The Blue Ice (28 page)

I turned and pressed on. The fear of those clouds piling up from the west was what drove me forward now. I felt I had to get across the glacier before they reached me. But I hadn't a hope. In five minutes visibility was diminishing and the air was becoming much colder. I stopped and took a quick bearing on the direction that I knew the peak of Sankt Paal to be. Then I trudged on – climbing, climbing all the time. The clouds had no form now. They were a grey veil obliterating the valley behind me, swirling chill fingers round black outcrops of rock until nothing remained. Then my world became reduced to a small compass of snow that looked dirty and bleak in the half-light. The rest was a grey void. My only link with the world beyond that void was the sharp-cut lines of the ski tracks. They disappeared ahead in the curtain of mist, yet they always continued as I advanced.

The wind was very cold now. There was a damp chill in the driving force of it. I might have been in Canada, up in the mining camps of the Rockies. But then I would have been properly equipped with moccasins and fur cap and plenty of woollen clothes. Here the wind blew right through me, eating into bones that were already numb with exhaustion.

A tall slender pole emerged from the mist. It was thrust deep into the snow by a black granite outcrop. The first of the markers. I was at the top of a ridge. The ski tracks ran level ahead of me into the impenetrable murk. Before I had lost sight of the marker behind me, the next was in sight. The ski tracks ran close by it. Another and another followed. Then I was climbing steeply again, side-stepping steadily so that my limbs ached. The rarefied atmosphere and the cold began to tell. I felt I should never make the top of that ridge. Surely this must be the top of Sankt Paal? But after that ridge there was another and another.

And then suddenly, at the top of that third ridge, close by one of the markers, the ski tracks turned away to the left and ran downhill. I followed them automatically. For two hundred feet or more I ran smoothly and easily down. The wind whipped through my wind-breaker, turning the sweat of my body to an icy dampness. It was as though I had no clothes on at all. A flurry of torn-up snow leapt to meet me out of the mist. Fortunately I was not going fast. I did a half Christi and followed on the line of ski tracks. Below me, to the left, the snow fell away in a sheer drop. My heart leapt in my mouth as I saw the white tendrils of the mist swirling in an up-draught of air. I was skiing along the edge of a precipice. The drop might be a hundred feet. It might be a thousand. I couldn't tell. And I realised that I had passed no markers in the last five hundred yards or so. I stemmed and came to a standstill. As I stood there, looking down into the nothingness of moving vapour, I realised suddenly the game that Farnell was playing. He knew these mountains. He had deliberately led his pursuers off the marked track and was playing a game of hide-and-seek on skis, with the mist and all the perils of the mountains in his favour.

I hesitated. And as I hesitated the mist darkened. A myriad black specks began driving past me. It was starting to snow. I glanced ahead. There were the ski tracks, clear and deep. But even as I looked the edges became blurred and their sharpness was lost in the falling snow.

I turned then and in the fear of sudden loneliness hurried back along my tracks. The snow thickened. The wind was driving straight into my face, blinding me. In an instant my windbreaker was white and I was brushing the cold, clammy particles from my face.

God, how fear lent strength to my limbs! By the time I had reached the spot where I had had to Christi, the marks of the turn were barely visible. I started to climb the long slope down which I had run so easily. But before I was half-way up, the tracks made coming down were gone, as though rubbed out by a giant rubber. I stopped and got out my compass. No good going by the direction of the wind. It was eddying all over the place.

I reached the top at last and began to descend. I turned back then, certain I had crossed the line of the markers. I searched back and forth across a wide area. But there was nothing. Just snow and an occasional jagged outcrop of rock. I followed the compass bearing, casting back and forth across the direction it took me. No friendly posts came out of the mist to greet me. Perhaps the slope I had descended had curved. I cursed myself for not being able to remember. I had just followed the line of the ski tracks, blindly, unthinkingly. In a sudden panic I struck away to the right, climbing again. Soon I was on a ridge, the wind whistling past my face, driving the snow in a thick black cloud. Back and forth I cast, my heart hammering and a horrible emptiness in my belly. I began to descend, and then in panic turned back. I struck away to the left and in a few minutes was crossing a half-obliterated ski track that had been made by my own skis only a few minutes before. I climbed to the top of another ridge. And then I stopped. I was lost. Completely and utterly lost.

I had known men who had been lost in the bush in Africa. I had always thought it must be a ghastly experience. But it couldn't be as bad as this. At least there had been trees and warmth and sunshine. Here there was nothing. Just this empty, desolate waste of snow.

I was almost sobbing with fear. I'm not easily frightened. I've never been frightened of anything I could see. But I was cold and exhausted and alone. What was that story of Jack London's? Something about a wolf. Had London experienced the utter emptiness of exhaustion and lostness before he wrote that story? What had been the end of it? What had happened to that man? He had gone forward on all fours at the end. Had he killed the wolf that was as exhausted as he? Or had the wolf killed him? I couldn't remember. And it was frightfully important. I was certain it was important. I knew my mind was wandering. But I couldn't help it. The story hammered at my tired brain. I couldn't think of anything else. I could see it so clearly. The man on all fours and the wolf – each waiting for the other to die, neither having the strength to kill the other. I was feeling drowsy. I wanted to sink down into the snow. That way lay death. But I didn't care. A merciful oblivion. What did it matter? But I mustn't give up. There was Farnell. And there was Jill. Why did I think of Jill? Farnell and Jill. What was that to me? But I must go on. I must.

I can't remember much about what followed. Cold and exhaustion made everything seem unreal. I was dazed and numbed. All I know is that I began to move forward. I was climbing. And I kept on climbing. I had some crazy notion that if I went on climbing I'd get above the snow, out into the sunshine. And then suddenly I was standing in front of a long slender pole stuck deeply into the snow. I looked at it curiously, almost without interest. Then my brain seemed to function again and hope suddenly coursed along my frozen nerves. I cast about from the pole until I found the next and after that I kept moving from marker to marker, my teeth gritted and only some hidden force inside me driving my unwilling body forward.

And at last, on a ridge that sloped away on either side, something square and solid emerged out of the snowstorm. It stood on a platform of half-exposed rock. It wasn't until I had almost reached it that my brain recognised it for what it was. The hut. It was the hut that Sunde had mentioned. The hut on the very summit of Sankt Paal.

I struggled to leeward of it and found the door. My frozen fingers fumbled with the bindings of my skis. But at last I had them off. Then I lifted the latch. It opened. I stumbled in and closed it behind me.

The sudden stillness was like oblivion. Outside the wind roared and I could hear the falling of the snow. But inside all was quiet. I was in a little passage. It was very dark after the glare of the snow. It wasn't warm. But the wind no longer cut through my clothing. There was an inner door. A pair of skis clattered to the floor as I opened it. Inside was a big room with a long deal table and benches. There was a rucksack on the table and an opened packet of sandwiches. A dull glow of warmth met me as I staggered towards a seat. That warmth – it seemed to rise up and lap me round. I felt suddenly dizzy. The table began to move. Then the whole room started spinning. I felt my legs buckle under me. I heard somebody cry out. Then everything was a blank and I was sinking down, down, into a soft, warm darkness.

Was the hut all a dream? Was this how it felt to die in the snow? I struggled back to half-consciousness. I mustn't lie here in the snow. That way lay death. I knew that and I fought it. A man mustn't cease to fight because he's dead beat. To die in the snow! That was no way to end one's life. I fought back. I got my eyes open. A face swam in my vision, blurred and convulsed like something in a tank of water. It was a girl's face. I thought of Jill. If only I could get to Jill. Somebody spoke my name. It was far away. I was hearing things. It wasn't real. I relaxed. Everything slowly faded into oblivion.

CHAPTER NINE

GEORGE FARNELL

I emerged into consciousness reluctantly, like a sleeper clinging to each separate minute of his bed. I felt numb and drowsy. I could hear the wind. But I could not feel it. It was as though I had lost the power to feel. I was shivering uncontrollably and felt damp and chill. What was it I had dreamed about? A hut and a woman's voice. I opened my eyes quickly and found the outline of a boarded ceiling above me. I was lying on a wooden floor. I could feel it with my hands. And my head was pillowed on something soft, yet firm and warm. There was a warmth to the right of me. I turned my head. An old-fashioned, cast-iron stove showed the flicker of flames through a crack. On the top of it a tin kettle poured out a stream of steam. ‘Feeling better?' It was a woman's voice, soft and gentle, and vaguely familiar. It sounded very far away. I sighed and relaxed. I felt so tired. I never wanted to stir again.

‘Drink some of this.' My head was raised and the rim of a glass tipped against my lips. The smell of hot brandy brought me back to full consciousness. I drank and warmth spread comfortingly through my body.

I mumbled my thanks and struggled into a sitting position. Then I turned and found myself looking into Jill's level, grey eyes. ‘How in the world did you get up here?' I asked.

She smiled. ‘On ski.' Then suddenly serious: ‘What happened, Bill? Where's George? I couldn't stay down at the hotel, waiting, whilst they all gathered for the kill. I left early this morning, when it was barely light. I thought I might go as far as Gjeiteryggen. Then the snow came and I had only just made this hut. Have you seen George?'

‘In the distance,' I answered. ‘That was as we were climbing up to Sankt Paal, before the snow came down.' I took the glass of hot brandy from her and drained it. ‘Lovaas and his mate were about five hundred yards behind him.'

‘But where is he now?'

‘Soon as the snow came down he swung away from the marked route. He's leading them a dance all round the precipice and crevasses of Sankt Paal. He'll get the pair of them lost and they'll die out there in the snow.'

‘Die? But—' She stopped then and her eyes looked troubled. Then she said, ‘You've had a long trek, Bill. Vassbygden to Sankt Paal is quite a way. You can't have stopped anywhere.'

‘At Osterbo and Steinbergdalen,' I answered. ‘But they were only brief halts.'

‘Where's Alf Sunde?'

‘At Steinbergdalen.' I passed my hand over my face. My eyes felt tired and I was still dizzy despite the warmth of the brandy.

‘But why did you leave him at Steinbergdalen?' she asked.

‘He was wounded,' I answered. ‘Bullet through the shoulder.' Why must she keep on asking me questions? Couldn't she see I didn't want to talk? But there was something I must ask her – something she'd said. Oh, yes – ‘What did you mean when you said you couldn't bear waiting whilst they all gathered for the kill?'

Her eyes were wide. ‘A bullet through the shoulder? How did he get that? What happened?'

I struggled to my feet. I felt light-headed and my legs were weak. I stood close to the stove trying to absorb the warmth of it into me. ‘Is there any more brandy?' I asked. My voice sounded strange.

‘Yes,' she said and produced a flask. I poured some of it into the tumbler and added hot water from the kettle. Then I stood, warming my hands round the glass and drinking in the smell of it. ‘Don't worry about Sunde,' I said. ‘He'll be all right. Just a flesh wound. I want to know what happened down at Finse. Who was at the hotel?' I took a pull at the drink. God! How wonderful hot brandy is when you're all in! ‘Was Dahler there?' I asked.

‘Yes. He came up in the train with us.' She hesitated. ‘Then Jorgensen arrived. He came on the train from Oslo.'

‘Jorgensen!' I swung round on her. ‘What brought Jorgensen there?'

‘I don't know.'

Jorgensen at Finse! Somebody must have tipped him off. Or perhaps it was just one of those strokes of luck? ‘Was he intending to stop off at Finse?' I asked. ‘Or was he on his way from Oslo to Bergen and suddenly saw Dahler and decided to stay the night?'

But she shook her head. ‘No, I think he intended to stay. Dahler was in the bar, so Jorgensen couldn't have seen him from the train. He came straight in with a suitcase and asked for a room.'

‘Just for the night?'

‘No. He told the receptionist that he couldn't say how long he'd be staying.'

‘Did he bring skis with him?'

‘No – nor any ski clothes. But I heard him arranging with the manager for the loan of everything he wanted.'

‘And how did he react when he found Dahler in the hotel?' I thought of Dahler telephoning from Fjaerland. Somebody must have got in touch with Jorgensen.

‘I wasn't there when they first met,' Jill answered. ‘But when I came into the bar later that evening they were both there. Bill – what's the matter with those two men? Jorgensen isn't exactly a nervous type. But he's scared of Dahler. And Dahler – I don't know – it's as though he were enjoying something. The atmosphere between them was noticeable even in a crowded hotel bar. Jorgensen positively started when he saw me. Then he glanced across at Dahler. Dahler gave me a little bow. But all the time he was looking at Jorgensen with that crooked little smile of his and a queer glint in his eyes. It – it sent a cold shiver down my spine.'