her dreams and hopes would be realised. She did not see her directly; it was only out of the corner of her eye, and when she turned to look there was no one there. But she was conscious of the woman, even when she could not see her, and she found herself trying to get a closer look, pretending to ignore the figure and then turning her head with sudden swiftness in an attempt to catch it. It was no use; Mrs. Oleson moved too swiftly for Eliza to see her clearly.

  Over the next few days Mrs. Oleson was a constant presence every time Eliza went outside. She hurried about her chores as quickly as possible, seeking the solace of the inside of the house whenever she could, keeping the curtains drawn lest the face appear at the window. She wondered what she would do if the figure came into the house, then pushed the thought from her mind. That could not happen. The house was the only place left to her. If she was not safe in there . . . She let the thought trail off, as her thoughts did more and more often. Sometimes, when Peter was speaking to her, he had to repeat himself two, even three times before she took in what he was saying, and she often found that she had forgotten his words within minutes of his saying them. Sometimes she would look up and find Peter watching her, with a look in his eyes which worried her, although she could not say why.

  One afternoon, when she had gone outside to tend to the garden after putting it off for as long as possible, she had been conscious of Mrs. Oleson standing by the barn, and had been trying without success to get a better look at her when Peter’s voice broke the silence with a puzzled, “What’s wrong with you, Eliza?”

  She jerked herself upright, suppressing the cry which rose to her lips and willing her heart to stop its frantic beating. “Peter!” she said finally, when she could trust herself to speak. “You . . . you startled me.”

  “I’m sorry, lass. Thought you’d have heard me coming.” He glanced in the direction of the barn. “What were you looking at?”

  Eliza stopped herself following his gaze. Out of the corner of her eye she could still see the figure, tall and fair, beside the door which Peter was looking straight at.

  “I . . . I thought I saw someone at the barn.”

  “Ah.” Peter looked from the barn to Eliza and back again. “Your eyes must be playing tricks. Anyone had been there, I’d have seen them too.”

  “Yes.” She straightened slowly, like an old woman, and turned to face the barn. There was no figure to be seen; only the blank face of the building, and the endless land stretching out behind it.

  Now she stood under the blue sky, looking at the endless plains, feeling the sun blazing down
upon her and wondering vaguely what she was doing there, so far from the shelter of the house, and why she felt so cold. The thought came to her, slowly, as from a great distance, that it was because of Mrs. Oleson. That morning Eliza had seen her inside the house for the first time, standing motionless in the corner of the main room, and the sight had made her drop the bucket of milk which she had just carried in from the barn. She had not even tried to clean it up; her one thought had been that her sanctuary had been despoiled, and that she must leave, quickly, without looking back. It was only when she had found herself two hundred yards from the house that she had stopped, as if an invisible wall lay across her path. Ahead of her there was nothing but open plain; Peter was out there, somewhere, but she knew that she could not go to him, could not explain. The house was barred to her, now; she could not go back, could not face what was waiting patiently inside. She thought of the barn; that was possible. She might be safe there. . . .

  She turned to look at the structure, and cried out when she saw the figure of Mrs. Oleson standing in front of the door to the barn, as if barring her way. It took a moment to register the fact that the woman had not disappeared when she looked full upon her, and, when the realisation hit her, she screamed once, a high, keening sound. The noise was picked up by the wind, which seemed to throw it back into her face, and she thought she could hear her own name amongst the rush of sound. She screamed again, trying to form the word “No!”, but it did not come, and the dancing wind seemed to mock her, push at her, as if she were in a crowd of people all jostling her, trying to force her in the direction of the barn, and the woman in front of it.

  She would not go there. Her feet turned, away from the house and barn, away from Peter, across the grass, and she began to run, blindly, heedlessly, knowing only that she needed to get away from this pitiless land, from the emptiness that consumed her, within and without. She had no clear idea of where she was going, but stumbled on, her breath coming in choked sobs, refusing to turn and look behind her at what might be following.

  She had no idea how long she ran; she only knew that she must keep moving. She stumbled often, and fell more than once, but did not stop; and it was only when she saw the soddie looming up in front of her that she realised that this was where she had to go. She would find safety inside the house of earth; she could hide herself away in the cool shadows, let the land shelter her from itself.

  She reached the door, which was hanging open. She could not remember whether or not she had closed it behind her, the last time she had been there. It did not matter. She plunged inside and stumbled over something on the floor, coming to rest against the far wall, where she huddled herself into a tight ball, trying to draw ragged gasps of breath. She felt the roughness of the dirt through her dress, and turned and dug her hands into it, clawing away clods of cool brown earth.

  Over the sound of her laboured breathing and the pounding of her heart she heard a noise, faint as a whisper, from the door. She half-turned towards it, and thought she saw a movement outside, and knew that she had been followed. She was not safe. She would be found. Her eyes darted wildly about the interior of the soddie, searching for somewhere more sheltered. Her world had shrunk to these four dark walls, and still it was not small enough. Hide. She needed to hide. Under something, behind something, inside something, where she could not be seen, where she could not see the figure at the door, darker now, more solid. It would see her in a moment. She had no time; she must be quick, no time for thought, no time. . . .

  Peter found her that evening, when the harshness had gone out of the sun and the land was bathed in a soft light which tipped the grasses with gold. He might not have seen her inside the dimness of the soddie’s interior had it not been for the dirty fringe of blue dress hanging out from under the closed lid of the trunk which, when opened, revealed Eliza’s body, curled up like a broken doll discarded by a careless and uncaring child.

  THE BRING OF ETERNITY

  The knife is long and lethal yet light, both in weight and appearance; a thing precise and definite, which he admires for those reasons. It has not been designed for the task at hand, but it will suffice.

  The sound of a heart beating fills his ears, and he wonders if it is his heart or the other’s. He will soon know.

  The knife is raised, and then brought down in a swift movement. A moment of resistance, and then the flesh yields, and vivid spatters spread, staining the carpet of white, bright and beautiful.

  He brings the knife down again, and again. He can still hear the beating, and knows it for his own heart, for the other’s has stopped. He fumbles for a moment, dropping the knife, pulling off his gloves, then falls to his knees and plunges his bare hand into the bruised and bloody chest, pulling out the heart, warm and red and raw.

  He eats.

  WALLACE, William Henry (1799–?1839) was born in Richmond, Virginia. His family was well-to-do, and William was almost certainly expected to follow his father, grandfather, and two uncles into the legal profession. However, for reasons which remain unknown he abandoned his legal studies, and instead began work as a printer and occasional contributor of letters, articles, and reviews to various publications. In this respect there are interesting parallels between Wallace and Charles Francis HALL (q.v.), although where Hall’s Arctic explorations were inspired by the fate of the Franklin Expedition, Wallace appears to have been motivated by the writings of John Cleve Symmes, Jr. (1779–1829), particularly Symmes’s “hollow earth” theory—popular through the 1820s—which postulated gateways in the Polar regions which led to an underground world capable of sustaining life.

  From We Did Not All Come Back:

  Polar Explorers, 1818–1909

  by Kenneth Turnbull

  (HarperCollins Canada, 2005)

  He could not remember a time when he did not long for something which he could not name, but which he knew he would not find in the course laid out for him. The best tutors and schools, a career in the law which would be eased by his family’s name and wealth, marriage to one of the eligible young ladies whose mamas were so very assiduous in calling on his own mother, and whose eyes missed nothing, noting his manners, his well-made figure, strong and broad-shouldered, his prospects and future, of which they were as sure as he; surer, for his was an old story which they had read before.

  But he chafed under his tutors, a steady stream of whom were dismissed by his father, certain that the next one would master the boy. School was no better; he was intelligent, even gifted, yet perpetually restless, dissatisfied, the despair of his teachers, who prophesied great things for him if he would only apply himself fully. He was polite to the mamas and their daughters, but no sparkling eyes enchanted him, no witty discourse ensnared him; his heart was not touched. He studied law because it was expected of him and he saw no other choice.

  And then . . . and then came the miracle that snapped the shackles, removed the blinders, showed him the path he was to follow. It came in the unprepossessing form of a pamphlet, which he was later to discover had been distributed solely to institutes of higher learning throughout America, and which he almost certainly would never have seen had he not, however reluctantly, wearily, resignedly, followed the dictates of his family, if not his head and heart. Proof, if it were needed, that the Fate which guides each man was indeed watching over him.

  The pamphlet had no title, and was addressed, with a forthright simplicity and earnestness Wallace could only admire, “To All The World”. The author wrote:

  I declare the earth is hollow, and habitable within; containing a number of solid concentrick spheres, one within the other, and that it is open at the poles 12 or 16 degrees; I pledge my life in support of this truth, and am ready to explore the hollow, if the world will support and aid me in the undertaking.

  JOHN CLEVES SYMMES

  Of Ohio, Late Captain of Infantry.

  He opened the pamphlet, his hands trembling. A passage caught his eye:

  I ask one hundred brave companions, we
ll equipped, to start from Siberia in the fall season, with Reindeer and slays, on the ice of the frozen sea: I engage we find warm and rich land, stocked with thrifty vegetables and animals if not men, on reaching one degree northward of latitude 62; we will return in the succeeding spring.

  The words seemed to inscribe themselves on his heart. “One hundred brave companions”; “start from Siberia”; “find warm and rich land”; “return in the succeeding spring”.

  In an instant he knew what it was that he had to do. After long years of wandering and searching, his restless feet were halted and pointed in the only true direction.

  It is his first food in—how long? He has lost count of the days and weeks; all is the same here in this wasteland of white. He remembers Symmes’s “warm and rich land” and a laugh escapes his throat. It is a rough, harsh, scratched sound, not because its maker is unamused, but because it has been so long since he has uttered a sound that it is as if he has forgotten how.

  The remains of the seal lie scattered at his feet; food enough to last for several days if carefully husbanded. There will be more seals now, further south, the way he has come, the way he should go. Salvation lies to the south; reason tells him this. But that would be salvation of the body only. If he does not continue he will never know. He fears this more than he fears the dissolution of his physical self.

  He grasps the knife firmly in his hand—he can at least be firm about this—and begins to cut up the seal, while all around the ice cracks and cries.

  One of the earliest pieces of writing identified as being by Wallace is a review of James McBride’s Symmes’ Theory of Concentric Spheres (1826), in which Wallace praises the ingenuity and breadth of Symmes’s theory, and encourages the American government to fund a North Polar expedition “with all due speed, to investigate those claims which have been advanced so persuasively, by Mr. Symmes and Mr. Reynolds, regarding the Polar Regions, which endeavor can only result in the advancement of knowledge and refute the cant, prejudice, ignorance, and unbelief of those whose long-cherished, and wholly unfounded, theories would seek to deny what they themselves can barely comprehend.”