To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [202]
‘Lightning,’ said Kathi.
‘It can kill men, and horses. And at the very worst, with all this motion, the fire-pipes in the mountains may crack. Hekla may explode.’
‘When?’ said Benecke. ‘How soon might it happen? How will we know when it starts?’
‘You will hear it. The smoke will darken. There will be a smell of sulphur perhaps. It can happen quickly, or it can delay for some days. But long before the explosion, you will be travelling west. All those who live in the plains are preparing to round up their beasts and do the same. My family too. I have just come from there. We can be with them in an hour, if we hurry; and travel together to Skálholt by dark. Come. Come.’
‘And Sigfús?’ said Kathi. ‘Did you find him?’
Glímu-Sveinn looked at her. He said, ‘He is dead. I followed his tracks to the farm, but the farm was no longer there. The shaking had brought down the snow, and a landslide of boulders beneath it. The wreckage was strewn all down the hill, and there was nothing of the farmer and Sigfús but a bloodstained shoe and some rags. I left them. I had to find my own home.’
If Sigfús dies because of the Flemings, I will kill them. Glímu-Sveinn had meant it. But Fate had buried Sigfús in the end and, faced with the danger to his own house and his duty – to his credit – to his travellers, Glímu-Sveinn had not wasted time on a search. Whoever lived at his home – elderly parents, sisters, infants – needed him more.
Nicholas said, ‘We are grateful that you came back, and for your offer to help us. I have only one thing to ask, very quickly. Does one mountain unsettle another? Are you afraid only of Hekla?’
‘Hekla is nearest.’ The Icelander paused. ‘It has been known. Hvallavellir disturbed can rouse Hekla.’
‘And Katla?’ Nicholas said.
‘It is not impossible. But it is a nightmare I for one will not contemplate.’
‘No. Take us to your house,’ Nicholas said. ‘And on the way, if you can, take us past the place where Sigfús was killed. We should speak of it to his widow, if we meet her.’
Sersanders’s expression changed, and he opened his mouth. Before he could mention the cub, Nicholas said, ‘But of course we must hurry. Lead on.’
During the journey, they spoke very little, each of them braced for what might be going to happen. The soft ground beyond the geysirs was difficult, and the ponies jibbed at the ropes which held them together instead of the dog, left behind to herd Glímu-Sveinn’s animals. The ferryman’s hut, when they reached it, was empty, and the river itself seemed to have tilted, with shallows where there had been none before, and deeper currents racing like horses. The water was saddle-deep in such places, and the ponies paddled like crabs, before scrambling up the steep opposite bank. Even the roar of the upper creek and the falls seemed thinner and lighter.
After that, oddly, the wind came once again, whistling and whining from a different direction and erratic in force. It stripped the snow from the ground and hurled it into their faces in long stinging swathes, stopping their breath. Before them, the layers of lava displayed arching streamers of snow, coldly bridal. Despite the chill and the buffeting it restored, for a while, a sense of healthy normality; even the clamour of it was welcome. Then the wind dropped as abruptly as it had risen, and the veils cleared to show them the glaciers again, and the rough whitened ground, and Hekla, with a brown column of smoke puffing into the sunless air. Near at hand lay a vast black escarpment, its lower slopes burdened with snow. Glímu-Sveinn said, ‘There was the farm.’
Kathi made to ride forward, but the Icelander stopped her. ‘The snow is soft. We do not know how deep it is. It is best not to go near.’
‘Let me try,’ Nicholas said, and dismounted. Immediately, Sersanders slid off his horse.
Benecke said, ‘We should hurry.’ In his voice was more than