Chapter 7 The Fifth Night

The fifth night of the long dark was the eighteenth of November. The sun was under. The strait was black. The station was the night's whole. At three in the morning, the small radio rang. Odd came to the wire room, because the wire room was the entirety of the night, and the night was the entirety of what the long dark meant, and Odd was the one who used to go to the seal-rocks with Ingrid, before she died, and the going was the whole of what the two years were. He stood in the doorway. He looked at the small radio on the shelf. He did not say anything for a long time. "That's Ingrid's," he said. "It's not Ingrid's," Halvard said. "It was here before Ingrid. It was here when the station was built." "It's not the station's either," Odd said. "It's the strait's. It's the sound the strait makes when the lantern-gale comes up. I used to hear it with Ingrid, on the seal-rocks, in the long dark, when the cord was set and the gale was coming up the strait. It was not a bell. It was not a radio. It was the sound of the strait being the whole of what the long dark is." "Where did you hear it?" I said. "On the seal-rocks. Ingrid used to braid the cord. She'd sit on the west wall, in the evenings, and her hands would move, and the cord would be ready by morning. I'd carry it out to the seal-rocks and set it, and the lantern-gale would come up the strait, and the cord would sound, and I'd know where the shore was. And the sound it made, when the gale was in it, was the same as the quiet bell. It was not a bell. It was the sound of the strait. And the strait is the whole of what the long dark is." I did not say anything. I looked at the small radio on the shelf. It was grey. It was the size of my hand. It had a dial that did not point to anything, and a speaker that was not a speaker, and the wire room was the entirety of what the night meant, and the night was the sum of what the long dark was. "The braiding is stopped," Odd said. "Ingrid is dead. The cord is not made. The gale comes up the strait and I do not know where the shore is. And the quiet bell is the sound of the braiding that is not done. It is the sound of the cord that is not set. It is the sound of the long dark being the whole of what the winter is, and the winter being the whole of what the six are." He stood in the doorway. He did not come in. He went back to the boat shed. The wire room was the sum of what the night was, and the night was the whole of the long dark. I wrote in the log book: 03:00, small radio, fifth night, Odd says it is the sound of the braiding that is not done, the cord that is not set, the long dark being the whole of what the winter is, cause unknown. I closed the log book. The wire room was the whole of the night, and the night was the long dark's whole, and the long dark was the entirety of the winter, and the winter was the whole of what the six were. In the morning, I went to the boat shed, and Odd was there, with the rope in his hands, and the rope was the whole of what the boat was, and the boat was the entirety of what the strait meant, and the strait was the entirety of the long dark. "Can you braid?" I said. "I can braid," he said. "I used to braid. With Ingrid. On the west wall. In the evenings. Her hands would move, and the cord would be ready by morning. I'd carry it out to the seal-rocks and set it. And the gale would come up the strait, and the cord would sound, and I'd know where the shore was." "Can you braid now?" "I can braid now," he said. "The braiding is not a thing you forget. It's in the hands. It's in the way the rope moves. It's in the way the cord is made. And the making of the cord is the whole of what the long dark is." I did not say anything. I went back to the station. I wrote in the log book: 04:00, boat shed, Odd says he can braid, the braiding is not a thing you forget, the making of the cord is the whole of what the long dark is, cause unknown. I closed the log book. The wire room was the night's whole. Odd stood in the doorway of the wire room, and the doorway was the whole of what the wire room was, and the wire room was the sum of what the station was. The dark was behind him, the dark of the boat shed, and the boat shed was the sum of what the strait was, and the strait was the entirety of what the long dark meant. The kettle boiled and no one poured. Outside, the strait greyed toward another squall, and the sound of it came in over the stones in long even breaths. She counted the boards in the ceiling the way her mother had taught her to count anything that might otherwise become unbearable, and when she reached the end she began again, and the beginning again was the whole of what the hour was. The bell on the point gave no signal; it had given no signal in three years, and its silence was now a kind of furniture in the room, something they walked around without seeing. He did not come in. He stood in the doorway, and the standing was the whole of what the fifth night was, and the fifth night was the sum of what the long dark was. The fifth night was the eighteenth of November, and the eighteenth was the whole of what the fifth night was, and the fifth night was the whole of the long dark. The doorway was the whole of what the wire room was, and the wire room was the whole of the station, and the station was the entirety of the night, and the night was the long dark's whole.