CHAPTER XI
It was still dark next morning when Ørlygur rose, dressed, and silently stole out from the house. He took with him a thirty-foot rope that he had procured the day before, and some food. Then, taking the well-known path up to the mountains, he set off through the darkness.
His dog went with him.
Ørlygur was perfectly calm, without a thought for the perilous nature of his undertaking. He was thinking that he would first have to reach the highest ledge, and get a proper view of the peak, before he could see how to manage the rest.
All he had to do for the present was to husband his strength both physically and mentally, so as to have plenty in reserve for the final and most difficult part. He was a good walker; if only he kept his wind and did not strain himself, he would be fit enough after a short rest for the last climb to the summit.
He walked on steadily, and by daybreak he had reached the third ridge. He told himself that he had been going quite slowly; a child could have walked as far in the time. He could safely try a little faster now, and get as far as possible in the cool of the morning. Without hastening his step, he lengthened his stride a little. As he ascended, the ridges came closer and closer in succession, and he had reached the seventh when he felt the first rays of the sun. For a moment he rested, watching the sunrise. Only three more ridges now, and he would be at the base of the peak.
He glanced at the village below. Here and there he could distinguish people afoot; tiny figures they seemed, viewed from where he stood. The valley was still in shadow, and all its colours, except that of the ruddy heather, seemed dull and vague. Even the surface of the water was grey, in places almost leaden in hue.
He waited only a little while and then resumed his steady climb. At length the stone buttress of the peak rose directly before him, standing up sheer in places, at others with a slight slope.
He walked along the foot. It was no easy ascent, that was clear. The vertical rifts in the massive rock offered no pathway up, and the horizontal clefts and ledges were far apart, with a distance of some ten to twenty feet between.
After some time spent in examining the face of the rock he was still as far as ever from perceiving any practicable way. He came to a standstill, with his eyes fixed vacantly on the rock before him.
“Anyhow, it has to be done,” he muttered.
And, pulling himself together, he shook off the feeling of despair that was threatening. He found a sunny spot where there was a clear trickle of water, and lay down in the heather.
“First something to eat, then a rest, and then another look round,” he thought to himself. “I can surely find a way up there somehow.” And, taking out the food he had brought with him, he began to eat.
He was perfectly calm. They would not be anxious about him at home, even if he were not back till late at night. He had stated beforehand that he believed some sheep had strayed far up on to the topmost plateau, and must look for them; all knew that it would be a lengthy business to get a couple of obstinate sheep down from the top of the mountain, so they would not expect him back early.
He ate his food without haste, and then lay resting for half an hour, thinking of anything but the business in hand. Then, perceiving that he was beginning to feel drowsy, he sprang up resolutely and walked briskly round the face of the rock.
“You and I have a little matter to settle between us,” he said gaily, nodding up at the wall of stone.
He found he could walk round on three sides; the fourth, that towards the northward, was too steep, and the loose sand there rendered it still more difficult to find any foothold. To try there would mean going down rather than up. The rock here sloped down from the top of the peak to about half-way down the side; Ørlygur had thought of coming down that way, but he realized that in places the angle was too abrupt; he would inevitably lose his footing and go crashing down. It was this which had led him to take a rope, thinking it might be of some assistance here. Twice he walked round the three sides of the rock. But there was no cleft anywhere that went right to the top. Already he felt his courage failing, and, fearing to lose it altogether, he boldly commenced climbing up the cleft which seemed to lead farthest up.
Before starting, however, he coiled the rope round him so as to be easily got at if required. Then he began scrambling up the narrow cleft. It was a difficult path, at times the cleft seemed to vanish altogether; in other places it widened out so that it was impossible to keep his footing on both sides at once.
The dog, finding it could no longer follow, began howling pitifully. Ørlygur scolded the animal impatiently, but only succeeded in making matters worse; the dog ran backwards and forwards along the base, trying to find some way up. But all its efforts were in vain, and at last it returned to the bottom of the cleft up which Ørlygur had started, and lay there, nose in air, and howling miserably, only desisting now and again to look up at its master with sorrowful eyes.
Ørlygur made but slow progress in the ascent. Still, it was better than he had thought. But more than once, after passing some particularly awkward spot, he reflected that he would never be able to get down without the aid of the rope.
He was unwilling to think of what he would do if the cleft now suddenly came to an end; the thought occurred to him constantly, but he thrust it aside, and went on steadily. But he knew it could not be for long.
Where the cleft was more than usually narrow, he set his back against one side, and hands and feet against the other, carefully hoisting himself up and making sure of his hold with one foot and hand before moving the other. Where it was wider, or almost disappeared, he clung tightly to the side, testing the rocky points that jutted out before trusting his weight to them. At times he had but just time to get a grip with his hands, when his foothold gave way. Then, clinging tightly with his fingers, he had to feel about with his feet for a rest before shifting his grip. Inch by inch, by the exercise of all his strength and all his will, he climbed on, until at last he reached a ledge that allowed him a much-needed rest. He looked down at the way he had come, but the sight made him dizzy, and he hastily averted his eyes. It seemed incredible that he should have come up there; from where he was, the rock seemed to fall away inwards beneath him. He determined not to look back again; he felt that if he did so he would never reach the top. He turned instead to a scrutiny of the way before him.
A cold sweat broke out on him as he realized that the cleft he had been climbing ran but some ten or twelve feet more, making perhaps a sixth part of the height.
But the ledge, he remembered, continued to the left, in a series of jutting crags, until it reached another vertical cleft running right to the top. One thing was clear: it would be impossible to pass along the ledge with the rope coiled round his body; the path was far too narrow, and if the rope should catch on any projecting point he would be thrown off his balance.
Another thing was borne in upon him now—that to think overmuch about the task before him was more dangerous than all else. Without more ado, he loosened the rope and let one end fall, fastening the other carefully to the rock on which he was seated.
Where it was possible to get along the ledge, it would surely be possible to come back the same way, he thought. It was only in the actual descent that the difficulties were greater. And if he came to any point that was absolutely impassable, he could always give it up and return—“Perhaps,” he added, with emphasis.
Little by little he made his way along the ledge, depending at times upon the grip of his hands alone, with his body entirely unsupported. First a firm grip with the one hand and then a careful search with the other for a fresh hold. All his thoughts were concentrated upon his hands and their hold. When at length he had reached the flat rock that he had been making for, he found himself exhausted for the moment. He closed his eyes, and allowed his whole body to relax for a brief respite.
It gave him some relief; when he opened his eyes again, he felt as if he had slept. Once more he recommenced his perilous way, creeping carefully and with every nerve strained, to the next projecting rock. This brought him to the commencement of the upward cleft he had in mind. The first part was an easy slope, and could be managed well enough; higher up, however, it grew steeper. Ørlygur realized that, even if he succeeded in getting up, it would be almost impossible to get down again. For a moment he considered whether it would not be better after all to go back for the rope, but he gave up the idea at once. The passage along the ledge was one he felt he had not strength now to repeat. And with the rope round his body it would mean almost certain disaster to attempt it. Losing no time in further reflection, he started up the cleft.
At first all went well. Then came a stretch of smooth rock rising straight up on either side. The slightest false move here would be fatal, and there were some ten or twelve feet of it to be covered. How he managed it, he never quite knew, and from this point onwards he moved unconsciously, knowing nothing of his own progress until he found himself lying, exhausted and breathless, at the summit. His clothes were torn, his hands bleeding and bruised, and there was a cut on one knee. The keen mountain air refreshed him, and he lay quietly drinking it in before rising to his feet. He remembered now how he had been on the point of slipping at that last stretch of smooth rock, and, nerved by fear, had made a superhuman effort. It had been muscle acting without brain, for his mind had been a blank at the time. But it was done now. After that terrible moment, the last part of the way had been easier, and he had not stopped to think.
After resting for a little, he went to the edge and peered over. Now that he was here, he felt no sensation of dizziness as when he had looked down before. But it was evident beyond doubt that it would be certain death to attempt to descend by the way he had come.
Still, here he was. And down he must get somehow.
He was terribly thirsty, and looked around for water. After some searching he found a tiny spring, clear and cold as ice. A little moss grew round about it, in beautifully varying shades of green. He lay down and drank, rested and drank again, till his thirst was quenched and he felt himself refreshed. Then he rose.
“And now for that monument!” he cried gaily.
He had only his bare hands to work with, and they were bruised and sore, but there was no lack of material at hand; rocks of all sorts and sizes lay strewn about. He chose, first of all, a big flat stone as a foundation, looking first to see that its position was such as to render the cairn visible from the valley below, and set to work building up carefully with suitable pieces. After a couple of hours’ work, the thing was done—a compact pile of stone, tapering from a broad base evenly towards the top. On this he placed a large flat stone spreading out like the brim of a hat, and above it a smaller one again.
When the work was finished, he patted the stone with his hand, and laughed.
“There you are,” he said. “Now, see and stay there as long as you can, for I doubt if any one will come to set you up again if you fall.”
Then, putting on his jacket, which he had laid aside for the work, he commenced to walk round the little platform which formed the summit of the peak. On three sides the rock fell away sheer; on the fourth was a steep slope of loose sand mixed with a soft kind of rock. Here and there were hard projections of lava and stone. To miss one’s foothold there would mean rolling down, with the first stop some eight hundred feet below. And, likely as not, the rolling would develop into a series of bouncing leaps, breaking every bone in one’s body.
Ørlygur noted half-absently that it was no use trying to get down on this side. Then he sat down and gazed out over the valley below. The land merged into the horizon on all sides save the north-east, where the sea showed a leaden-grey surface, broken in places by white-topped breakers. To the south were snow-capped hills, that seemed more like part of the sky than earth, their glittering surface seeming out of keeping with the dark hues of the lower land. A bank of fog came gliding in from the sea, clear of the bottom of the valley and not touching the mountain heights, making a weird effect. Ørlygur found himself suddenly looking down from clear air into a sea of fog two hundred feet below, that hid the valley from view. He looked down the mountain-side. It seemed far less formidable now that the fog obscured the greater part. And he rose with a sudden impulse to try the descent now while it was less dangerous.
“How stupid,” he said to himself a moment later. “Of course, it is dangerous as ever. Still, I must try it. No use trying to go down the way I came up; it would be no better than jumping off the edge. The sandy slope on the other side is my only chance; I must try to get off it as soon as I can find a ledge, and take my chance of slipping before I strike one.”
He took off his shoes and stockings, and removed his coat. At first he thought of throwing them over on the side where he had come up, but on second thoughts he refrained. To look over there now might make him nervous. He left his things lying where they were.
“The stones will be rough, with bare feet,” he reflected. “But if I get back safely....”
Carefully he surveyed the slope, and marked out his path. Then, lying flat down, he thrust his feet over the edge. For a fraction of a second he paused, and then the struggle commenced. To seek for secure foothold was hopeless; the only thing was to make the most of such resistance as the stones offered, and prevent himself from going down too fast. His eyes could only see where to place his hand; his feet must be left to feel their way. Every movement had to be made swiftly, and yet with the utmost care, and, above all, without losing coolness and self-control.
The actual distance to the first ledge was not great; it was not more than five minutes from starting when he glanced to the side and found himself level with it. But it seemed like ages. A little below him, and slightly to one side, a point of lava jutted out. Possibly it might be loose and give way at a touch; anyhow, it was all that offered, and there was no time to waste. Already he could fancy himself gliding past the ledge, and then....
Before he could recall his mind from this dangerous channel, his body had done all that was needed; he found himself grasping what proved to be the point of a large rock. Feeling it would hold, he drew himself up and threw one arm round it. This steadied him, and gave him a chance to rest. A few feet to one side was the ledge and safety. But to reach it across the few intervening feet of loose ground seemed an impossibility. If he slipped but an inch or two beyond, it would be hopeless to try and work up again; he would go sliding down with but little chance of stopping himself.
Just then he heard his dog barking, but paid little heed.
No, there was nothing for it now but to make the attempt. But there seemed little hope of success.
The danger in no way unnerved him; on the contrary, the confronting of actual difficulty seemed to allure him. He would try—and then....
He closed his eyes and offered up a prayer. It was the first time he had done so throughout the undertaking. But the imminent peril of death compelled him, and his lips stammered out the old words. It was the age-old acknowledgment of the powers above—a tribute to darkness and the unknown. He uttered the words earnestly, but it was none the less something of a formality. He was prepared to die; it was only to loosen the last tie that bound him....
Before his prayer was ended, he was recalled to the present in startling wise.
“Hullo, there you are! Hung up nicely, by the look of you.”
Ørlygur opened his eyes in astonishment. Jon Hallsson was there, on the ledge, in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a bag in his hand. The sweat poured down his face, which was flushed with unwonted exertion; he was so exhausted that he could hardly speak.
“Looks as though the best thing I can do’s to go down again, and wait for you at the bottom of your beastly mountain. Though I’m not likely to be much use to you when you get there. Wish you were safely over here, don’t you? Well, so do I, but how to get you there’s another thing.”
“You’ve come in the nick of time,” cried Ørlygur merrily. All thought of death or danger seemed to have vanished. “But how did you find your way up?”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on the place—ever since this morning, watching through a telescope. First time I spied something moving on the top, I thought it must be an eagle. I hoped all along you’d have more sense. But when I saw the eagle building castles—sacrificial altars—on the topmost heights of pig-headed obstinacy, I took it that by some miracle or other you’d got here after all. So I packed up some tools and bandages and things, and came out to deal with a fine crop of fractures. But there’s neither god nor devil would persuade me to come crawling out to where you are now.”
“Don’t want you to, I’m sure. Does any one know you’ve come up here at all?”
“No sense in telling them that I could see. At least, not till I’d made sure whether you were mincemeat or not.”
“Have you a knife with you?”
“Sir—you insult me. Didn’t I tell you I’d come out here prepared for operations generally?”
“Well, I wish you’d content yourself meantime with amputating an end of that rope I left hanging down near where the dog is. About twenty feet. Then, if you’ll make one end fast where you are, and throw me the other, you’ll have me safe and sound on the ledge beside you in a moment. Not that I’m in any hurry to get away from here, really—it’s quite a comfortable place to rest a bit. But I’ve just discovered that I’m desperately hungry, and there’s still some food left in my bag.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” retorted the doctor. “Rope, you say? I can’t get it without climbing up that silly place, and I’m not an acrobat.”
“Well, then, slip down to Borg and fetch another.”
“Slip, indeed—very kind of you,” snapped the doctor. And, followed by a merry laugh from Ørlygur, he turned back towards the cleft where the rope had been left, muttering curses on all foolhardy boys and this present escapade in particular.
A little later he returned with the rope in his hand. He seemed even more angry than when he had started.
“Risking my neck for your mad pranks,” he grumbled. “I had to scramble up the rocks to cut it high enough—I hope you may hang yourself with it some day. Nearly got hung up myself. And came down with a run, and gave myself a most abominable bump at the end of it.”
He did not say where he was hurt, but when he fancied Ørlygur was not looking he rubbed himself tenderly behind.
It was but a moment’s work to make the rope fast, throw out one end to Ørlygur, and draw him slowly in on to the ledge.
“There! And now, where’s the damage?” asked the doctor impatiently, by way of welcome.
“No damage up to now, thanks. But if you feel put out about it, I’ll let you take off one leg at the knee for your trouble.”
They made their way back to the rock where Ørlygur had left his bag. The dog had not moved from the spot, and at sight of its master sprang towards him, greeting him with delight, and continued gambolling around, evidently overjoyed at finding him again.
While Ørlygur was eating, the doctor stared up at the rock and the rest of the rope hanging from the rock above. After a time he asked:
“The cleft seems to end there. I suppose you just flew the rest of the way?”
Ørlygur explained how he had made his way round the ledge. “It’s easy enough,” he declared. “You could drive a caravan round.”
“But why on earth did you leave the rope behind?”
“Oh, I thought it would be more fun to get along hanging by my arms, with the rest of me in mid-air. Neater, you understand.”
“I see. You’re pleased to make a jest of your own infernal wickedness—for it’s wicked, nothing less, to play the fool with life and death like that.”
But Ørlygur only laughed and went on with his meal. The doctor continued his study of the rock, as if imagining himself making the ascent, and shuddered. Then, abandoning his ill-humoured tone, he turned to Ørlygur with tears in his eyes.
“Oh, you young fool!” he said. “Can nothing content you but roads that were meant for the eagles?”
“I’m going another road tomorrow,” said Ørlygur, with a laugh.
The doctor looked at him doubtfully.
“Well, don’t count on me this time,” he said. “I’ll not go dangling at your heels with an ambulance train every time you’ve a fancy to risk your neck.”
“There’s not much risk this time—not in that way, at least. I’m only going over to the station to carry off your housekeeper.”
“And that’s what I get for my pains—not to speak of subsequent complications,” grunted the doctor. It was cool up there in his shirt-sleeves, and a recent bump made it uncomfortable for him to sit down. But there was a note of relief in his voice as he spoke.
As soon as Ørlygur had finished eating, they started on their way down. It was sunshine the first part of the way, but a little farther down they found themselves enveloped in a bank of clammy fog. At a distance, Ørlygur’s dog was magnified to the size of a calf, and well-known rocks became distorted and unrecognizable. Nevertheless, they found no difficulty in making their way down. The path was always just visible, and Ørlygur knew the track so well that he could have followed it blindfold. As they went on, the fog became thicker; the doctor’s horse was nowhere to be seen. They searched for some time without success; they could hardly see an arm’s length ahead. The saddle had been left beside the track, and this they discovered, but the horse was gone.
“We’ve always some horses in the paddock at home at this time of year,” said Ørlygur. “You can take one of ours. I’ll find yours tomorrow.”
On arriving at Borg, Ørlygur at once caught one of the horses wandering loose, and put on the doctor’s saddle.
“You’ll come indoors and have a cup of coffee before you go on?” he said to the doctor.
“Thanks, I won’t say no. And perhaps a drop of something stronger wouldn’t be amiss. But catch a couple more horses while you’re about it.”
“What for?”
The doctor turned his head away, and answered a trifle sadly:
“No need to put off that business you were speaking of till tomorrow, is there?”
Ørlygur looked at him without a word.
“Besides, you’d be company for me on the way home. I don’t feel like wandering about alone in this fog.”
Ørlygur set off at once after two more horses, and tied up the three in readiness. Then the two men went indoors, and Ørlygur ordered coffee.
After a while Ormarr came in.
“What brings you here, doctor?” he asked.
Jon Hallsson made no reply, but glanced at Ørlygur. Ormarr followed his glance.
“And where have you been, Ørlygur?” he asked, noticing the boy’s hands and clothing.
“I’d better go and change, I think,” said Ørlygur awkwardly—“I’ve been up Borgarfjall,” he added. “Up to the top.” And he rose to his feet.
Ormarr looked from one to the other in astonishment.
“Up Borgarfjall! And you, too, doctor?”
“No,” answered the doctor, with emphasis. “No climbing to the top of Borgarfjall for me, thank you.”
Ormarr turned to Ørlygur with a questioning look.
“What were you doing up there?”
“I thought a sort of monument would look nice on top.”
“Sort of monument!...” Ormarr shook his head. “But the top—the peak—it’s more than any man could do to get there!”
“Exactly,” said Ørlygur.
Ormarr and the doctor burst out laughing, in which Ørlygur joined. Then hurriedly he made his escape.
When he had left the room, Ormarr turned to the doctor.
“What does it all mean?” he asked.
“My dear Ormarr Ørlygsson, don’t ask me. I have to thank you, by the way, for finding me a most excellent housekeeper.”
“Oh,” answered Ormarr, somewhat at a loss, “I just happened to know....”
“You just happened to know my little weakness,” put in the doctor angrily.
Both men were silent for a moment. Then the doctor burst out laughing.
“Never been so done in all my life,” he said in an injured tone.
“I’m very sorry,” said Ormarr. “But it was the only way I could see to....”
“Oh, never mind. Most happy to reciprocate, if needed, and all that. But where am I to get another now?”
Ormarr’s face lit up with a sudden gleam of pleasure. He was about to speak, when the doctor interrupted him.
“Yes, she is,” he said sharply. “It’s all settled. I’ve played my little part. And Ørlygur’s going off now to fetch her.”
Ormarr rose, laughing, and held out his hand.
“My dear doctor, let me congratulate you.”
“Me!” snapped the other.
“Yes, you. A most rapid and satisfactory cure. If I can help you to find another housekeeper....”
“Thank you, I won’t trouble you.”
The doctor grasped Ormarr’s hand cordially. “I’m just as pleased with the result as you can be, really,” he said, with frank sincerity. “Ørlygur and I are rather friends, you know. But he is a headstrong young fool, all the same. You ought to go and look at that place where he went up.”
“Then you were with him?”
“Not at the time—no. But from something he let fall last night, and seeing something moving up there today, I had an idea, and went up to see what he was doing.”
“What’s all this about a monument?”
“I don’t know. But I fancy he wanted to relieve his feelings in some way—by doing something out of the ordinary, you understand.”
Ormarr seemed to be thinking hard. Then he looked up.
“What makes you think so?” he asked.
“It’s only an idea of mine. He is young, and full of energy.... But, of course, I may be wrong.”
“I fancy you are right,” said Ormarr. “More so, perhaps, than you imagine.”
There was a pause. Ormarr was the first to speak.
“Look here,” he said. “Let Ørlygur ride over now and fetch the girl, and you stay here for tonight. We have not seen much of each other up to now, but you have been a good friend to my son—my foster-son, that is. There are several things we two old fellows could find to talk about. Besides, you must be tired.”
The doctor accepted the invitation, and when Ørlygur was ready to start, Ormarr went up to him.
“You will bring her home here, of course. But I think you ought to go round by Bolli, and bring her mother as well.”
Ørlygur answered with a grateful glance and a nod. And no more was said.
Ormarr Ørlygsson and Jon Hallsson sat long talking together. Each sat by a window, watching the little streams of moisture that trickled down the panes.
The doctor seemed weary and in low spirits.
“I’m tired of life myself,” he said. “Have been for years now. And yet I potter about trying to keep others alive, when I daresay they’re just as tired of it as I am. Doesn’t seem much sense in it anyway.”
Ormarr shook his head.
“Life is a precious thing,” he said. “And often we don’t realize it until it is too late. Then we fall to musing dismally about it, instead of using our experience for the good of others—for those who are to come after us. We say to ourselves: I have suffered; so will they. Well, why not? Let them look after themselves. But why have we suffered? Because we are narrow-minded and ungrateful. Surely we have known some glorious moments; how can we complain of life after? Life is a round of ceaseless change, day and night, sunshine and rain; we ourselves pass from the unknown to the unknown again ... and that is why a moment of harmony we call happiness is a wondrous thing—a thing that can never be paid for throughout all eternity.”
“You may be right,” said the doctor. “I feel myself an ungrateful creature at this moment.”
“I have only felt that harmony myself at moments when I was able to forget myself entirely in my music,” Ormarr went on. “And then it was really only a complete forgetfulness of all that was passing around me. How much greater must be the happiness of those who meet in harmony; two human beings sharing happiness! For them it is the rising of a sun that nothing can darken but the grave.”
The doctor bowed his head.
“And then?” he said. “When the grave had taken one of them?”
“Would you wish you had never known the happiness that has given you the greatest sorrow of your life?”
The doctor shook his head. “No! Not if it cost me all eternity in torture.”
“Have you ever thought of it before?”
“No,” said the doctor. “But I see what you mean. And you are right. It simply comes to this: that we should be grateful for life—grateful and happy for having been allowed to live.”
Ormarr nodded. “Happy and grateful—yes. And humble, too.”