The Midnight Circus, стр. 20
NeitherWilson nor Bowers questioned my tale, and indeed there was littlereason for them to do so. Oates was a soldier, a proud man who had beenwounded in battle, and it was entirely in keeping with his characterthat he would sacrifice himself for the good of his comrades. Ipromised Wilson and Bowers I would write of Oates’s sacrifice in myjournal, so that it would not be forgotten. Thewords that I placed in his mouth were these: “I am just going outsideand may be some time.” You will agree, I am certain, that they have anoble ring.
Wecontinued as best we could, hoping to reach the next depot before ouralready meager rations gave out. After only a few days, however, themost severe blizzard yet descended upon us, cutting off the wansunlight and trapping us inside our tent. Even if we had had thestrength to push on, we would have been hopelessly lost in the blinding storm.
Itwas obvious that the end was not far off. Wilson had long ago given uphis diary and Bowers made only desultory meteorological notes, butnow we commenced writing letters to the colleagues and the dear oneswe would soon be leaving behind.
Oncethis task was done, my friends had nothing left to fortify their mindsagainst the darkness that was coming upon us. Frostbite and cold keptthem in constant discomfort. They wept at the thought of theirfamilies, and this so unmanned them that they were in mental agony aswell.
Igave them the only gift I had left to give. While they slept fitfully,I granted them a quiet death by draining away their life’s blood. Indoing so I also gained for myself the sustenance I needed to see methrough a few more days so that I could write this final testament.
Wasit merely bad luck that stopped us here? Or is this place my destiny? Ino longer believe in God, but I dobelieve that some awful Providence is clearly at work. I was not meantto return to even so remote an outpost of civilization as Cape Evansfor—I am now sure—had I reached there, my bestial thirst would haveerupted again. And in that place, so unlike London’s dark rookeries,some dreadful incident would have exposed my awful secret. And thenmy dear Kathleen and my poor son would have borne the brunt of mydishonor.
Buryus all here together, Atkinson, and let us not be disturbed. Resistall attempts to bring us home. Say what you will—that this is amagnificent cathedral for our burial, or that it is fitting we stayhere where we strove so hard against the elements. Only do not letothers—even Kathleen—convince you to take our bodies back. As long asthe ice has me in its grip, I am at peace. I have made my farewells inthe other letters you see here, but I could not leave this tale untold.What you do with it is for you to decide, though I beg you to considerfirst and foremost my wife and son and their welfare.
Perhapsthe truth should simply be allowed to die, but as the Antarctic windhowls outside, clawing at our little tent with its talons of ice, Ipass this account on to you in defiance of mortality and the crushedhopes of a doomed expedition.
Mylast hope is that you will forgive me.
Yours ever sincerely,
R.Scott.
WhenI had finished reading the letter I saw that Atkinson was regarding mewith an almost pitying stare.
“Itis . . . incredible,” I said, only too aware of the inadequacy of mywords.
“WhenI read it the first time I thought so as well,” Atkinson agreed. “Icould only assume that Scott’s mind had been unbalanced by thehardships of the journey and the deaths of his comrades. However, whenI returned alone to his tent and examined the bodies of Wilson andBowers, I found their condition to be entirely consistent with Scott’sdescription of their end. They were drained of blood. And Scott’s ownbody was what convinced me of the truth.”
“Whatdo you mean?”
“Icould see now that his features were noticeably less disfigured by theeight months of winter than those of his companions. I took off myglove and touched my fingers to his frozen cheek. To my horror his eyesimmediately began to move beneath the closed lids, as though he wereexperiencing a dream. His cracked lips parted, and he uttered twowords in a dry whisper: ‘Leave me!’
“Ifled the tent and struggled to master myself lest any of my comradessuspect that something was amiss. The only conclusion I could draw wasthat the warmth of my touch, the blood beating beneath the pads of myfingertips, had been sufficient to rouse Scott momentarily from hisfrozen slumber.”
Isuppose my jaw dropped during the last of this recitation, thoughAtkinson was not done yet.
“Icarried the watches and documents from the tent, removed the poles, andcollapsed it. We built a cairn of stones over the graves and I read theburial service. We left for home, letting the Antarctic ice cover thegrave and leaving Scott to the rest he so earnestly longed for.”
Ashe finished his dreadful tale, Atkinson had become agitated. His facewas reddening and there were tears in his weary eyes.
“But. . .” I said to Atkinson, “what you tell me is insane.”
“Iam a man of science, vicar,” Atkinson said. “And I believe it. Can notyou—a man of God—believe it, too?”
I shivered and looked away. For allthat I spoke dailyof God—and the devil—I still had great moments of doubt. But thisstrange confession somehow put all disbelief to rout. If this thingwere true, then what else might be so? The miraculous birth, theeven more miraculous Resurrection? I turned back, to thank the dyingman for giving me back my faith, but he had one thing more to say.
“Whathaunts me most is this, Reverend,” Atkinson said, and with some lastmiracle of strength, he sat bolt upright in the bed. “By his owntestimony, Scott cannot truly die. He merely