Ulla-Lena Lundberg - Ice

Funny that you can get so tired. He’s really looking forward to getting up on land, can see himself running up the hill so he doesn’t freeze solid. Then through the door. Whew! Mona’s horror, the warm tile stove. How nice it is to peel off the heavy wet clothes and get help towelling himself dry. Warm pyjamas, wool socks and wool sweater, fire in the kitchen range, the heat streaming straight out, boiling water in a pot. Hot tea. “Let me catch my breath first and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Now all he needs to do is find an edge of the ice that will bear his weight. Then he just has to heave himself up, pull himself forward, roll until he dares stand up and walk. But he finds that it is more difficult in practice than in theory. It ought to be a simple matter, he thinks, to break the ice until he comes to an edge that bears, but it goes slowly and his movements are strangely languid and his limbs are heavy. Again and again he has to rest with his arms on the ice. And when he’s come far enough that he dares to lift himself up, he can’t, and because of his sore shoulder, he lacks the strength to pull himself forward.

The important thing now is not to panic. Rest for a while, then try again. Don’t rest too long, however, for then he risks freezing to death. Try again. No. Recalls that the Örlanders always say that the first thing to remember when you’re going out on the ice is to have something sharp, an ice pike, a knife in your belt. Why doesn’t he have anything sharp with him? He admires the Örlanders for all they know and can do, but he’s learned nothing from them. If he dives back down and breaks a mudguard from his bicycle, he’s got a chance. But he knows he no longer has the strength for such an extended effort under water.

Only then does it occur to him to call for help. It’s embarrassing, it’s humiliating, he who’s the eldest and an example for others. He should not put himself into such situations, he’s behaved like a complete idiot, and the fewer who know it the better. Nevertheless, he now hollers “Help!” and hears for himself how feeble it sounds. The parsonage is near, but of course the windows are closed and sealed. Unless Mona goes out on the steps and listens, she’ll hear nothing. He needs to make a bigger noise. It’s hard to get his voice to carry from down so close to the water, but it’s absolutely necessary. If he yells and moves around, maybe he can stay warm a little better. If he’s to get out of this ice hole, someone has to hear him.

“Help!” he shouts, louder now. For heaven’s sake, his big booming bass must carry far enough for someone to hear it. Anyone! Mona going out to listen for him, the verger on the other side of point with something to do outdoors and stopping to listen to the wind. Someone he hasn’t thought of, out on the ice on some late errand.

And above our earthly troubles, God in his heaven who sees to us in his mercy and feels our plight. Between his calls for help—which carry better if he doesn’t try to form consonants but just brays, aaaaah aaaaah—he prays. To God who lets no sparrow fall to earth, to the God of compassion, the God of mercy. Send me your angels, send Mona on swift feet, feather-light across the ice, the verger out to test his sledge. Maybe the wind will carry his voice to the east villages. Maybe someone will hear. Dear God.

The pain boring into his head no longer feels quite as strong. It’s as if his shouts were deadening all pain. He shouts steadily, repeatedly now, like a foghorn, with brief intervals to catch his breath. Everything is going black, he slides down and gets a mouth full of water, which wakes him up and he coughs and shouts. Have mercy upon us. Deliver us from evil. It occurs to him that he is dying.

In the parsonage, Lillus has a cold, she’s snivelling and fussing and can’t sleep. Mona has her hands full—warm honey water, turpentine on her chest, a scarf and a knit cap. Blow! In between, she wanders around and scolds herself for being so uneasy. Petter should have come by now, his endless evening meetings can drive a person crazy. But it really is terribly dark. What if he’s lost, what if he’s ridden up on some rock and knocked himself unconscious! If he’s not here in fifteen minutes, she’s going to call central and ask if they’ve heard anything. She goes out on the steps and listens but hears nothing. Not his whining dynamo, not the creaking and squeaking of his bicycle, nothing. She goes back in and is mad at herself for being so scared. She tries to sit down but can’t get anything done. The minute hand on the clock doesn’t move.

In the east villages, a man has heard odd sounds across the ice, but as far as he can tell they’re coming from the west villages, and if someone there has fallen through the ice, they can pull him out themselves. He’s on his way back in but takes a swing around the boathouses, and there’s another man standing and listening. “Could that be someone in the steamboat channel?” Both are struck by the same awful thought: the Aranda passed by yesterday, and the thin ice that’s frozen in its wake could be a death trap for anyone who didn’t know it was there. Now there are three of them gathering ice pikes and ropes, but the voice is coming less often now and sounds hardly human. Maybe an animal, but what animal sounds like that? In the houses, people have started calling around, and the central switchboard operator sends the message onward. Is there anyone who hasn’t come home this evening? Has anyone ventured out near the steamboat channel? Is there anyone out on any kind of errand who hasn’t yet come home?

It takes a while for this message to get out. It’s late, many have gone to bed, and there are many to call. There is discussion and speculation in every household. Could it be . .? But tonight? No, I don’t think so. The operator calls the villagers, relatives. The parsonage isn’t on the unofficial list, but then, finally, the host of the prayer meeting remembers. “My God, the priest was here! No! He must have got home a long time ago! Do we dare call the parsonage and disturb them?”

The operator arms herself with her most official voice when she gets the pastor’s wife on the line, whose voice sounds unusually timid. “This is the operator. We apologize for calling so late. But a question has come up. Is the vicar at home?”

The west villages have later habits than the east, and there are several men ready to go out with sledges and ice pikes and ropes. Quickly, in single file, the lightest first, they move towards the steamboat channel. Stop often and listen. Quiet now. Was it all in their imagination? A fox howling on one of the islands? Dark as the inside of a sack, you can hardly see where the channel goes, notice it only when their ice pikes hit slush. Then they all back up. They make sweeps across the channel with their flashlights, turn them off in between. Easy to miss a hole if no one calls. But something has made everyone uneasy. Everyone out there on the ice has known someone who fell through and drowned.

Petter is shouting less now, what explodes from his mouth every time he surfaces is mostly water. He no longer has the strength to hold onto the edge of the ice and soon he’ll no longer have the strength to cough the water from his lungs. He can feel his body only occasionally and then only as burning fire. His arms won’t obey, his legs don’t kick any more like the good swimmer he once was, like a seal, like a dolphin. But his head is clear, despite the pain that chases through it. His ears can hear—the splashing that reveals how terribly slowly he’s moving, the chunks of ice banging into each other and into the edge, the rustle around him of water being splashed up onto the ice and slowly freezing. The wind that blows like deep sighs, which then rush across the ice like a train, carrying the voice from the parsonage out over the emptiness of ice and cold.