Across Frozen Seas (7 page)

The shocking news sends a shiver down my spine which has nothing to do with the cold night air.

“You're lying,” I shout and lash out with my foot. But Seeley avoids my blow easily and just laughs.

“You think so do you?” he asks. “Well, you listen carefully to that cough. There's others with it too—Hartnell in sick bay and young Torrington over on the
Terror.
They feed them the best food but it won't do no good. Some say as how they're coughing up bits of their lungs already. Won't be long till we're out there on that island digging two holes in that damned frozen ground, and it won't be long 'til there's a third one for Braine. You remember that, boy, next time you got some rum to go sharing out. You remember who'll still be around when your friend is six feet under.”

With a last laugh, Seeley pushes me back against the rail, turns and disappears into the darkness. It can't be true! Yes, Bill has a cough, but most of us do, living in these dank quarters filled with the smell of the clay pipes everyone smokes. Bill's cough sounds deeper than some, but that doesn't mean that it's consumption. Seeley is just trying to scare me and get an extra tot of rum. Still, I feel uneasy as I rejoin the festivities.

The cliffs of Beechey Island loom over Neptune and me like a huge wall threatening to crush our puny bodies like ants. Below us, the white carpet of snow stretches away and becomes lost in the chaotic jumble of ice blocks. Out in the bay, all but invisible in the white wilderness, our two ships lie tilted at crazy angles like toys which have displeased a petulant child. Their decks are covered with canvas and walls of snow blocks protect their sides from the wind and almost hide their iron-clad hulls. Their position is marked most obviously by the large dark stain which covers the snow for a distance in all directions. Across the bay, the matching cliffs on Devon Island show black against the snow.

Below us, and clearly visible in the cold air, are the tents and buildings of the shore party, our cache of cans, and the flickering flame of the forge where William Smith and Samuel Honey work making nails and iron sled runners. Also visible, slightly back from the camp, is a small party of men working to break the frozen ground. It is April, 1846, and they are digging a grave.

“Well, Neptune.” The dog looks up at me with his sad eyes. “Seeley's prophecy was true enough. Old Bill did have the consumption and now he will never leave this island. But at least he won't be alone in this bleak place. Seeley was also right about Hartnell and
Torrington.”

I know it's silly but I feel the need to talk to someone and, these days, Neptune is the only one who will listen.

“Why did Bill hide his illness? Why did he go on that sledding trip to the magnetic camp? He could have said he was sick and stayed here. Maybe it was because Mister Fitzjames says the magnetic work is very important and will add valuable information which our scientists need to understand this strange phenomenon Maybe he thought that by denying his illness, it would go away. Maybe he knew his own end was near and didn't want to give in. I don't know what it was Neptune. All I know is that I miss him.

“Eight men, seven haulers and an officer pulling a loaded sled over the ice. It is grueling work for fit men; it is brutal work for the sick. And Bill was already coughing blood, he could easily have been excused. I even tried to persuade him not to go the night before he left. Do you know what he said?”

Neptune cocks his head to one side.

“He said that he had to go, that it was what he came up here for. He even said that the walk in the fresh air would do him good. He told me to keep clear of Seeley 'till he got back.”

Cold tears are coursing down my cheeks now. Neptune leans his big, friendly head against my leg as if to comfort me.

“Ten days they were gone and Bill only lasted six. Then they had to tie him to the sled. I knew, as soon as
I saw the hauling team was one man short, what had happened. Pneumonia, that's what Surgeon Stanley said, but in combination with the consumption, there was no hope. Poor Bill. He was raving like a madman when I visited him in the sick bay, talking about home as if he were there. Funny thing though, just as I was leaving he went quiet. I turned and he was staring at me with those sunken, fevered eyes of his. Then he said something I shall never tell anyone but you. He said, 'I am sorry I shall not finish this adventure with you, but I will rest easier in my coffin than you will on this ship. We should not have come to this bleak land and I shall not be the only one to stay. You will walk a lonesome road before you escape the frightful fiend who dogs your footsteps.' Then he fell back on his pillow. The next day he was dead.

“I don't understand what he meant. Perhaps it was just a symptom of his madness, but it sent a chill through me that I still haven't shaken off. You are my only friend now, Neptune. Bill is dead and George is more involved with his new friends than ever. Despite the fact that I am surrounded by over fifty other people, I am beginning to feel a loneliness creeping over me which scares me more than I can say. This voyage is not the adventure I thought it would be when we sailed from England a year ago.”

As I scratch behind Neptune's ear, I watch the small party of men below us continue their struggle to break the frozen ground.

Breakup! An open lead of water has snaked into our little harbour and set us free. At least, it has set the
Terror
free, but it is only a matter of time before we too are able to sail again. All is chaos. We must rush to get our remaining supplies and equipment aboard. Fortunately, the scientific teams have already been recalled and we do not have to wait for anyone else to return. It will be difficult to leave Bill in this lonely place, but the exhilaration of moving again after so many months trapped in the frozen sea is overwhelming. And what's more, it is my birthday, June 23, 1846.I am thirteen. An early lead through the ice is my present. Surely with this gift, we will complete the passage and be home by the time I am fourteen!.

Already the men are out with the ice saws cutting a channel through to the open water. Everyone is ecstatic to be on the move again. Even Neptune is wandering about the deck wagging his tail. George has come over and thrown an arm around me.

“The adventure continues Davy boy,” he says with his familiar mischievous smile. It is just like old times. “Mind you,” he goes on, “this lead has come at an awkward time.”

“How so?” I ask. “Surely it just increases our chances of completing the passage this year.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “but it has cost me a good pair of
gloves. I wet them yesterday working on melting ice for fresh water and left them on a rock to dry. In all the confusion I completely forgot them. Maybe some other poor adventurer in years to come will visit this place and find a use for them. It is no matter; I will be so famous when we get home that I will be able to buy a hundred pair.”

The cocky smile widens and we are brothers again. But there is no time to savor it. There is too much to be done if we are to take advantage of this opportunity.

For all my fascination with the dreams, they scared me. Not just because the tension was beginning to mount, but because I had never heard of anyone else having a series of dreams as consistent, and persistent, as mine. Was this how madness began? Was my unconscious mind trying to tell me something by dredging up some long forgotten memory? Or was it just an insane fantasy put together, as Jim had suggested, from pieces of stories I had heard years before? I began to wish I could tell someone about all this; someone who would understand my dreams, be able to explain them, and reassure me that I wasn't going mad. I craved the dreams but, the longer they lasted, the more I worried about what they could mean. I was becoming lonelier all the time, cutting myself off from friends at school and growing more distant from my parents. The loneliness was beginning to frighten me. I had to talk
to someone, but who?

I chose Mom for a number of reasons. No one at school would understand, my Dad was too preoccupied with his business to give me any time, and I had already tried talking to Jim. Mom had always had an interest in dreams. Dream therapy was one of the many things, along with pottery and Thai cooking, that she had taken classes in. I think she took courses to get away when things with Dad got too intense.

“Its not natural,” she said when I told her how vivid and frequent my dreams were and how they seemed to be telling some kind of story. “I've never heard of anything like that before.”

This wasn't very comforting, but Mom did have one idea—she suggested I see her therapist in Saskatoon. He was her response to the latest crisis with Dad.

“Chris might really be able to help,” she said. “He is very sensitive to all kinds of issues.”

At first I was reluctant to go, but Mom said that Chris was up on the latest theories about dreams and could help me understand what was going on. Anyway, it was worth a try and I was glad for a chance to get out of Humboldt.

The therapist's office was on the second floor of a low building downtown. It had a small reception area with a single secretary and one door with the words, “Chris Penner, Family Therapist” on it. I don't know what I expected to find behind that door, perhaps a leather couch, certificates on the wall. There were a few certificates, but no couch, just a couple of comfortable-looking
chairs. One complete wall was a window that looked out over the town and made the room bright and cheerful. There was also a desk in front of the window with a bookcase on one side. In the back corner there were a couple of large cushions and a box of children's toys and picture books.

Chris ushered us in, sat down and chatted for a while about nothing in particular. When he started asking about the dreams, Mom answered for me until Chris gently suggested that she wait outside. I told him about the dreams and, to my relief, he seemed genuinely interested. When I had finished, he told me a bit about the importance of dreams in his line of work.

“I am not a psychoanalyst,” he said, “but dreams have always interested me and I have found them useful in therapy sessions.

“First of all, your dreams are nothing to worry about. People used to believe that dreams signalled mental instability, but we dismissed that idea long ago. In fact, dreams are perfectly normal. Every mammal, except, oddly enough, the duckbilled platypus, dreams every night. Humans are in “dream sleep” for about two hours a night and have about five dreams in that time. That's almost one hundred thirty thousand dreams in an average lifetime. It's a shame we don't remember more of them.

“Anyway, no one has determined exactly why we dream. It might be to stimulate brain development, or to replenish chemicals in the brain, or to help sort and store the information we gather during the day. Some
researchers even believe that dreams are used to erase unneeded information, rather like deleting unwanted files on your computer hard drive. Whatever their purpose, they are not caused, as my grandmother used to tell me, by eating too much cheese.”

Chris smiled before continuing.

“The big question is, do they have meaning? Some say yes, that dreams are messages from our unconscious self and that we should take them seriously. Others say they are just random impulses from deep in the brain and that they mean nothing. I'm not sure who is right, but dreams do seem to reflect issues in real life, so perhaps they are an attempt to resolve problems which are bothering us when we are awake.”

“Resolve problems?” I interrupted. “How can dreams do that?”

“Well, if something is bothering you, you tend to think about it all the time. But your rational, waking mind might be too preoccupied to see the answer clearly. The dream process, which sorts through the information without these preconceptions, might just come up with the answer.

“Now, these don't have to be emotional problems; they could be anything, even a school assignment. There is a story about a famous geologist called Louis Agassiz. He studied fossil fish from all over the world. Once he collected a beautiful specimen which was very complete and well-preserved. The problem was that it was not clear; he could not distinguish details which should have been obvious. For a long time he
puzzled over why this should be until one night he had a dream. In the dream he saw the fossil fish and watched as a surface layer was peeled off to reveal the perfect skeleton. The next morning, he took the specimen and gently chipped at it. A thin layer of rock fell away to reveal the missing detail below. His dream had solved the problem that had been bothering him.