he had ever visited, and all beyond was an unknown region. But the
scenery, as he went onward, was similar in character. The mountains were
higher and more abrupt, the river more rapid and foamy, and the patches
of grass more scanty—that was all the difference. It was the Arctic
summer, and the night brought no darkness; yet he knew when the time for
rest came, by watching the direction of the light on the black mountains
above. When the sheep lay down, he sought a sheltered place under a
rock, and slept also.
Next day the country grew wilder and more forbidding. Sometimes there
was hardly a blade of grass to be seen for miles, and he drove the sheep
at full speed, running and shouting behind them, in his eagerness to
reach the distant pasture which Eyvindur had described. In the
afternoon, the valley appeared to come suddenly to an end. The river
rushed out of a deep cleft between the rocks, only a few feet wide, on
the right hand; in front there was a long, stony slope, reaching so high
that the clouds brushed along its summit. In the bottom there was some
little grass, but hardly enough to feed the flock for two days.
Jon was disappointed, but not much discouraged. He tethered Thor
securely to a rock, knowing that the other sheep would remain near him,
and set out to climb the slope. Up and up he toiled; the air grew sharp
and cold; there was snow and ice in the shaded hollows on either side,
and the dark, strange scenery of Iceland grew broader below him.
Finally, he gained the top; and now, for the first time, felt that he
had found a new world. In front, toward the north, there was a plain
stretching as far as he could see; on the right and left there were
groups of dark, frightful, inaccessible mountains, between the sharp
peaks of which sheets of blue ice plunged downward like cataracts, only
they were silent and motionless. The valley behind him was a mere cleft
in the stony, lifeless world; his sheep were little white dots, no
bigger, apparently, than flowers of life-everlasting. He could only
guess, beyond the dim ranges in the distance, where his father’s
dwelling lay; and, for a single moment, the thought came into his mind
and made him tremble,—should he ever see it again?
The pasture, he reflected, must be sought for in the direction from
which the river came. Following the ridge to the eastward, it was not
long before he saw a deep basin, a mile in diameter, opening among the
hills. The bottom was quite green, and there was a sparkle here and
there, where the river wound its way through it. This was surely the
place, and Jon felt proud that he had so readily discovered it. There
were several glens which furnished easy paths down from the table-land,
and he had no difficulty, the next morning, in leading his flock over
the great ridge. In fact, they skipped up the rocks as if they knew what
was coming, and did not wait for Jon to show them the way into the
valley.
The first thing the boy did, after satisfying himself that the sheep
were not likely to stray away from such excellent pasturage, was to seek
for a cave or hollow among the rocks, where he could find shelter from
storms. There were several such places; he selected the most convenient,
which had a natural shelf for his store of provisions, and, having dried
enough grass to make a warm, soft bed, he found himself very comfortably
established. For three or four days he was too busy to feel his
loneliness. The valley belonged to nobody; so he considered it his own
property, and called it Gudridsdale, after his sister. Then, in order to
determine the boundaries of this new estate, he climbed the heights in
all directions, and fixed the forms of every crag and hollow firmly in
his memory. He was not without the secret hope that he might come upon
some strange and remarkable object,—a deserted house, a high tree, or a
hot fountain shooting up jets like the Great Geyser,—but there was
nothing. Only the black and stony wilderness near at hand, and a
multitude of snowy peaks in the distance.
Thus ten days passed. The grass was not yet exhausted, the sheep grew
fat and lazy, and Jon had so thoroughly explored the neighborhood of the
valley that he could have found his way in the dark. He knew that there
were only barren, uninhabitable regions to the right and left; but the
great, bare table-land stretching to the northward was a continual
temptation, for there were human settlements beyond. As he wandered
farther and farther in that direction, he found it harder to return;
there was always a ridge in advance, the appearance of a mountain pass,
the sparkle of a little lake,—some promise of something to be seen by
going just a little beyond his turning-point. He was so careful to
notice every slight feature of the scenery,—a jutting rock here, a
crevice there,—in case mist or rain should overtake him on the way, that
the whole region soon became strangely familiar.
Jon’s desire to explore the road leading to the northward grew so
strong, that he at last yielded to it. But first he made every
arrangement for the safety of the sheep during his absence. He secured
the ram Thor by a long tether and an abundance of cut grass, concealed
the rest of his diminishing supply of provisions; climbed the nearest
heights and overlooked the country on all sides without discovering a
sign of life, and then, after a rest which was more like a waking dream
than a slumber, began his strange and solitary journey.
The sun had just become visible again, low in the northeast, when he
reached the level of the table-land. There were few clouds in the sky,
and but little wind blowing; yet a singular brownish haze filled the
air, and spots of strong light soon appeared on either side of the sun.
Jon had often seen these “mock suns” before; they are frequent in
northern latitudes, and are supposed to denote a change in the weather.
The phenomenon, and the feeling of heaviness in the air, led him to
study the landmarks very keenly and cautiously as he advanced. In two or
three hours he had passed the limits of his former excursions; and now,
if a storm should arise, his very life might depend on his being able to
find the way back.
During the day, however, there was no change in the weather. The lonely,
rugged mountains, the dark little lakes of melted snow lying at their
feet, the stony plain, with its great, irregular fissures where the lava
had cracked in cooling,—all these features of the great central desert
of Iceland lay hard and clear before his eyes. Like all persons who are
obliged to measure time without a watch or clock, he had a very correct
sense of the hours of the day, and of the distances he walked from point
to point. Where there was no large or striking object near at hand, he
took the trouble to arrange several stones in a line pointing to the
next landmark behind him, as a guide in case of fog.
It was an exciting, a wonderful day in his life, and Jon never forgot
it. He never once thought of the certain danger which he incurred.
Instead of fear, he was full of a joyous, inspiring courage; he sang and
shouted aloud, as some new peak or ridge of hills arose far in front, or
some other peak, already familiar, went out of sight far behind him. He
scarcely paused to eat or rest, until nearly twelve hours had passed,
and he had walked fully thirty miles. By that time the sun was low in
the west, and barely visible through the gathering haze. The wind moaned
around the rocks with a dreary, melancholy sound, and only the cry of a
wild swan was heard in the distance. To the north the mountains seemed
higher, but they were divided by deep gaps which indicated the
commencement of valleys. There, perhaps, there might be running streams,
pastures, and the dwellings of men!
[Illustration:
“All these features of the great central desert of Iceland lay hard
and clean before his eyes”
Drawing by F. S. Coburn
]
Jon had intended to return to his flock on the morrow, but now the
temptation to press onward for another day became very great. His limbs,
however, young and strong as they were, needed some rest; and he
speedily decided what to do next. A lighter streak in the rocky floor of
the plain led his eye toward a low, broken peak—in reality, the crater
of a small extinct volcano—some five miles off, and lying to the right
of what he imagined to be the true course. On the left there were other
peaks, but immediately in front nothing which would serve as a landmark.
The crater, therefore, besides offering him some shelter in its
crevices, was decidedly the best starting-point, either for going on or
returning. The lighter color of the rock came from some different
mixture in the lava of an old eruption, and could easily be traced
throughout the whole intervening distance. He followed it rapidly, now
that the bearings were laid down, and reached the ruins of the volcano a
little after sunset.
There was no better bed to be found than the bottom of a narrow cleft,
where the winds, after blowing for many centuries, had deposited a thin
layer of sand. Before he lay down, Jon arranged a line of stones,
pointing toward the light streak across the plain, and another line
giving the direction of the valleys to the northward. To the latter he
added two short, slanting lines at the end, forming a figure like an
arrow-head, and then, highly satisfied with his ingenuity, lay down in
the crevice to sleep. But his brain was so excited that for a long time
he could do nothing else than go over, in memory, the day’s journey. The
wind seemed to be rising, for it whistled like a tremendous fife through
the rocky crevice; father and mother and Gudrid seemed to be far, far
away, in a different land; he wondered at last whether he was the same
Jon Sigurdson who drove the flock of sheep up the valley of the
Thiörvǎ—and then, all at once, he stopped wondering and thinking, for he
was too soundly asleep to dream even of a roasted potato.
IV
How much time passed in the sleep he could never exactly learn; probably
six to seven hours. He was aroused by what seemed to be icy-cold rats’
feet scampering over his face, and as he started and brushed them away
with his hand, his ears became alive to a terrible, roaring sound. He
started up, alarmed, at first bewildered, then suddenly wide awake. The
cold feet upon his face were little threads of water trickling from
above; the fearful roaring came from a storm—a hurricane of mixed rain,
wind, cloud, and snow. It was day, yet still darker than the Arctic
summer night, so dense and black was the tempest. When Jon crept out of
the crevice, he was nearly thrown down by the force of the wind. The
first thing he did was to seek the two lines of stones he had arranged
for his guidance. They had not been blown away as he feared; and the
sight of the arrow-head made his heart leap with gratitude to the
Providence which had led him, for without that sign he would have been
bewildered at the very start. Returning to the cleft, which gave a
partial shelter, he ate the greater part of his remaining store of food,
fastening his thick coat tightly around his breast and throat, and set
out on the desperate homeward journey, carefully following the lighter
streak of rock across the plain.
He had not gone more than a hundred yards when he fancied he heard a
sharp, hammering sound through the roar of the tempest, and paused to
listen. The sound came rapidly nearer; it was certainly the hoofs of
many horses. Nothing could be seen; the noise came from the west, passed
in front of Jon, and began to die away to the eastward. His blood grew
chilled for a moment. It was all so sudden and strange and ghostly that
he knew not what to think; and he was about to push forward and get out
of the region where such things happened, when he heard, very faintly,
the cry which the Icelanders use in driving their baggage-ponies. Then
he remembered the deep gorge he had seen to the eastward, before
reaching the crater; the invisible travellers were riding toward it,
probably lost, and unaware of their danger.
This thought passed through Jon’s mind like a flash of lightning; he
shouted with all the strength of his voice.
He waited, but there was no answer. Then he shouted again, while the
wind seemed to tear the sound from his lips and fling it away—but on the
course the hoofs had taken.
This time a cry came in return; it seemed far off, because the storm
beat against the sound. Jon shouted a third time, and the answer was now
more distinct. Presently he distinguished words:
“Come here to us!”
“I cannot!” he cried.
In a few minutes more he heard the hoofs returning, and then the forms
of ponies became visible through the driving snow-clouds. They halted,
forming a semicircle in front of him; and then one of three dim,
spectral riders leaning forward again called: “Come here!”
“I cannot!” Jon answered again.
Thereupon, another of the horsemen rode close to him, and stared down
upon him. He said something which Jon understood to be: “Erik, it is a
little boy!”—but he was not quite sure, for the man’s way of talking was
strange. He put the words in the wrong places, and pronounced them
curiously.
The man who had first spoken jumped off his horse. Holding the bridle,
he came forward and said, in good, plain Icelandic:
“Why couldn’t you come when I called you?”
[Illustration:
“Jon’s meeting with the horsemen”
]
“I am keeping the road back,” replied Jon; “if I move, I might lose it.”
“Then why did you call us?”
“I was afraid you had lost your way, and might get into the chasm; the
storm is so bad you could not see it.”
“What’s that?” exclaimed the first who had spoken.
Jon described the situation as well as he could, and the stranger at
last said, in his queer, broken speech: “Lost way—we; can guide—you—know
how?”
The storm raged so furiously that it was with great difficulty that Jon
heard the words at all; but he thought he understood the meaning. So he
looked the man in the face, and nodded, silently.
“Erik—pony!” cried the latter.
Erik caught one of the loose ponies, drew it forward, and said to Jon:
“Now mount and show us the way!”
“I cannot!” Jon repeated. “I will guide you: I was on my way already,
but I must walk back just as I came, so as to find the places and know
the distances.”
“Sir,” said Erik, turning to the other traveller, “we must let him have
his will. It is our only chance of safety. The boy is strong and
fearless, and we can surely follow where he was willing to go alone.”
“Take the lead, boy!” the other said; “more quick, more money!”
Jon walked rapidly in advance, keeping his eyes on the lighter colored
streak in the plain. He saw nothing, but every little sign and landmark
was fixed so clearly in his mind that he did not feel the least fear or
confusion. He could hardly see, in fact, the foremost of the ponies
behind him, but he caught now and then a word, as the men talked with
each other. They had come from the northern shore of the island; they
were lost, they were chilled, weary; their ponies were growing weak from
hunger and exposure to the terrible weather; and they followed him, not
so much because they trusted his guidance, as because there was really
nothing else left for them to do.
In an hour and a half they reached the first landmark; and when the men
saw Jon examining the line of stones he had laid, and then striking
boldly off through the whirling clouds, they asked no questions, but
urged their ponies after him. Thus several hours went by. Point after
point was discovered, although no object could be seen until it was
reached; but Jon’s strength, which had been kept up by his pride and his
anxiety, at last began to fail. The poor boy had been so long exposed to
the wind, snow, and icy rain, that his teeth chattered in his head, and
his legs trembled as he walked. About noon, fortunately, there was a
lull in the storm; the rain slackened, and the clouds lifted themselves
so that one might see for a mile or more. He caught sight of the rocky
corner for which he was steering, stopped and pointed toward one of the
loose ponies.
Erik jumped from the saddle, and threw his arms around Jon, whose senses
were fast vanishing. He felt that something was put to his lips, that he
was swallowing fire, and that his icy hands were wrapped in a soft,
delicious warmth. In a minute he found that Erik had thrust them under
his jacket, while the other two were bending over him with anxious
faces. The stranger who spoke so curiously held a cake to his mouth,
saying: “Eat—eat!” It was wonderful how his strength came back!
Very soon he was able to mount the pony and take the lead. Sometimes the
clouds fell dense and dark around them; but when they lifted only for a
second, it was enough for Jon. Men and beasts suffered alike, and at
last Erik said:
“Unless we get out of the desert in three hours, we must all perish!”
Jon’s face brightened. “In three hours,” he exclaimed, “there will be
pasturage and water and shelter.”
He was already approaching the region which he knew thoroughly, and
there was scarcely a chance of losing the way. They had more than one
furious gust to encounter—more than one moment when the famished and
exhausted ponies halted and refused to move; but toward evening the last
ridge was reached, and they saw below them, under a dark roof of clouds,
the green valley-basin, the gleam of the river, and the scattered white
specks of the grazing sheep.
V
The ram Thor bleated loudly when he saw his master. Jon was almost too
weary to move hand or foot, but he first visited every sheep, and
examined his rough home under the rock, and his few remaining
provisions, before he sat down to rest. By this time, the happy ponies
were appeasing their hunger, Erik and his fellow-guide had pitched a
white tent, and there was a fire kindled. The owner of the tent said
something which Jon could not hear, but Erik presently shouted:
“The English gentleman asks you to come and take supper with us!”
Jon obeyed, even more from curiosity than hunger. The stranger had a
bright, friendly face, and stretched out his hand as the boy entered the
tent. “Good guide—eat!” was all he was able to say in Icelandic, but the
tone of his voice meant a great deal more. There was a lamp hung to the
tent-pole, an india-rubber blanket spread on the ground, and cups and
plates, which shone like silver, in readiness for the meal. Jon was
amazed to see Erik boiling three or four tin boxes in the kettle of
water; but when they had been opened, and the contents poured into
basins, such a fragrant steam rose as he had never smelled in his life.
There was pea-soup, and Irish stew, and minced collops and beef, and
tea, with no limit to the lumps of sugar, and sweet biscuits, and
currant jelly! Never had he sat down to such a rich, such a wonderful
banquet. He was almost afraid to take enough of the dishes, but the
English traveller filled his plate as fast as it was emptied, patted him
on the back, and repeated the words: “Good guide—eat!” Then he lighted a
cigar, while Erik and the other Icelander pulled out their horns of
snuff, threw back their heads, and each poured nearly a teaspoonful into
his nostrils. They offered the snuff to Jon, but he refused both that
and a cigar. He was warm and comfortable, to the ends of his toes, and
his eyelids began to fall, in spite of all efforts to hold them up,
after so much fatigue and exposure as he had endured.
In fact, his senses left him suddenly, although he seemed to be aware
that somebody lifted and laid him down again—that something soft came
under his head, and something warm over his body—that he was safe, and
sheltered, and happy.
When he awoke it was bright day. He started up, striking his head
against a white, wet canvas, and sat a moment, bewildered, trying to
recall what had happened. He could scarcely believe that he had slept
all night in a tent, beside the friendly Englishman; but he heard Erik
talking outside, and the crackling of a fire, and the shouting of some
one at a distance. The sky was clear and blue; the sheep and ponies were
nibbling sociably together, and the Englishman, standing on a rock
beside the river, was calling attention to a big salmon which he had
just caught. Gudridsdale, just then, seemed the brightest and liveliest
place in Iceland.
Jon knew that he had probably saved the party from death; but he thought
nothing of that, for he had saved himself along with them. He was simply
proud and overjoyed at the chance of seeing something new—of meeting
with a real Englishman, and eating (as he supposed) the foreign, English
food. He felt no longer shy, since he had slept a whole night beside the
traveller. The two Icelandic guides were already like old friends; even
the pony he had ridden seemed to recognize him. His father had told him
that Latin was the language by which all educated men were able to
communicate their ideas; so as the Englishman came up with his salmon
for their breakfast, he said, in Latin:
“To-day is better than yesterday, sir.”
The traveller laughed, shook hands heartily, and answered in Latin,
with—to Jon’s great surprise—two wrong cases in the nouns:
“Both days are better for you than for me. I have learned less at
Oxford.”
But the Latin and Icelandic together were a great help to conversation,
and almost before he knew what he was doing, Jon had told Mr. Lorne—so
the traveller was named—all the simple story of his life, even his claim
to the little valley-basin wherein they were encamped, and the giving it
his sister’s name. Mr. Lorne had crossed from the little town of
Akureyri, on the northern shore of Iceland, and was bound down the
valley of Thiörvǎ to the Geysers, thence to Hekla, and finally to
Rejkiavik, where he intended to embark for England. As Jon’s time of
absence had expired, his provisions being nearly consumed, and as it was
also necessary to rest a day for the sake of the traveller’s ponies, it
was arranged so that all should return in company to Sigurd’s farm.
That last day in Gudridsdale was the most delightful of all. They
feasted sumptuously on the traveller’s stores, and when night came the
dried grass from Jon’s hollow under the rock was spread within the tent,
making a soft and pleasant bed for the whole party.
Mounted on one of the ponies, Jon led the way up the long ravine,
cheerily singing as he drove the full-fed sheep before him. They reached
the level of the desert table-land, and he gave one more glance at the
black, scattered mountains to the northward where he had passed two such
adventurous days. In spite of all that he had seen and learned in that
time, he felt a little sad that he had not succeeded in crossing the
wilderness. When they reached the point where their way descended by a
long, deep slope to the valley of the Thiörvǎ, he turned for yet another
farewell view. Far off, between him and the nearest peak, there seemed
to be a moving speck. He pointed it out to Erik, who, after gazing
steadily a moment, said, “It is a man on horseback.”
“Perhaps another lost traveller!” exclaimed Mr. Lorne; “let us wait for
him.”
It was quite safe to let the sheep and loose ponies take their way in
advance; for they saw the pasture below them. In a quarter of an hour
the man and horse could be clearly distinguished. The former had
evidently seen them also, for he approached much more rapidly than at
first.
All at once Jon cried out: “It is our pony, Heimdal! It must be my
father!”
He sprang from the saddle as he spoke, and ran towards the strange
horseman. The latter presently galloped up, dismounted, walked a few
steps, and sat down upon a stone. But Jon’s arms were around him, and as
they kissed each other, the father burst into tears.
“I thought thou wert lost, my boy,” was all he could say.
“But here I am, father!” Jon proudly exclaimed.
“And the sheep?”
“Fat and sound, every one of them.”
Sigurd rose and mounted his horse, and as they all descended the slope
together Jon and Erik told him all that had happened. Mr. Lome, to whom
the occurrence was explained, shook hands with him, and, pointing to
Jon, said in his broken way: “Good son—little man!” Whereupon they all
laughed, and Jon could not help noticing the proud and happy expression
of his father’s face.