14 years of darkness? Ex-diplomat writes haunting novel about the night.

The World
Nightfall tells the story of an island that cycles between 14 years of sunlight and 14 years of terrifying darkness.

Imagine this: You live on an island with 14 years of sunlight followed by 14 years of night. And when the darkness comes you need to flee.

Or else.

Now, imagine you accidentally get left behind.

Frightening, right?

That's the premise for the new young adult novel, "Nightfall."

And it probably would not be material for PRI's The World were it not for the fact that the co-author of Nightfall is a former US diplomat, Peter Kujawinski.

He was consul general for the Canadian provinces of Alberta,  Saskatchewan and the Northwest Territories. It was during a trip above the Arctic Circle that he found inspiration for his novel. 

"I realized the absence of light was much more important than I had initially thought," he says.

As the Buffalo News put it in a favorable review

Much of the action of the novel takes place in the dark, in freezing rain, lashing winds, hail and ice, with the only light provided by a candle, the moon or the luminescence of an ink tattoo, as the authors masterfully build the suspense, the teens fleeing for their lives in the darkness, unseen predators in pursuit drawn by “the scent of day.”

Below is an excerpt from the book. 

***

Chapter 1

Marin walked into the wind and felt it gently push back. A few more steps and she’d be at the edge of the cliff. Her focus was on the thistle, the prickly green plants that crunched beneath her feet. What would happen to these plants during the years of Night? Would they wither and die, or would they simply lie dormant, waiting for the first rays of sun to peek up from the horizon? She had asked those who had been through this before, but they refused to discuss it. No one talked about the Night, even though it was almost upon them.

She stopped near the precipice. The water below was dark, almost black, and it stretched everywhere, like a liquid version of the sky. In the last year, as the sun had begun its final descent, the water had gone from blue-green to iridescent blue, and from there it grew steadily darker. A hint of its fluorescence remained, but now it provoked a shiver instead of a smile.

Marin took a deep breath of the cold sea air. When the sun vanished, it would get even colder. Everything would freeze—at least that’s what people at school said. In any case, by the time that happened, she’d be long gone, along with everyone else in Bliss. Only the buildings would remain, silent and empty, entombed in ice.

The wind flung Marin’s wavy black hair into her face. She was smaller than other girls her age, but not petite. Her arms and legs were long and well-muscled, the product of years spent climbing, hiking, and sailing. She had honey-colored eyes, long lashes, and bronze skin—a striking combination, which she inherited from her mother. Her clothing, however, was plain and purely functional: waxed canvas pants, a raw denim shirt, and leather boots.

“Has the tide turned yet?”

Marin spun around upon hearing the unexpected voice. She had been waiting for her friend Line, but instead she saw Palan—a frail man with paper-thin skin and a bald head marked with brown sunspots. Palan had lived through several Mornings and his skin bore the proof. His cobalt-blue robe rippled in the wind, revealing a left arm that ended in a stump just above the wrist.

“I’m not sure about the tide,” Marin replied. “What do you think?”

The old man faced Marin, his watery eyes gazing past her, into the distance. “This is my fourth Evening,” he said quietly. He shivered and tightened the heavy wool scarf around his neck. “The sun seems to be moving faster and faster with the years.”

Marin followed his gaze. The sun was very low. It was four-fifths down and only a sliver remained above the horizon. The entire western sky was ablaze in magnificent shades of orange and red. A few degrees more and the sun would vanish completely, plunging the island into darkness for the next fourteen years. They said this would happen soon, perhaps in a matter of days. It sounded a bit like the end of the world to Marin, and she still found it hard to believe.

The wind turned soft and Palan sighed. “It saddens me that I will never see this place again. When I leave here—I expect I won’t return.”

Marin reached out and touched his arm. The old man turned away from the sea, back toward the island’s interior, and grasped her hand tightly. “I’ve heard movement in the forest,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?” asked Marin.

Palan gripped her hand tighter but did not reply.

A muffled shout rang in the distance.

“MARIN!”

They turned around and watched a teenage boy moving toward them. It was Line. If Palan hadn’t been there, she would have run to him, but now she just waved back.

When he arrived, Line appeared slightly confused. Palan watched them appraisingly, then smiled.

Line’s dark brown eyes twinkled as he regarded Marin. He was handsome in the way that few boys of fourteen are. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with an unkempt shock of reddish-brown hair, high cheekbones, and a cleft chin.

“Elder Palan,” said Line. “Any news of the boats?” A gust of wind pressed his curly hair flat against his head.

Palan straightened, as if the use of the honorific—Elder—reminded him of his role and station. “Sorry, my boy, I’ve heard nothing of the boats,” said Palan. “But I am not here for that. Come—I’ll show you.”

He approached the cliff’s edge and pointed downward. Marin and Line followed close behind him and peered over the precipice. The face of the cliff was shrouded in shadow, but they could make out several thick, luminescent, white veins coming out of the cliff and running down its side, like a hardened trail of wax from a giant candle.

“It’s ice,” said Palan. It was colder at the edge of the cliff, and his shoulders began to tremble. “My father brought me to this place as a boy. The ice always begins here. It squeezes out of the rock and then, they say, it spreads . . . until it covers everything.”

Marin and Line stood close together, near Palan. Line’s fingers grazed Marin’s palm.

Palan leaned over several inches more. “Somewhere down there is the hag,” he said. “Years ago, everyone could see her—but then she fell off her block. Now, few remember.”

He took a step back from the cliff and smiled with great contentment, as if recalling a particularly fond memory. Marin and Line looked down at the water. It seemed no different than before. Palan often spoke in riddles, in the manner that those of such age do.

“I’d like to get closer to that ice,” said Line, taking off the coil of rope slung across his shoulder and pushing up the sleeves of his sweater. His forearms and biceps were tan and muscled from years of rock climbing.

“As you wish,” said Palan. “But be careful. Ice is much slicker than rock.”

Suddenly impatient, Marin and Line said good-bye. As Palan shuffled back to town, Line set up the rope, tying it securely to a small brass ring jutting from the rock. Marin and Line had been climbing the cliffs that formed the island’s perimeter their entire lives, and recently, it had been just the two of them. Going off unchaperoned was frowned upon, but at the moment, the town was too consumed with other matters to pay them any mind.

Just before beginning, they checked to make sure they were each securely fastened to the rope. Marin faced Line. She tucked a lock of hair behind his ear so it didn’t dangle over his eyes. “You were late,” she said, scowling as if she were cross with him.

“Only a minute or two,” he said. He shook his head so that his hair, once again, dangled down over his eyes. “It won’t happen again.”

They descended steadily until the ocean spray began to mist their legs. The angle of the setting sun was too low to reach this area, and it was darker than they expected. Still, they were able to see the veins of ice very well, and they marveled at how it seemed to glow.

Line continued down several feet, until ocean spray wet his heavy canvas pants and his wool sweater. Marin heard him mutter in surprise.

“What is it?” she called.

Line looked up. Marin was standing comfortably on a tiny ledge two body lengths above him. “The tide’s turned,” he said.

“Just now?”

She climbed down to get a better look.

“You’re right,” she said. “Look, you can see it.” She pointed to a thin band of white that clung to the cliff wall near their feet.

Line nodded. “That dried salt is the high-water mark.”

They hugged the cliff wall. After all the anticipation, it was happening. During the fourteen years of Day, the waters around their island remained at high tide. Then, just before the sun vanished, the tide reversed itself suddenly and rapidly, rolling out hundreds of miles and leaving exposed seabed where once there had been crashing waves. And the sea stayed away until Sunrise—some fourteen years later—when it returned just as fast. The timing of all of this was crucial for the islanders, who migrated with the tide. Once it turned, they had just a few days to depart.

“Do you think anyone else knows?” she asked.

“I bet the okrana know.” Line adjusted his hold on the rock and shivered. The nearby ice emanated cold with a surprising intensity. “We should go.”

He was beginning to climb back up when Marin saw something brown and green poking out of the frothy water.

“Line!” she called. Her voice was sharp against the muffled thump of the waves.

Line stopped. His foot was jammed into a tiny crevice in the rock, and one of his fingers curled around a slight nub. He leaned out and looked down, using his free arm and leg for balance. To Marin, it looked like his finger and foot were glued to the wall. Marin shook her head. Show-off.

“What is it?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Just come look,” said Marin. Her eyes were wide and brimming with excitement. “There’s something in the water.”

Line climbed back down to join her on the ledge. He followed her gaze and, over the next few minutes, they watched a human form emerge from the receding tide. It jutted out at a strange angle, but still they could tell that it was a statue of a woman. The head was simply carved, yet her expression was surprisingly intricate. Her mouth was gaping open, as if she were screaming or expressing great terror. The statue was big—three or four times the size of an average person.

“Palan’s hag,” whispered Line.

The water level was dropping steadily, and soon they saw her upper torso. The hag brandished a shield and wore a plain cloak wrapped tightly around a lean, muscular body.

“I see writing!” Marin called. “There—on the shield!”

They waited breathlessly through several waves, until the trough of one large wave revealed huge block letters that read: the houses must be without stain.

Marin tried to suppress an uneasy feeling. The island was littered with old ruins—crumbling foundations, broken pillars, old stone walls. This statue was just another relic of the island’s past. A vestige of former residents. Still, the phrase seemed strangely relevant. The houses must be without stain. Now that the tide had turned, everyone in town would be cleaning their homes, preparing to leave. It was an ironclad rule—the last task before departure.

“Why is this statue here—in the ocean?” Marin asked.

Line said nothing at first. “It’s curious,” he finally replied. “It looks very old.” He frowned, then turned to Marin. “I’m ready to head back. All right?”

“What’s the matter?” Marin asked. The sea left a fine mist on their exposed skin and hair.

Line smiled, but it was forced. “I’m just cold, that’s all.”

“Let’s go,” she said. Line was more her brother’s friend than hers, and she still didn’t know him that well. They began ascending the shadowy rock face. Marin was about to urge Line to climb faster when his foot rolled off the rock. It was shocking—he might have fallen backward if he didn’t have a rope to grab onto. Line was one of the best climbers in Bliss. He’d never slipped before.

“What happened?” called Marin.

“Ice,” said Line, almost as a curse. “It’s in the crags.”

Together they climbed as quickly as they could, back toward the sunlight.

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