Looking into the clear water, Marina could see soft mounds of ice moulded by the current. It was as if she could look through a mirror to the world behind and beyond the reflected image.
A spit of ice jutted out into the black water: the Sea Witch came alongside, the Commander himself taking the wheel for such a delicate manoeuvre. The gangplank was dropped and within moments her father appeared already changed into his Arctic gear. He ran down on to the ice. ‘Hurry!’ he shouted. ‘Get the equipment unloaded!’
Brown handed Marina a pile of woollen clothes: so many extra sweaters and hats and gloves that, once she had dressed, she could hardly move.
Her father paced up and down as he waited, impatiently.
The Commander would be travelling light: one crate, a tent, and supplies for the forty-eight hours he would be away mending the faulty sonar transmitter.
Marina went down into the hold to bring up the dogs. They were ecstatic, as if they could smell snow and sense the land over which they were eager to run. But Paddy was still sick. He whimpered as he saw the dogs being taken up, but there was nothing that could be done.
‘I’ll be back,’ Marina told him. ‘I won’t leave you alone for long.’
On land after so many days at sea, the dogs barked and ran around, cocking their legs against the ridges of snow and leaving yellow-stained holes.
Brown strapped a kitbag, heavy with tools, to the top of the sledge. ‘You’ve done a good job with those dogs,’ he said approvingly. ‘Shame Paddy won’t be joining them.’
‘He’s too sick.’ Marina sniffed. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with him.’
‘Best to leave him quiet,’ Brown told her. ‘He’ll pull through. He’s a strong ’un.’
Her father tramped towards the sledge. He was wearing a full-length fur coat and his fur mittens. He had the same preoccupied air as he had had on the last day in London: eager to be off.
Finchin followed him on to the ice to wish him well. Marina bent down and slyly kissed each dog on the top of his head and told him to behave and do exactly as the Commander ordered.
‘I’ll see you all very soon,’ she whispered into ears and fur. ‘Remember that I’ve looked after you well, and given you plenty to eat, and I’m not really sad that you’re going. Well, perhaps just a bit . . . but you mustn’t be unhappy or feel tired, because you must bring my father back safely. He has important work to do! He’s mending a broken transmitter. I know it doesn’t sound very important, but you must still do your best.’ The dogs barked as if they understood.
The Commander and Finchin shook hands. Her father stepped on to the running board of the sledge. ‘Farewell, Finchin.’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in two days.’
‘Does that give you enough time to get to the whaling station, sir?’
‘It does. And even if it doesn’t, the Sea Witch must sail on Thursday at 1100 hours, sharp.’
‘I can wait longer, sir.’
‘No need. I’ll be back in good time.’
Finchin nodded. ‘Farewell, sir,’ he said, as if the Commander were doing nothing more than going for a stroll on a summer’s afternoon.
Marina couldn’t stop herself. She put her arms round her father. It felt like hugging a bear. ‘Please. Be very careful.’
Her father gently took her arms away from him. ‘What’s all this?’
Marina felt embarrassed in front of Finchin. ‘I . . . I don’t know. I just want you to be careful. This is such a strange place. And you’ll be all alone.’
‘I’ve got all the company I need, Marina,’ her father said, looking at the dogs. ‘No tears, now. They’ll freeze on your skin. Like pearls.’ He wiped her cheek with his fur glove.
‘Take care, sir,’ Finchin said, his voice suddenly serious. ‘I know you’re the only man for the job. It’s good work you’re doing.’
‘Hiiiiiiii,’ Commander Denham called, and the dogs leapt forward with such eagerness that he had to right himself. The runners made a shussssing noise on the snow. Marina ran alongside for as long as her lungs and her legs would let her. But the dogs, eager to run, easily pulled ahead. Her father called out again, raising his arm in a salute, although he didn’t turn back.
His face was set to the north.
23
Marina kept her eyes on the dark figure as it moved away from her. The dogs ran furiously and within minutes her father was just a blurred smudge. She strained her eyes, hoping to keep him close to her by the power of her gaze alone. But when she next blinked, he was gone.
‘Do you mind if I stay on land for a while?’ Marina asked as they tramped back to the boat.
‘Just don’t stay out too long,’ Finchin said. ‘It’s bitter cold, and your father won’t thank me if he’s kept you safe only for you to be frozen to death.’
Marina waited until Finchin had climbed back on to the Sea Witch and then, not caring about the cold, lay down on the snow.
The stars trembled above her, so close she felt she could reach out and touch one. Just forty-eight hours and they would leave this island made of twilight, ice and air. ‘I could never have believed such a place existed,’ she said, drawing lines between the stars with her finger. Pechorin Island. Her father had drawn a map of this place for her mother. Had she dreamt of coming to such a distant, lost realm? Even though she was a cripple and could scarcely cross a room unaided? Perhaps here her lungs would drink the ice-cold air and her legs would become strong as she ran across the snow.
Jones’s face hung above her. ‘I thought I’d find you out here.’ He sat down next to her. ‘Don’t be
