He looked at me. His face was fresh and barely sweating. ‘The less ski work we ’ave ter do the better. Nah, just you try and go steady. Keep the same pace all the time. ’Um a toon – Tipperary or somefink. Get a swing into it. We’re going too slow.’
‘You mean Lovaas will be going faster than this?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Orl roight,’ he said. ‘Oi know it ain’t your fault. We’re used ter this sort o’ walkin’. You ain’t. Just shut yer ma’f, get yer ’ead da’n and keep goin’. An’ remember, Oi’m settin’ the pace. Nah yer loosened up a bit, we’ll get goin’.’
He went on then. I watched his feet. They began to twinkle, moving with supple, effortless ease – a long, lithe movement, the stride never varying in length or pace whether going up or down. For a while we were close to the river, the spray of several small falls whipping across our faces. I kept pace with him here, imitating the supple movement of his limbs regardless of the ache of my knees. Then we began to climb, a steady, relentless climb. Try as I might, he began to draw ahead. I put my head forward and my hands on my thrusting knee-caps. I must get to Farnell in time. I gritted my teeth and thought of Farnell. I must reach him in time. I began to hum a tune, hissing it through my teeth with each gasp of breath. It fitted the beat of my feet. And the beat of my feet fitted the words – I must reach Farnell in time. I must reach Farnell in time. My feet were hot and tired through to the very bone. My legs ached – ached so that my boots were a leaden weight. My body poured out sweat, blinding my eyes, suffocating my lungs. And over all, the heavy rucksack dragged at my shoulders, cutting into the light flesh over the collar bone, tearing at my neck muscles. Determinedly, doggedly, I clung to the beat of those words – I must reach Farnell in time. But gradually my mind became too numb and too dazed even to breathe through my teeth the beat of my feet. Soon the words were wiped away. My mind was blank. I forgot Farnell. I forgot everything. My world became bound by a stony path winding up, ever up and the little figure of Sunde with the enormous rucksack bobbing ahead.
We were swinging away from the river now, climbing that side of the valley. At the top the mist was thicker. There were little patches of snow. There was little sign of a path. We were in a wild place, a jungle of huge, lichen-covered stones topped with snow. Every now and then we came upon a large red T painted on the rock – the tourist association, blazing the trail. Then suddenly among some desolate, gnarled-rooted trees – BJORNSTIGEN in large black letters on a flat slab with an arrow pointing to the left. Sunde was waiting for me here. ‘The Bear’s Ladder,’ he said. ‘It’s a short-cut. If Lovaas takes that easier route we may catch up wiv ’im. It’s a bit of a climb this.’
My heart sank. I had no illusions about what Sunde meant when he talked of ‘a bit of a climb’. He started off to the left up an easy slope. ‘We’ll pause for a bite at the top,’ he said over his shoulder by way of encouragement.
‘Why the Bear’s Ladder?’ I asked. I was following so close my face was almost touching the battered canvas of his rucksack.
‘An ol’ bear used the route, I expect that’s why.’
‘Were there bears up in these mountains?’
‘’Course there were. Me fa’ver used ter ’unt them. There’s still a few fa’nd. But they don’t ’unt them nah.’
We fell silent as the slope became steeper. Soon we were struggling up under a sheer, buttressed wall of rock. The blood pounded in my ears. The sweat trickled down the small of my back. Mist and sweat gathered in beads on my eyebrows. We went through a drift of snow. The marks of nailed boots showed deep in the drift. Sunde pointed to them. ‘All goin’ up. None comin’ da’n. We may meet Peer yet.’
‘Has Lovaas been this way?’ I panted.
‘Can’t tell,’ he answered.
The world was very still in the mist. The river was no more than distant a rumble of water. A small grey bird chattered on a rock, dipping his body as he talked. Another drift and then the loose rock covered by snow rising right up into the mist. Beyond the mist, there was probably mile on ghastly mile of piled-up, snow-capped peaks. But I could see nothing through the sweat but that treacherous, snow covered trail winding up under the blank wall of the mountains we were climbing. Sliding and cursing, gripping with my hands as well as my feet, thrown off balance by the weight of my pack, sweating and panting, I worked my way up. I thought of the old bear whose ladder this was. He’d had four legs and had not been encumbered by pack and skis. There were patches bare of snow and there Sunde’s feet dislodged rocks that rolled down against my legs. I, in turn, dislodged others that clattered below us, some losing themselves in the snow in sudden silence, others rattling down till the sound of them was lost in the distance.
More and more often Sunde paused to give me a hand. But at last we reached the top and in a wild spot of giant boulders loosened from the mountains by the frozen wedges of winter ice, we paused and slipped off our packs. I flung myself against a rock, tired, exhausted, throbbing with heat and weariness. Sunde produced what he called heimebaktflatbrod – wafer-thin home-made bread and brown goat’s cheese. ‘Better eat quick,’ he said. ‘We can’t stop more than a minute or two. An’ don’t eat no snow.’
Whilst I lay back, trying to eat, he cast about in the snow patches, examining the footprints. But in the end he shook his head. ‘Impossible ter tell ’ow many people bin past ’ere.’
I closed my eyes. I didn’t care. I didn’t care if Farnell were killed. I wouldn’t have cared if Lovaas had materialised out of the mist and pointed a gun at me. To be shot would be a merciful relief. I was dead beat. The mist wrapped round me like a clammy blanket. It seeped through my sweat-damp clothing and right into my bones. From being hot I was in an instant shivering with cold. ‘Okay,’ Sunde said. ‘We’ll move on now.’
I opened my eyes. He was looking at me with a kindly smile. ‘Yer’ll soon get used to it,’ he said.
I struggled to my feet, every muscle in my body crying out with pain. In that brief rest I seemed to have stiffened up so that every joint seemed rusted, immovable. Sunde helped me on with the rucksack. We struggled on through deepening snow across a shoulder of the mountain. Soon we had to put on skis. Sunde waxed them first. The Norwegians use different waxes, not skins, for climbing through snow. The skis felt heavy and clumsy on my tired feet. It was as though I had strapped a pair of canoes to them. New muscles began to cry out in agony as we sidestepped up the shoulder. Then for a brief spell we were running downhill, following the tracks of other skis. There were several ski tracks in all. The snow ended in rock. I stemmed. The heavy rucksack swung and I fell. Sunde helped me to my feet. ‘Lovaas is ahead of us,’ he said.
I nodded. I had already realised that.
More climbing. Then another run on skis, in and out amongst huge, snow-capped rocks. At one point Sunde swung backwards and forwards across the mountain side, quartering it as though in search of something. At last he stopped by a large rock. I saw the pistol I had given him in his hand. He moved forward quietly on his skis. I ran up carefully towards him. He disappeared as I approached. A moment later I stemmed and came up facing the back of a smaller saeter hut almost buried in snow.
Sunde emerged from the side, shaking his head. ‘Holmen Saeter,’ he said. ‘No one there. The ski tracks pass above it. But Oi thort Oi’d just make sure.’ He pulled a map out of his pocket. ‘Just wonderin’ if we can make anuvver short cut ’ere.’ But after a moment he shook his head. ‘No. We follow the others.’
We began to climb then. The ache of my shoulders was less now the rucksack was freed from the skis. But my legs felt like the legs of a stuffed doll from which the sawdust is gradually seeping. The bones seemed to be no longer solid, but liquid sticks that bent and folded. I had difficulty in keeping my skis straight. If only we could get a nice long run down. But I had a vivid picture in my mind of the route. It was steadily up-hill all the way from Aurland to Finse – a good fifty miles the way we were having to come.
From Holme
n Saeter we climbed in a steep zigzag, sometimes on foot. At the top there was a chill breeze. The mist was being blown to the head of the valley. It was like a white fog, one moment drawn aside to show the silver line of the river far below us and the black cliffs opposite, the next sweeping down, thick, impenetrable, choking. The snow was crisper here. But after only a short, downhill run boulders began to show like white molehills and we had to tramp forward on foot. Soon we were at the river again on a broad path where skiing was possible. The valley widened and the river became a series of lakes. Beside the largest of these was a well-cared-for saeter. But again the marks of the skis ahead of us ran on past it. Doors and windows were bolted. An outhouse was similarly locked.
Sunde stopped and pointed to the ski tracks. Three ski tracks ran off at an angle, crossing the tracks we were following. ‘Peer has gone back,’ he said. ‘See their marks?’
‘Why didn’t we meet them?’ I gasped. I didn’t really care. I was past caring. My mind was a haze in which the ability to keep going was all that mattered.
‘Probably they went the long way round for the skiing,’ he answered. ‘Besides, the Bjornstigen would be difficult going down.’
He went on. I stumbled after him, trying to hold the killing pace. I wanted to pick up snow and cram it into my mouth. I wanted to lie down in the white softness of it that packed so easily with a crunching sound under our skis. But above all those desires was the thought of Farnell, alone now, sitting by a log fire in some lonely saeter farther up in the hills. The ski tracks would be plain – plain as though his route had been marked off on a map. And whilst he sat there, tired and lonely, Lovaas and his two companions would be approaching him. It was that thought that spurred me on. We had to catch up with Lovaas. We had to warn Farnell. If we got there too late … I wasn’t afraid that Farnell would talk. He wouldn’t tell Lovaas where the thorite deposits lay. Nothing would induce him to do that. But if they killed him … I remembered the hot temper that had blazed in Lovaas’s blue eyes. I remembered what Dahler had said of him. Frustrated, he might well kill Farnell. And if they killed him, then all that he had worked for would be lost for ever.
Near the end of the lake the path hugged a sheer cliff. Wooden boards on iron supports took us across a gap below overhanging rock. Beneath us the lake lay black and cold. It was then I think that I first noticed that the light was beginning to fade. I looked at my watch. It was nearly seven. We climbed again for a few minutes. Then we were out on a hillside and looking up a widening valley. The mountains fell back as we advanced, opening out till they were no more than grey shapes, slashed with cold, dirty white. The mist swept down again, as though in sudden alliance with night. The grey of the valley deepened to a sombre half-dark in which rocks and river had a remote, unreal quality.
Soon it was dark. It came slowly and our eyes were given a chance to accustom themselves to it. But even so, it was pretty dark. Only the snow at our feet glimmered faintly to prove that we had not been struck with blindness. Sunde went slowly now, picking his way with care, his head thrust forward as though he were smelling out the route. He had a compass and he worked on that. Sometimes we were close to the water’s edge, going forward by the sound of it rippling over the stones, at other times we were clambering over some shoulder of land. The rocks were thick and dangerous on these shoulders. But at last we were out in the open, clear of rocks and river, with the vague, white glimmering of snow all around us. Our skis slid crisply over the even surface. And then he found the ski tracks of the others and followed them through the black and glimmering white that was night in the mountains. There was not a sound in all the world. It was as though time stood still. This might be that world of shadow between life and death; it was chill, remote and utterly silent. The only sound was the slither and hiss of our skis. I wasn’t panting now. The blood no longer throbbed in my ears. I felt numb and cold. The loneliness of the place ate into me.
Sunde slithered up beside me. ‘Listen!’ he said.
We stopped. A distant murmur could be heard through the sound of the stillness. It was water running over rocks. ‘That’s Osterbo,’ he said. ‘Wiv any luck we’ll find ’im there.’
‘What about Lovaas?’ I asked.
‘Dunno,’ he replied. ‘He ain’t come this way. See – there’s four ski tracks here. So that’s Farnell’s party. Maybe Lovaas stayed back at Nasbo, that saeter by the lake. He could rest up there and go on to Osterbo by moonlight.’
‘But it was all locked up,’ I said.
‘Maybe he turned back when it began to get dark.’
‘But we’d have heard him if he’d passed us,’ I pointed out.
‘Not if he passed us da’n by the river.’ He gripped my arm. ‘Look! Stars showin’ nah. Goin’ ter be a fine night.’
We went on then, following the four dim ski tracks. The sound of water grew louder. We reached a stone wall, followed it and came to a bridge across a torrent. The snow on the wooden cross-planks had been churned up by many skis. It was impossible to tell how many people had crossed. Across the bridge we swung to the right. And there, straight ahead of us, was a faint glimmer of light – red and soft, like the flicker of a camp fire.
Stars were patterning the sky ahead of us as we glided across the snow towards that light. The drawn veil of the mist gave shape to things – a stone wall, a graveyard with two solitary crosses, the dull steel of a lake beyond. I drew my pistol from my rucksack. Soon we could see the sprawling shape of the turisthytten. Nearest the lake was the old, original saeter, stone-built with turf roof. Behind it ran a new, wooden building. It was from this that the light shone. And as we got nearer we could see that it was the flicker of a fire. The snow ran smooth and white to the edge of the building. No shadow moved. Complete silence save for the murmur of the stream. The ski tracks ran to the door of the hut. And coming in from the left, other tracks ran to the window and thence to the door.
The click of a lock sounded through the starlit darkness. The click of a lock or was it the cocking of a gun? We froze in our tracks. There it was again. It came from the house. Sunde suddenly gripped my arm. ‘The door,’ he said.
The door swung to with a click. A moment later there was a dark gap. Then it swung to again. Someone had left the door to the hut open and it was swinging in the chill breeze. Somehow it made me think of the heels of a hanging man. ‘You take the winder,’ Sunde said. ‘Oi’ll take the door.’
I nodded. It was only later that I realised to what extent my weariness had allowed him to assume direction of the situation. I skied up to the dark wall of the hut and then worked my way along. What would we find? That open door – surely Farnell wouldn’t have left the door open? Or was he standing there, watching and waiting for visitors?
Sunde’s shadow slid up to the door. I saw him remove his skis and creep in through the entrance, pistol in hand. I glided along to the window and peered quickly in. At first glance the room looked empty. But as I drew back out of sight I realised that there had been a bundle of something in the far corner. I looked again. There in the far corner were three rucksacks. Around them lay a litter of clothes and food. There was more food on the table. And an axe and a pile of logs lay beside the fire. I nearly cut my nose on a broken pane trying to peer more closely into the room. I touched the framework of the window. It moved. I pulled it open and felt the warmth of the fire. The door was flung wide and Sunde stood there, his pistol in his hand. He looked at the three rucksacks. Then at me, peering in through the open window.
‘So, he’s gorn, ’as ’e?’
My numbed mind didn’t think as fast as that. All I saw was the warmth of the fire. Farnell could wait. There was no hurry now. There were his rucksacks. He had a warm fire blazing. I thought of a cup of tea. I took off my skis and hurried round to the door. I dragged myself along a dark corridor with little cubicles leading off. Then I was in the room with the fire. I staggered towards it and slipped my rucksack to the ground.
God, it was wonderful, t
hat fire! My numbed body received its warmth with unbelievable gratitude. If I could have purred, my life would have been complete in that moment.
‘Can’t ’ave left long,’ Sunde said, scratching his head and spreading his hands to the blaze. He still had his rucksack on his back. He carried it as though it were part of him.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
Sunde stared at me. ‘Gawd!’ he said. ‘This ain’t like you, Mr Gansert. ’Ow many rucksacks d’you see?’
‘Three,’ I answered sleepily. But some little thought was nagging at my mind, burrowing up into consciousness. Then I got to my feet. ‘My God!’ I said. ‘Three. There should be four.’
He nodded. ‘That’s roight. They bin ahead o’ us.’
‘Lovaas?’ I asked.
‘That’s roight. Came in by the winder. Opened it by that broken pane.’ He looked at me sharply. Then he dropped his pack to the floor and burrowed deep into one of the pockets. ‘’Ere, you ’ave a nip o’ that, guv’ner,’ he said, handing me a flask. ‘Oi’m gonna ’ave a look ra’nd.’
I unscrewed the cap and took a swig at the fiery liquor. It was brandy. The fire of it warmed me deep inside. Sunde was back in a few minutes. ‘Place is empty,’ he said. ‘No sign of a struggle. Everyfink in order. There weren’t no trouble.’ He scratched his head and took a swig at the flask. ‘The way I see it, Olsen went part of the way down with Peer and the others an’ then coming back ’e saw Lovaas an’ party before they saw ’im. Probably ’e ’ad glasses.’ He looked across at me. ‘’Ow yer feelin’, eh?’
‘Better,’ I said. ‘Much better.’ What he said seemed to make sense. And it cheered me. For it meant that there was still hope of our getting to Farnell before Lovaas. Farnell warned was a very different matter to Farnell lying in a saeter, unsuspecting. I looked into the embers. ‘He can’t have left long,’ I said. ‘The fire is too bright.’
The Blue Ice Page 19