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Authors: Georgina Harding
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acting themselves, as their lips broke
and joined again, two figures re-enacting Thomas and Johanne.
7
W HERE IS SHE? He wakes in fear and claws for her, thinking that his narrow cot is the wide high bed they had in Copenhagen,
and where his hand reaches there is only cold air. A blizzard rages about him, howling with such intensity that he feels that
it is right in his ear, that it has entered the vacuum of the cabin, that with mounting pressure it will at any instant blow
the place apart and scatter it, man, furs, splinters of wood, flying out across the ice. Oh Lord, let Thou deliver me from
the tempest! Oh my girl, where have you gone? He breathes deep and attempts for some moments to control his thoughts. When
he opens his eyes again the storm has receded beyond the walls. It seems even to have quietened. The room appears before him
again solid and square despite the unsteadiness of the lamplight, which is shaken by the draught that succeeds in penetrating
the cracks of the doorway however he may attempt to caulk them.
The blanket he had wrapped about his face is stiff as board and thickly sugared with hoarfrost where it has soaked up the
moisture of his exhaled breath. He understands that he must have been asleep for quite some time and yet all that time he
seems to have been constantly aware of the storm. He has heard the scream of the wind, felt its vibration within the cell.
He does not need to see in order to picture it: the white flakes invisible in the blackness, whirling in such a terrible,
dervish way that you could not tell if they fell from the sky or were driven up from the ground.
I have yet to discover the extremity of the climate in this place. It is no more than December and I must expect that the
worst of the winter is still to come, yet I have never before experienced such a storm as the current one, nor such a degree
of cold. So suddenly and violently it came, just as I had returned within the tent, that I do not dare to think what might
have occurred if it had caught me out of doors. It came without forewarning and without apparent direction, as if it had only
exploded in the sky above.
There is a thin coating of ice on the walls of my cabin and on the floor beneath my feet, a frost hanging even on the edges
of the chimney hood. So cold it is here that everything that does not face towards the fire is frozen, however close it may
be. Even the vinegar is frozen in its cask. The bear meat is hard like rock. I have dragged a great chunk of it right to the
side of the fire and cut it with a hatchet until it splits, and it does not begin to melt and bleed until I have it in hot
water in the pan and over the fire. I believe that it was the liver alone that poisoned me and in the days since my recovery
I have eaten tentatively of the other parts of the animal without ill effect. It would be great shame to waste God's bounty,
particularly since there is no knowing when I may be able to venture out again for food.
He melts the vinegar as he melts his water, by taking a hot iron from the fire and placing it into the cask. It cracks and
steams like a sorcerer's cauldron and the acidic smell rises into the room. His beer also is frozen though the barrel is only
a few feet from the stove. He is disappointed that when it has been thawed what pours off it is no more than sour and yeasty-tasting
water, as if it has lost its essence in the cold. But that is so with everything here, every real thing seems numb and without
essence. Survival itself is a numb activity. He eats without appetite. He performs routine tasks listlessly as if he has lost
the sense of their purpose. He writes his log, and when he dusts off the words and reads them back he does so without emotion,
seeing only that they are well formed on the page.
The storm has lasted now some days without change. The ceaseless howl of the wind and the knowledge of the blackness weigh
most heavily on my spirit. I
and joined again, two figures re-enacting Thomas and Johanne.
7
W HERE IS SHE? He wakes in fear and claws for her, thinking that his narrow cot is the wide high bed they had in Copenhagen,
and where his hand reaches there is only cold air. A blizzard rages about him, howling with such intensity that he feels that
it is right in his ear, that it has entered the vacuum of the cabin, that with mounting pressure it will at any instant blow
the place apart and scatter it, man, furs, splinters of wood, flying out across the ice. Oh Lord, let Thou deliver me from
the tempest! Oh my girl, where have you gone? He breathes deep and attempts for some moments to control his thoughts. When
he opens his eyes again the storm has receded beyond the walls. It seems even to have quietened. The room appears before him
again solid and square despite the unsteadiness of the lamplight, which is shaken by the draught that succeeds in penetrating
the cracks of the doorway however he may attempt to caulk them.
The blanket he had wrapped about his face is stiff as board and thickly sugared with hoarfrost where it has soaked up the
moisture of his exhaled breath. He understands that he must have been asleep for quite some time and yet all that time he
seems to have been constantly aware of the storm. He has heard the scream of the wind, felt its vibration within the cell.
He does not need to see in order to picture it: the white flakes invisible in the blackness, whirling in such a terrible,
dervish way that you could not tell if they fell from the sky or were driven up from the ground.
I have yet to discover the extremity of the climate in this place. It is no more than December and I must expect that the
worst of the winter is still to come, yet I have never before experienced such a storm as the current one, nor such a degree
of cold. So suddenly and violently it came, just as I had returned within the tent, that I do not dare to think what might
have occurred if it had caught me out of doors. It came without forewarning and without apparent direction, as if it had only
exploded in the sky above.
There is a thin coating of ice on the walls of my cabin and on the floor beneath my feet, a frost hanging even on the edges
of the chimney hood. So cold it is here that everything that does not face towards the fire is frozen, however close it may
be. Even the vinegar is frozen in its cask. The bear meat is hard like rock. I have dragged a great chunk of it right to the
side of the fire and cut it with a hatchet until it splits, and it does not begin to melt and bleed until I have it in hot
water in the pan and over the fire. I believe that it was the liver alone that poisoned me and in the days since my recovery
I have eaten tentatively of the other parts of the animal without ill effect. It would be great shame to waste God's bounty,
particularly since there is no knowing when I may be able to venture out again for food.
He melts the vinegar as he melts his water, by taking a hot iron from the fire and placing it into the cask. It cracks and
steams like a sorcerer's cauldron and the acidic smell rises into the room. His beer also is frozen though the barrel is only
a few feet from the stove. He is disappointed that when it has been thawed what pours off it is no more than sour and yeasty-tasting
water, as if it has lost its essence in the cold. But that is so with everything here, every real thing seems numb and without
essence. Survival itself is a numb activity. He eats without appetite. He performs routine tasks listlessly as if he has lost
the sense of their purpose. He writes his log, and when he dusts off the words and reads them back he does so without emotion,
seeing only that they are well formed on the page.
The storm has lasted now some days without change. The ceaseless howl of the wind and the knowledge of the blackness weigh
most heavily on my spirit. I
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