re-established in the world outside.
Since that night he let himself think of her, rest has become ever harder. He has only to close his eyes and her image comes
to him: a voice, a pair of eyes, a head of hair, that made a city home when for twenty years he had not seen the need of a
home. So that he might talk with her he had learned the language, so far as he was able: strange words but clear and plain,
so that when he spoke to her he spoke directly and without deviation as if he had been a child.
'What is your name?' he asked. Though he passed the shop often, having made the street an habitual route so long as his ship
remained, he had not till this moment come across her again alone.
'Johanne,' she answered. And then, looking up, 'I've seen you talking with my father in his shop.'
'He is good to talk to, your father, I would not have thought a shoemaker would know so many things.'
'Oh, he talks with everyone,' she said, and her affection filled out her voice and made her smile. 'He talks with the people
who come to his shop, like yourself. He's always done that. He gets them talking and they sit there like you do and he makes
their shoes. Here by the harbour he must have met people from every land in the world by now. He says everyone who comes to
him has a story to tell/
A story. Does he have a story? No, the story is hers, all hers. He is outside of stories. He is just a man alone in the dark,
without others to see him and to make him real.
October thirty-first, the Eve of All Souls, and there is a cold glitter in the sky.
Thomas Cave tosses on his cot. The skins are heavy on him but they do not make him warm. He gets out, wrapping the furs about
him, and adds wood to the fire, then goes to his table and sits hunched tight, and watches for the flames to rise and for
their warmth to touch him.
Johanne kneels to tend the fire and a strand of hair falls across her face. She pushes it back and it is golden in the light
of the flames. It is so thick, her hair, he is ever surprised by the weight of it when he takes it in his hand, lifting it
back from her neck and shoulders like so many veils, pulling the strands together and holding them in the ring of his thumb
and forefinger twined like rope.
Since the sea has been frozen I have seen a number of white bears. Since I have not seen such a quantity before I think it
is possible that they have come across the ice, either that or they are hunting farther afield than their usual summer grounds
and have been attracted to the fishery by its scent or even - though I fear to think it - by my own presence here. Certainly a number of times I have heard a most menacing snuffling and
exploring about the walls of the tent and when the sounds had gone and I dared to go out, I found the snow disturbed and their
huge pawprints in it. Once I saw a single bear upwind some two hundred yards off. On account of its white fur, its moon shadow
showed almost more clearly than its self, a large bear that held an instant upright like a man and looked about, and then
lowered itself and lolloped off, most lightly and easily for a creature of such cumbersome size, across the ice of the bay
to where there were many lumps or rocks of ice gathered. I took my musket and followed until I could get within range under
the concealment of the blocks of ice. But before I could fire an unfortunate accident befell me. A narrow piece of ice beneath
me broke, it was close to where the river flows into the bay and the movement of water must have made the ice in that spot
unusually thin, and I fell, my legs at least, into the freezing sea. I threw up my musket, which I was able to retrieve later,
and called out, and lean only thank the Lord God that in that moment the bear fled, as I scrambled to find grip in all the
rough ice and pull myself up. What was extraordinary was the speed with which the water froze on my boots and breeches, which
made them seem dry again before
Since that night he let himself think of her, rest has become ever harder. He has only to close his eyes and her image comes
to him: a voice, a pair of eyes, a head of hair, that made a city home when for twenty years he had not seen the need of a
home. So that he might talk with her he had learned the language, so far as he was able: strange words but clear and plain,
so that when he spoke to her he spoke directly and without deviation as if he had been a child.
'What is your name?' he asked. Though he passed the shop often, having made the street an habitual route so long as his ship
remained, he had not till this moment come across her again alone.
'Johanne,' she answered. And then, looking up, 'I've seen you talking with my father in his shop.'
'He is good to talk to, your father, I would not have thought a shoemaker would know so many things.'
'Oh, he talks with everyone,' she said, and her affection filled out her voice and made her smile. 'He talks with the people
who come to his shop, like yourself. He's always done that. He gets them talking and they sit there like you do and he makes
their shoes. Here by the harbour he must have met people from every land in the world by now. He says everyone who comes to
him has a story to tell/
A story. Does he have a story? No, the story is hers, all hers. He is outside of stories. He is just a man alone in the dark,
without others to see him and to make him real.
October thirty-first, the Eve of All Souls, and there is a cold glitter in the sky.
Thomas Cave tosses on his cot. The skins are heavy on him but they do not make him warm. He gets out, wrapping the furs about
him, and adds wood to the fire, then goes to his table and sits hunched tight, and watches for the flames to rise and for
their warmth to touch him.
Johanne kneels to tend the fire and a strand of hair falls across her face. She pushes it back and it is golden in the light
of the flames. It is so thick, her hair, he is ever surprised by the weight of it when he takes it in his hand, lifting it
back from her neck and shoulders like so many veils, pulling the strands together and holding them in the ring of his thumb
and forefinger twined like rope.
Since the sea has been frozen I have seen a number of white bears. Since I have not seen such a quantity before I think it
is possible that they have come across the ice, either that or they are hunting farther afield than their usual summer grounds
and have been attracted to the fishery by its scent or even - though I fear to think it - by my own presence here. Certainly a number of times I have heard a most menacing snuffling and
exploring about the walls of the tent and when the sounds had gone and I dared to go out, I found the snow disturbed and their
huge pawprints in it. Once I saw a single bear upwind some two hundred yards off. On account of its white fur, its moon shadow
showed almost more clearly than its self, a large bear that held an instant upright like a man and looked about, and then
lowered itself and lolloped off, most lightly and easily for a creature of such cumbersome size, across the ice of the bay
to where there were many lumps or rocks of ice gathered. I took my musket and followed until I could get within range under
the concealment of the blocks of ice. But before I could fire an unfortunate accident befell me. A narrow piece of ice beneath
me broke, it was close to where the river flows into the bay and the movement of water must have made the ice in that spot
unusually thin, and I fell, my legs at least, into the freezing sea. I threw up my musket, which I was able to retrieve later,
and called out, and lean only thank the Lord God that in that moment the bear fled, as I scrambled to find grip in all the
rough ice and pull myself up. What was extraordinary was the speed with which the water froze on my boots and breeches, which
made them seem dry again before
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