Berit Ellingsen - Not Dark Yet

He looked down and nodded. Kaye’s thoughts were familiar. “So what can we do about it?” he said. People flowed past them and out, trailing behind them the sour smell of moist clothes and perspiration. From the open door a chilling draft blew in from the night.

“There’s plenty we can do,” Kaye said. “The world’s just waiting for us to do it. Is your email address still the same?”

“Yes, it is,” he said. If Kaye had had his address all this time, why hadn’t he mailed?

“Good,” Kaye said, backing up toward the dais. “I have to run now, finish things up here. Thanks for coming to the meeting. I’ll send you an email shortly, it’s easier to explain in private.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Do you live here, by the way?”

“No,” Kaye said, turning away from him. “Talk with you soon.”

He let the crowd carry him out the door and down the stairs. Outside, it was dark and quiet and the familiar drizzle had started again. The rest of the audience vanished into the night one by one and two by two, and soon there was just him and the pier and the waves that surged in from far out at sea.

THE NEXT DAY, HAVING MET KAYE SEEMED LIKE A dream. He could barely remember what Kaye had said and what he had said and why. Yet he knew he hadn’t said what he’d imagined saying if Kaye recognized him, and he hadn’t said what he most wanted to. There had been too many people around for that. He ought to have asked Kaye to talk in private, but since Kaye had been busy, his students and co-speakers waiting for him, it had seemed that Kaye would say no, so he hadn’t done that. Next time, he thought. Next time they would chat more and he would say what he needed to.

And Kaye was not living on the coast? Where was he staying? Still in the city? Then why was he holding lectures out of town? The assistant professor could easily have gotten twice the audience at the university, particularly if he was still popular among the students.

He slept until the afternoon sun woke him by brightening the panorama window and gleaming above the mountains in the west. He got up, turned on the laptop, and checked his mail. No new messages.

He changed into training clothes and shoes, and ran along the fields, whose edges were more clearly defined and drier than before. The air was chilly. With the heather and bilberry shrub gone, their gamey fragrance had been replaced by something less wild and more familiar: soil and dirt. In the distance a flock of sparrows lifted from the ground, but he hadn’t seen as large a gathering as that which had warmed him earlier in the fall. The sunlight was sharp but pale, and he turned his face toward it to soak up what little warmth it held.

When he returned to the cabin the sun had already sunk to darkness. He kicked off his muddy trainers, left them on the deck to dry, and went inside to wake the laptop from its sleeping mode. No new mail. He returned outside, attached the rubber hose to the tap, undressed, and showered in the cold water on the veranda. Then he dried, threw the moist t-shirt, sweatpants, and socks up on the banister, and hurried back to the warmth inside.

There he pulled on soft indoor clothes: a pair of faded light blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a gray cardigan he had borrowed from his father. He checked the mail again before he filled the old pot with water and made oat porridge with blueberry jam. After he had eaten he found a couple of IQ tests online, and completed them as fast as he could. He assumed similar tests would be part of the astronaut selection process. When he needed a break, he put on the headlamp, went outside to the pile of logs he had stacked against the southern wall, and retrieved a few. The pile was down to twenty or thirty pieces of pale birch trunk speckled with black. He doubted the neighbors would be happy if he cut down the few birches that were left between the fields, so he would have to hike to the town center for more firewood. Besides, it would be nice to have a swim in the municipal pool, the ocean was far away and he missed it. The town pool would make a decent substitute, although it wouldn’t be as private as the one at home.

He returned inside, placed the logs in the hearth, and lit them with the lighter from the top drawer in the kitchen. As his breath and body settled, he stared into the flames for a long while. Then he checked his mail once more, before he undressed, and went to bed in the sleeping bag on the mattress. Right before he fell away the white light flared up inside him, engulfing him. Then there was nothing he lacked, nothing he had to do. It was a break from the world and its concerns. It happened every night, a quiet reset back to himself. Only when the morning arrived would he once again grow a body and mind and become human again.

IN HIS DREAMS THE OCEAN WAS ILLUMINED BY ITS own clarity, as the enlightened mind is said to be. The brightness seared him. It was so cold the sea surface was sluggish with ice. His right hand ached. He thought of the screws and plates that had been drilled into his fingers and joints when he broke them last summer and how the metal now must be contracting in the polar conditions.

The ship that carried his parents and brother and him was white and colonial-looking, of the type he had seen in old movies about murders on the broad rivers of the southern continent. His family members pushed open the round-eyed door of the cabin to a wall of icy, dazzling air. All around them the ocean bristled with the frost-bearded masts and chimneys of the countless vessels it had caught.

“Your father and I have been invited to dine with the captain,” his mother said. She was dressed in a red silk gown and looked like she had in her mid-thirties, decades ago.

“Which one of them?” his brother said. Katsuhiro was of his current age and wearing the navy-blue oilskin jacket that hung in the hallway at home in the honeycomb towers.

“No, no, your mother and I need to have something to ourselves,” his father said, also much younger than in waking life, dressed in his best morning coat, with his black hair slicked back as he had in pictures from his twenties. They watched their parents vanish up the canvas-flanked stairs to the top deck.

“I’ll follow them, find out where they’re going,” Katsuhiro said.

“No, don’t,” he said. “They’ll be back soon. We can do something else in the mean time.”

His brother pouted in reply, then continued to the deck below.

There was a rush in the air, a warmth and a glow, as if the sun had managed to burn through the clouds. On the mattress, far, far away, he felt a pull, an attraction, like that which works between two magnets, but was unable to change or cease the dream. With a keening wail a plane shot past him and into the still, bright water. The airliner crashed down with almost no splash, and sank with the sound of the passengers’ desperate screams behind the windows barely audible and very far away. The fear in the crowd’s faces as they fought to break out of the sinking plane, and the knowledge that they would not, was louder and more piercing than their cries for help. As the plane turned like a sleepy whale in the water and sank into the luminous depths, the sea gave only a single ripple as acknowledgment of the disaster before it grew still.

Out on the white plain of frozen, half-sunken wrecks that was the graveyard ocean, one or two steel bodies gently moved and creaked as if in sympathy with, or in domino-effect from, the new arrival. The frost and ice on the jutting bows and piercing masts were snot-yellow, as was the color of their sun-bleached paint. He even spotted the rotund outline and mesh body of an airship out there, yet even in the dream he knew that few airships had ever made it to the sky, much less the polar regions.