crossed the bridge over the Thjorsa River because that was a bottleneck
I was sure Kennikin would cover, but we got across without incident and
I breathed again.
Even so, after we passed Hel a I had a belated attack of nerves and left
the main road to join the network of bumpy tracks in Landeyjasandur,
feeling that anyone who could find me in that maze would have to have
extra-sensory perception.
At midday Elin said decisively, ‘Coffee.’
‘What have you got? A magic wand?’
‘I’ve got a vacuum flask – and bread ? and pickled herring. I raided
Sigurlin’s kitchen.’
‘Now I’m glad you came,’ I said. ‘I never thought of that.’ I pulled the
car to a halt.
‘Men aren’t as practical as women,’ said Elin.
As we ate I examined the map to check where we were. We had just crossed
a smal river and the farmstead we had passed was cal ed Bergthorshvoll.
It was with wonder that I realized we were in the land of Njal’s Saga.
Not far away was Hlidarendi, where Gunnar Hamundarsson was betrayed by
Hal gerd, his wife, and had gone down fighting to the end. Skarp-Hedin
had stalked over this land with death on his face and his war-axe raised
high, tormented by the devils of revenge. And here, at Bergthorshvoll,
Njal and his wife, Bergthora, had been burned to death with their entire
family.
All that had happened a thousand years ago and I reflected, with some
gloom, that the essential nature of man had not changed much since. Like
Gunnar and Skarp-Hedin I travel ed the land in imminent danger of ambush
by my enemies and, like them, I was equal y prepared to lay an ambush if
the opportunity arose. There was another similarity;. I am a Celt and
Njal had a Celtic name, nordicized from Neil. I hoped the Saga of Burnt
Njal would not be echoed by the Saga of Burnt Stewart.
I aroused myself from these depressing thoughts, and said, ‘Who is your
friend in Vik?’
‘Valtyr Baldvinsson, one of Bjarni’s old school friends. He’s a marine
biologist studying the coastal ecology. He wants to find out the extent
of the changes when Katla erupts.’
I knew about Katla. ‘Hence the boat,’ I said. ‘And what makes you think
he’l run us to Keflavik?’
Elin tossed her head. ‘He wil if I ask him to.’
I grinned. ‘Who is this fascinating woman with a fatal power over men?
Can it be none other than Mata Hari, girl spy?’
She turned pink but her voice was equable as she said, ‘You’l like Valtyr.’
And I did. He was a square man who, but for his colouring, looked as
though he had been rough-hewn from a pil ar of Icelandic basalt. His
torso was square and so was his head, and his hands had stubby,
spatulate fingers which appeared to be too clumsy for the delicate work
he was doing when we found him in his laboratory. He looked up from the
slide he was mounting and gave a great shout. ‘Elin! What are you doing
here?’
‘Just passing by. This is Alan Stewart from Scotland.’
My hand was enveloped in a big paw. ‘Good to meet you,’ he said, and I
had the instant feeling he meant it.
He turned to Elin. ‘You’re lucky to have caught me here. I’m leaving
tomorrow.’
Elin raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh! Where for?’
‘At last they’ve decided to put a new engine into that relic of a
longship they’ve given me instead of a boat. I’m taking her round to
Reykjavik.’
Elin glanced at me and I nodded. In the course of events you have to be
lucky sometimes. I had been wondering how Elin was going to cajole him
into taking us to Keflavik without arousing too many suspicions, but now
the chance had fallen right into our laps.
She smiled bril iantly. ‘Would you like a couple of passengers? I told
Alan I hoped you could take us to have a look at Surtsey, but we
wouldn’t mind going on to Keflavik. Alan has to meet someone there in a
couple of days.’
‘I’d be glad to have company,’ Valtyr said jovial y. ‘It’s a fair
distance and I’d like someone to spel me at the wheel. How’s your father?’
‘He’s wel ,’ said Elin.
‘And Bjarni? Has Kristin given him that son yet?’
Elin laughed. ‘Not yet – but soon. And how do you know it won’t be a
daughter?’
‘It wil be a boy!’ he said with certainty. ‘Are you on holiday, Alan?’
he asked in English.
I replied in Icelandic, ‘In a manner of speaking. I come here every year.’
He looked startled, and then grinned. ‘We don’t have many enthusiasts
like you,’ he said.
I looked around the laboratory; it appeared to be a conventional
biological set-up with the usual rows of bottles containing chemicals,
the balance, the two microscopes and the array of specimens behind
glass. An odour of formalin was prevalent. ‘What are you doing here?’ I
asked.
He took me by the arm and led me to the window. With a large gesture he
said, ‘Out there is the sea with a lot of fish in it. It’s hazy now but
in good weather you can see Vestmannaeyjar where there is a big fishing
fleet. Now come over here.’
He led me to a window on the other side of the room and pointed up
toward Myrdalsjokul . ‘Up there is the ice and, under the ice, a big
bastard cal ed Katla. You know Katla?’
‘Everybody in Iceland knows of Katla,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Good! I’ve been studying the sea off this coast and al the
animals in it, big and smal ? and the plants too. When Katla erupts
sixty cubic kilometres of ice wil be melted into fresh water and it
wil come into the sea here; as much fresh water as comes out of al the
rivers of Iceland in a year wil come into the sea in one week and in
this one place. It wil be bad for the fish and the animals and the
plants because they aren’t accustomed to so much fresh water al at
once. I want to find out how badly they wil be hit and how long they
take to recover.’
I said, ‘But you have to wait until Katla erupts. You might wait a long
time.’
He laughed hugely. ‘I’ve been here five years – I might be here another
ten, but I don’t think so. The big bastard is overdue already.’ He
thumped me on the arm. ‘Could blow up tomorrow – then we don’t go to
Keflavik.’
‘I won’t lose any sleep over it,’ I said drily.
He cal ed across the laboratory, ‘Elin, in your honour I’l take the day
off.’ He took three big strides, picked her up and hugged her until she
squealed for mercy.
I didn’t pay much attention to that because my eyes were attracted to
the headline of a newspaper which lay on the bench. It was the morning
newspaper from Reykjavik and the headline on the front page blared: GUN
BATTLE AT GEYSIR.
I read the story rapidly. Apparently a war had broken out at Geysir to
judge from this account, and everything short of light artil ery had
been brought into play by persons unknown. There were a few eye-witness
reports, al highly inaccurate, and it seemed that a Russian tourist,
one Igor Volkov, was now in hospital after having come too close to
Strokkur. Mr Volkov had no bullet wounds. The Soviet Ambassador had
complained to the Icelandic Minister of Foreign Affairs about this
unprovoked assault on a Soviet citizen.
I opened the paper to .see if there was a leading article on the subject
and, of course, there was. In frigid and austere tones the leader writer
inquired of the Soviet Ambassador the reason why the aforesaid Soviet
citizen, Igor Volkov, was armed to the teeth at the time, since there
was no record of his having declared any weapons to the Customs
authorities when he entered the country.
I grimaced. Between us, Kennikin and I were in a fair way to putting a
crimp into Icelandic-Soviet relations.
Chapter III
We left Vik rather late the next morning and I wasn’t in a good mood
because I had a thick head. Valtyr had proved to be a giant among
drinkers and, since I was suffering from lack of sleep, my efforts to
keep up with him had been disastrous. He put me to bed, laughing
boisterously, and woke up himself as fresh as a daisy while I had a
taste in my mouth as though I had been drinking the formalin from his
specimen jars.
My mood wasn’t improved when I telephoned London to speak to Taggart
only to find he was absent from his office. The bland official voice
declined to tel me where he was but offered to pass on a message, an