Silence.
‘Just asking,’ says Satan and he tosses the bird overboard.
‘How did it get in the engine room, anyway?’ asks Sæli as he looks over the railing to the ice, where the seagull lies on its back, head to one side and wings spread.
‘What does it matter?’ says Satan, looking at Sæli as if he were an idiot. ‘Come with me up to the bridge. I want to show you the map I found.’
19:43
‘This X here shows the position of the ship, according to the captain’s calculations,’ says Satan, who’s standing by the table in the map room in the bridge pointing at an X on a small map of Antarctica, dated 1979.
‘You know my calculations aren’t exact,’ says Guðmundur, looking at the map, which is in the scale 1:40 000 000.
‘They’re all we have to go on,’ says Satan, tapping his pen on the map. ‘May I continue?’
‘Go ahead,’ mutters the captain.
‘Look at this, and this,’ says Satan, pointing with the pen at two black triangles on the map. ‘Those are research stations, as far as I understand it. The one that’s west or south of us is British, called Halley Bay, and the one more to the east is South African, called Sanae. If I’ve measured it right we’re 600 kilometres from the British one and 400 from the African one.’
‘Four hundred kilometres,’ says Sæli, looking at the captain. ‘That’s not so terribly far.’
‘Yes and no,’ says the captain with a sigh. ‘But that map is both old and tiny. Those stations aren’t necessarily still there, besides which it’s hard to measure distances on such a small map.’
‘It’s the only map we’ve got,’ says Jónas with a shrug. ‘Don’t we just have to make do with it?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with this map!’ says Satan, banging his pen against the table. ‘One centimetre on the map is 400 kilometres on the surface of the earth. It’s one centimetre to Sanae and one and a half to Halley Bay. Is that complicated?’
‘No,’ says Jónas, bending over the map. ‘It’s quite straightforward.’
‘Gummi?’ queries Sæli, looking at the captain.
‘All right – it’s not as if we have any choice,’ the captain answers. He sighs. ‘But I recommend we head for the British station, not the African one.’
‘Why?’ demands Satan, throwing up his arms. ‘Do you want to walk an extra 200 kilometres? Or are you afraid of black people?’
‘We can’t just look at the kilometres,’ says Guðmundur calmly, pointing at the map. ‘Have you forgotten the mountain range? I’d rather take the longer route and get where I’m headed than lose my life struggling to cross these mountains. They’re over 2000 metres high!’
‘That’s a good point,’ says Sæli, looking at Jónas, who shrugs and looks at Satan.
‘We won’t necessarily have to cross the mountains,’ says Satan. ‘We can probably go around them, on the ice. There’s bound to be a pass somewhere.’
‘Bound to be?’ says the captain then shakes his head. ‘We can walk on ice all the way to Halley Bay, straight ahead. I’m not wasting precious time looking for a route across the mountains when I can just walk directly over the ice. And a route that may not exist, what’s more.’
‘The captain’s right,’ says Sæli, nodding.
‘I don’t agree,’ Satan says, tapping his forefinger on the Sanae station on the map. ‘In a frost-bound hell like this, the only sensible thing is to choose the shorter route. Besides which, out on the ice there’s no shelter to be had if there’s a sudden storm or whirlwind.’
‘That’s true,’ says Jónas. ‘I think it would be better to aim for the African station.’
‘Out of the question!’ says the captain, raising his voice. ‘We head for Halley Bay and we leave at dawn tomorrow! There’s no sense in waiting.’
‘I’ll be ready in the morning, captain,’ says Sæli giving his superior a slap on the back.
‘I’m not going,’ says Satan, folding the map. ‘I’m going across the mountains. And I’m not leaving in the morning. Actually, I wouldn’t recommend anyone do that.’
‘Why not, if I may ask?’ says the captain, red-faced with fury.
‘I’d wait until the wind changed direction,’ says Satan. ‘The north wind always brings fog, which is always treacherous, especially when you’re walking on ice. I’m going to wait for a south wind and clear skies. True, south winds have only lasted a couple of days at a time over the past weeks, but we can make good use of two clear days.’
‘Do what you like!’ Guðmundur pulls his hood over his head as he walks towards the door to the corridor. ‘The rest of us are leaving at dawn.’
‘Captain!’ says Jónas. Guðmundur stops and turns around.
‘Yes?’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather go with the deckhand,’ says Jónas, clearing his throat.
‘I do mind, Jónas, my friend,’ says the captain. ‘But if that’s what you’d rather do, I’m not going to stop you.’
‘Okay, then,’ says Jónas, nodding to Guðmundur, who turns on his heel and leaves the bridge for the last time.
23:21
Sæli is sitting at the table in his cabin, packing for the great march he and Captain Guðmundur are about to set off on. Six hundred kilometres – like walking all the way from Reykjavík to Akureyri.
There’s a candle on the table which shines a soft light over the bits and pieces he is either taking along or wondering whether he should take along. He’s going to take needle and thread, in case he has to repair any clothing on the way, but he’s not certain whether or not he needs to have a knife. He reckons Vaseline could be useful – to prevent sunburn and chapped lips, for instance – but he’s not as sure about disinfectant and rubbing alcohol. He’s already packed all necessary clothing, as well as dried and canned foods meant to last for at least a week, even ten days.
All these things he has stuffed into a gym bag with a shoulder strap. The bag is already pretty heavy, possibly as heavy as eight kilograms, so if he’s meant to be able to carry it all that distance he mustn’t add much to its weight. They can’t take water but plan to eat snow to quench their thirst.
Sæli sighs and his bitter breath becomes a frosty cloud.
He picks up a crumpled photo of Lára and Egill, who smile at him from a world so distant and hazy that it’s almost nonexistent, kisses the photo and sticks it down through the neck of his parka and into his shirt pocket.
Then he blows out the candle. He has to go to sleep. He’s got to rest up before the great march.
23:54
Captain Guðmundur has made shoulder straps for his suitcase out of two leather belts that he fastened to the bottom of the case with screws. He has packed the only camping stove on board the ship, along with two extra gas canisters. Earlier in the evening he cut a swatch of sailcloth and folded it to fit in the lid of the suitcase. This sailcloth he plans to wrap over and under himself and Sæli when they bury themselves in snow overnight. By lying in the sailcloth they’ll avoid getting wet when the heat from their bodies melts the snow.
Like Sæli three decks below, the captain is completing his travel preparations by candlelight in his cabin. There are only two things he has left to do before he blows out the candle and goes to sleep. First, he says a short prayer and kisses his Bible before placing it in his case, which he then closes. The Bible admittedly weighs half a kilogram, but to his way of thinking the spiritual strength its presence will give the captain outweighs the calories this extra weight will cost him. Then he takes off his parka, winds Hrafnhildur’s black dress around his middle, squeezes into a cotton T-shirt over the dress, puts his parka back on and zips it up to his chin.