The Ship

by Stefan Mani

  ‘But before we start digging in them, I’ll just have a look down there,’ says Satan with a grin.

  ‘Very well,’ says the captain, rising onto his toes. ‘But remember that what the heart can hear isn’t always understood by the mind!’

  ‘You’ve lost it, man,’ says Satan, shaking his head as he disappears into the wheelhouse.

  18:59

  It’s cold in the engine room, colder even than out on the ice, and the silence that fills the dark and surrounds the engines is more troubling than the sound that disturbs it off and on.

  Waaahaaa …

  It can’t be a baby crying because there’s no baby on board the ship. Like everything else, this crying will have its natural explanation. Satan believes in neither ghosts nor any other supernatural beings. At any rate, he fears nothing that isn’t flesh and blood. Only flesh and blood can conquer flesh and blood. Guys who lose their cool just because of mental pain or imagination aren’t sane – that’s all there is to it.

  Satan walks slowly across the metal floor, hands outstretched, until he finds the railing above and behind the main engine.

  Waaahaaa …

  He ignites his gas lighter, which weakly illuminates the floor and down into the bottom of the ship, where the main engine is standing, cold and silent. The moment he lit the flame the crying stopped, which means its source is in the vocal cords of some form of life that is aware of his presence.

  ‘Where are you, you crybaby?’ says Satan, leaning over the railing and looking searchingly into the darkness. When nothing happens he takes to jumping up and down on the metal floor so that it shudders from end to end and produces a fearful rumbling.

  And then the creature leaves its hiding place and rushes noisily across the floor behind the main engine. What Satan sees in the weak light of the flame is something white that scoots across like …

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ mutters Satan, staring into the dark, but when the flame burns his fingers he lets go of the lighter, closing off the gas so the flame dies.

  Waaahaaa …

  Satan creeps down the stairs to the main engine, waiting to ignite the lighter again until he’s near the place where he thinks he last saw the creature. The ship must leak somewhere, because there’s a couple of centimetres of ice on the floor of the engine room. Satan squats by the portside hull and reaches out his right hand with the lighter in it.

  ‘Right. One, two and …’ he whispers and takes a deep breath before thumbing the wheel on the lighter.

  As the spark from the flint lights the gas, the creature shoots out of its new hiding place.

  Satan sees something white that spreads itself out right in front of him. Its eyes are tiny and coal black, its yellow mouth opens wide and its red tongue sticks out like a poison dart.

  19:07

  ‘Here’s your Jesus,’ says Satan as he walks out the door to the back of the wheelhouse and returns to the stern of the ship.

  Guðmundur, Sæli and Jónas stare at the creature he’s holding out to them by its neck. It’s a large bird, ruffled and covered in oil.

  ‘It’s a seagull,’ says Sæli and he looks at Jónas, who lights a cigarette with trembling fingers.

  ‘Are you sure that’s …’ says Guðmundur, but stops talking in mid sentence when the exhausted seagull gives a cry.

  Waaahaaa …

  ‘Any more questions?’ says Satan, looking at the three men in turn like a parent who has just proven that there’s no monster in the closet.

  Silence.

  ‘Then we’ll just put this foolishness behind us,’ says Satan coldly and smashes the head of the seagull hard against the iron wall of the stern.

  The other three jump as if at a gunshot and watch, horrified, as the seagull’s eyes turn red and the blood flows out of its open beak.

  ‘Anybody want to eat it? asks Satan, holding the bird out to the three men, who retreat a couple of steps and stare at the bloody carcass, which is jerking and beating its filthy wings.

  Silence.

  ‘Just asking,’ says Satan and he tosses the bird overboard.

  ‘How did it get in the engine room, anyway?’ asks Sæli as he looks over the railing to the ice, where the seagull lies on its back, head to one side and wings spread.

  ‘What does it matter?’ says Satan, looking at Sæli as if he were an idiot. ‘Come with me up to the bridge. I want to show you the map I found.’

  19:43

  ‘This X here shows the position of the ship, according to the captain’s calculations,’ says Satan, who’s standing by the table in the map room in the bridge pointing at an X on a small map of Antarctica, dated 1979.

  ‘You know my calculations aren’t exact,’ says Guðmundur, looking at the map, which is in the scale 1: 40 000 000.

  ‘They’re all we have to go on,’ says Satan, tapping his pen on the map. ‘May I continue?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ mutters the captain.

  ‘Look at this, and this,’ says Satan, pointing with the pen at two black triangles on the map. ‘Those are research stations, as far as I understand it. The one that’s west or south of us is British, called Halley Bay, and the one more to the east is South African, called Sanae. If I’ve measured it right we’re 600 kilometres from the British one and 400 from the African one.’

  ‘Four hundred kilometres,’ says Sæli, looking at the captain. ‘That’s not so terribly far.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ says the captain with a sigh. ‘But that map is both old and tiny. Those stations aren’t necessarily still there, besides which it’s hard to measure distances on such a small map.’

  ‘It’s the only map we’ve got,’ says Jónas with a shrug. ‘Don’t we just have to make do with it?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with this map!’ says Satan, banging his pen against the table. ‘One centimetre on the map is 400 kilometres on the surface of the earth. It’s one centimetre to Sanae and one and a half to Halley Bay. Is that complicated?’

  ‘No,’ says Jónas, bending over the map. ‘It’s quite straightforward.’

  ‘Gummi?’ queries Sæli, looking at the captain.

  ‘All right – it’s not as if we have any choice,’ the captain answers. He sighs. ‘But I recommend we head for the British station, not the African one.’

  ‘Why?’ demands Satan, throwing up his arms. ‘Do you want to walk an extra 200 kilometres? Or are you afraid of black people?’

  ‘We can’t just look at the kilometres,’ says Guðmundur calmly, pointing at the map. ‘Have you forgotten the mountain range? I’d rather take the longer route and get where I’m headed than lose my life struggling to cross these mountains. They’re over 2000 metres high!’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ says Sæli, looking at Jónas, who shrugs and looks at Satan.

  ‘We won’t necessarily have to cross the mountains,’ says Satan. ‘We can probably go around them, on the ice. There’s bound to be a pass somewhere.’

  ‘Bound to be?’ says the captain then shakes his head. ‘We can walk on ice all the way to Halley Bay, straight ahead. I’m not wasting precious time looking for a route across the mountains when I can just walk directly over the ice. And a route that may not exist, what’s more.’

  ‘The captain’s right,’ says Sæli, nodding.

  ‘I don’t agree,’ Satan says, tapping his forefinger on the Sanae station on the map. ‘In a frost-bound hell like this, the only sensible thing is to choose the shorter route. Besides which, out on the ice there’s no shelter to be had if there’s a sudden storm or whirlwind.’

  ‘That’s true,’ says Jónas. ‘I think it would be better to aim for the African station.’

  ‘Out of the question!’ says the captain, raising his voice. ‘We head for Halley Bay and we leave at dawn tomorrow! There’s no sense in waiting.’

  ‘I’ll be ready in the morning, captain,’ says Sæli giving his superior a slap on the back.

  ‘I’m not going,’ says Satan, folding the map. ‘I�
�m going across the mountains. And I’m not leaving in the morning. Actually, I wouldn’t recommend anyone do that.’

  ‘Why not, if I may ask?’ says the captain, red-faced with fury.

  ‘I’d wait until the wind changed direction,’ says Satan. ‘The north wind always brings fog, which is always treacherous, especially when you’re walking on ice. I’m going to wait for a south wind and clear skies. True, south winds have only lasted a couple of days at a time over the past weeks, but we can make good use of two clear days.’

  ‘Do what you like!’ Guðmundur pulls his hood over his head as he walks towards the door to the corridor. ‘The rest of us are leaving at dawn.’

  ‘Captain!’ says Jónas. Guðmundur stops and turns around.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather go with the deckhand,’ says Jónas, clearing his throat.

  ‘I do mind, Jónas, my friend,’ says the captain. ‘But if that’s what you’d rather do, I’m not going to stop you.’

  ‘Okay, then,’ says Jónas, nodding to Guðmundur, who turns on his heel and leaves the bridge for the last time.

  23:21

  Sæli is sitting at the table in his cabin, packing for the great march he and Captain Guðmundur are about to set off on. Six hundred kilometres – like walking all the way from Reykjavík to Akureyri.

  There’s a candle on the table which shines a soft light over the bits and pieces he is either taking along or wondering whether he should take along. He’s going to take needle and thread, in case he has to repair any clothing on the way, but he’s not certain whether or not he needs to have a knife. He reckons Vaseline could be useful – to prevent sunburn and chapped lips, for instance – but he’s not as sure about disinfectant and rubbing alcohol. He’s already packed all necessary clothing, as well as dried and canned foods meant to last for at least a week, even ten days.

  All these things he has stuffed into a gym bag with a shoulder strap. The bag is already pretty heavy, possibly as heavy as eight kilograms, so if he’s meant to be able to carry it all that distance he mustn’t add much to its weight. They can’t take water but plan to eat snow to quench their thirst.

  Sæli sighs and his bitter breath becomes a frosty cloud.

  He picks up a crumpled photo of Lára and Egill, who smile at him from a world so distant and hazy that it’s almost nonexistent, kisses the photo and sticks it down through the neck of his parka and into his shirt pocket.

  Then he blows out the candle. He has to go to sleep. He’s got to rest up before the great march.

  23:54

  Captain Guðmundur has made shoulder straps for his suitcase out of two leather belts that he fastened to the bottom of the case with screws. He has packed the only camping stove on board the ship, along with two extra gas canisters. Earlier in the evening he cut a swatch of sailcloth and folded it to fit in the lid of the suitcase. This sailcloth he plans to wrap over and under himself and Sæli when they bury themselves in snow overnight. By lying in the sailcloth they’ll avoid getting wet when the heat from their bodies melts the snow.

  Like Sæli three decks below, the captain is completing his travel preparations by candlelight in his cabin. There are only two things he has left to do before he blows out the candle and goes to sleep. First, he says a short prayer and kisses his Bible before placing it in his case, which he then closes. The Bible admittedly weighs half a kilogram, but to his way of thinking the spiritual strength its presence will give the captain outweighs the calories this extra weight will cost him. Then he takes off his parka, winds Hrafnhildur’s black dress around his middle, squeezes into a cotton T-shirt over the dress, puts his parka back on and zips it up to his chin.

  21 December

  Satan and Jónas are standing in the stern watching the other two walk out onto the ice: Guðmundur Berndsen with his suitcase on his back and Ársæll Egilsson with his gym bag under his left arm.

  They turn to wave and Satan and Jónas wave back, while Skuggi circles and whines.

  Every once in a while the ship shudders convulsively as it shifts on the skerrie on which it ran aground and sinks slowly into the sea under the ice.

  When the walkers are out of sight in the fog the ship’s dog barks loudly, as if to express his displeasure or warn the men of something

  ‘Shut up!’ yells Satan. Then the dog lies down on its belly and growls softly.

  ‘Do you think they’ll make it?’ asks Jónas, beating his arms to keep warm in the temperature of minus five degrees.

  ‘That depends,’ says Satan. He lights a cigarette, his fifth from last.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where you’re heading,’ says Satan, blowing smoke through his nose. ‘What matters is what you take with you.’

  ‘Eh?’ says Jónas, snuffling icy snot up his nose. ‘What should you take with you?’

  ‘What you had with you at the start of the journey,’ says Satan, opening his left fist where a copper-coloured bullet rolled to and fro.

  The captain had handed him the bullet when he said goodbye, without further explanation.

  ‘“At the start of your journey” – what do you mean by that?’ Jónas says and clenches his teeth when they start to chatter.

  ‘Come on!’ says Satan walking towards the wheelhouse. ‘The wind could turn at any moment. We have work to do!’

  XXXV

  22 December

  Satan and Jónas are walking along the shore over the creaking ice, wearing sunglasses and dragging the ship’s stretcher behind them. On the stretcher – which is moulded out of fibre-reinforced plastic and resembles a sled or shallow boat – is all their luggage: clothing, coverings, fuel, instruments and provisions. It is generally easier for walkers to carry their burdens rather than drag them behind, but when you’re walking over ice and snow it’s better to spread the weight to reduce the danger of sinking into the surface over which you’re travelling.

  The two of them walk side by side a metre apart, wearing life vests over their parkas. Three-metre-long nylon ropes attached to the back of each vest come together in a hole in the ‘bow’ of the stretcher. They leave a trail winding across the uneven ice behind them, all the way back to the ship: a sporadic double stripe from the runners under the stretcher, the shallow tracks of rough-soled work boots either side of the stripes and Skuggi’s paw prints all around. But the snow blows eternally over the ice, which means their tracks will disappear within an hour.

  In the distance the ship is only a black stripe on top of the white ice and under the white sky.

  Or is it the other way around?

  Jónas looks over his shoulder to take a last look at the ship before it disappears from view forever. This automatically slows his walking, which in turn moves all the weight onto Satan’s rope.

  ‘None of that!’ says Satan, punching Jónas’s left shoulder with his right fist. ‘Forget the fucking ship. It can look after itself.’

  ‘No need to get steamed up,’ mutters Jónas. He speeds up to keep pace with Satan, who’s storming ahead like a hungry polar bear. The second mate already feels tired and anxious. He’s thirsty, confused and dispirited. His back aches, his legs ache and his left shoulder aches. Most of all he wants to turn back and just hole up in the ship, but he knows he can’t do that. He has no faith in this enterprise. What was he thinking when he turned his back on the captain?

  Shit!

  Now he’s stuck with this madman!

  Jónas deeply regrets not having listened to the voice of reason and headed south with Sæli and Guðmundur Berndsen.

  23 December

  They’re sitting on their backsides, on a hard snowdrift facing each other, Jónas with the smaller pot and Satan with the larger. They’ve been walking for a total of fourteen hours and this is their third stop. It’s evening, the sun is hidden by clouds, there’s a strong breeze from the south-east and the temperature is about minus twelve degrees.

  Jónas fills the smaller pot
almost to the rim with snow. Then he measures out two plastic glasses of oatmeal and two of sugar from two plastic canisters and empties them into the snow.

  Satan pulls five strips of thin cotton out of an overfull plastic bag and packs them into the bottom of the larger pot. Then he unscrews the cap of a two-litre Coke bottle wound round with cotton and aluminium foil, and pours about half a litre of petrol into the pot.

  ‘I’m ready,’ says Satan and Jónas places the smaller pot into the larger one.

  Satan lights a match in the shelter of Jónas’s hands and lets it fall down the space between the two pots. They hear a soft explosion; the red fire lights up their faces and black smoke rises into the night. After one minute all the snow has melted; after two the water in the smaller pot is boiling, and after three minutes the fire has gone out and the porridge is ready.

  ‘Here,’ says Satan and hands Jónas the spoon they brought with them. Jónas takes the spoon and fills it twice before handing it back, and they continue taking turns until they finish the porridge.

  ‘It tastes of petrol,’ says Jónas, retching.

  ‘If you puke, I’ll make you eat your puke!’ says Satan, shovelling down two spoonfuls before handing the spoon back to Jónas.

  ‘I can’t eat any more,’ Jónas says, leaning back so he won’t have to breathe in the stink of hot petrol. ‘You just finish it.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Satan and he carries on eating the sickly sweet, petrol-polluted concoction. ‘But if you give up when we’re walking, I’ll leave you behind.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ mutters Jónas, lying down on his side in the snowdrift and closing his eyes.

  ‘Don’t fall asleep!’ says Satan, kicking the second mate. ‘If you fall asleep you’ll never wake up again.’

  ‘So what?’ Jónas sits back up. The warmth of the cooling pot is nice but the thought of ice-cold eternal sleep is even better.

  ‘You’ve got four minutes to recharge your batteries,’ says Satan. He licks the spoon before he sticks it in his pocket. ‘We set off again the minute the pots have cooled down.’