Meltwater (Fire and Ice)

by Michael Ridpath

  Eyjafjallajökull was the nearer of the two glaciers that lay on either side of Fimmvörduháls, the site of the first volcano. On a clear day they would have had a perfect view of the glacier and the eruption, but that morning all they could see was grey moisture. They sped through Hvolsvöllur and in a few more minutes they approached the Markarfljót, the broad river that flowed down behind the northern slope of Eyjafjallajökull and curved around its western edge down towards the sea. Only the bottom couple of hundred feet of the ridge of mountains that supported the glacier and its volcano were visible beneath the cloud on the other side of the river. A narrow stream of water slipped down a cliff out of the clouds.

  The river itself looked normal. It was broad and powerful but not in full spate. Magnus had a soft spot for the Markarfljót. It featured in one of his favourite sagas, Njáll’s Saga. There was a wonderful scene where Njáll’s son Skarphédinn slid across the ice from one side of the river to the other, swinging his axe and decapitating one of his father’s enemies as he did so. All that had happened only a few kilometres to the north.

  A white jeep with the word Lögreglan emblazoned on its side was parked across the road in front of the modern bridge. Magnus stopped beside it and got out of his own car. Although there was no visible sign of the volcano, he could hear a distant rumbling. He recognized the patrolman as one of the officers from Hvolsvöllur police station.

  ‘Any sign of a flood yet?’ he asked the policeman.

  ‘Not yet. But we’re expecting it.’

  ‘Can you let me across?’

  ‘Sorry, Magnús. The road is closed.’

  ‘But the bridge looks fine.’

  ‘The bridge might be fine but see that guy in the Caterpillar over there?’ The policeman nodded over the bridge towards a lone yellow backhoe perched on the raised dyke which carried the road, waving its bucket in the air. ‘He’s making some holes in the road so that when the flood does come it doesn’t take out the bridge.’

  ‘Is there no way across?’

  ‘There’s a little bridge a few kilometres up from here. We are not letting the public across, but I guess it’s OK for you, as long as you don’t try to cross if there is a flood.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Magnus climbed back into his Range Rover and headed up a dirt track along the western edge of the river.

  ‘Shame we can’t see anything,’ said Mikael Már, nodding towards the clouds under which Eyjafjallajökull was apparently erupting.

  ‘They say it’s bigger than Fimmvörduháls,’ said Magnus.

  They reached the bridge, a narrow stone construction of one vehicle’s width, and crossed the river, turning south. In a few more minutes they had reached the main bridge and the Caterpillar, and headed eastwards again on the national road.

  ‘Are we going to be OK if there is a flood?’ Mikael Már asked.

  ‘Sure we are,’ said Magnus. He wouldn’t mind seeing one of those famous jökulhlaup. But what he really wanted to see was where the man Mikael Már had spotted was standing.

  ‘Have you noticed there aren’t any cars?’ Mikael Már asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘There are probably police roadblocks ahead.’

  ‘And the farms look very quiet.’

  ‘Probably evacuated.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Magnus could tell his passenger was nervous. He could also tell he didn’t want to admit to it.

  The best way to reach the Fimmvörduháls volcano, and the way that the Freeflow team had used two days before, was to drive eastwards along Route 1 to the south of Eyjafjallajökull, and then turn north on to Mýrdalsjökull and double back to the saddle between the two glaciers. Skógafoss was to the southeast of Eyjafjallajökull, just a little way off the Ring Road.

  They reached it in a few minutes. Skógafoss was one of Iceland’s many spectacular waterfalls, a broad sheet of water pouring over the edge of a cliff two hundred feet into a pool below, transporting glacial water down to the sea. Partly because of its proximity to Route 1, there were a number of tourist facilities nearby: a car park, some toilets, a hotel.

  All quiet.

  Magnus pulled off the main highway and on to a little paved road that led to the falls. ‘OK, where was this guy?’

  ‘We stopped just outside those toilets there.’ Mikael Már pointed to a sizeable wooden hut. ‘I waited for Pierre. The man was parked just up here on the left.’ Mikael Már indicated a strip of grass on the edge of the access road with a good view of the highway.

  Magnus pulled over. ‘Show me.’

  They walked on about thirty yards. ‘I’m not sure where it was precisely. About here, perhaps? He was leaning against the bonnet of his jeep.’

  Mikael Már hesitated.

  ‘Yes?’ said Magnus. ‘Take your time.’ Memories couldn’t always be rushed.

  ‘He was checking his phone. And then checking the road. Concentrating, you know?’

  ‘I know. OK, if you don’t mind waiting here, I’ll take a look.’

  Magnus put on gloves, took out tweezers and some small plastic evidence bags, and bent down. It was a long shot, it was always a long shot, but you never knew. Fortunately this part of the access road was a fair distance from the waterfall and the car park. Not the kind of place most tourists would park. Which meant if Magnus did find something, there was a good chance that it might be connected to the mysterious man in the red jacket.

  He had covered about twenty yards. Nothing. He stood up and turned towards Mikael Már to ask him if it was worth going on further, when he saw a police jeep cruising towards them, its blue light flashing.

  He stood up and trotted over to the vehicle.

  An officer got out of the car – Magnus didn’t recognize him.

  He pulled out his badge. ‘Magnús. Reykjavík CID,’ he said. ‘I’m investigating the Fimmvörduháls murder.’

  ‘Might be an idea to do that some other time,’ said the policeman. ‘We’re evacuating the area.’

  ‘Any sign of a jökulhlaup?’

  ‘One has been reported on the north side of the glacier,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s flowing down into the Markarfljót right now. But there might be another one on this side of the glacier any time.’

  Mikael Már looked up at the waterfall. ‘Could it come down there?’

  The policeman shrugged. ‘Maybe. I’d say this isn’t an intelligent place to be right now. And we are expecting ash fall tonight.’

  ‘Ash?’

  ‘Yeah. Apparently this thing is throwing ash kilometres up into the sky. Lots of it. And it’s going to come down soon.’

  ‘And cover up any evidence,’ said Magnus.

  Overhead, thick moisture pressed down upon them. Magnus glanced over towards the north-west, where Eyjafjallajökull lurked beneath its grey cloak of clouds. He had been considering trying to persuade Mikael Már to go back up the glacier and show him exactly where he had seen the Suzuki Vitara parked on Fimmvörduháls. But now it didn’t really seem like such a smart idea.

  There was a deep boom and the ground shook.

  ‘Hear that?’ said Mikael Már.

  ‘So, I suggest you leave,’ said the policeman. Forceful but polite. ‘And head east, not west.’

  ‘But how will I get back to Reykjavík?’ said Magnus. There was no other route to the west, unless you followed the Ring Road anti-clockwise around the whole island. A couple of days’ drive. Or took an airplane from somewhere in the east.

  ‘I know. I live in Hvolsvöllur,’ said the cop. ‘Somehow I don’t think I’m going to be home for supper tonight.’

  ‘OK. I’ll pack up here and be right along,’ said Magnus.

  The policeman drove off. Magnus returned to the patch of ground he had been examining.

  ‘Come on, Magnús, let’s go!’ said Mikael Már.

  ‘Is there any way your guy might have been parked a bit further along?’

  ‘No. Let’s go!’

  Magnus didn’t believe him. He had spotted some sc
raps of litter on the grass verge forty yards away, and, abandoning his methodical search, went over to take a closer look. A piece of chewing-gum wrapping and a cigarette butt. And another piece of paper ground into the dirt.

  Magnus picked it up with tweezers and examined it. It was a receipt. Part of it had faded. But he could read the words Caffè Nero and Heathrow Terminal One. Dated 11 April 2010. Timed 12:17. Server’s name Rosa. 1 latte £2.10.

  With a grin, Magnus slipped the receipt into his evidence bag. He collected the chewing-gum wrapper and the cigarette butt for good measure. He spent a further couple of minutes checking the immediate vicinity of the spot where he found the receipt, but then gave up.

  Perhaps it was a good idea to leave the scene.

  Mikael Már was looking distinctly anxious as Magnus joined him in the Range Rover. He started the engine, pulled out of the Skógafoss tourist area on to the main road. And turned right.

  ‘Hey, didn’t the cop say go east?’

  ‘I need to get back to Reykjavík,’ Magnus said. ‘And I’m not driving all the way around this island to do it.’

  ‘OK, but put your foot down,’ said Mikael Már. ‘The sooner we’re out of here, the better.’

  Magnus did as his passenger suggested. They had been driving for five minutes when the mountain on the right rumbled and then roared.

  ‘Oh, my God! Look at that!’

  Magnus looked. They were only half a mile from the base of the escarpment of the mountains. A small green valley bit a mile into the ridge, and at its head a massive wall of grey and brown water surged out of the clouds, flinging mud and rocks into the air as it went, and tumbled down the valley towards the highway ahead of them.

  For a second, Magnus just stared. It was as if the volcano had thrust a mighty fist of violent meltwater down the glacier towards the sea, knocking all before it in a churning, grinding tumult of destruction. He had never witnessed such raw power before in his life. It was magnificent.

  It was also very frightening.

  He put his foot right down. He estimated the jökulhlaup would take a couple of minutes to reach the road. The Range Rover should make it in sixty seconds.

  The churning mass of meltwater and debris gouged its way into a field just by the side of the road, tossing ten-foot circular bales of hay into the air.

  Magnus’s estimate was wrong: they would have a lot less than sixty seconds’ leeway. Either the water was accelerating or Magnus had just misjudged it. He was committed now – if he braked they would be swept away for sure. He glanced at his speedometer as it edged above 120 kilometres per hour.

  The foremost tongue of the jökulhlaup ripped through the fence by the side of the road just as Magnus sped past, and leaped over the highway and across the flat farmland on the other side towards the sea.

  ‘Jesus, that was close!’ said Mikael Már.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Magnus. He glanced in his mirror at the long stretch of submerged road behind them, and then fought to control his vehicle speeding at 150 kilometres an hour round a gentle bend, only just managing to keep the Range Rover on the road.

  ‘You know if there is another one of those ahead of us, we’re screwed,’ said Mikael Már.

  Magnus didn’t have an answer for that.

  A few minutes later, they were at the Markarfljót. The Caterpillar was working furiously at building a makeshift dam over the road. On the far side of the bridge he could see the police car parked across the road. Road closed.

  Magnus pulled up next to the machine and jumped out.

  ‘Any sign of the jökulhlaup?’ Magnus asked the operator. ‘We just missed one back there.’

  ‘It’s on its way,’ said the Caterpillar driver, not pausing at his controls.

  ‘Do you know if it’s reached the little bridge up river?’

  ‘No. You shouldn’t hang around here, you know.’

  ‘Should you?’

  ‘Almost done,’ the guy said. ‘I’ve punched a few holes in the dyke to ease the pressure on the bridge. Once I’ve done this stretch it should hold the flood.’

  ‘Good work,’ Magnus said. He jumped back in the Range Rover and drove north along the track along the bank.

  The river looked calm.

  ‘God, there it is!’

  Ahead of them a broad ridge of brown water about six feet high surged down the river. From what Magnus could see, the jökulhlaup was contained within the river’s banks, and the road on which they were driving was sufficiently high to keep above the flood. He hoped.

  They could see the narrow concrete bridge ahead when the flood hit it. Remarkably, the bridge held. The water came thundering down towards them and then swept by towards the sea and the lone Caterpillar. Magnus hoped the guy had done his calculations right.

  Behind the initial surge the river had set up a strange undulation of what seemed to be a spine of static waves in the middle of the flow.

  Magnus reached the little bridge and slowed down. On the other side was another patrol car. A policeman jumped out and waved, both arms crossing above his head.

  The message was clear. Stay back.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Mikael Már asked. ‘The flood will have weakened the bridge.’

  ‘I’m going across. Coming? You can get out if you want.’

  Mikael Már shook his head. ‘What the hell. Go for it.’ He grimaced and put his hands over his eyes, fingers splayed open so he could see through them.

  Magnus put his foot hard down on the accelerator and the Range Rover surged forward. Magnus had a hunch the faster he went the more likely he would be to avoid falling in if the bridge collapse. They hit the bridge and in less than ten seconds were over the other side. Mikael Már let out a whoop.

  The policeman’s hands had stopped waving and were now raised in a stop sign. Magnus slowed. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said to the face red with anger. ‘Got to get back to Reykjavík. Give my regards to the chief superintendent.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  JÓHANNES WAS PLAYING hooky and he was loving it. He got up at what for him was a late hour, eight-thirty, and ate a leisurely breakfast in the hotel dining room, with its wonderful view over Faxaflói Bay. It had been cloudy all night, but a northerly wind seemed to be ushering the bad weather off to the south. He decided not to call the school. After all, what could they do? Fire him?

  There was a flurry of conversation in the dining room about a new eruption on Eyjafjallajökull, 250 kilometres to the southeast, evacuations and possible flooding, but there was nothing in the morning paper, or at least the edition that had made it to Búdir. He went for a brisk walk along the beach, letting the rhythmic sounds of the waves wash over him, and then got into his car for the drive to Stykkishólmur. He had rung his old aunt Hildur and agreed to meet her later that morning.

  It was a glorious morning. He sang to himself as he drove up over the Kerlingin Pass, crossing the mountain ridge that formed the spine of the Snaefells Peninsula. He was a member of a choir, a baritone, and a year before they had given a concert of seventeenth-century hymns. They were quite catchy, and Jóhannes had taken to singing them when alone and out of earshot of other people. ‘Lánid Drottins lítum maeta’, a song about drinking too much wine at the wedding at Cana, was one of his favourites.

  That was the glory of the Icelandic countryside. It was very easy to be alone and out of earshot of other people.

  He crested the summit of the pass and in a few moments a broad view stretched out before him. He paused, and drove into a lay-by. He walked a few metres away from the car and sat on a stone to look.

  It was a view he remembered well. He had sat close to this very spot with his father when he was about ten. They were driving to see his grandmother in Stykkishólmur, just his father and him, when they had pulled over. He and his father had already read The Saga of the People of Eyri together at least twice, in the original version of course, and Benedikt wanted to show his son where it had all happened.

  In
the foreground was Swine Lake, walled in by the several kilometres of congealed lava which was the Berserkjahraun. Beyond that was Breidafjördur, a long, broad fjord between the Snaefells Peninsula and the West Fjords, sixty kilometres to the north. Along the coast were two farms. One, nestling under its own fell, with a little black church in the home meadow just beneath it, was Bjarnarhöfn. This was where Björn the Easterner, the son of Ketill Flat Nose and one of the first settlers of Iceland from Norway, had landed eleven hundred years before. It was where Vermundur the Lean had brought the two berserkers back from Sweden.

  It was also where Hallgrímur had lived. Still lived from what Hermann was saying.

  A couple of kilometres to the east was Hraun, now, as it was a millennium ago, a prosperous farm. This was where Vermundur’s brother Styr had lived, whose daughter one of the berserkers had demanded to marry. Styr had promised the Swede that he could do this as long as the berserkers hacked a path across the lava field to Vermundur’s farm at Bjarnarhöfn. This they did, collapsing in exhaustion in their master’s brand new stone bath-house afterwards. They were steamed out by Styr, who ran them both through as they emerged. The path was still there, winding its way through the rearing waves of lava, as was the cairn where the berserkers were buried.

  Jóhannes remembered the verse Styr spoke at the cairn:

  I dread not my enemy

  nor his tyranny.

  My bold brave sword

  has marked out a place for the berserks.

  Hraun was where Benedikt had been brought up.

  In fact, throughout the whole plain before Jóhannes, signs of the saga persisted, one thousand years later. To the north-east was Helgafell, the holy mountain, although it was little more than a knoll, less than a hundred metres high. Here Snorri Godi and later Gudrún had lived, two of the leading figures of the sagas. And most of the farms that were so familiar to Jóhannes were still inhabited, as they had been in the days of Arnkell, Thórólfur Lame Foot and the other characters of the sagas.

  He remembered his father pointing out all these locations to him from this very vantage point.