Free Dark Matter by Michelle Paver

wireless. And I catch up on the latest wild theories in physics. Before I left London, my old professor sent me a stack of periodicals. As I read them, I feel a flicker of excitement. I remember how I used to feel. How I used to dream.
    I think about that when I work at my wireless bench. Sometimes I catch sight of my reflection in the window. I hardly know myself. My hair is longer, and my beard makes me look younger, more hopeful. I feel hopeful. Maybe Gus has a point. Maybe I haven’t missed my chance.
    It’s odd, but the wireless corner is so cold that I have to put on an extra pullover. And at times there’s a faint, disagreeable smell of seaweed. I’ve washed everything with Lysol, but it’s still there. I don’t think the others have noticed.
    But I do still love Gruhuken. It’s a million miles away from the shabby gentility of Tooting; fromworrying about whether your collar can go another day. My poor mother lived for all that. I remember her ‘doing the steps’ at our house in Bexhill. She had a girl to do the rough, but the steps were her domain. She did the ones at the door with white hearthstone, those by the gate with grey. Thinking of that now, it’s heartbreaking. To spend your life painting stones.
    Gus loves it here too, because there aren’t any servants; he says this is the first time he’s ever been allowed to make his own bed. I’m not sure about Algie. He insists on having the wireless or the gramophone on all the time, and now he’s taken to whistling through his teeth. Sometimes I think he can’t bear a moment’s silence. What’s he trying to escape?
    Over the last few days, great flocks of birds have begun to gather in the bay. Gus says they’re getting ready to leave.

30th August
     
    Gus was right, the dogs did get me in the end. Well, one of them did.
    Until this afternoon, I’d only progressed as far as learning their names. The leaders of the pack are Upik the russet bitch, and her mate Svarten. Eli, Kiawak, Pakomi and Jens are their progeny; and Isaak andAnadark are the youngsters, only a year old, although they look like full-grown wolves. Isaak’s the one who fell in the harbour at Tromsø.
    Yesterday, Gus and Algie were off hunting and I was reading in the cabin when all hell broke loose outside. Thinking instantly of bears, I pulled on my gear, grabbed my rifle and burst out the door.
    Thank God, no bears. The dogs were baying and straining at their stakes to get at the youngster, Isaak. Somehow he’d found a tin of pemmican, gnawed his way through, and got his muzzle stuck inside. He was stumbling blindly about, clunking his helmeted head against rocks.
    When he heard me coming, he stopped. I didn’t give myself time to think, I just ran over and clamped my knees about his middle, the way Gus and Algie do when they’re putting on harnesses. Isaak squirmed, but couldn’t get free, and I yanked the tin off his head.
    God, he was fast. Leapt up and gave me a headbutt that knocked me flat and sent the tin flying. He pounced on it – and got his head stuck
again.
    ‘Bad dog! Bad dog!’ I shouted inanely as I struggled to my feet. Then we went through it all again – only this time when I got the tin off his head, I jumped out of the way. I was so pleased with myself that I emptied the pemmican in the snow for him, and he downed itin one gulp, then stood lashing his tail, his ice-blue eyes alight with anarchy.
Let’s do it again!
    Damn, damn, damn. He’d torn one ear on the tin. After what he’d just put me through, I wasn’t going to let him get lockjaw, so I unclipped him from his stake and dragged him towards the cabin for treatment. Halfway there, I realised I should’ve fetched the disinfectant first, leaving him tied up outside. He seemed to think so too, as he gave me a doubtful look.
    The trick to handling a husky is to grab it by its harness and half lift it, so that its front paws don’t touch the ground; this way, it can’t run off with you. At least