Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
Nicholas returned to her side. For a moment he stood. Then without saying anything he walked back over the snow to first one dark, steaming vent, then a second. Beyond that was the icy-rimmed basin upon which Paúel had slipped. He stood there for what seemed a long time, and then saw that Paúel was standing beside him. Neither spoke.
The fifty-foot basin was dry, which was normal. The water which had recently filled it had spilled from the edge and was still making its way, steaming, tricking over the snowfield. The central pipe still emitted steam, which blew about in the abated breeze. The geysir was one they had timed. The water retreated sixty feet down the pipe, boiled, ascended, and finally exploded once more in the air. Nicholas stepped into the basin and looked down. He heard Kathi call out in warning, but Paúel beside him made no effort to hold him back.
There was no danger, because there was no sound of simmering water. There was no sound, because there was no water and, as he looked, the upper surface of the pipe became dry. The geysir was dead. And so, inert in uncanny silence, lay every spring in the field. The steam, as he watched, began to thin and to fade. Dry and silent, the crust of Hell lay around them, the voices withdrawn.
They stood, looking about, while in front of them, Glímu-Sveinn called again, pointing. They turned to the south-east. Against a deep charcoal sky, a white mountain glowed in the distance. From it trailed a plume of pale russet smoke.
‘Hekla,’ Benecke said.
Behind Hekla, to the east, lowered the mighty Vatna glacier with its burden of ice three thousand feet deep. To the south floated the great southern glaciers of Myrdals and Eyjafjalla, over five thousand feet high: a pack of icy-blue whalebacks against the dark sky from which arose, feather-white, another column of vapour. Nicholas studied it, one hand at his throat. He said nothing.
A flock of crows fled overhead in an abrupt storm of noise. A moment later, like a darn in the silence, could be heard the faint scratchy sound –
reu, reu, reu –
of hastening ptarmigan. Then the silence returned. Benecke said, ‘I think we should hurry.’
Watchfully then, all four of them started to run. Around them, the tormented arena lay cooling and dumb, its violence throttled, its trickling waters and mud-beds congealing. Now and then, something pattered or cracked. Once, Sersanders attempted to speak, but Nicholas shook his head. Glímu-Sveinn had the answers.
Glímu-Sveinn, his beard in his chest, sat and watched them approach. He had roped the horses together; they stood in a huddle, their great heads poking over each other’s backs, their eyeballs glittering. The Icelander’s wide otter-eyes were veined red. He said, ‘Mount, and throw down anything you do not need. You felt the tremors?’
‘The springs are dry,’ Nicholas said.
‘All this last week the ice-caps have shrunk, and for two days the ewes have held back their milk. I should have known. I will take you west with my family, and from Skálholt you will go to the Governor’s house at Bessastadir. When it is over, he will find you some ship.’
‘We have ships,’ said Benecke sharply. They were already mounting.
The reddened eyes turned and glared into his. ‘You cannot reach them. The valley of the Markarfljót will be impassable. Even the Hvita has changed since you crossed it.’
‘Why?’ said Anselm Sersanders. Beneath his tight hand, his pony was wild-eyed and fidgetting. The spare horses were trampling and snorting. Sersanders himself appeared alert and determined, the way he did in his armour when fighting. Kathi wore the same expression. For once, they looked like brother and sister.
The Icelander turned and spoke to them all. ‘There have been earthquake tremors all afternoon. Among the geysirs, you would not distinguish them. There will be more. They are dangerous in themselves, but also, they affect the rivers, the glaciers. They can cause a
skidáfall
, a landslide, a snow-slip. The thunder, too, can bring very bad lift-fire.’
‘Lightning,’ said Kathi.
‘It can kill men, and horses. And at the very worst, with all this motion, the fire-pipes in the mountains may crack. Hekla may explode.’
‘When?’ said Benecke. ‘How soon might it happen? How will we know when it starts?’
‘You will hear it. The smoke will darken. There will be a smell of sulphur perhaps. It can happen quickly, or it can delay for some days. But long before the explosion, you will be travelling west. All those who live in the plains are preparing to round up their beasts and do the same. My family too. I have just come from there. We can be
with them in an hour, if we hurry; and travel together to Skálholt by dark. Come. Come.’
‘And Sigfús?’ said Kathi. ‘Did you find him?’
Glímu-Sveinn looked at her. He said, ‘He is dead. I followed his tracks to the farm, but the farm was no longer there. The shaking had brought down the snow, and a landslide of boulders beneath it. The wreckage was strewn all down the hill, and there was nothing of the farmer and Sigfús but a bloodstained shoe and some rags. I left them. I had to find my own home.’
If Sigfús dies because of the Flemings, I will kill them
. Glímu-Sveinn had meant it. But Fate had buried Sigfús in the end and, faced with the danger to his own house and his duty – to his credit – to his travellers, Glímu-Sveinn had not wasted time on a search. Whoever lived at his home – elderly parents, sisters, infants – needed him more.
Nicholas said, ‘We are grateful that you came back, and for your offer to help us. I have only one thing to ask, very quickly. Does one mountain unsettle another? Are you afraid only of Hekla?’
‘Hekla is nearest.’ The Icelander paused. ‘It has been known. Hvallavellir disturbed can rouse Hekla.’
‘And Katla?’ Nicholas said.
‘It is not impossible. But it is a nightmare I for one will not contemplate.’
‘No. Take us to your house,’ Nicholas said. ‘And on the way, if you can, take us past the place where Sigfús was killed. We should speak of it to his widow, if we meet her.’
Sersanders’s expression changed, and he opened his mouth. Before he could mention the cub, Nicholas said, ‘But of course we must hurry. Lead on.’
During the journey, they spoke very little, each of them braced for what might be going to happen. The soft ground beyond the geysirs was difficult, and the ponies jibbed at the ropes which held them together instead of the dog, left behind to herd Glímu-Sveinn’s animals. The ferryman’s hut, when they reached it, was empty, and the river itself seemed to have tilted, with shallows where there had been none before, and deeper currents racing like horses. The water was saddle-deep in such places, and the ponies paddled like crabs, before scrambling up the steep opposite bank. Even the roar of the upper creek and the falls seemed thinner and lighter.
After that, oddly, the wind came once again, whistling and whining from a different direction and erratic in force. It stripped the snow from the ground and hurled it into their faces in long stinging
swathes, stopping their breath. Before them, the layers of lava displayed arching streamers of snow, coldly bridal. Despite the chill and the buffeting it restored, for a while, a sense of healthy normality; even the clamour of it was welcome. Then the wind dropped as abruptly as it had risen, and the veils cleared to show them the glaciers again, and the rough whitened ground, and Hekla, with a brown column of smoke puffing into the sunless air. Near at hand lay a vast black escarpment, its lower slopes burdened with snow. Glímu-Sveinn said, ‘There was the farm.’
Kathi made to ride forward, but the Icelander stopped her. ‘The snow is soft. We do not know how deep it is. It is best not to go near.’
‘Let me try,’ Nicholas said, and dismounted. Immediately, Sersanders slid off his horse.
Benecke said, ‘We should hurry.’ In his voice was more than impatience.
Kathi said, ‘Yes, Anselm. Come.’
‘I must just –’ Sersanders said. He began walking forward. He hadn’t even taken a pole. Nicholas watched him, his hand at his throat.
‘Well stop him!’ said Kathi, with exasperation.
Glímu-Sveinn had begun to urge his pony forward. Nicholas said, ‘No. Give me a pole and some rope.’
‘Why?’ said Benecke.
‘I’ve found it!’
shrieked Sersanders suddenly. They could see him up to his knees in soft snow, attempting to dig something out with his hands. As he spoke, he half sank out of sight and hauled himself out again. Then he started tugging again.
Nicholas began walking towards him very slowly. Behind him, Benecke was using his one useful arm to detain Kathi. Benecke said, projecting his voice, ‘If you pull anything out, you could dislodge all the snow piled above you.’
‘What?’ said Sersanders. His face, red in the whiteness, was beaming. ‘It’s the bear! Unblemished pelt! Come and help me!’
His voice echoed. Nicholas listened, and swore. Once this had happened to him, in the Alps. Correction: he had made it happen. This time, the hapless Sersanders yelled, and a rumble answered him from over his head. Nicholas uncoiled his rope and hurled one end as far as he could towards Sersanders who, staring up, noticed and caught it. He had wrapped it once round his wrist when the avalanche fell.
It pulled Nicholas with it. He felt the drag on his arm as Sersanders was tossed down the slope far ahead of him, and then himself lost control of the rope under a shower of angular rubble. He lay, mildly
concussed and empty-handed until the movement and noise died away, and then threw off the snow on his shoulders and lifted himself cautiously up to look round. Behind, Benecke was still holding Kathi but the Icelander, gripping rope, was on all fours and crawling forward. He was carrying two planks of wood.
Nicholas said, ‘Throw them. I’ll find him.’ He didn’t have to speak very loudly.
Glímu-Sveinn said, ‘What is that?’
The knot was sodden: Nicholas had to drag off one glove, and pull the thing over his head. Then he let the stone hang, without answering. The vast, heavy silence had fallen again. It made it easier to concentrate, and also more difficult. The pendulum started to swing. Nicholas said, ‘He is over there. Give me a board. Follow me if you like.’ Behind him, he heard Kathi’s low voice, talking to Benecke. He followed the pendulum. His hand was so numb that he felt none of the cord’s violent friction. He was confident of success. The avalanche had been brief, and Sersanders had been braked by the rope and couldn’t be deeply buried. They had to find him quickly, that was all.
Skilled at moving over the snow, Glímu-Sveinn led, and Nicholas followed, articulating directions. The pendulum had no doubts about where it was going. At the place where its swing was most violent, Glímu-Sveinn carefully pushed down his pole, and met resistance. Together he and Nicholas dug, and Adorne’s nephew was there, half stifled and shocked, and with an ankle-bone snapped, but alive.
Returned to his horse, wrapped in wadmol, he sat with chattering teeth while Nicholas faced Glímu-Sveinn. ‘What was that?’ said the Icelander. The man from Danzig, mounted again, was gazing thoughtfully at them both, while Kathi bent over her brother, padding and binding his ankle. Nicholas could not see her expression.
Nicholas said, ‘It was a pendulum. It’s often used overseas to find water. Sometimes it can find people too.’
‘Anyone can do it?’ the Icelander asked.
‘If they have the knack. Glímu-Sveinn, there is someone else under the snow.’
Kathi looked up. ‘Bodies,’ the Icelander said.
‘No. Someone living. It could be the farmer, or Sigfús. But it would take longer to find him.’
‘Why?’ said Benecke.
‘I knew Sersanders,’ Nicholas said. He turned to Glímu-Sveinn. ‘How near is your home? Could you take the others there, and come back for me?’
The pale blue eyes stared at his. ‘There is nothing there. This young man needs attention. We must go.’
‘There is something there,’ Nicholas said. ‘Someone. A man.’
Kathi said, ‘It is not the bear, Glímu-Sveinn. Nikolás-riddari has a gift. He can find people.’
‘And nails?’ said Paúel Benecke. ‘Is that how you did the trick with the nails? A magician, forsooth.’
Nicholas could think of nothing to say. There was blood in his hair and his face stung, but he hardly felt it. His head felt swimmingly empty and his chest, by contrast, unpleasantly tight. He said, ‘If we leave it, it will be too late.’ He spoke directly to Glímu-Sveinn, with a sort of irritated anger which increased as he found the man was looking away. Then he saw, to the right, a mounted figure approaching them: a white-bearded man who was hailing them in Icelandic. Glímu-Sveinn called back, and turned.
‘My father’s brother, come to tell me to hurry. This is what you will do. You and he will look for this person. I will take the rest to my house and return. If you have not found him, you leave. Hekla is smoking.’
‘It isn’t Hekla,’ Nicholas said. He felt he had said it before, and was annoyed at having to repeat it.
Benecke made a remark. ‘You said the danger was in the south, as we were coming here. Isn’t that Hekla?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Further south. I think it is Katla.’
‘I hope not,’ Benecke said, after a pause. ‘One would have to think of our ships.’
‘I am thinking of them,’ Nicholas said. ‘I am not going with you. After we get out this man, I go south.’
‘Without a guide?’ Benecke said.
‘I shall find one. You see,’ Nicholas said, ‘they are expecting the explosion from Hekla. They will have to be warned.’
‘And if you are wrong?’
‘Then that will be best of all,’ Nicholas said.
They must have gone, after that, for he found himself alone in the snow with Glímu-Sveinn’s uncle, who immediately launched into angry abuse. Then the old man crawled about hawking and spitting, and complaining at everything Nicholas did. But like his nephew, he was a master of locomotion over treacherous ground, and accepted directions, although he cackled with temper when the directions proved wrong, as they often did. Then suddenly the sense of Sigfús came flooding in, as had never happened before with someone he didn’t know, and the pendulum span higher and higher, and Nicholas pointed and spoke.