The Northern Lights

Cecilia sits at a desk most days, surrounded by a forest of reference books. We ran out of shelf space for her library some time ago, but instead of extending her domain, allowed the books to become the room. Low piles of them function as tables, vertiginous stacks decorate the walls and a couple of her horticultural catalogues double-up as door stops and window props, but only in the summer. During the endless winter months, when it’s minus twenty outside, we lock all our windows, turn up the heating and convert our home into an arboreal retreat.

*  *  *

We might have been adjusting to life in London if it wasn’t for Cecilia’s Svalbard seed vault job. She had a great job offer from Kew Botanic Gardens; a handsome salary, flexible working hours and private health benefits. 

   “What do you, reckon?” she said, frowning after the interview.

   “Kew’s perfect, love,” I said, excited for her. “Go for it.”

   “What about Tiger?” 

   “We can get a litter tray.”

We discussed it and she dithered. 

   “He’s a country cat, you know?”

   “I love Tiger too, but come on, honestly?”

   “I’m worried he won’t cope with all the traffic.”

It’s funny how life works out, isn’t it? She’d searched for an ideal job and then two materialised. They employed the other candidate for Kew, but the Svalbard job sounded promising. However, I wish we’d read the small print. 

   Before I knew it, we were on our way to a treeless island where domestic cats aren’t welcome; something to do with endangered bird-life. Apparently, the authorities banned them years ago, and we had to leave Tiger in quarantine. 

   In retrospect, I’m sure our sorrowful moggy would’ve relished life as a pampered house cat in London. I often imagine him feasting on select morsels and scratching the bark from all those exotic trees in the Kew Botanic Gardens.

*  *  *

So, we ended up moving to Longyearbyen; the world’s northernmost settlement. It’s a featureless township whose transient population of 1000 is outnumbered by polar bears, 3 to 1. The Statsbygg agent who interviewed Cecilia in Oslo said the position was a rare opportunity. 

   “The Svalbard seed vault has an international reputation,” he said. “You’ll be considered an expert in your field for years to come.”

He listed all the benefits of living here, including a company car, a furnished property with proximity to the Svalbard seed vault, and a generous salary paid in Norwegian Kroner. 

   “What more could you ask for?” he said, purring like a blue Persian feline.

Of course, he neglected to mention there are only 40 miles of navigable roads on Svalbard and no connections between different settlements. 

But I’m being picky. Now we fetch our groceries from Barentsburg on a snowmobile. That’s great fun on the weekend, right?

   Cecilia was well aware of the short winter days, but the agent dodged the details yet again and waxed lyrical about the northern lights. His description of the shimmering green veil that dances over the sky was most beguiling. He told her the aurora reflects off the snow and ice and we’d soon forget about the endless nights. 

   “Tourists pay a fortune to watch that light show.”

   “Well, I suppose that’s true and---”

   “And you’ll witness it from your new home.”

He bamboozled Cecilia with his talk about the myths and sagas surrounding the months of darkness and how the Sami Nomads thought the northern lights were the dance of the dead. “Until recent times,” he whispered. “They told their children to come inside out of fear the aurora’d take them.”

   “That’s just superstition, right?”

   “I guess that’s not a problem for you,” he said, sliding the contract toward her. 

   “I’ll have to ask my husband and---”

   “Honest,” he smiled, offering his pen. “You’re going to love it.”

   As a childless couple, we took it for granted there’d be a way to establish a family. We assumed there’d be childcare facilities and a junior school for youngsters. The agent never mentioned the subject of family life at the interview and after six months in Svalbard, we realised our mistake.

*  *  *

We arrived at the end of May last year and ventured out into the community, chatted to our immediate neighbours and discovered all the delights that Longyearbyen offered. There are a few professional couples here, but most of the residents are coal miners. They’re pleasant enough, however, they all work long hours and enjoy chaotic social lives. 

   We met no one who was born in Svalbard or owns their own house. There’s no option to buy a property here because the government owns all the buildings. Unemployment is unheard of in Longyearbyen, but that’s because nobody can live here without a demonstratable income. People come here to work hard, make money and leave. Workers and mining employees arrive and depart like migrating wildfowl. The population drifts in and slips away unseen like waves lapping on a beach at midnight.

*  *  *

Time stops still in Longyearbyen between November and February; endless summer days transform into an interminable night. The polar sun remains below the distant horizon line for the entire winter. If it wasn’t for a couple of twilight hours at midday, you’d think it had died; extinguished forever, having forsaken life on earth and condemned it to eternal night.

   Of course, the northern lights are visible and illuminate the landscape, reflecting off the snow and ice. The eerie glow more than compensates for the lack of daylight. In fact, basking in the flickering aurora was our favourite way to drift off at night. It was the highlight of our time in Longyearbyen in many respects. We felt part of something much greater than we could comprehend; a connection to the infinite.

   I recall Cecilia whispering in my ear one night as my eyelids closed. She asked me about the aurora myth and the Sami children stolen in the middle of the night. 

   I remember chuckling and mumbled, “It’s nonsense, love.” 

   She didn’t respond, and I forgot all about it. 

*  *  *

Late in December, Cecilia wasn’t sure when, the little kicks in her stomach stopped. She got up at two o'clock to walk around in the turquoise half-light of the apartment, having heard a dripping sound. It turned out to be the icicles melting outside the window. It might have been the next morning, when the green veil reappeared and came out burning hard. She said it may have been the day after that or even the day before. But Cecilia knew she couldn’t feel the gentle movements that had accompanied her every waking moment.

She knew for certain that something was missing. 

A fist had tightened inside her stomach. 

   “Lay your hand on me,” she said, guiding my wrist.

   “What’s up, love?” I asked, half awake.

   “Sssh,” she whispered, turning to face me. “Be gentle.”

   “There’s nothing there.” I said, stroking her belly.

   “Please don’t say that.”

   “I’m so sorry.”

*  *  *

Not much grows here; no plants, no kids and no families. Our local hospital doesn’t have a delivery ward because no one gives birth here; it’s not legal to be born in Svalbard. Expectant mothers are required to register their pregnancy and relocate to the mainland for their third trimester.

   Sure, there’s a medical centre here, but for anything serious, we need to travel to the mainland for treatment. We’d been trying for a family for a year now and never considered the possibility we couldn’t have children. It was there in the small print. We completed everything in a rush. You know how it is, right? 

*  *  *

They didn’t tell us about the awful smell of polar bear faeces. It looks like a cross between a crusted cow-pat and an acrid fox stool and boy, it honks. The first time I stepped in it and brought it into our home was horrific. Cecilia had a heightened sense of smell and it caught the back of her throat. She dashed to the downstairs bathroom, with her eyes-watering, clutching her stomach and hurled up her lunch. She wouldn’t come out until I’d incinerated the doormat, disinfected both boots and the entire hallway. We laughed about it later, but at the time I had to hold a cloth over my mouth. I admit I almost wretched too. 

   Afterwards, our neighbours said, “You only do it once.” And they were right.

*  *  *

Cecilia didn’t hear me when I returned from the grocery mission. I could see her ensconced in her arboretum. She was shredding a letter into a thousand fragments until it resembled a ragged jumble of Lilliputian Scrabble tiles. 

   I kicked off my frost-laden footwear as she scooped up the white scraps in her hand. Cecilia was unaware of my presence as she let the debris tumble like snowflakes into her empty teacup. She repeated this as I approached her in my stocking feet, filling it to the brim with fractured words and broken phrases. 

   In a silent trance, she struck a match and lit the scraps; mesmerised by the lapping orange flame as it flared, flickered, and faded. She was still peering at the wisp of black smoke, spiralling up from the sooty remains as I whispered in her ear.

   “Hey, what’s burning?”

   “Oh, you know,” she sighed. “It’s not your problem.”

   “That’s a relief,” I said, shedding my down jacket. “I thought it was dinner.”

   “Don’t you think about anything else but your stomach?”

   “Hey,” I said, resting my hand on her shoulder. “We’re done here.”

   “I know, I know.” She sighed. 

   “Let’s rescue Tiger.”

The End