Somervell grins. — Clever fellow. Keep it.
The British are seated on a bench, spectators to a troupe of writhing dancers. Ashley follows the huge grinning masks of the dancers with grim fascination, understanding nothing of the ritual. Noel runs his cine camera; Somervell takes notes of the percussive music on a sheaf of staff paper brought from England. The performance ends and Ashley and Price help Noel pack his camera equipment into cases. Noel puts his hands on Ashley’s and Price’s shoulders.
— There’s something I have to show you chaps.
Noel fetches the expedition’s interpreter and they follow an ancient lama through a series of windswept hallways. In a dark passage the lama halts along an inner wall and gestures. Noel kneels beside him.
— It’s new. Done since the last expedition.
The lama speaks to the British in a grave voice. Ashley squats beside the painting, making out the great pyramid of Everest, the plume of cloud and ice streaming past its pinnacle. A fallen white man lies below the peak, speared by some mysterious object. The figure is surrounded by demons and barking dogs, by lions and wild men. Ashley turns to the interpreter.
— What is he saying?
The interpreter clutches his dusty bowler hat. He translates in a tentative voice, barely audible over the animated words of the lama.
— The holy lama says you have come to violate the goddess mountain. But the mountain will destroy you.
The lama keeps speaking. The interpreter lowers his eyes into his hat.
— The holy lama says the mountain is very strong. She can take men as she pleases.
Ashley looks back at the fresco. The lions are painted the same color as the snow. The lama is waving at the image of the fallen European, his voice forceful.
— Go on, Ashley says.
— The mountain has forced you back before. She shall force you back again. The mountain can open her sides and swallow men. Against her you are powerless.
Price shakes his head. — They said the same thing last time.
Ashley looks at the lama. Only a few teeth remain in his mouth. His shoulder and arm are bare to the elements, the skin sooted from the smoke of dung fires. He stares back at Ashley without flinching.
— The holy lama asks you something. He asks why you suffer and let others suffer for this pointless thing.
Noel nods to the interpreter. — Tell him we’re on a pilgrimage. We’ve come to the world’s highest mountain to be closer to heaven. To be as close to heaven as we can in this life.
Noel comes to his feet grinning.
— Tell the lama I’m fasting and I’ve given up yak butter until we reach the summit. It’s my sacrifice for the pilgrimage.
The interpreter finishes translating. No one speaks. Suddenly the lama bows his head, a lone tooth emerging from his smile. He continues down the corridor, Noel and the interpreter following behind.
Price and Ashley linger beside the fresco, Price kneeling in the dirt. He drags a match tip against the rough wall, holding the flame against the mountain’s summit.
— It’s strange, Price says. The picture’s reversed.
Ashley nods and stands up.
— Probably the colonel wants us back—
Price runs the match along the painted ridge.
— Don’t you see? Those are the steps on the ridge. But they’re on the wrong side.
— You’re right, Ashley says. But let’s be off.
Price shakes the match out and drops it into the dust. He follows Ashley down the dim corridor.
— It isn’t pointless, Price whispers.
THE RING ROAD
I’m up before dawn in the hostel dormitory, packing my backpack as quietly as I can. It’s Tuesday and the estate will pass on Thursday; I can’t stay in Reykjavík any longer. I know my leads are worthless: the jeweler Ísleifur Sæmundsson who was born in Seyðisfjörður, the nineteen-year-old Charlotte Derby listed on a steamer bound for Eskifjörður. But both those towns are in the Eastfjords and I’d rather go after something than nothing at all.
A young Norwegian snores on the bunk above me. I wrap my spare clothes protectively around the folder holding the letters, then stuff my sleeping bag and books and toiletries into the backpack, cramming a plastic bag of food into the top.
Outside at the bus stop I wait for a long time. When the bus finally arrives I take a window seat, riding among sober commuters half-dozing or reading the newspaper. We travel north toward the suburbs, passing bright red and yellow houses with shining steel roofs. The clouds to the east are burning off with the rising sun.
I take The Icelandic Sagas from my bag and page to the introduction.
The world of the Icelandic Sagas is complex and multi-layered, with the same agents alternately acting as forces for good or evil. The writing style tends towards the terse and impersonal, with little explanation of why events occur. Things happen; fate is rarely questioned. Personalities are shown through action, seldom through analysis. Relationships between individuals are complex, defined by friendship, blood, marriage, and immediate geography.
Certain themes define the Sagas, particularly the contending forces of character, honor, and luck. These devices compete to determine the outcome of the story. Characters must often and at great disadvantage overcome fantastic enemies. Life is short and uncertain; men’s worth is determined by glory in arms. Any slight to one’s honor or that of one’s family must be avenged, whether by blood or money. Men are easily goaded to fatal violence over a perceived insult.
The supernatural plays a major role as well. Oneiric elements are often featured, frequently in the guise of prophetic dreams. The concept of luck is simple, particularly as portrayed in Njál’s Saga: one is born with a certain store of luck. When that luck runs out, one is doomed.
However subtly it may be posed, a critical question faces the protagonists of the Sagas. Do they have the character to surmount their difficulties, or do they succumb to the vices of avarice, jealousy, pride or cowardice?
The bus approaches the end of the route, the remaining passengers exiting at the final stops until I’m alone. The driver eyes me through his rearview mirror. The bus makes a series of sharp turns and halts in a parking lot. All the doors swing open.
I walk off in the direction where I hope to find the ring road, the main highway that circles the whole island, running along the north coast to the Eastfjords and curving back along the south. I take out my free tourist map of Reykjavík and examine the city’s northern periphery, orienting the sheet with my antique compass. The part of the ring road I’m trying to reach is covered by an ad for glacier tours of Vatnajökull.
— You couldn’t even call this hopeless, I whisper.
I fold up the map and search for the highway by instinct. An hour of wandering brings me to a long entrance ramp; I choose a spot at the base where I’m visible for some distance and there’s a wide shoulder to pull over. I stand up straight and extend my thumb, thinking of my haggard appearance: an army-surplus parka, worn brown pants and muddy sneakers, an enormous backpack. I’ve never hitchhiked before.
The cars speed by at forty miles an hour, punching gusts of wind at me. I don’t look at the faces of the drivers. A sedan passes and its brake lights go red. I swing my bag over my shoulder and sprint up the road.
The first man who picks me up is tall and gangly, his cropped hair graying at the edges. He says he is a troubadour, a traditional entertainer in Icelandic song, and he bellows a few bars as proof of this. His voice is deep and impressive.