ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  I played with my glass. Magnificent, yes, but he could kiss goodbye to any hope of further funding.

  Harry was still shaking. He reached for the pitcher. ‘I don’t normally behave like that. I think I need another drink.’

  ‘Me too, sweetheart. Here, let me do it.’ Liz took the pitcher from his hand. ‘What about you, Mags? Your glass is empty.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve had enough.’

  Mike had returned. ‘So, what did Bibby want?’ he said quietly.

  ‘To apologise to Harry for offending him at the airport,’ I said, watching his reaction.

  His eyes drilled into mine, but he said nothing.

  Harry took a long drink of Purple Kiss. ‘It’s because he was plastered, dear boy. He wouldn’t have made the gesture otherwise. And I’m sure he won’t remember it in the morning.’

  ‘You told him where to get off, though,’ said Liz. ‘I rather think you won that round.’

  Mike smiled. ‘Grand.’

  Now that Mike was with us, the pitcher emptied rapidly. I checked my watch: it was nearly 10.30pm. ‘I think I’m turning in,’ I said.

  ‘I’m ready for bed, too, children. It’s been quite a day, what with one thing and another.’ Harry stood up, swayed, then sat down again.

  He gazed up at Mike, a puzzled look on his face. ‘Dear boy, do you think you could help me back to the Excelsior? My legs don’t seem to be following my brain’s instructions.’

  I knew Harry enjoyed drinking, but I’d never seen him drunk. From the expression on Liz’s face, neither had she. But, once Harry was on his feet, he walked as steadily as always, and I could only conclude he’d put on an act for our amusement.

  Chapter 10

  We returned to the Excelsior and collected what we needed for the night. In the Locker Room, Liz and I said our goodbyes to Mike and Harry, who headed off to the men’s changing room.

  The women’s area was packed. People were milling around in various stages of undress, drinking hot lingonberry juice and all talking at once. Clothes littered the benches.

  I stared at myself in the long mirror. I was wearing a giant babygro. ‘I can’t believe this sleepsuit is all we’ll need, Liz. It’ll be minus five.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of anyone ever dying from hypothermia,’ she said, smoothing cream over her face. ‘I really think the Icehotel would have closed down if they had.’

  We secured our belongings in our lockers, removed the keys and slipped the rubber bands over our wrists. Then, clutching the sleeping bags, we made our way to the washroom, where we took hot showers.

  I tensed myself for the now familiar sharp drop in temperature, and stepped outside. Despite the shower and thick snowsuit, the warmth leached out of my body and I was soon shivering violently. The side door to the Icehotel was feet away. Liz pulled at the antlers and I followed her in. She took a couple of steps, then stopped short, drawing her breath in sharply.

  Along the walls of the long corridor, yellow candles like miniature runway lights sat in the snow. The amber glow faded into the distance, narrowing to a single point, yet it was still bright enough to light our passage.

  I took Liz’s arm and we wandered down the corridor, our feet swishing in the dry snow. The candles flared as we passed, throwing giant shadows onto the snow-pressed walls. They moved in silent congregation, growing then dying in the flickering light, spirits of the Icehotel, creeping after us.

  We’d gone a little way when Liz pointed to a side corridor. ‘My room’s down here, Mags. I do hope we all get some sleep. See you at brekkie.’

  I waited till she’d disappeared before following the signs to number 16. By now, Harry would be asleep in number 15, Pan leching down at him. Wilson was on my other side in number 17, and Marcellus, in number 18. But the Bibbys would still be having their nightcap; I pictured Wilson sitting in the bar, drinking sullenly, ignoring everyone.

  I drew back the velvet curtain, seeing my room for the first time.

  The room was plain, and identical to Harry’s in size and layout. Candles were scattered over the floor, the light dancing in the draught from the corridor. Facing the double bed was the alcove. In it was an ice statue, lit from behind.

  It was a Knight Templar. He was holding his helmet under his right arm, his gauntleted left hand resting on the handle of his great sword, still in its sheath. The crosses on his chest and shield had been roughened like the clown’s face. He stood erect, legs planted in the snow, head thrown back, nobly scanning the distance for some unseen enemy. I ran my hand over the pepper-pot helmet, fingering the detail, wondering how the Templars could see through such narrow slits.

  I brought my face close to his. The hair was swept back from the aristocratic forehead, and curled thickly at the nape of the neck. The eyes were clear and unflinching as they gazed towards a limitless horizon. And the mouth was set in grim determination as a knight’s should be. My honour would be safe tonight.

  I touched his face. As my skin brushed the ice, I felt a light pricking as though static had discharged through my hand. Slowly, I ran my fingers across his cheek. The Knight’s features dissolved. Instead of the pale-blue ice face with its wide-set eyes and high cheekbones, I saw a face made of flesh and blood.

  From the condition of the skin, he’d been dead for some time. The sunken eyes were closed, and the lips were parted, the tips of the teeth just visible. His features were familiar, that thin mouth and prominent nose, but I couldn’t place him. My fingers were still touching his face, making indentations in his cheek, the flesh cold and sticky like uncooked pastry. Suddenly, the eyelids fluttered and snapped open. The eyes rolled back till only the whites were showing. A foul stench filled the room.

  I sprang back and fell against the bed, crashing to the ground and jarring my back so badly I cried out. I stared at the statue, half-dreading, half-wanting to see the face again. But it had vanished. The Knight’s ice features gazed out steadily. I studied his face, trying to recall the image, but the memory was fading, and a minute later I could no longer remember what I’d seen. I struggled to my feet and touched the Knight’s cheek again. He continued to stare loftily into the distance.

  I sat on the bed, waiting for the feeling of anxiety to subside. I was sweating heavily, uncomfortably aware of the chafing dampness in my armpits and between my legs. It was that bloody drink. I’d had only a few sips but something in Purple Kiss had disagreed with me. I scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed it into my face.

  I knew I was fooling myself. It wasn’t the oversweet Purple Kiss. I’d drunk nothing before my visit to the Chapel except half a glass of champagne, and I’d still seen that thing in there. There was an explanation behind these ghastly images. An explanation hidden to me. I stared into the Templar’s sightless eyes, remembering other sightless eyes, those of my neighbour’s son whose wrecked body I’d seen two days before he died. I walked around the room, running my hand over the snow-pressed walls as though I would find the explanation there. But the Icehotel was telling me nothing.

  There were voices in the corridor. Something brushed past the curtain, stirring it, causing the candles to gutter. I wondered whether I should blow them out. But the room had no ceiling window, and I’d need light if I wakened in the night.

  I spread the sleeping bag on the reindeer skins and undressed quickly, dropping my outdoor clothes on the snow. After zipping myself in, I drew the hood over my head, and tied the toggles. I lay quietly, cocooned in a long brown tunnel that ended in a tiny circle of light.

  I turned over. The movement drew cold air into the sleeping bag, giving me a sudden feeling of panic. I grew warm again and drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Yet each time I turned, icy air on my face woke me. Eventually, I pulled the toggles loose and, shaking off the hood, peered around the room.

  The candles were low but not out. They cast an eerie shimmering light on the Templar, illuminating his sword and shield, but keeping his face in shadow. I peered at my watch – it was 1.00am.


  I’d forgotten the aurora. It would be in full flow. And definitely worth getting up for. I threw back the sleeping bag, dressed hurriedly, and followed the signs to the back exit. The Icehotel was silent. I met no-one as I crept along the dark corridors.

  I reached the exit and pushed against the handles. The doors swung open silently. I stepped into the night, my breath pluming white in the cold air. The moon had not yet risen, yet the snow itself exuded a ghostly light, profiling the frozen blocks, like pieces of giant Lego.

  I made for the river, my feet crunching against the frozen snow. A thin layer of fog shrouded the ice, swirling slowly as I moved. I found a spot with an unobstructed view of the sky and stared up into the blackness, startled by the sudden harsh call of a bird deep within the forest.

  The sky was cloudless except for a single faint band. It grew slowly, lengthening at both ends until it spanned the sky in a perfect arc. As it brightened, it changed colour from white to pale green, then to yellow. Folds of ghostly curtains appeared, rippling across the black vault. They dissolved into finger-like threads which pulsated rhythmically, as though spectral hands were playing chords on a celestial organ. As they faded, leaving a faint imprint, others emerged to take their place.

  I threw my head back and watched, exhilarated, until my neck and shoulders ached. The warmth bled from my body, chilling my bones and making my teeth chatter. When I could watch no longer, I pulled the hood tightly around my head, and trudged back reluctantly across the snow. The night bird called again. It had left the forest and was gliding across the river, dipping so low that I felt the brush of its great wings.

  The Ice Theatre loomed in front of me like a dark battleship, menacing against the glowing sky. But, instead of retracing my steps, I decided to take the path at the side of the Chapel and return by the main entrance. It would be worth the detour to see the columns and fountain by the shimmering light from the chandelier.

  I crept to the front of the Icehotel.

  I was pulling at the antlers when a faint creaking to my right made me turn. The Locker Room door was opening, throwing a sudden stream of light into the darkness. Someone was at the entrance, on the point of stepping inside. He turned and looked at me. The hood of his suit was down and there was no mistaking his features.

  I was about to call out when something stopped me. Something about the way he stood, immobile, staring in my direction, making no attempt to acknowledge me. With a sudden movement, he lifted a hand and pulled the hood of his suit over his head.

  That single act of concealment was enough. I nearly fell into the Icehotel. I hurried through the foyer and along the corridors. The candles were mostly out, and those that weren’t sputtered angrily. I’d reached my room, when a sudden thought stopped me. Perhaps Marcellus Bibby wasn’t going late to bed. Perhaps he’d followed me onto the river, and that was why he hadn’t wanted to be recognised. The realisation that he may have been spying on my movements as I watched the aurora brought the cold sweat onto my brow.

  I was about to enter my room, when I saw the curtain to Harry’s room swaying. A second later, it was drawn back and Harry stepped out. In the gloom, I could just make out the woollen hat and the bulky frame in the blue snowsuit. He moved briskly away.

  ‘Goodnight, Harry,’ I called to his retreating back.

  He paused and stiffened, but continued as though he hadn’t heard. Strange. That wasn’t like Harry. I’d have expected him to reply. But I put it down to his bladder problems; he might be desperate to get to the washroom.

  In my room, I undressed and re-enacted the ritual of the sleeping bag. I writhed around for what seemed like hours before I finally fell asleep.

  I slept fitfully. My dreams were vivid: we were on snowmobiles and Marcellus was chasing me and, however hard I pressed against the accelerator, I couldn’t rev up enough speed to get away.

  I woke early – my watch said 6.10am – and wriggled around trying to get comfortable, but it was clear I wasn’t going to get back to sleep. I dressed and tiptoed towards the washroom. Standing under the hot jet, I worked shampoo into my hair. The others wouldn’t be up for another hour but, rather than kill time in the lounge, I would take a walk on the river.

  The sun was rising as I left the Icehotel, bathing the landscape in clear morning light. Ahead was the long stretch of river ice, pink in the sunrise and fringed with snow-laden trees. A walk to the forest and back should take no more than an hour.

  The snow was deep and I had to lift my feet to clear the drifts, an activity which soon tired me. I was nearing the bank, when I saw a man on cross-county skis. Instead of a snowsuit, he wore a close-fitting red woollen jacket, patterned knee breeches, and yellow socks. As he approached, he raised his ski pole in greeting, then overtook me, gliding gracefully. At the edge of the river, he removed his skis and lifted them over his head. For a second, I thought he was going to scratch his back, but he pushed them neatly through a strap on his rucksack, and disappeared into the forest.

  I reached the trees, breathing hard, and collapsed onto a rock.

  The sun was now well above the horizon, the shadows of the trees shrinking, creeping back to the river’s edge like a defeated army. There was more activity on the river now: the harvesting of the day’s ice had begun; a sledge pulled by eight yapping huskies sped across the river; and dozens of people on cross-country skis moved soundlessly past each other. It was hard to believe this was the same river of a few hours before, deserted, washed pale in the cold light from the aurora.

  My thoughts crept back to the scene outside the Locker Room. Why had Marcellus deliberately concealed his face? Was he afraid that Wilson would find out he was up late, and disapprove? Unlikely. My assumption that he’d followed me onto the river seemed far-fetched now. Yes, he could have peered through his curtain and seen me leave, but why had he reentered the Icehotel via the Locker Room? Why not return to his room the same way, by the back? No, he hadn’t been watching me. He’d been coming from the Excelsior. But why would he worry about being recognised? It made no sense.

  The wind was strengthening. I rose, buttoning my hood, and started back. The going was slower as I needed my wits about me to avoid careering into traffic. The temperature had dropped and huge clouds were forming. By the time I reached the back of the Icehotel, snow was drifting down.

  I slipped inside, and paused to listen. No-one was up. Yet, as I stole along the corridors, following the signs to the foyer, I heard faint scratchings behind the curtains.

  It was as I was nearing my corridor that I heard it – a scream that sent a jolt of fear through my body. It was a woman’s voice, high-pitched and strong, tearing through the stiff fabric of silence. A second later, it was joined by another.

  Chapter 11

  The screaming stopped as suddenly as it had started. And then chaos erupted.

  People rushed out of rooms, and ran down the corridor towards the sound. Others stood about, looking dazed. Instinctively, I joined the runners.

  We rounded the corner, bursting onto the crowd. Karin and Marita were standing near the wall, sobbing, their shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Tears were streaming down their faces, smearing their make-up. A woman in a sleepsuit was trying to soothe them. She had an arm around Marita who seemed in a worse state than Karin.

  I elbowed my way through the crush. Someone was holding back the curtain to one of the bedrooms, and people were peering in, babbling to one another. I stood on my toes, craning my neck, and looked inside.

  A tray and paper cups lay abandoned on the floor in a patch of reddish-purple mush. A sleeping bag, folded open, was spread neatly on the skins. And, on the floor at the side of the bed, a figure dressed only in a sleepsuit was lying on his back.

  I felt a tightening in the pit of my stomach. It was a well-built man and, for one lurching moment, I thought it was Harry. Then I heard his voice. He was standing next to me, gazing into the room.

  ‘It’s Wilson Bibby,’ he said.

  I looked
through the bobbing heads at the figure. The blood had drained from his face, giving his skin the texture of parchment, and his hands and feet had a yellowish cast, like fat round a raw steak.

  ‘He’s frozen stiff.’ There was an unnatural calmness in Harry’s voice.

  I stared at him, shocked that he seemed without emotion. He turned to look at me, and smiled bleakly.

  The people in front were pushing their way out, and we found ourselves at the entrance. I saw the body clearly now.

  It was a waxwork in a horror show. His head was turned to the side. In this position, the hooked nose was unmistakable, and I wondered how I could have mistaken him for Harry. His mouth was open and a dribble of saliva had run down his chin and solidified. Mercifully, his eyes were shut.

  Then my mouth went dry. This was the face I’d seen as I’d touched the statue of the Templar. The flesh and blood face. I shivered uncontrollably, grateful for Harry’s arm around my shoulders.

  The crowd was growing, pressing us into the room. We fought our way out, but not before I’d taken a final glance around. On the other side of the bed, a snowsuit and boots lay abandoned on the floor.

  We stumbled into the corridor. Liz came running toward us, shock registering on her face.

  She looked from Harry to me. ‘What’s happened?’ Her voice was almost a whisper.

  ‘It’s Wilson Bibby,’ I said.

  The colour left her face. She made to go into the room.

  ‘No, my dear,’ said Harry firmly, grabbing at her arm.

  But he was too late. She was at the entrance, staring at the corpse. ‘Oh my God, Mags,’ she whispered. ‘He’s dead. Wilson’s dead.’

  ‘He must have fallen out of bed and frozen to death,’ I said, licking my lips nervously. ‘Although – ’

  Harry interrupted me. ‘Let’s get out of here. I’ve never been good in crowds.’

  He began to lead us away but I pulled back. Karin and Marita were huddled against the wall, shaking, their arms around each other. The woman in the sleepsuit was gone. A feeling of dread stole over me. What I saw in their faces was not shock, but fear. Karin’s sobbing was coming in small hiccups. Marita was gazing into space, wide-eyed, her mouth slack.