Chapter Text
"Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of cold and frost, to which I am impassive."
The coffee was as always the first thing to run out.
With a subdued snitch, Erik closed the pantry door and put the coffee tin down on the counter. Tight with cold, fingers useless, he popped the latch open with a flick of his wrist, revealing the very last beans stuck in the corners of the tin. Opening it usually brought out a rich whiff of coffee, but now, in the chilled air it was faint, almost nonexistent. But as he ground all of the beans up, the smell strengthened, filling his nose when he dropped the grounds in the filter covering the inside of the tin mug.
Just enough for two heaped tablespoons – and just enough to make one last cup, as predicted.
Morning was still early enough for the darkness to lay in heavy drapes over the snowbanks, pressing them down. A deep pink glow at the edge of the horizon spoke about the sun’s imminent arrival. Shyly dusted with dwindling stars, the dark sky was a stark reminder that in a month, they would have to do with a permanent dusk and in another, when polar night set in, the stars would be the only saviour in the void.
Erik twisted the filter closed and spun it around the mug’s handle. With a faded ring of discolouration in the bottom from excessive use, the mug and its twin were two of the few possessions he’d first brought with him out here. Them, the chess set and the clothes on his back. He’d gotten by until the provision plane arrived, and for some time after that too. It had been enough, which he treasured, but as time wore on, he’d shipped over the old armchair, the small bookcase, and then, more out of practicality than anything else, the slightly firmer mattress to place in his bunk.
It hadn’t been necessary – after all, not much was – but his back had improved since then. Out here, only the bare necessities were needed, yet survival was only possible as long as you were prepared. With eight miles to the nearest town, there was no one call for help. Not even for emergencies.
A CFL currently cast a soft glow over the kitchen, lengthening the shadows of the table’s legs all the way to the battered bookcase. Filled to the brim, it was all he had to depend upon apart from his own knowledge. Top shelves mostly held references: an atlas of clouds, geomagnetism references, books on snow and wind conditions, historical sightings, general literature on the Arctic and how to fight polar bears. The bottom shelves stocked a selected few books of fiction for boredom curation, mostly thumbed paperback copies of old classics from second-hand bookstores.
On the stove, the kettle suddenly let out a shriek, steam streaming from its spout. With practiced movements, Erik lifted it off the hotplate and poured the simmering water into the mug, waiting as it steeped. Thin, fragile wisps of steam rose from the drink, curling lazily in the sharpening light as the coffee slowly turned a from a deep brown to black. He poured in the last of the month’s evaporated milk, the white marbling with the dark liquid.
Edie would have told him what a waste it was to ruin perfectly good coffee, but Erik needed the extra calories to keep warm. At least that was what he told himself.
He curled his palm around the mug and drank, not bothering when it nearly burned his tongue. The counter was a chill against his back, while the heat gripped at the inside of his throat as he looked out through the window again. Attached to the window frame, the thermometer had stalled at -25 degrees Celsius. Rather warm for the season, and no need for the visor today. It certainly had its advantages, but it also had a tendency to fog up his vision.
Lukewarm, Erik emptied the last dregs of the coffee-milk mixture in the sink. Narrow but deep, it made the dark color slosh up the sides before swirling down the drain. A few corns of grounds still stuck to drain filter and he brushed them down before they dried up and got stuck. Opening the tap, he also splashed a bit of water around in the mug before putting it upside down on the drying rack.
As he dried his hands on the towel by his hip, he heard the generator on the east side of the station emit a clunking noise; indicating that if he wanted hot water tonight, he would have to take a look at it before he trekked out to the measuring booth.
By now, the kitchen was now almost fully illuminated by sun, and so, there was no need to dwell any longer.The closet beside the door stored two sets of extreme temperature clothing gifted from the university, as well as boots and other articles that were essential for survival. Apart from the boots, however, Erik forewent all the stupidly expensive gear. There was a reason people had survived up here for far longer than the new, exciting materials had been invented. A t-shirt and two woolen sweaters over his thermal set preserved body heat well enough and his seal skin anorak kept the rest of the cold out better than anything else could.
Taking the binoculars off the wall, and making sure there were no gaps in the muffler, he slung the bear rifle onto his back and slammed the door shut behind him.
Just as most mornings, no matter how long he’d stayed out here, the cold came like a shock. From the relative warmth inside, the sensation of Arctic air was not unlike slamming into a wall of frigidity, uncompromising and violating as it shoved its way into your lungs.
Used to the burning cold as he was, Erik didn’t hold in the coughs and his shocked organs adapted after just a breath.
Due east, the sun was steadily rising, setting the widespread whiteness aglow. Even after so long, the silent beauty of the plains was mesmerizing, accompanied only by the thin rasp of his own breathing. Rushes of blood occasionally filtered through the foreground, only to sink away to nothingness once again, leaving the soundscape a clean, empty slate.
Passing around the station’s east side, Erik spooled his powers out to open the generator’s door. He hadn’t detected anything wrong with the mechanism from inside, which usually meant snow from the roof had made its way into the gears.
Without pulling off his mittens, Erik peered into the machine. Whirring away, there was just a dusting of snow from the storm two days ago clinging on top of the heat processor. Sighing, Erik reached for the rag always residing in the anorak’s front pocket, wiped the snow away, and checked the surrounding metal for further damage. When none was found, he slammed the door shut and set off along the well worn path leading south west.
Back when Erik had first arrived to the station, he’d thought the pressing emptiness was nothing but silence. Compared to the hurry and flashes of the cities, it was the only sensible answer. The definition of sound were vibrations travelling through air or water; silence the absence of them. Here, though, between the rumbles and the ultrasound of melting ice, the soundscape was so vast, the gap was filled up with something else; an energy, charging in currents through the ground, the atmosphere and seeping into anything it passed.
The Inuit claimed evil spirits resided in the ice, and unless you had someone else’s heartbeat to lead the way, they would possess you. According to legends, only shamans had the resilience to phase through them alone, and even then they needed to know their own heart thorough and well to come back unscathed.
It was so easily written off as warnings against cabin fever, but the longer he’d stayed, however, the more Erik had realized it was not without a grain of truth. While the currents certainly were linked to the magnetic north, isolation – an existence with your thoughts as the only company – could make you see and hear things simply to fill the void.
He’d experienced it when the rumble of the snowmobile engine had died down, leaving nothing but his own breaths and the silence. Nothing malicious or supernatural, but a slight shift in his cognition. He hadn’t recognized it at first, but as speechless days wore on, he felt how his perception of time steadily changed; the feeling in his chest translated into relief that settled to rest.
He took a deep breath, the cold latching onto the inside of his nose. Heavy, still and all-encompassing solitude he hadn’t regretted since.
Because of the expanses of flatness, Erik spotted the measuring booth just after five minutes walk. No bigger than a phone box, seven feet above the ground, the old-fashioned thing did keep the equipment dry and shielded even through the harshest conditions. Though it took him another fifteen minutes to come close enough to step onto the ladder and open the hatch.
Clicking the light on, the different scales and gauges stared back at him, relatively unchanged. Erik fished his notebook out of his backpack and floated the mechanical pen out as well. In the prepared tables, he then filled in the measures from the three thermometers, the hygrometer and the continuous meter to paint a three-dimensional picture of the conditions of day and night.
The change was barely noticeable from yesterday, as it was most days. The monotonous rhythm was a part of why he’d been drawn to this in the first place. The small changes, the glacial progress and slow movement of everything, wasn’t the same as nothing. All the miniscule day-to-day changes would, ultimately, end up in the report that would have the leaders of the world scream in fear for the irrefutable proof global warming was actually happening.
That the same ice was melting right under his arse was another bullet on the board. But he’d rather die than leave it.
What couldn’t be seen, didn’t exist, after all.
With the data collected, Erik stepped down from the ladder and set off towards the edge of the ice. The weather station’s foundation was set on the permafrost, quite close to the natural coast. This far above the polar circle the pack ice could stretch out for miles. During winter, the ice spread so far, it was what made it possible for explorers to ski all the way from Russia to Canada without having to swim even once.
He had been walking for maybe ten minutes, when there was a slight shift underfoot. Usually a few days after a snowstorm, walking through the pristine snow was just as satisfactory as cutting into butter. Untouched, it forced you to lift your knees high, but now, something else had been there before him, cutting a path.
Looking down, Erik stopped. Something had been here before him. The deep tracks were caused by something heavy and –
Instinctively, he felt out the pipe of the rifle, binoculars up without him even registering it. His breath spread in the air as he waited, eyes flicking over the snow. The southern hills were still, their whiteness contrasting sharply against the clear sky. It provided a spotless view for miles, and when nothing but the wind made any motion, he let the binoculars slowly fall.
Faded tracks or not, polar bears were to be respected and feared. Despite their size, they moved fast and stealthy; they weren’t apex predators for nothing. Intellectually, Erik knew the chance of getting mauled was small, bordering on miniscule if you kept your head up. But the mere physical possibility made him feel peeled and alert in an odd mix of exhilaration and vulnerability.
Forcing himself to relax, he let out a tightly held breath and marched on towards the open water. With the dropping temperatures of winter, the ice had started to pack further and further, adding to the distance to the water where the measuring buoys bobbed leisurely on the waves. He thankfully only needed to tend to them once a month, but it was pleasing to see they hadn’t decided to stray further away from the shore, pushed out by the ice as they were designed to do.
Shouldering off his backpack, Erik pulled out the foldable measuring stick and dropped it into the water until it hit the shoal. Waves made the measuring difficult, and so he had to kneel in an awkward position to get a good reading. Back cramping and jotting down the numbers, he was occupied enough he didn’t sense the mass of rushing hemoglobin under the ice. Not until a splash of water to his right caught his attention.
Two feet away, something familiar had surfaced, its smooth head bobbing just above the water level. Against his will, Erik felt himself smiling. He’d heard all of Moira’s stories about increasingly ridiculous seal chases over the years, and there was an irony to the fact that while she struggled to get close over on the western shore, the seals had made themselves a home along the opposite one. The reason as to why was still a mystery, but Erik didn’t mind them and their yapping – as long as they didn’t disturb his work.
On the other hand, though, it was rather nice to have something so innocently curious observe you.
At times, especially when the darkness seeped into his lungs, or the restlessness started to prickle under his skin, he’d thought about calling Moira and tell her about their migration. She had used them as indicators for years, tenaciously following and tracking another small pod heading south. Though, it was clear that she was frustrated with their tiny number and that she’d lost the cow she’d wanted to track.
It’d just be a simple call. He had contemplated it before, especially after that week nearly seven years back. But in more clear-headed moments, he remembered his reasons and how all the others too, with their equipment and boats, inevitably would stay at the station with him –
He always came to the conclusion not to.
The seal, having swimmed closer, yapped in approval. Erik grinned, letting the dark eyes study him.
“You want to be left alone too, I gather,” he said, his voice loud against the waves.
At that, the seal dipped its nose below the water, only the dark eyes visible. It kept still for almost a minute before resurfacing – and snorted out a loud spray of freezing water, sharp enough to almost hit him in the face.
“Hey, watch it!” Erik swatted half-heartedly in its direction, but the seal just yapped. Shaking his head, Erik jotted down the measurements in the notebook, but he kept an eye on the seal. It stayed still when he was, peering up at him, nostrils flaring loudly as it breathed. Butas soon as he moved to stand, its head peeked up, and with graceful move, it rolled over, showing its white belly before it disappeared down into the cold, dark depth once again.
Erik rose, looking after it until the water had stilled, apart from the waves. Putting away the measuring stick, he shouldered his backpack and began walking back to the station. The worn path from his years of taking the same route was slightly filled over with snow after yesterday, but it wasn’t like he really needed them.
He’d found his way home in his sleep, his very body pulling him north.
Back at the station, he dumped his backpack inside the door before heading out to the garage. Not more than a few sheets of metal insulated by stacks of chopped wood, it did do its job. He took last month’s loading crate and lashed it down on the back of the snowmobile. Working the straps was tricky with the mittens on, but thanks to the metal in the flat hooks, he made quick work of it. Lack of distractions had made it easier to hone his powers, and though some of it might be due to the proximity to the magnetic north, it was also a freedom in being able to use it however he pleased, instead of being limited to muscles, nerves and bones when they were all so treacherous in the end.
Finished, he filled his arms with two days worth of wood and headed inside to get away from the numbing cold. Cleansing as it was, he’d never been foolish enough to get a hypothermia or frostbite, and so it should remain.
Door closed, he got a fire going in the stove, its heat gently warming up the the still chill station. It wasn’t big, but starting the fire was a slow process that needed time and air before the heat had gotten deep enough into the wood to burn on its own. Sunset was scheduled at three o’clock nowadays, and although Erik lived after a eat when hungry, sleep when tired sort of deal, he made a point to make the most of his time.
Besides, the Arctic wasn’t amiable to those not in a decent physical condition.
So, while watching the fire eat at the cold wood, he did his usual routine. Nothing spectacular at all: a simple workout to warm his muscles and keep up strength, he did the most out of it and steadily kept going until sweat dripped into his eyes and he couldn’t do another push-up without spitting blood.
Heart rushing, he rolled over onto his back, staring up into the ceiling while his pulse went back to normal. Sweat made the ribbed vest stick to his back and the damp fabric quickly cooled against the cold floor. Above him, the crossbeams made perfect squares to follow with your eyes. Old as they were, they had and would withstand anything – from blizzards to the weight of melting snow or even a polar bear on the roof.
Beams you could trust enough to close your eyes at night, without the nagging feeling that you’d be killed in your sleep.
Erik carefully rolled over again and checked on the fire once more. It was snapping merrily, the wood charred, so he shut the stove door and dragged himself over to the old radio in the corner. Clunky and dated, it was as old as the station itself, but it worked and kept the electrical buzz to minimum. As he turned it on, crackling started up and turned into sticky, but tolerable, white noise. Laying out his notebook on the table, Erik then tuned in the only channel he’d ever bothered to learn by heart and waited.
He knocked out a couple of cigarettes from the pack residing on top of the radio. Nasty habit, one born out of rebellion. It was, however, one he’d harbored for so long, he didn’t have the inclination nor energy to quit. Conjuring up a spark between his fingertips, he lit it and dragged the smoke deep into his lungs, letting it out through his nose in two thin tendrils. The den was heating up slowly and around him the house settled to rest with a sigh, acknowledging that the day’s work was done.
The radio crackled, redirecting his attention as a voice carried through the static.
“Alpha Lima 0-742, established. Calling Victor Yankee 0-3670. Repeat, Alpha Lima 0-742 calling Victor Yankee 0-3670. ”
Balancing his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, Erik put on his headset. “Victor Yankee 0-3670, established.”
“Alpha Lima 0-742, Victor Yankee 0-3670, connection established.”
There was another moment of crackling before the voice came through again, clearer this time. “Lehnsherr. Glad to hear from you.”
Erik picked up his cigarette again. “Same to you, Pryde,” he said, his voice more hoarse from disuse than he’d intended. He cleared his throat and took another drag of his cigarette.
“How nice,” she said, as she shuffled with something from her side. “You’re delayed, so let me guess: ice messing with the antenna?”
“No, just a blizzard,” Erik said honestly, tapping his pen against his note book. “It wouldn’t let me pass through. Minus one point, Pryde.”
“Right, right. Tell me about it. We had one tear through here as well”, she said, sighing. “Houston wasn’t happy with me, being three days late and all.”
From what he’d heard of her superiors before, Erik snorted. Like she had any more control over the conditions than them. “I gather not. So, already night in Barrow?”
“Absolutely pitch black. You know, I watched 30 Days of Night before moving here, so I thought I was prepared for this.”
Erik had no interest in pop culture, but some things were hard to miss when you planned to move above the polar circle. “Worrying about vampires?” he said, grinning.
“Certainly not,” she said, laughing. “I’m no more for superstition than you, you know that.”
Raising his eyebrows, Erik breathed out a laugh as well. “What do you know, Pryde?” he said, dragging some smoke into his mouth.
“You’re a meteorology researcher and from what I know, superstition and science don’t go together. Unless you want to prove a hypothesis wrong.” Her voice tilted, smile audible through the ether. “That’s what you’ve told me, anyways. And to avoid them ripping my ears off, your data please?”
“Right.” Flipping a few pages in his book, Erik rattled of all of his reports on temperature, wind speed and snowfall, Kitty humming in affirmation now and again. “That’s all I’ve got for now.”
Kitty hummed one last time, her papers shuffling again. “Right. Hear from you in a week, then?”
“Unless you don’t,” Erik reminded her.
“Unless I don’t.” He could hear the small smile on her lips, barely more than a twitch. “Til next time, Lehnsherr. Take care.”
“Take care, Pryde.”
A bit of crackling, and then: “Alpha Lima 0-742, disconnecting.”
“Victor Yankee 0-3670, disconnecting.”
He pulled off the headset and hung it on the hook attached to the wall. They swayed gently with the motion and he picked up his cigarette to finish it off.
The only thing he knew about Kitty, besides her name, was that she was originally from Deerfield, Illinois, but by some turn of events had ended up stationed in Barrow, Alaska to gather data from outposts like Erik’s. And as much as he appreciated the solitude, her voice was probably one of the things that helped keep him relatively sane, despite the fact that the conversations were short and quite barren. They’d gotten longer over the past year, evolved from him muttering numbers to her, to something that he actually made him look forward to the Wednesdays when he rattled of his data as usual.
She was a tolerant girl, after all.
With his cigarette burned down, Erik rose from the chair and headed for the bathroom. It was a cramped space just off the side of the den, with a small shower cabin, a metal sink with sharp edges and toilet smashed together for maximum space utilization.
Peeling off his sticky vest and long johns, he stepped in under the weak spray. Warmth of any kind was hard earned, so he washed quickly and only used as much water as absolutely necessary. At the annual conference in New York, they often mocked him about it being just in time for the yearly hermit’s shower.
Erik didn’t bother correcting them, but for the same reasons as he shaved, he made sure to wash every other day. There was no need to turn into a feral slob simply because you could.
Water trickled in rivulets down his back, washing away the sweat from his body. Despite the weak spray, the water was hot enough to heat him up, making his blood pulse closer to the surface, more alive. A few droplets dripped into his mouth, and he spit it out before it slinked down his throat. He stood under the weak spray until the water heated up, but when the cold had finally separated from his bones, Erik turned off the water, the bathroom heated with steam. He wasn’t hot per se, but his pulse had gone up and with the exercise still lingering in his muscles, he was warm enough.
Closing his eyes, arm braced on the tiled wall, he slicked his hand with soap, took his cock in hand and started stroking himself into hardness.
It wasn’t gentle; there wasn’t time nor need for that. He closed his eyes, fingering lightly at the circumcision scar until a warmth bloomed from the base of his spine. Sufficiently hard, he changed his grip and set a quick pace, the beads of water already cooling on his skin. Perfunctory and without any heed for slow pleasure, he concentrated on the tingling under his skin and conjured up the images necessary. Graphic, honed and perfected after years of use, they were the only thing he had. He’d made sure of that – efficiency was priority after all. A mixture of words and pictures he’d seen, images from memories that he’d realized too late what they were implying. As always, they made the tingling remain, hold a steady pace. But it didn’t spread or kindle as it should, instead frustratingly stalled at a tipping point at which his body refused to push beyond.
Erik bit off a frustrated moan and rearranged his grip. There was the option to just stop, leave it for the day after tomorrow and force himself through it then intead. He had done it in the past, though it left him tight and irritated and didn’t follow schedule. Biting his lip, he tipped his head forward, focusing on the memories instead of the text as his fingers went tight against the wall. Focused on those parts he’d tried, but once again failed, to filter out.
He sped up, hand working to build up the tension again, let the electrical buzz rekindle. His head pounded with blood as he concentrated on the feeling of his slick grip. His chest heaved, the pace rapid and violent, the light constriction in his balls wound even tighter, spreading outwards to tighten his core until it shook and rumbled with straining tension all the way down his legs while the images started to flicker, throbbing in time with his racing pulse even as he shook his head, face blazing when tension suddenly, and without mercy, snapped.
With a grunt, fire scorching up his shuddering legs and spine, he came. Like a whiplash coursing through his body, he bit off a keening noise and jerked against the tile in three heavy spurts that left him panting, breaths loud and ragged in the humid air, echoing in the small room and making it seem even more claustrophobic than before.
Unconsciously, he clenched his fist, slamming it once against the tainted wall; the force making the shower cabin shake.
He jerkily washed down and stepped out of the shower, towel around his hips. The closed door had kept most of the warmth inside the bathroom, but the transition to dry, colder air still made goosebumps pop up on his skin. Wool trousers, a sweater and thick socks kept the insistent cold from getting to his skin, even as drops from his hair ran down his spine, making him shiver.
That, at least, kept his thoughts alert and focused.
Covered again, he deterred to his cramping stomach. Most of the food came in tins and cans, especially in winter, but from time to time, when he got fed up with it all, Erik indulged and bought fish or caribou meat from the Inuits. He’d passed by them in the beginning of the month, and so, still had some arctic char left which was easy enough to cut up with some root vegetables, wrap the whole thing in tin foil and stick in the oven. It was one of the first things Edie had thought him, wholly due to its simplicity.
After eating and washing up, he then transferred into the den, and he jotted down the same numbers he’d given Kitty in one of his larger notebooks before he started to analyzing the small changes. There wasn’t much to go on, and to an untrained eye, it was definitely hard to miss the signs of an incoming low pressure. But it was those small changes that made for the difference of getting stuck in a blizzard or simply watching it from the safety of your home.
He worked in silence, the comparing of the last days of data cleaning his head with its mundanity, and not before long he had an as accurate forecast for the three following days as he could manage. By the time he’d finished, the little sun he still got had since long disappeared beneath the horizon and so, he started to turn in for the night.
Sleep was just as dynamic as anything else and didn’t follow the usual patterns. In summer, when the sun didn’t even dip below the horizon, his sleeping hours averaged around four. With winter approaching, and the heaviness of it seeped in everywhere, it was no idea to fight it. Stacking the notebooks neatly on the desk, he checked on the fire one last time, before he retreated to the bedroom. Stripping down to his thermal set, he slipped under the many covers and them pulled up around him before he plunged the station into complete darkness.
Curling a hand around the brass frame, he stared into the crossbeams of the ceiling, clenching his jaw, thoughts rushing, crashing and piling like wrecks in his mind. The days, filled with routine, held them at bay, but at night, they still gnawed at him, nipping at his heels.
Always the same ones.
He’d let go of everything else – shrugged off all that wouldn’t help to keep him warm and alive. He’d peeled off the layers, left only his own nuclear core, his pulsing heart to power him through this vacuum of an existence, like a spaceman on a neverending mission. Because he wasn’t lacking in space now, in all definitions. There was space, room and silence in abundance, and so there was no need for ludicrous emotions, least of all fear, here.
All ghosts were fabrications of his mind, illusions holding no empiric truth.
He emptied his lungs, and in the wake a shiver raced up his spine. Ignoring the ghost of the old twinge in his back, Erik then turned on his side, back facing the wall as he eased his breathing into something slower, collected, the room cut in two by the moonlight.
Because what couldn’t be seen, simply wasn’t true, after all.
Next morning, the wind had picked up. Winter was rapidly approaching, and the almost snowless winds were one of the more definite signs darkness and storms were not far behind. Now, only small grains of snow whipped with the winds, thankfully not adding to the already heavy layer of snow on the ground. If all else, the quiet tension in the air kept them all on their toes.
Erik tightened his scarf just as Marie’s boots clamped down the ramp, a crate of goods in her arms.
“Here you go,” she said and handed it over to him. It was heavy, and he had to adjust his grip to get a good look at what was inside. “There’s the usual, though coffee was low in stock. You’ve gotta make do with half the beans this month.”
Erik frowned. “Half a pound?” .
“There was something wrong with the delivery. Didn’t know until I got it, so out of my hands,” Marie said, shrugging. “I put in ‘em extra eggs for you to fill the bill, so ain’t ripping you off.”
Erik put the crate down on the back of the snowmobile. “Fair enough,” he said, taking out the flat hook straps he kept under the seat for these trips. “Put up an extra pound on the list for the next batch.”
Marie nodded, pulling her agenda out to jot down a quick note. “Done. Two pounds of coffee for the next batch, as well as double CFLs and batteries then, rest is the same. You got two dollars for the coffee, then?”
Erik stopped and patted his anorak’s pocket, finding a few wrinkled bills next to his keys.
“Thank you,” Marie sing-songed, plucked them from his hand and stashed the bills in her cash box, perched precariously on a stack of empty crates. “Gotta need someone over to help you drink it all, though. Coffee don’t do well frozen, y’know.”
Erik shrugged. Only Moira had stayed more than one night at the station in the decade he’d lived there, and so it should remain. Stale beans were something he’d gladly live with. “I’ll manage.”
He secured the straps, making sure the eggs didn’t have room to move around. They were a luxury he didn’t bother to spend on; not worth the space they occupied in the little fridge nor the preparation they needed to be stacked in the freeze box. Nonetheless, while Erik would’ve chosen an extra pack of cigarettes as a substitute, they were a good enough compensation for the lost coffee.
Behind him, Marie continued to unload the rest of the residents’ crates, stacking them up in a neat pile. The morning was still rosy fresh, the sun struggling over the horizon and the roaring silence only broken by boots against metal and the light clucking of waves. Erik had been early to the pick-up, avoiding interaction the best he could manage. Marie was easy-going enough, but he always made sure to be out of sight before the other residents of the village started to show up, chatting, gossiping and loud.
As he finished up, two silhouettes appeared on the top of the short slope leading down to the wharf. A bundled up Moira, whose whipcord body was still visible beneath the layers, and a non-descriptive blue lump that had to be Hank McCoy: her grad student who’d always been such a wuss about the cold Erik was shocked he hadn’t jumped right back on the plane when he’d arrived six months ago.
“Good morning,” Moira said, her voice muffled from inside her scarf. McCoy only managed a stiff wave from inside his cocoon.
“Morning.” Erik tested the straps’ resistance with a last shake. Some of the preserves rattled, but it kept still – a good enough sign they wouldn’t tumble off.
As McCoy turned to speak to Marie about the payment, Moira turned his way. They’d arrived with the same plane way back then – Erik sullen, Moira bright-eyed, rawboned but not naïve – and just as him she’d worked alone for many years before the grads had started to trickle in.
Now, she kept out of his space, and through the tiny slit between scarf and hat, dark, alert eyes peered out at him. “Why aren’t you picking up your damn phone?”
Unhooking the helmet from the steering handle, Erik looked over his shoulder. “What do you want?”
“What I want is to take the boats out to the rocks tomorrow,” she said, voice muffled from all the fabric in front over her mouth, “but I can’t do it if I know a blizzard is moving in.”
Erik raised his eyebrows at her. “Sneaking free forecasts, again, MacTaggert?”
Both of them were supplied with forecasts from the NOAA over a five-day period, but considering the environment they were currently in, those were often faulty and delayed. So not long after Erik had started his research, he’d started doing his private forecasts as well. They were often more accurate, and the only reason he’d agreed to install the big, plastic telephone currently attached to his kitchen wall.
“I trust you, not them. Besides, you tailor to my needs,” she replied, tilting her head. “So?”
Not questioning her logic, Erik pulled the helmet over his head. “Not yet,” he answered, yesterday’s readings still fresh in his mind. “Blizzard will roll in tomorrow night or day after tomorrow. Get back before nightfall and you and your seals are fine.”
Moira nodded and took one of her crates when Marie tapped her on the shoulder. “Good,” she said, immediately passing the crate over to McCoy, who grunted as it was shoved into his hands.
Taking his goggles from the handle as well, Erik once again made sure there were no gaps in his clothing. “Anything else?”
“No. Otherwise, I’ll ring you up.” She gave Erik a look and a half-smile as he slid down the goggles and straddled the snowmobile. “And you better answer, Lehnsherr. You go cranky when you’ve only had yourself to talk to.”
“Sure.” He lifted his foot to rev the engine, ready to let the old thing rumble to life, when someone gasped.
“Oh shit – no, Lehnsherr, wait!”
Startled, Erik stopped, catching a flash of a green bomber jacket as Marie clanked back into the plane, only to quickly return with two envelopes in her hands.
“Only Moira get them fancy dancy mails anymore, I almost forgot,” she said, sticking one out to each of them.
Moira took hers immediately, but Erik stalled, trepidation building in his throat. Hands numb with nothing to do with the cold, he clenched his jaw and took it, an unease he hadn’t had reason to recognize in years creeping up his spine. Thick, coarse paper with an old-fashioned blue wax seal and an inky sigill in the top left corner.
They’d gotten the address right; his name was typewritten and misspelled.
“It’s that time of year again. Hank, we might get a grad,” Moira said, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she turned to Erik, eyebrows disappearing up under her hat. “I thought you’d sworn them off.”
“I have,” Erik told her.
He had spent eleven years conducting his research in blessed solitude. Moira always had one or two grads staying with her, to help track down her ringed seals for one reason or another, but after he’d sent the first frostbitten, cabin feverish wreck home, Erik had composed a curt letter informing the administration he wasn’t and never would accept any grad students again.
He hadn’t received a reply, but at least no more unprepared, whiny idiots had shown up.
With jerky movements, he stuffed the letter inside his anorak and straddled the snowmobile again.
“Watch out for polar bears!” Marie shouted as he turned east. Moira nudged McCoy’s side, making him wave before she sent him her trademark two-fingered salute. Erik returned it, revved the engine again, and headed back home, over the snow banks and into the neverending whiteness.
The trip back took almost an hour and by the time he was back at the station, the temperature had risen a few notches even without the sun. Disposing the crate just inside the door, he trekked out to the booth, the frustration a crystallic sharpness in his veins. He even went down to the shore and waded out to the shallow buoys, the mundanity of the task and cold of the water seeping in through the thin gumboots soothing. A light snowfall had chased the seals back into the water, but just when he was returning to shore, measuring stick under his arm, a splash to his left made him turn to see three smooth heads bobbing in the water for a moment before they dove back down with a splash.
Back at the station, and with his outwear tucked away in the wardrobe, he sat down at the kitchen table, letter in front of him. Without mittens or gloves, the paper felt even thicker under his fingers.
He turned it over in his hands, felt the weight of it.
It looked exactly like the letter he’d received eight years ago. To avoid more unpleasant surprises, he quickly ripped the seal open and unfolded out the letter. At the top, the university logo and the date, from three weeks ago.
Dear Dr. Lehnsherr,
We write to inform you that Mr. Charles F. Xavier has placed a request for accommodation at one of our facilities on Broughton Island. Due to lack of resident competence in the field of studies (bio-optical oceanography), lack of accommodation at the Qikiqtarjuaq Marine Biology Facility and taking into account the nature of Mr. Xavier’s research, the faculty has, after careful consideration, granted Mr. Xavier to reside at Broughton Island Weather Station without further consultation with Dr. Lehnsherr.
Mr. Xavier is expected to arrive to Qikiqtarjuaq with the January provision plane next year. Dr. Lehnsherr is expected to provide Mr. Xavier with transport to and from the airstrip to the accommodation at the Broughton Island Weather Station for a period of two months.
We apologize for the inconvenience.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. Emma Grace Frost,
Head of Polar Studies,
Columbia University, New York,
United States of America
The words on the page were written in ink.
Hands shaking, anger prickling his skin, boiling just beneath the surface, Erik pushed back from the table so violently he toppled over his chair and it slammed into the floorboards with a crash.
He had always known they didn’t respect him, his work, or his choices. When he’d announced he’d gladly live out here with next to no contact with the outer world, he’d been met with a disdain and a pity he never wanted to experience again. Like it was a sacrifice. It was always assumed that you needed other people to be happy, but solitude had brought Erik a peace he’d never been able to find with the constant reminders of how bigoted and disgusting humanity could be.
At first, he’d tried to fight back, but eventually, when it became so bad he couldn’t take it, all energy had left him and he’d decided he simply wouldn’t stand for it anymore. Pulling away from the world, he’d disappeared into elements and cold and tundra to finally find freedom away from any restrictions other than his own.
Now, that freedom was crumbling too. All because of a brat who couldn’t find anything better to do with his time.
Vision tinted red and tasting of copper, Erik stalked over to the kitchen counter and vehemently crushed the letter in his hand before shoving it deep in the bin, under wet coffee grounds and fishbones.
Deep into the garbage, right where it belonged.