The barren lands ... far away, north of the trees. Wind-swept, rock
strewn, colorless. An undulating desert with huge boulders, grey moss,
little patches of scrub willows nestling in the hollows of the hills.
Thousands of small streams and lakes.
Far away on the edge of the Arctic. Bleaker than the northern moors of
Scotland shorn of their native heather. The feeding ground of the
wandering herds of caribou. The nestling place of all water fowl.
Far away, skirting the frozen seas. A land of waste lying on the top of
the world. Scarred and twisted by some gigantic earthquake hundreds of
centuries ago. Blasted eternally by the icy breath of the pole.
The Barren Lands. The last refuge for the criminal unmercifully tracked
by the law. Northward—ever northward—the man has fled from civilization.
Downstream—ever downstream—he has paddled madly through the forest,
seeking safety in the unknown. Leaving the trees behind him he has at
last reached his goal. The Barren Lands.
[Illustration: The Barren Lands]
But fear urges him on. He leaves his useless canoe and blindly staggers
north on foot. North, north, into the heart of the land of waste from
which there is no outlet. The weaker he gets the more he longs to go
further. His food is nearly gone. On the top of the hills he scans the
horizon. South, the line of trees has disappeared. North, nothing but
the rolling desert of moss and rock.
On and on he staggers for days. He is starving now, although he is able
to quench his thirst at the small icy creeks which wind their way
towards the sea.
It is night. The man suddenly hears a dull moaning sound, the
everlasting breaking of the surf against the shore. He has reached the
end of the Barren Lands. He finds himself staggering down a rocky beach.
His eyes are staring ahead of him. Nothing but a grey, unlimited ocean,
dotted with icebergs.
For the first time he realizes the hopelessness of his flight. He
remains a few seconds swaying on his feet. Then his brain gives way.
With a scream, he tosses his hands above his head and, lurching forward,
falls dead, his face in the foam of the waves.
High up in the sky, over Barren Lands and Arctic Ocean, the Northern
lights reel, twist and swirl, in their eternal dance of madness.