On The Sankt Paal Glacier
The man at the window hesitated, considering how best to lever himself through the narrow gap. The room was very still. The only sound was the hiss and crackle of the logs blazing in the stone grate. The flames threw flickering shadows on the walls of the nut. Sunde's motionless figure was a shadowy giant scrawled from floor to ceiling. I felt my limbs relaxing. God, how tired I was! The luxury of knowing that it was impossible to do anything further, that the matter had been taken out of my hands, stole over me in a comforting wave of lethargy. My whole body sighed luxuriously as the muscles relaxed.
But I could sense Sunde's alertness. He glanced at the fire and then back to the window.
The man put both his hands on the window sill. 'Sta stiller he ordered, and his eyes gleamed in the firelight.
Sunde took a step back as though he were scared, tripped over nothing and sprawled flat beside me, his head almost in the grate. The man at the window tensed, the gun gripped in his hand. My stomach turned over inside me. For a moment I thought he was going to fire. 'Hva er del De gjor? he snarled. Sunde moaned. His right hand was almost in the fire. He pressed his left hand over it and squirmed as though in pain. At first I thought he had burned himself. But as he explained what had happened in Norwegian, I saw his supposed injured hand move out towards one of the blazing logs.
I turned back to the window. The man was still watching us tensely. The muzzle of his Luger seemed pointed straight at my belly. The dark metal circle of it gleamed dully in the light of the flames. Then he relaxed. He held the revolver over the sill and, with a quick jerk, lifted his body on his two hands and got his knee on the sill. In that instant, Sunde half rose from the floor. His right hand came up and a blazing log flew like a flaming torch across the room. It crashed against the dark shadow in the window with a burst of sparks and then fell flaming to the floor. There was a cry of pain, a curse, and then the flash and crash of a gun. I heard the thud of the bullet hitting something soft as I rolled over towards my own pistol. Sunde was twisting round by the table. There was another shot from the window. I seized hold of my gun. The rough grip of the butt was comforting to my hand. I pushed up the safety catch. And just as I raised it to fire, there was a stab of flame from beside the table and in the sound of the explosion, there was a ghastly, choking scream and the figure in the gap of the window sagged like a rag doll and then slowly toppled backwards.
The next instant Sunde and I were alone in the smoke-filled room. Everything was silent as before. The only sound was the hiss and crackle of the flames in the grate. And the only indication of what had happened was the single log blazing on the floor below the window. The window itself was an open rectangle, showing the glimmer of white snow beyond. I picked up the log and threw it back on to the fire. Sunde leaned heavily on the table. His face was white and strained. 'Anybody'd fink we was at war again,' he said uncertainly. Then he straightened up and went to the door. A moment later his head appeared at the window. 'Give us a torch, will yer, Mr Gansert,' he said.
I got the torch from my rucksack and took it across to him. He shone the beam on the body huddled in a heap in the snow below the window. He turned it over. The skin of the man's face was very pale below his beard. His mouth was open and his eyes were beginning to glaze. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, It had marked the snow in a blotch of livid crimson. A neat hole showed in his forehead.
I felt a shiver run down my spine. To Sunde this was just one more man killed up in these mountains. This was the sort of thing he'd been doing all through the war. But to me — well, I couldn't help thinking of the repercussions. Killing men during a war is legalised. But this was a peacetime killing. And Norway is a law-abiding country.
'We'll take 'im da'n ter the lake,' Sunde said.
I went out into the cold night air and helped tie the body to a pair of skis. Then we dragged it across the snow to the lake, near where the stream flowed down. We tied stones to the man's feet and tossed him in. I can still remember the cold, sickening splash with which he hit the dark water. For a moment ripples showed. Then all was still under the stars again. If it had been the carcase of a dog it couldn't have been disposed of with less ceremony. And I remember wondering then — as I have wondered before and since — whether man was as important in the scheme of things as he would like to believe.
Back at the hut again, Sunde began to get his rucksack on his shoulders. He had some trouble with it and I had to help him. Then he helped me on with mine. 'Where now?' I asked as we went outside and fixed on our skis.
'Steinbergdalen and then Gjeiteryggen — both turisthytten,' he replied. 'After that we'll see. Maybe Finse via the Sankt Paal glacier. Or maybe he'll turn off to the west, to Hallingdal and Myrdal an' pick up the railway there.'
'How far is Gjeiteryggen?' I asked.
'Ba't twenty miles.'
'Twenty miles!' My heart sank. I glanced back at the flickering glow from the saeter window. My feet felt like lead as I followed the track of Sunde's skis through the snow. Twenty miles! He might as well have said two hundred. The pack tore at my shoulders. My feet felt blistered and raw. Every muscle in my body cried out against further movement. I put my head down and trudged on, automatically, trying to think of something other than the utter weariness that engulfed me.
At the top of a long incline Sunde paused. I stood beside him and looked back. The stars were a myriad pinpoints of light in the frosted darkness of the sky. Below us stretched a wide plain of virgin snow. And in the centre of it lay Osterbo saeter, a dark huddle of huts with the firelight still shining in a dull, warm glow through the window. I thought — a man has been killed down there to-night. We have killed a man and thrown his carcase in the lake. But it meant nothing. It was as though it had never happened. Like a dream, it seemed unreal. Only my feeling of exhaustion was real. Nothing else mattered.
We turned and trudged on up the path, winding steadily until we were climbing below cliffs that reached their dark shadows to the stars. A curtain of silvery water, like flowing lace, rippled down from above. We climbed and climbed until I thought we should never reach the top. But at last there was nothing above us but the stars. And ahead of us was the distant murmur of a waterfall.
We went on, down to the water, and then turned away along the side of a racing torrent till we reached the bridge. The moon came up, throwing the serried edges of the mountains into black outline before it topped their summits. Then suddenly the circle of its light was shining on the silver tracery of countless lakes running up a long valley. And beyond, were the mountains, hard and crystal-white with snow and ice.
We descended by sudden rushes to the lakes, our skis sizzling pleasantly on the frost-glistening snow. The joy of moving without effort! And always we followed in the track of the other skis. Farnell and Lovaas had been this way before us. Along by the lakes the going was better. Our skis slid forward with little effort. Only my pack seemed heavy. But soon we were climbing again. Whether it was the cold freshness of the night or the fact that my muscles were becoming resigned to the unaccustomed work I was giving them, I couldn't tell. But I found I was now able to keep pace with Sunde. Of course I was bigger than he was. And plenty of pully-hauly work on the boat had kept me fit. Diving wasn't a particularly healthy occupation, sweating underwater in a rubber suit.
He was pausing quite often now. And whenever I caught glimpses of his face in the moonlight, it looked white and strained. Once I suggested he took a rest. But he replied sharply: 'Lovaas won't be restin', will 'e now?'
And the mention of Lovaas turned my mind to the chase that was going on ahead of us. Farnell had had a longer rest than Lovaas. He was slight and wiry and his muscles were probably hardened to this sort of work. But Lovaas was bigger, more powerfull. He was probably a good skier — he had all the winter in which to ski. Soon perhaps we'd catch sight of them. There would be Farnell out in front, a lone small figure, in the waste of the moonlit snow. And behind him two other figures, seemingly connected to him by the slender twin threads of his ski tracks. And Lovaas would stop at nothing. That was obvious from what had happened to us down at Osterbo. He knew now what he was after — knew that the prize was big enough for him to get away with anything so long as he held the information Farnell had possessed.
The thought made me press on faster. And now I found myself held back by Sunde. Several times I moved out ahead of him and had to wait for him to come up. Now strength seemed flowing into my muscles, whilst he flagged more and more. I began to chafe at his slowness. His face looked white and drained in the moonlight. The sweat glistened on his forehead, whilst I was no longer sweating. Twice, when he paused, he peered at the map. His breath was coming in short, haggard gasps.
We came to a waterfall, tumbling down to the lake we were leaving. I waited for him and let him pass to lead the way. As I followed, my eyes bent on the ground as we climbed through a jungle of giant boulders, I suddenly noticed a red spot on the snow. A few yards on was another, and another. I glanced up at Sunde. He was bent forward under the weight of his pack and — his left arm hung slack in front of him. Good God! I suddenly had an awful sense of shame at my feeling of impatience. At the top he paused. I came up to him and glanced at his left hand. Blood was dripping slowly on to the snow. It had congealed on his fingers, but down the back of his hand a crimson line glistened wet in the moonlight. 'You're hurt,' I said.
'It's nuffink,' he answered. 'The bastard got me in the shoulder.'
I thought of the weight of the pack he was carrying and squirmed inside. God, how that pack must hurt him! 'Let's have a look at it,' I said.
But he shook his head. I saw his lips were bleeding where he had bitten through them with the pain. 'We're not far from Steinbergdalen. I'll stop there. You'll have to go on alone.'
I shook my head. 'I can't leave you alone up here.'
'I'll be all right,' he said angrily. 'It ain't nuffink serious.' And he turned and went on, trudging steadily forward on his skis.
I followed, my head bent, seeing nothing but the crimson spots on the snow that became more and more frequent. And I had thought I was tougher than him, that diving had softened him up! I thought of all the times he had paused for me on the way up to Osterbo. And I hadn't been wounded. I'd just been tired.
The rocks gradually became less frequent. Then suddenly we topped a ridge and there in the valley ahead of us was the hut. It was a square building, constructed of logs. At the back were outhouses. The little colony of huts, looking like models in the moonlight, was set on a big outcrop of rock, that showed black through powdery, wind-driven snow.
Ski tracks ran straight up to the door of the hut. I told Sunde to wait and skirted round the back, coming down on the far side. There, clear in the white light of the moon on snow, were the ski tracks going on and on until lost in the infinity of cold whiteness — three separate and clearly defined tracks.
I whistled to Sunde. 'They've gone on,' I told him as we approached the door of the hut. I lifted the latch. The door opened. Inside it was warm. The ashes of a log fire smouldered in the grate. With the door shut the warmth of the place stole over us like a soporific. I realised once more how tired I was. It was two o'clock. I had done some twenty-six miles of stiff climbing on foot and on ski in twelve hours. I dropped my pack on the floor and kicked the embers into a blaze. I got Sunde's pack off and then went out into the kitchen and found more logs. With a blazing pine fire to warm us I hacked at the blood-hard clothing of the little diver's shoulder. At last I had cut it free. The bullet had torn through the muscle on the outside of the upper arm, just by the shoulder joint. I heated some snow to water on the fire, bathed the wound and then bandaged it with strips from a torn shirt.
When I had helped him into a jersey, he pulled a wooden settle to the fire and sat down. 'Nah, Mr Gansert, yer'd best get movin' if yer goin' ter catch up wiv the others,' he said. 'We lost time on the last leg.'
Lost time! What sort of a pace did he expect us to keep up? I sat down on a bench and removed my boots and stockings. My feet were red and swollen. The flesh was tender and the bones ached as though they had been bruised. I looked across at Sunde. His face was white in the long moonbeams that slanted in through the windows. The firelight threw a grotesque shadow of him on the great logs that formed walls and ceiling. I cursed myself for not having realised that he'd been wounded. He'd lost a lot of blood. There was no question of his going on. But to go on alone! With him for company the mountains had seemed remote, but friendly. But now I thought of those white, jagged monsters waiting for me outside — and they suddenly seemed cold and wild and cruel. We were still climbing. Soon, if I kept on going, those ski tracks would lead me up to the ice-capped summits, on to the glaciers. Sunde knew this country. He was at home here. I had not had to trouble about direction. I had relied on him. But to go on alone — that was different. Suppose a mist came down? Then I should still be able to follow the other's ski tracks. But what about a snowstorm? With the ski tracks obliterated, how should I find my way then? I shivered. Every bone in my body cried out to stay here by the fire. I opened my mouth to tell him that I wouldn't go on alone. Then I remembered Farnell, and instead I said, 'I'll just change my socks, then I'll get moving.'' He nodded as though there had never been any doubt. And whilst I got myself ready, he produced map, and compass from his rucksack. 'The next leg ain't so bad,' he said. 'Keep followin' the line of the river till yer come ter a lot o' lakes. Yer'll find Gjeiteryggen there. Yer can't miss it.'
'I seem to have heard that one before,' I muttered as I pulled on my boots.
He grinned. 'Well, just you remember ter keep along the course o' the valley. There's a bit o' a climb at first up ter the Driftaskar — that's a pass up above the valley here where the farmers used ter ca'nt their cattle as they passed through. After that a good deal of the route's da'n 'ill.'
'How far to Gjeiteryggen?' I asked.
'Aba't fifteen kilometres,' was his reply.
Another eleven miles! I got wearily to my feet and began to eat flatbrod and goat's cheese. 'What's at Gjeiteryggen?' I asked. 'Another tourist hut?'
'That's right. Ain't as nice as Osterbo or Steinbergdalen. A bit wild like. But you'll get shelter there.'
'And after Gjeiteryggen?'
He hesitated. 'My guess is he'll make for Finse an' the railway. He'll by gettin' tired by the time he gets to Gjeiteryggen.'
'And how far is Gjeiteryggen from Finse?'
'Aba't another fifteen kilometres. An' it's tough going. Yer turn sa'f at Gjeiteryggen an' climb from aba't thirteen 'undred metres, right up ter seventeen 'undred. Let's see nan.' He screwed his leathery little face up till it looked like a monkey's. 'That'll be a climb of near on fifteen 'undred feet — right up ter the Sankt Paal Glacier. Yer go right across the top of the glacier. You'll find a hut up there if yer need a bit of a rest. An' there's posts markin' the route — or should be. Take my tip an' if mist or snow comes da'n, don't lose sight o' one post before you've located the next. You're right up in the Hallingskarvet an' if yer lose yer way, well-' He shrugged his shoulders. 'Ere's compass an' map. The map ain't much good. It's one the Germans made and it ain't accurate. If mist or snow comes da'n, see you got a bearing before it closes in on you.'
I took the map and slipped it into the side pocket of my rucksack. The compass was an elementary little thing, the sort I was given to play with as a kid. I put it in my pocket. 'You stay here until I organise a relief party,' I said as I humped the rucksack on my aching shoulders.
He shook his head. 'You don't need to bother aba't me. I'll make my way back by easy stages. I don't aim ter get cut off up 'ere. It's still early enough in the year for a bit of a blizzard to blow up. Only sorry I can't come wiv yer. But it wouldn't do no good. I'd only 'old yer up.' He got to his feet and stood, rather weakly, holding on to the settle. 'Well, good luck!'
I grasped his hand. 'An' remember wot I says,' he added. 'If yer crossin' Sankt Paal, don't get a't o' sight o' one markin' post before you've located the next. An' there's a 'ut right at the top. Built by the 'otel association for the convenience of skiers. It can save yer life. It saved mine once.' His friendly, wizened face puckered into a grin. 'An' if anybody asks yer, we didn't meet no bloke off of Hval Ti, see. We ain't met nobody. Well, good luck — an' Oi'll be seein' yer da'n at Aurland.'
'Fine,' I said. 'If you can't make it, don't worry. I'll send a party up from Aurland, if you're not with Diviner by the time I get back.'
'Okay,' he said.
He came with me to the door and stood, sniffing at the moonlight and the chill glitter of the mountains, whilst I put my skis on. A thin powder of snow blew in my face. 'Wind's goin' ter get up,' he said. 'Looks like the weather's goin' ter break.' He caught my arm as I straightened up and put on my gloves. 'Mr Gansert,' he said earnestly, 'if you aim ter 'elp Olsen, yer've gotter move fast. They bin gainin' on us all evening.'
'I'll go just as fast as I can,' I said.
He nodded and grinned. I bent forward and thrust with my sticks. My skis slid forward across the fine snow and a moment later I was whistling down the slope in the tracks of the others'
skis, the wind cold on my face, Faint behind me came Sunde's shouted 'Good luck!'
Then I was alone and the only sound was the hiss of my skis and the quiet whisper of the wind brushing the snow like sand across the valley.
In places the ski tracks I was following were already half obliterated. In other places they ran deep and clean as though Farnell and Lovaas had only just passed. The down stretch to the valley floor was all too short. Soon I was climbing steadily. The path became steeper, winding in giant zigzags up the shoulder of a mountain. That climb seemed endless. I climbed until my limbs ached and became like liquid. The path went up and through a litter of boulders till all the mountain tops for miles were visible, their smooth ice caps glinting in the moonlight — so cold and remote, like pictures of the south pole.
But at last I reached what Sunde had called the Driftaskar. I paused at the top of the pass. The moon was high overhead now. The wind had risen and all about me the powdery top layer of snow was on the move, sifting across the rocks like the sand before a desert storm. The place was as desolate and white as the moon itself viewed through a telescope. I put on a windbreaker and then began to descend. There was no clear run, for the ground was strewn with rocks. But it was easier going. And after the sweaty heat of climbing, the cold night air chilled me to the bone.
Shortly after this I crossed a stream and began to climb again. After that I don't remember very much about the journey to Gjeiteryggen. I only know that the country I passed through was wild and desolate, that as dawn grew nearer it got unbearably cold, and that I was stiff and dead with tiredness. I kept on repeating Sunde's words over and over again as I trudged on through the snow — 'You goner move fast. They bin gaining on us all evening.'
Often I thought I'd lost the way. The ski tracks vanished, obliterated by the snow. Then in panic I'd have recourse to map and compass. But always, sooner or later, in some spot sheltered from the wind I came upon them again. The moon sank towards the west and soon its light began to fade as a cold, grey luminosity spread over the mountains. Dawn came creeping like death across a snow-clad world. And I barely noticed it. I was beyond caring. With head bent I somehow kept going. But it was will-power, not the strength of my limbs that drove me. And all the time I kept on thinking — the others can't be going on like this, without pause, unendingly. But always the tracks of their skis ran ahead of me to prove that they had.
The moon sank at last behind the mountains. The snow on the mountain tops no longer glinted like sugar icing at Christmas time. It was grey and cold and the first light of day stripped the place of all beauty, leaving it bleak and empty. I was conscious then of the utter loneliness of these mountains. In summer a constant stream of walkers would tread this path. But now, with the mountains still in the last grip of the winter snow, there was nobody. I remembered Sunde's wizened, friendly face and wished he were with me. Only the half-obliterated ski tracks that showed where the route was sheltered from the biting wind linked me with any other human.
I was descending now to a long, frozen lake. In the valley below me the water was not frozen. It ran swift and black, like a jagged crack in the white carpet of the snow. At the bottom I stopped behind a tall rock and rested. I set my pack down on the snow and had an early breakfast of more flatbrod and brown cheese. I felt dazed and numb. Nothing was real. And when I went on, my movements were automatic as though I were skiing in my sleep.
Thin clouds streaked the paling sky and as I worked my way along the lake they became suffused with a pink glow. The glow grew until the whole sky flamed a violent red. It was a beautiful, terrifying sunrise. The sun came up, a red angry disk, bloodying the showy summits and casting an orange glow over everything. The sky reddened till it blazed with crimson. Then slowly it faded until all that was left was a cold, watery sunlight that had no warmth nor any promise of warmth. The last tinge of pink clung to high-piled cumulus lying to windward along the ·Norwegian coast.
At last I stood on the shoulder of a hill, leaning wearily on my sticks and looked down on Gjeiteryggen. The hut was without beauty. It was painted a dirty red and it stood there like a barracks in one of the most hideous stretches of country that I have ever seen. A broken series of lakes, frozen and piled with snow, lay about it in a semi-circle. Between the lakes were the black marks of moving, unfrozen water. The hills in which the lakes huddled were smooth. The boulders that littered the place were smooth. Only here and there a rock showed a jagged edge, as though smashed by a giant sledge hammer. The place was marked and scored and hammered out by ice. It was an awful, unhappy place.
But there was the hut. And I thanked God for that. I wasn't thinking then about Farnell, or about Lovaas and his mate. I was thinking that I could light a fire and sink down in a chair and rest. God, I was tired — tired and cold and wretched! Nothing mattered. Nothing at all. In that moment I could have been offered the mines of Solomon, the treasure of the Incas, all the wealth of the Indies, and I wouldn't have cared a damn. What are the world's minerals worth when you're sick with exhaustion — weary right through to your bones and to the very marrow of your bones?
I started down to the hut. And then I stopped. Something had caught my eye — something that moved. I screwed up my eyes, trying to clear their vision which was half blinded by the whiteness of the snow. It was away to the right of the hut on the further shore of the largest of the frozen lakes. It was moving towards the valley that led up to the sombre mass of Sankt Paal. Was it reindeer? A bear, perhaps? But I think I knew what it might be even whilst I considered all the possible alternatives. I felt the excitement of the chase send the strength pumping back into my tired limbs. Lovaas — or was it Farnell? Had he given them the slip? No. The object had separated — there were two of them. It was Lovaas.
I searched farther on up the white slopes of the valley. And there, high up on the valley side another black speck moved steadily through the snow.
I didn't stop to think. I thrust my sticks hard into the snow and went hurtling down the slope to the flat ice of the lake. At least I could cut a corner here. Farnell — and Lovaas behind him — had gone down to the Gjeiteryggen hut. There they had to turn sharp right. By cutting across the lake I might save a mile, maybe two.
The chase was on now. Before, the quarry had been mythical, something that was there ahead, but only visible through the lines of the ski tracks. But now I could see them. They were real. No thought of what I should do if I came up with them crossed my mind. All my efforts were now bent on one thing — making the best possible speed and lessening the distance between myself and Lovaas.
I tumbled down a steep drift of snow and my skis scrunched as they bit the harder snow on the frozen lake. The ice held and I went forward easily across the flat surface. As I started to climb the long valley leading to Sankt Paal I wasn't more than a mile behind Lovaas and his mate. Every now and then, on a shoulder of the valley, I caught a glimpse of their two figures, black against the snow. I could even pick out Lovaas — he was so much shorter and stouter than the other. Once I caught sight of Farnell, a lone dot high up on the mountainside.
The tilt of the valley became steeper. Soon it was sheer willpower and nothing else that drove me forward. Every effort was concentrated on pushing forward. Twice I saw Lovaas turn and glance over his shoulder. He couldn't fail to see me. And yet I gave no thought to what I was going to do, how I was going to get past them to Farnell. It was enough that they were in sight. And I could spare no thought for anything other than the — task of holding the pace.
The tracks of the skis ahead were deep and clear now. There was no question of looking for the route. I had only to follow. But God how my legs ached! My breath came through my teeth in rasping gasps. Soon I was side-stepping up. I had not the energy to stride forward, my skis wide like crow's feet. Nor Could the others apparently. And it was some comfort to know that I was not the only one who was feeling exhausted.
Once, on a particularly steep stretch, I paused. The sweat was like ice on my forehead where the wind touched it. The sun had vanished now. The day had a bleak, wintry look. And away to my right the clouds were rolling in from the sea, covering the mountain tops. It was a bad outlook for crossing the glacier. If it were mist it might enable me to get past Lovaas to Farnell. But if it were snow… The thought sent a chill through me. A snowstorm at just on five thousand feet wasn't a good prospect. It would obliterate the ski tracks. It might even hide the posts marking the route.
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 windbreaker, 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 snow-storm. 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 dosed it behind me.
The sudden stillness was like oblivion. Outside the wind roared and I could hear the silent 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.