Lincoln turned to go, but the cantor gripped him by the arm. 'Mr. Kliman, remember what we went through a few nights ago. What Joseph went through. Do not take his pseudo-conversion lightly and assume that he is now safe. The vampirism may still return.'
'What do you suggest?' Lincoln asked softly.
The cantor looked him directly in the eye. 'Start bringing the boy to synagogue. If you are not comfortable with this place, then bring him to one easier for you to accept. But do bring him to one. Let him build up an understanding, an appreciation of his background, his culture, his religion.'
Lincoln pulled his arm away. 'I'll consider it,' he said, and to his surprise realized that he was speaking sincerely.
The cantor nodded. 'It would be best for the boy to develop his own beliefs, his own defenses. Remember, Mr. Kliman, religion protects us from the many vampires of the world.'
Lincoln nodded and walked out. It was a cold day, and he sneezed when he got outside. He reached into his coat pocket and found the yarmulka that he had been told to wear when he first entered the synagogue. He had forgotten to return it.
He looked back at the synagogue for a moment, then returned the yarmulka to his pocket and walked home. Perhaps he would find use for it soon.
Endless Night by Barbara Roden
Barbara Roden, along with her husband Christopher Roden, is the proprietor of Ash-Tree Press. Together, they are also the editors of several anthologies, including Acquainted with the Night, which won the World Fantasy Award. Barbara is also the editor of All Hallows, the journal of the Ghost Story Society. Her first collection of short stories, Northwest Passages, will be published by Prime Books in October.
This story, which first appeared in Exotic Gothic 2, is about an expedition to Antarctica in the Golden Age of South Polar exploration: the days of Shackleton, Amundsen, Scott, and Mawson. However, when the expedition has to replace a crew member at the last moment, it becomes apparent his replacement has his own reasons for wanting to go to a continent where there's no daylight for months on end.
The story asks: How would you feel in such an isolated setting, if you became convinced there was someone present who wasn't supposed to be there? And how would you feel if, in order to ensure the survival of yourself and everyone else, you had to do something which goes against all your values and beliefs?
'Thank you so much for speaking with me. And for these journals, which have never seen the light of day. I'm honoured that you'd entrust them to me.'
'That's quite all right.' Emily Edwards smiled; a delighted smile, like a child surveying an unexpected and particularly wonderful present. 'I don't receive very many visitors; and old people do like speaking about the past. No'-she held up a hand to stop him-'I
am old; not elderly, not 'getting on,' nor any of the other euphemisms people use these days. When one has passed one's centenary, 'old' is the only word which applies.'
'Well, your stories were fascinating, Miss Edwards. As I said, there are so few people alive now who remember these men.'
Another smile, gentle this time. 'One of the unfortunate things about living to my age is that all the people one knew in any meaningful or intimate way have died; there is no one left with whom I can share these things. Perhaps that is why I have so enjoyed this talk. It brings them all back to me. Sir Ernest; such a charismatic man, even when he was obviously in ill-health and worried about money. I used to thrill to his stories; to hear him talk of that desperate crossing of South Georgia Island to Stromness, of how they heard the whistle at the whaling station and knew that they were so very close to being saved, and then deciding to take a treacherous route down the slope to save themselves a five-mile hike when they were near exhaustion. He would drop his voice then, and say to me 'Miss Emily'-he always called me Miss Emily, which was the name of his wife, as you know; it made me feel very grown-up, even though I was only eleven-'Miss Emily, I do not know how we did it. Yet afterwards we all said the same thing, those three of us who made that crossing: that there had been another with us, a secret one, who guided our steps and brought us to safety.' I used to think it a very comforting story, when I was a child, but now-I am not as sure.'
'Why not?'
For a moment he thought that she had not heard. Her eyes, which until that moment had been sharp and blue as Antarctic ice, dimmed, reflecting each of her hundred-and-one years as she gazed at her father's photograph on the wall opposite. He had an idea that she was not even with him in her comfortable room, that she was instead back in the parlour of her parents' home in north London, ninety years earlier, listening to Ernest Shackleton talk of his miraculous escape after the sinking of the
Endurance, or her father's no less amazing tales of his own Antarctic travels. He was about to get up and start putting away his recording equipment when she spoke.
'As I told you, my father would gladly speak about his time in Antarctica with the Mawson and Shackleton expeditions, but of the James Wentworth expedition aboard the
Fortitude in 1910 he rarely talked. He used to become quite angry with me if I mentioned it, and I learned not to raise the subject. I will always remember one thing he did say of it: 'It was hard to know how many people were there. I sometimes felt that there were too many of us.' And it would be frightening to think, in that place where so few people are, that there was another with you who should not be.'
The statement did not appear to require an answer, for which the thin man in jeans and rumpled sweater was glad. Instead he said, 'If you remember anything else, or if, by chance, you should come across those journals from the 1910 expedition, please do contact me, Miss Edwards.'
'Yes, I have your card.' Emily nodded towards the small table beside her, where a crisp white card lay beside a small ceramic tabby cat, crouched as if eyeing a mouse in its hole. Her gaze rested on it for a moment before she picked it up.
'I had this when I was a child; I carried it with me everywhere. It's really a wonder that it has survived this long.' She gazed at it for a moment, a half-smile on her lips. 'Sir Ernest said that it put him in mind of Mrs. Chippy, the ship's cat.' Her smile faded. 'He was always very sorry, you know, about what he had to do, and sorry that it caused an estrangement between him and Mr. McNish; he felt that the carpenter never forgave him for having Mrs. Chippy and the pups shot before they embarked on their journey in the boats.'
'It was rather cruel, though, wasn't it? A cat, after all; what harm could there have been in taking it with them?'
'Ah, well.' Emily set it carefully back down on the table. 'I thought that, too, when I was young; but now I see that Sir Ernest was quite right. There was no room for sentimentality, or personal feeling; his task was to ensure that his men survived. Sometimes, to achieve that, hard decisions must be made. One must put one's own feelings and inclinations aside, and act for the greater good.'
He sensed a closing, as of something else she might have said but had decided against. No matter; it had been a most productive afternoon. At the door Emily smiled as she shook his hand.
'I look forward to reading your book when it comes out.'
'Well'-he paused, somewhat embarrassed-'it won't be out for a couple of years yet. These things take time, and I'm still at an early stage in my researches.'
Emily laughed; a lovely sound, like bells chiming. 'Oh, I do not plan on going anywhere just yet. You must bring me a copy when it is published, and let me read again about those long ago days. The past, where everything has already happened and there can be no surprises, can be a very comforting place when one is old.'
It was past six o'clock when the writer left, but Emily was not hungry. She made a pot of tea, then took her cup and saucer into the main room and placed it on the table by her chair, beside the ceramic cat. She looked at it for a moment, and ran a finger down its back as if stroking it; then she picked up the card and considered it for a few moments.
'I think that I was right not to show him,' she said, as if speaking to someone else present in the room. 'I doubt that he would have understood. It is for the best.'
Thus reminded, however, she could not easily forget. She crossed the room to a small rosewood writing desk in one corner, unlocked it, and pulled down the front panel, revealing tidily arranged cubbyholes and drawers of various sizes. With another key she unlocked the largest of the drawers, and withdrew from it a notebook bound in leather, much battered and weathered, as with long use in difficult conditions. She returned with it to her armchair, but it was some minutes before she opened it, and when she did it was with an air almost of sadness. She ran her fingers over the faded ink of the words on the first page.
Robert James Edwards
Science Officer
H.M.S.
Fortitude
1910-11
'No,' she said aloud, as if continuing her last conversation, 'there can be no surprises about the past; everything there has happened. One would like to think it happened for the best; but we can never be sure. And
that is not comforting at all.' Then she opened the journal and began to read from it, even though the story was an old one which she knew by heart.
20 November 1910: A relief to be here in Hobart, on the brink of starting the final leg of our sea voyage. The endless days of fundraising, organisation, and meetings in London are well behind us, and the Guvnor is in high spirits, and as usual has infected everyone with his enthusiasm. He called us all together this morning, and said that of the hundreds upon hundreds of men who had applied to take part in the expedition when it was announced in England, we had been hand-picked, and that everything he has seen on the journey thus far has reinforced the rightness of his choices; but that the true test is still to come-in the journey across the great
