by Stefan Mani
Skuggi whines and Satan lets him lick the scrapings out of the pot.
‘I just want to sleep,’ murmurs Jónas and he closes his eyes. Or are they open? It’s hard to keep your eyes open when the darkness outside them is as deep as the darkness within.
24 December
They are walking up a slope that appears to be as endless as the heavens. The snow seems set aflame by the sun that shines directly in their faces whether they look up or down; the headwind is as strong as it is cold; the snow is hard on top and soft underneath; the sled pulls at the ropes like a stubborn horse and their feet sink up to mid calf at every step.
The skin of their faces is red, swollen and cracked by the sun, frost and wind, their arms are stiff as planks, their legs burn with fatigue and tendonitis, red winds blow in their heads, nausea comes and goes and their stomachs burn like cauldrons full of petrol …
‘Look!’ says Satan when they finally crest the hill.
‘I don’t see anything,’ says Jónas and he stops moving, then it’s as if his body becomes weightless and rises off the ground. He lifts his arms very slowly, as if they were huge construction cranes, and shades his eyes, which are swollen and sore and full of yellow secretions and clear mucus.
The mountains! Millions of megatonnes of prehistoric granite surrounded by a whole Black Sea of dark-blue glacier. Here time is not measured in minutes and days – not even in years or centuries. Here a million years is one day, a thousand million days one year, and eternity is not simply a concept in this world of delirium and death. Eternity is a regular breathing beyond time, space and human understanding.
‘We’ve come almost halfway,’ says Satan clapping Jónas on the back. ‘Not bad, comrade!’
In front of them are about fifty kilometres of snowdrifts, fissures and firn, then the enormous mountain range stretches halfway to the sky, far inland and way out on the ice to the north. The two peaks loom like a gigantic granite-and-ice cathedral and between them lies a shadow that looks not a centimetre smaller than Denmark.
‘If all goes well we should reach shelter before dark,’ says Satan. He signals the second mate to keep walking.
‘Shouldn’t we rest a moment?’ asks Jónas, pulling his numb feet out of the snow. They’ve been walking steadily for fifty hours and have covered an equal number of kilometres. Every single kilometre has been utter hell, every single hour unbearable and every single moment laden with hopelessness, exhaustion and a death wish.
‘We’ll eat after two hours,’ says Satan, striding off.
‘Aren’t we going to skirt the mountains?’ Jónas points north to where the ice on the Weddell Sea stretches to the limits of their vision.
‘No,’ says Satan. He heads straight for the shadow between the peaks. ‘I’m certain there’s a pass through the mountains.’
‘Up to you,’ says Jónas under his breath. He can’t be bothered to argue with this pig-headed halfwit. He doesn’t have the energy. And why argue about something it’s pointless to argue about. They’re dead either way.
XXXVI
24 December
‘And it came to pass in those days that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus …’ says Captain Guðmundur, attempting to turn the pages of the frozen Bible, his fingers black with cold. ‘And it came to pass in those days …’
‘Don’t,’ says Sæli, curling himself up as tightly as possible. ‘I don’t want to think about home. I can’t bear it.’
They’re sitting side by side on a hard snowdrift with the sailcloth spread over them and their backs to the growing wind. There’s a storm coming, clouds are piling up in front of the sun and it’s fast growing dark. They have had neither warm food nor water since they left the ship because they have still not managed to light the camping stove. After struggling for two days they decided to rid themselves of half their burden to make walking easier. Even so, they sink up to mid calf in every step.
‘I can’t go on,’ says Sæli, closing his eyes.
‘We can rest while the storm blows over,’ says Guðmundur, putting his Bible aside. ‘Then we’ll carry on.’
‘Yeah.’ Sæli rolls over on his hands and knees and then stands up. ‘I’ve just got to go piss first.’
‘I understand,’ says the Captain with a nod to the young man. He’s pretty sure he’ll never see Sæli again, but decides to say nothing.
He knows that this will be his own last night. There’s no chance he’ll wake up from the sleep that is about to conquer the dregs of his consciousness. He’s too tired for that to happen.
Guðmundur unzips his parka and unwinds the black dress from his cold torso. Can he stand up? Yes, he can stand up. The moment the captain stands up from the sailcloth the wind tears it away and sweeps it like a leaf into the dim distance.
Why die lying down if you have the option of dying dancing?
Guðmundur embraces the dress and attempts to dance but he is so stiff, and the wind so cruel, that he can hardly keep his balance.
Dance into death! Has he gone mad?
Mad or not mad, what difference does it make? It’s not as if anyone can see him!
Guðmundur Berndsen tries to lift the stiff, frozen dress to his lips but he loses his hold on it and it flies off like the sailcloth.
‘Sweetheart,’ the captain gasps, taking one step forwards, then he falls on his face in the hard snow.
Sæli shields his eyes from the icy wind and tries to find the sun before it disappears beyond clouds. It’s almost completely dark but Sæli catches sight of a pink streak in the distance. Then he turns away and heads north.
Iceland is to the north.
Sæli walks homewards until he collapses.
XXXVII
25 December
Whirlwind, dark, cruel frost …
‘ARE YOU THERE?’ screams Satan into the suffocating snowstorm.
First their sled overturned and was blown onto Skuggi, killing him before Satan was able to cut the ropes. Their supplies were spread all over the hard firn and lost in an instant, while the sled shot up like an orange sweet wrapper into the black sky, where the air pressure shattered it.
‘I’M …’
Jónas is lying on his face on the firn only two metres away from Satan, but in a blizzard like this you can’t see your hand in front of your face. The snow is so fine and the strength of the wind so overpowering that you can hardly breathe; your eyes are blinded, your lips bleed and your nostrils close.
They had only half a kilometre left to reach the foothills of the mountain when the storm hit, like the shadow of some evil harpy that suddenly shuts out the sun.
A truly devil-inspired storm …
‘COME OVER HERE! THERE’S A CAVE UP THERE!’ yells Satan, starting to crawl up along a fissure in the glacier. If his memory serves him, the fissure leads slantwise up to the foothills where he thought he saw the mouth of a cave under the sheer cliff. Maybe he had simply seen the shadow of the cliff, but that’s not the main thing. Out on the snow there’s nothing for them but a long, drawn-out death. Under the cliff there may be shelter – even a little cave.
Satan crawls on hands and knees when the wind lets up a little but on his belly when the gusts are most savage. Each minute is a whole life’s supply of oxygen deprivation, and each and every metre is an almost insurmountable task. The snow slips in under his clothing and his flesh grows cold, blue, stiff and …
But he’s getting there, he’s getting …
Silence.
And he plummets into a pitch-black emptiness.
‘Are you there?’
Silence.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Jónas.’
Satan opens his eyes but sees only blackness. He remembers having grasped at nothing, then …
‘I saw you just disappear,’ says Jónas as he comes crawling in the dark. ‘You were right – we’re in a cave of some kind.’
‘Can we get back out?’ Satan asks, sitting up on the ice-covered floor of th
e cave. His clothes are frozen through, hard like an eggshell.
‘No. Not the same way. The mouth is somewhere above us. Can’t you hear the wind?’
‘Yeah.’ Satan hears the wind and wonders at the same time why the sound isn’t louder. Shouldn’t the cave be full of snow and ferocious wind? But there’s only a slight layer of snow on the floor and the air is hardly moving. If anything, what slight breeze there is seems to come from inside the cave, not down through the entrance. What’s causing that?”¨
‘I’m falling asleep,’ says Jónas, while quivering violently on the ground beside Satan.
‘Try to hold on,’ says Satan, inhaling through his frostbitten nose. He’s dying to light a cigarette to get a bit of warmth, but he only has one left and he’s not going to light that until the end of the road.
Suddenly something cold and wet hits Satan’s right cheek. It’s a drop of water that continues down the neck of his frozen parka.
‘What’ll we do?’ asks Jónas sleepily.
‘We’ll carry on,’ says Satan, getting stiffly to his feet. ‘It’s hardly freezing at all in here. Can’t you feel the breeze? There’s a breeze coming from inside the cave. Maybe there’s geothermal heat under the mountain? Maybe there’s another route out of the cave? We have to carry on!’
Silence.
‘Jónas?’
‘Give me a hand,’ says Jónas and Satan feels around in the dark until he finds the second mate’s stiff fingers.
‘I can’t keep on,’ says Jónas an hour later, when they’ve walked through the winding passages without finding anything but cold stone walls and impenetrable darkness. They are now in some sort of underground chamber or vault so high and wide that every little sound echoes for a good while before finally dying out.
… keep on … keep on … keep on …
Satan says nothing. What should he say? He hears Jónas sit down on the icy stone floor but he is going to stand. If he sits down he may not be able to get up again. His hands, feet and face are all frostbitten. The pain is terrific and getting worse by the minute. His physical energy is dwindling; his heartbeat is getting weaker and weaker; fatigue, hunger, cold and damp – all have taken their toll. He knows and can feel that he’s not got long to live, but he chooses to ignore that knowledge. Where there’s life there’s hope, where there’s life …
Silence.
‘It’s Christmas,’ says Jónas with a sigh. ‘Where are my children?’
… my children? … my children? … my children? …
‘I killed their mother. I killed my wife. Hit her in the head with a hammer.’
… with a hammer … a hammer … a hammer …
‘I didn’t want to go to prison. That’s why I sabotaged the communications. I wanted to get away, get as far as possible from … from what I had done. I didn’t want to be judged by men. I wanted to stand before God. God knows what I did and why I did it. He understands me. He’s the one that should judge me.’
… judge me … judge me … judge me …
Silence.
‘There is no God,’ says Satan, his voice low.
… no God … no God … no God …
‘That’s not true,’ Jónas murmurs, then there’s the sound of wooden beads as he pulls his rosary out of the pocket of his frozen parka. ‘God exists. He definitely exists. Otherwise the lifeboat wouldn’t have drifted back to the ship. What I’m uncertain of, on the other hand, is his mercy. I’m not sure any more that I want him to judge me. I understand now what I did, but at the same time I don’t understand why I did it. I must be sick. No – maybe I’m not sick. Maybe I’m just a human abomination.’
… abomination … -nation … -nation …
‘There are no lies in an echo,’ says Satan.
… echo … echo … echo …
Silence.
‘I don’t want to fall asleep any more,’ says Jónas, breathing fast and unevenly. ‘I don’t want to sleep! I don’t want to die! I can’t —’
Slrrrrrghhhhh …
‘What was that?’ asks Jónas, flinching.
… was that? … was that? … was that? …
‘I don’t know,’ says Satan, cocking an ear. ‘It was like when water gets sucked down a drain. Maybe there’s a stream or a spring deep in the cave?
… in the cave? … the cave? … the cave? ...
‘Water? That wasn’t any water!’ says Jónas, who’s almost hyperventilating. ‘That was some … some creature! One of those monsters Stoker worships in secret!’
… in secret! … secret! … secret!
‘So you’ve visited Stoker too,’ says Satan, taking a couple of steps forwards.
‘Don’t!’
Slrrrrrghhhhh …
‘Don’t leave me!’ says Jónas and he tries to grab Satan, to no avail. ‘For God’s sake, don’t leave me!’
… leave me! … leave me! … leave me! …
‘Here, take this,’ says Satan, holding something towards the place where Jónas is sitting. ‘I guess I won’t be using it any more.’
… any more … any more … any more …
‘What is it?’ says Jónas as he takes the cold, hard object. ‘Is it a gun? Is it your gun? What should I do with a gun?’
… with a gun? … a gun? … a gun? …
‘You can use it on those monsters of yours,’ says Satan. ‘But just remember: there’s only one bullet.’ He sets off deeper into the cave.
… one bullet … bullet … bullet …
‘Satan! Don’t! I …’
… I! … I! … I! …
But he stops talking when he realises he’s alone in the dark.
Satan takes slow, painful steps into the pitch-black cave. The floor seems to slant down but he’s not sure. His body is little by little going numb; the cold has almost paralysed his limbs; it’s getting more and more difficult to breathe; his heart falters in his chest, and his thoughts are becoming more and more hazy.
Once he’s been walking for a good while, he reaches a narrow cliff wall that divides the space in two. Should he go right or left? Left or …?
Slrrrrrghhhhh …
The sound seems to be coming from the right, so –
Bang, bang, bang …
The shot echoes back and forth through the cave before it finally dies out.
Silence.
Has he been walking for hours or just a few minutes? He doesn’t know.
Satan stares into the dark without seeing anything at all. He feels around with fingers that are blue and black and as dead as a withered tree. He has found two more cliff faces that split the space in two.
Or is it always the same one?
He keeps turning right, always right. That’s how you’re supposed to find your way out of a maze ….
No!
He can’t believe this! The caves have been narrowing little by little and just lately he’s been able to touch both walls by spreading his arms, and if he lifts them he can touch the ceiling.
But now …
In front of him is a wall. A smooth cliff face. An ice-cold surface. The journey is over. Or is it? To hell with it! He can’t carry on …
Satan doesn’t show it, but the minute he touches that cold stone surface, the hope in his breast dies out like a candle’s flame. And in the shadow of despair, evil wakes from its deep slumber and evil cares about neither life nor death. It feeds on itself and shoves everything else aside. It lives and behaves like a fire that grows and grows until it is so large and cruel that it swallows itself and perishes.
Evil takes possession of Jón Karl. It growls inside his head, pumps black poison into his blood, locks onto every nerve and has the one aim of thriving and budding and blossoming like a spirit from hell in the flesh that contains it, whatever the consequences.
Evil is by nature eternal and thus has nothing to lose and nothing to win.
Jón Karl’s body is as stiff as a board and a fire rages in his head. He puts his hands against the wall and t
ries to pull his head back, but his neck is stuck. He tries to yell but his voice is useless.
RED! HE SEES RED!
Inside Satan’s head there’s another Satan who puts his hands against a red wall which is the inside of the skull of the Satan who is standing, as if petrified, in front of the granite wall at the end of the caves. This new Satan is shirtless, long haired, freshly shaved, wearing black leather trousers and surrounded by white-hot lava and spitting tongues of flame. He stretches his head back, strains his sweaty muscles, locks resolute eyes on the wall and looks right through the wall that, to his frantic mind, is nothing but a puny eggshell.
SATAN, DEVIL, LUCIFER!
He aims his forehead at a fiery red spot on the other side of the wall because there is no fucking wall! He roars like a wild animal, drives himself forwards at terrific speed and, with all his might, busts through the thin eggshell.
XXXVIII
It’s very strange, travelling without a body. Pitching back and forth as if in a swing, only more slowly, but also with an uncomfortable sideways motion, and always this weird feeling that every swing down is longer and deeper than the swing up, as if the soul were falling over some final brink, shown in slow motion, like a replay on television, again and again. It’s quite soothing in some hypnotic way, but above all there’s this unending feeling of numbness, getting ever more unreal the longer you glide about in this ink-black emptiness that smells of tobacco smoke and is as large or as small as a man’s mind, as deep as the echo of the slow beat of the bass drum in the band.
Boom, boom, boom …
XXXIX
Heavy blues music, the clamour of voices and a cloud of bitter smoke are pierced by the loud peal of a bell, as if from a ship lost in fog near the shore of some strange land.
Déjà vu.
‘Fifteen minutes to closing!’ the bartender shouts, letting go of the cord that hangs from the clapper of the old brass bell that once served a Dutch freighter.
On the ground floor of the bar customers are smoking and drinking at the tables; some are playing chess or whist, others talking with their neighbours and others still are sitting alone at the bar, intent on their own wretchedness and the oblivion of drink.
