To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [201]
Nicholas stopped and looked round. So did Benecke. Sersanders said, ‘Don’t be silly. Come on, while it’s clear.’
Kathi said, ‘Listen.’ Her face, losing its liveliness, had become intent. She said, ‘There is nothing to hear.’
Nicholas returned to her side. For a moment he stood. Then without saying anything he walked back over the snow to first one dark, steaming vent, then a second. Beyond that was the icy-rimmed basin upon which Paúel had slipped. He stood there for what seemed a long time, and then saw that Paúel was standing beside him. Neither spoke.
The fifty-foot basin was dry, which was normal. The water which had recently filled it had spilled from the edge and was still making its way, steaming, tricking over the snowfield. The central pipe still emitted steam, which blew about in the abated breeze. The geysir was one they had timed. The water retreated sixty feet down the pipe, boiled, ascended, and finally exploded once more in the air. Nicholas stepped into the basin and looked down. He heard Kathi call out in warning, but Paúel beside him made no effort to hold him back.
There was no danger, because there was no sound of simmering water. There was no sound, because there was no water and, as he looked, the upper surface of the pipe became dry. The geysir was dead. And so, inert in uncanny silence, lay every spring in the field. The steam, as he watched, began to thin and to fade. Dry and silent, the crust of Hell lay around them, the voices withdrawn.
They stood, looking about, while in front of them, Glímu-Sveinn called again, pointing. They turned to the south-east. Against a deep charcoal sky, a white mountain glowed in the distance. From it trailed a plume of pale russet smoke.
‘Hekla,’ Benecke said.
Behind Hekla, to the east, lowered the mighty Vatna glacier with its burden of ice three thousand feet deep. To the south floated the great southern glaciers of Myrdals and Eyjafjalla, over five thousand feet high: a pack of icy-blue whalebacks against the dark sky from which arose, feather-white, another column of vapour. Nicholas studied it, one hand at his throat. He said nothing.
A flock of crows fled overhead in an abrupt storm of noise. A moment later, like a darn in the silence, could be heard the faint scratchy sound – reu, reu, reu – of hastening ptarmigan. Then the silence returned. Benecke said, ‘I think we should hurry.’
Watchfully then, all four of them started to run. Around them, the tormented arena lay cooling and dumb, its violence throttled, its trickling waters and mud-beds congealing. Now and then, something pattered or cracked. Once, Sersanders attempted to speak, but Nicholas shook his head. Glímu-Sveinn had the answers.
Glímu-Sveinn, his beard in his chest, sat and watched them approach. He had roped the horses together; they stood in a huddle, their great heads poking over each other’s backs, their eyeballs glittering. The Icelander’s wide otter-eyes were veined red. He said, ‘Mount, and throw down anything you do not need. You felt the tremors?’
‘The springs are dry,’ Nicholas said.
‘All this last week the ice-caps have shrunk, and for two days the ewes have held back their milk. I should have known. I will take you west with my family, and from Skálholt you will go to the Governor’s house at Bessastadir. When it is over, he will find you some ship.’
‘We have ships,’ said Benecke sharply. They were already mounting.
The reddened eyes turned and glared into his. ‘You cannot reach them. The valley of the Markarfljót will be impassable. Even the Hvita has changed since you crossed it.’
‘Why?’ said Anselm Sersanders. Beneath his tight hand, his pony was wild-eyed and fidgetting. The spare horses were trampling and snorting. Sersanders himself appeared alert and determined, the way he did in his armour when fighting. Kathi wore the same expression. For once, they looked like brother and sister.
The Icelander turned and spoke to them all. ‘There have been earthquake tremors all afternoon. Among the geysirs, you would not distinguish