Stefán Máni - The Ship

‘No,’ says Jónas, bending over the map. ‘It’s quite straightforward.’

‘Gummi?’ queries Sæli, looking at the captain.

‘All right – it’s not as if we have any choice,’ the captain answers. He sighs. ‘But I recommend we head for the British station, not the African one.’

‘Why?’ demands Satan, throwing up his arms. ‘Do you want to walk an extra 200 kilometres? Or are you afraid of black people?’

‘We can’t just look at the kilometres,’ says Guðmundur calmly, pointing at the map. ‘Have you forgotten the mountain range? I’d rather take the longer route and get where I’m headed than lose my life struggling to cross these mountains. They’re over 2000 metres high!’

‘That’s a good point,’ says Sæli, looking at Jónas, who shrugs and looks at Satan.

‘We won’t necessarily have to cross the mountains,’ says Satan. ‘We can probably go around them, on the ice. There’s bound to be a pass somewhere.’

‘Bound to be?’ says the captain then shakes his head. ‘We can walk on ice all the way to Halley Bay, straight ahead. I’m not wasting precious time looking for a route across the mountains when I can just walk directly over the ice. And a route that may not exist, what’s more.’

‘The captain’s right,’ says Sæli, nodding.

‘I don’t agree,’ Satan says, tapping his forefinger on the Sanae station on the map. ‘In a frost-bound hell like this, the only sensible thing is to choose the shorter route. Besides which, out on the ice there’s no shelter to be had if there’s a sudden storm or whirlwind.’

‘That’s true,’ says Jónas. ‘I think it would be better to aim for the African station.’

‘Out of the question!’ says the captain, raising his voice. ‘We head for Halley Bay and we leave at dawn tomorrow! There’s no sense in waiting.’

‘I’ll be ready in the morning, captain,’ says Sæli giving his superior a slap on the back.

‘I’m not going,’ says Satan, folding the map. ‘I’m going across the mountains. And I’m not leaving in the morning. Actually, I wouldn’t recommend anyone do that.’

‘Why not, if I may ask?’ says the captain, red-faced with fury.

‘I’d wait until the wind changed direction,’ says Satan. ‘The north wind always brings fog, which is always treacherous, especially when you’re walking on ice. I’m going to wait for a south wind and clear skies. True, south winds have only lasted a couple of days at a time over the past weeks, but we can make good use of two clear days.’

‘Do what you like!’ Guðmundur pulls his hood over his head as he walks towards the door to the corridor. ‘The rest of us are leaving at dawn.’

‘Captain!’ says Jónas. Guðmundur stops and turns around.

‘Yes?’

‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather go with the deckhand,’ says Jónas, clearing his throat.

‘I do mind, Jónas, my friend,’ says the captain. ‘But if that’s what you’d rather do, I’m not going to stop you.’

‘Okay, then,’ says Jónas, nodding to Guðmundur, who turns on his heel and leaves the bridge for the last time.

23:21

Sæli is sitting at the table in his cabin, packing for the great march he and Captain Guðmundur are about to set off on. Six hundred kilometres – like walking all the way from Reykjavík to Akureyri.

There’s a candle on the table which shines a soft light over the bits and pieces he is either taking along or wondering whether he should take along. He’s going to take needle and thread, in case he has to repair any clothing on the way, but he’s not certain whether or not he needs to have a knife. He reckons Vaseline could be useful – to prevent sunburn and chapped lips, for instance – but he’s not as sure about disinfectant and rubbing alcohol. He’s already packed all necessary clothing, as well as dried and canned foods meant to last for at least a week, even ten days.

All these things he has stuffed into a gym bag with a shoulder strap. The bag is already pretty heavy, possibly as heavy as eight kilograms, so if he’s meant to be able to carry it all that distance he mustn’t add much to its weight. They can’t take water but plan to eat snow to quench their thirst.

Sæli sighs and his bitter breath becomes a frosty cloud.

He picks up a crumpled photo of Lára and Egill, who smile at him from a world so distant and hazy that it’s almost nonexistent, kisses the photo and sticks it down through the neck of his parka and into his shirt pocket.

Then he blows out the candle. He has to go to sleep. He’s got to rest up before the great march.

23:54

Captain Guðmundur has made shoulder straps for his suitcase out of two leather belts that he fastened to the bottom of the case with screws. He has packed the only camping stove on board the ship, along with two extra gas canisters. Earlier in the evening he cut a swatch of sailcloth and folded it to fit in the lid of the suitcase. This sailcloth he plans to wrap over and under himself and Sæli when they bury themselves in snow overnight. By lying in the sailcloth they’ll avoid getting wet when the heat from their bodies melts the snow.

Like Sæli three decks below, the captain is completing his travel preparations by candlelight in his cabin. There are only two things he has left to do before he blows out the candle and goes to sleep. First, he says a short prayer and kisses his Bible before placing it in his case, which he then closes. The Bible admittedly weighs half a kilogram, but to his way of thinking the spiritual strength its presence will give the captain outweighs the calories this extra weight will cost him. Then he takes off his parka, winds Hrafnhildur’s black dress around his middle, squeezes into a cotton T-shirt over the dress, puts his parka back on and zips it up to his chin.

21 December

Satan and Jónas are standing in the stern watching the other two walk out onto the ice: Guðmundur Berndsen with his suitcase on his back and Ársæll Egilsson with his gym bag under his left arm.

They turn to wave and Satan and Jónas wave back, while Skuggi circles and whines.

Every once in a while the ship shudders convulsively as it shifts on the skerrie on which it ran aground and sinks slowly into the sea under the ice.

When the walkers are out of sight in the fog the ship’s dog barks loudly, as if to express his displeasure or warn the men of something

‘ Shut up! ’ yells Satan. Then the dog lies down on its belly and growls softly.

‘Do you think they’ll make it?’ asks Jónas, beating his arms to keep warm in the temperature of minus five degrees.

‘That depends,’ says Satan. He lights a cigarette, his fifth from last.

‘On what?’

‘It doesn’t matter where you’re heading,’ says Satan, blowing smoke through his nose. ‘What matters is what you take with you.’

‘Eh?’ says Jónas, snuffling icy snot up his nose. ‘What should you take with you?’

‘What you had with you at the start of the journey,’ says Satan, opening his left fist where a copper-coloured bullet rolled to and fro.

The captain had handed him the bullet when he said goodbye, without further explanation.

‘“At the start of your journey” – what do you mean by that?’ Jónas says and clenches his teeth when they start to chatter.

‘Come on!’ says Satan walking towards the wheelhouse. ‘The wind could turn at any moment. We have work to do!’