that.
He felt she was better than they were. Moving in a world he would never really know, possessor of some more permanent truth.
He shook the irrationality of the thought away, mentally preparing the text of the update he would put on the Web site, and the response that he would write to a boy called John Marshall, as they crossed Barrow Strait and made for Resolute.
Eight
The sea was clear, but Jo couldn’t look at it.
It was later that same week, and she sat directly behind the pilot in the Dauphin helicopter, wedged between John Marshall and the leading medical assistant. She spent most of her time with her fingers crossed, looking steadfastly at the portion of control panel that she could glimpse between the pilot and his observer.
It was a bright day over the North Atlantic, the visibility limitless. In all directions white-tipped waves rolled; the wind was low, the sky empty of cloud. A charitable weather system was sitting square on the southern tip of Greenland, giving them effortless flying.
“You’re lucky to see it like this,” the pilot had told her as they first swung out over the sea.
She had shrunk back. “I don’t want to see it at all,” she had told him, her words mercifully sucked away in the roar of sound as the Dauphin dipped to one side and reeled out in the direction of the Fox .
She glanced across at John Marshall. If anything, he looked sicker than she, his head tucked down. She nudged his arm.
“Like flying?” she asked.
He shrugged. She considered him obliquely. He looked very much like his father: tall, rangy, sandy haired. She wondered if Douglas had this same expression in his face, this guarded look. Doug’s public persona seemed to be full of charm and humor. Perhaps, she thought, that was all it would turn out to be. A public face.
When she had first met John that morning, he had been accompanied by one of the most beautiful girls that Jo had ever seen. Introduced to her by John, Jo had found herself self-consciously tugging down on the bulky parka she was wearing, and standing very upright. Then, almost in the same moment, she had grinned inwardly at herself. No amount of standing up straight was even going to bring her up to Catherine Takkiruq’s shoulder. To make matters worse, she couldn’t even find it in her heart to hate the girl for her astonishing good looks. Catherine seemed to be sweetness itself.
She nudged John’s arm again now, raising her voice above the helicopter noise.
“Is your girlfriend Russian?” she asked.
“What?” he said.
“Siberian?”
He smiled, and shook his head. “Canadian. Inuit,” he said.
Of course , she told herself. What other kind of girl would a Marshall man be interested in?
“She’s amazing,” she told him.
He nodded, his eyes saying it all.
The Dauphin roared on, lost, it seemed to Jo as she caught glimpses of the sea, in an endless blue space. After a while she dug into her pocket. She brought out the crumpled photograph of Doug and, holding it down against her leg to stop it flying away, showed it to John.
“This photograph …” she said. She pointed to it. “Is this the canister he found?”
John seemed to look for a very long time at the image. “Yes,” he said finally. And he closed his eyes and turned his head away from her.
She looked from him to the photograph, puzzled at his continuing silence. She folded the paper and put it back in her pocket, frustrated.
In the last few days she had found out about Doug Marshall’s discovery, a find so momentous that it had made his professional name. She had found an article he had written for the trade press: how he had stumbled across it, almost literally, while on a previous Greenland trip. How only two canisters from Franklin’s ships had ever been found: one in Egedesminde, on the west coast of Greenland, in July 1849; one by Doug Marshall, at Sarfannguag, in August 1990. The canisters, thrown overboard, supposedly, at regular intervals during
He felt she was better than they were. Moving in a world he would never really know, possessor of some more permanent truth.
He shook the irrationality of the thought away, mentally preparing the text of the update he would put on the Web site, and the response that he would write to a boy called John Marshall, as they crossed Barrow Strait and made for Resolute.
Eight
The sea was clear, but Jo couldn’t look at it.
It was later that same week, and she sat directly behind the pilot in the Dauphin helicopter, wedged between John Marshall and the leading medical assistant. She spent most of her time with her fingers crossed, looking steadfastly at the portion of control panel that she could glimpse between the pilot and his observer.
It was a bright day over the North Atlantic, the visibility limitless. In all directions white-tipped waves rolled; the wind was low, the sky empty of cloud. A charitable weather system was sitting square on the southern tip of Greenland, giving them effortless flying.
“You’re lucky to see it like this,” the pilot had told her as they first swung out over the sea.
She had shrunk back. “I don’t want to see it at all,” she had told him, her words mercifully sucked away in the roar of sound as the Dauphin dipped to one side and reeled out in the direction of the Fox .
She glanced across at John Marshall. If anything, he looked sicker than she, his head tucked down. She nudged his arm.
“Like flying?” she asked.
He shrugged. She considered him obliquely. He looked very much like his father: tall, rangy, sandy haired. She wondered if Douglas had this same expression in his face, this guarded look. Doug’s public persona seemed to be full of charm and humor. Perhaps, she thought, that was all it would turn out to be. A public face.
When she had first met John that morning, he had been accompanied by one of the most beautiful girls that Jo had ever seen. Introduced to her by John, Jo had found herself self-consciously tugging down on the bulky parka she was wearing, and standing very upright. Then, almost in the same moment, she had grinned inwardly at herself. No amount of standing up straight was even going to bring her up to Catherine Takkiruq’s shoulder. To make matters worse, she couldn’t even find it in her heart to hate the girl for her astonishing good looks. Catherine seemed to be sweetness itself.
She nudged John’s arm again now, raising her voice above the helicopter noise.
“Is your girlfriend Russian?” she asked.
“What?” he said.
“Siberian?”
He smiled, and shook his head. “Canadian. Inuit,” he said.
Of course , she told herself. What other kind of girl would a Marshall man be interested in?
“She’s amazing,” she told him.
He nodded, his eyes saying it all.
The Dauphin roared on, lost, it seemed to Jo as she caught glimpses of the sea, in an endless blue space. After a while she dug into her pocket. She brought out the crumpled photograph of Doug and, holding it down against her leg to stop it flying away, showed it to John.
“This photograph …” she said. She pointed to it. “Is this the canister he found?”
John seemed to look for a very long time at the image. “Yes,” he said finally. And he closed his eyes and turned his head away from her.
She looked from him to the photograph, puzzled at his continuing silence. She folded the paper and put it back in her pocket, frustrated.
In the last few days she had found out about Doug Marshall’s discovery, a find so momentous that it had made his professional name. She had found an article he had written for the trade press: how he had stumbled across it, almost literally, while on a previous Greenland trip. How only two canisters from Franklin’s ships had ever been found: one in Egedesminde, on the west coast of Greenland, in July 1849; one by Doug Marshall, at Sarfannguag, in August 1990. The canisters, thrown overboard, supposedly, at regular intervals during
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