appearance. What if they’d travelled out of the known world into a realm where the laws of nature no longer applied? Master Cosmas had told him that under the pivot of the Pole Star, beyond the north winds, lay the land of the Hyperboreans, a place sweeter and more blessed than anyone could imagine.
Then he saw land. A high plateau cleft by ice-filled valleys with wind-scoured ridges, vertical headlands stepping away to the east.
‘Land! Land ahead.’
As though released from a spell, the company woke and rubbed their eyes and crowded forward.
‘No doubt about it,’ said Raul.
‘How long to reach it?’ Vallon asked.
‘Hard to say. A day’s sailing with a fresh breeze.’
The company marvelled at their destination, pointing at mountains and ice-caps and fjords. The sun dipped towards the horizon and the sky began to separate into washes of rose and lapis. The island rippled and floated.
Vallon rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s happening?’
‘It’s fading away,’ said Wayland.
Hero gaped in disbelief as his island melted into air.
Richard sighed. ‘It was just a phantom. A fairy island.’
‘But it must be real. You all saw it.’
‘The ocean plays tricks,’ said Raul. ‘It shows you what you want to see.’
Hero was close to tears. ‘Then why can’t I see it now?’
Next day
Everyone raised their eyes towards a small bird perched on the yardarm.
Hero stood. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘Just appeared,’ said Raul. ‘Wayland noticed the dog staring up at it like the fox in the fable.’
The bird had a smoky grey back, a black eye mask and a white rump. ‘I’ve seen birds like that in Sicily,’ Hero said. ‘They must fly north in the summer.’
‘Keep your eyes on it,’ said Vallon. ‘Mark which direction it takes.’
The lonely migrant was in no hurry to depart. It preened, fanned its tail and warbled to itself. Hero was only half watching when it uttered a sharp
‘Watch which way it goes.’
It was just a speck when Hero saw it merge into a wispy grey flock flying low across the sea.
‘Raul, steer the same course.’
‘There ain’t nothing to give me a bearing.’
Hero backed away. ‘Keep pointing along the path the birds took. Don’t let the ship drift.’
He hurried to his pack and took from his chest the mysterious direction finder. With great care he set it down on a thwart. The fish-shaped needle wandered around the horizon before settling in a lolling arc. Hero looked up to find the rest of the company still holding out their hands in the self-conscious attitude of amateur actors. ‘North,’ he cried. ‘The birds flew due north.’
‘Follow them,’ said Vallon.
Raul looked at the compass with scepticism. ‘You trust that thing?’
‘I’ve tested it and it’s as true a guide as the Pole Star.’
But there was no wind that day to put his claim to the proof.
He waited up all night until a thread of pale yellow appeared on the eastern horizon. The sun rose and he saw to the north a long low bank of cloud.
‘Could be land,’ said Vallon.
‘Pray that it is,’ Raul said. ‘We’re precious low on food.’
They sailed nearer. Gulls appeared, trailing in their wake.
‘Ice,’ Raul said, pointing at a chilly gleam high up in the cloud vapours. ‘David said there’s an ice mountain on Iceland’s southern coast. If we’re where I think we are, we have to sail west. We should come to some islands before the day’s over.’
They skirted the shrouded coast. Wayland climbed to the yard to look for their next landmark, and in the late afternoon he called out that he could see islands ahead. One by one they appeared out of the drizzle — some like squat fortresses, another like a sleeping green whale, one of them an ugly pile of wrinkled slag with smoke wafting from its flanks.
In a fine misting rain, they made for the largest island, sailing under massive cliffs with clouds snagged on the ledges like tufts of cotton. Surf burst in caves and grottoes. They rounded a tall headland domed with grass and found a haven enfolded between tumbling hills. Once inside, the entrance seemed to close behind them. The sea surge faded to a distant echo, almost drowned out by the cries of birds nesting on the cliffs ringing the harbour. Sea parrots whirred in front of the ship and seals hoisted themselves high in the water to watch the intruders. The faint bleating of sheep floated down from the heights. Raul ran up towards the end of the cove and let go the anchor. The company jumped into the shallows and waded on to a beach of silky black sand. Hero staggered up it with his arms open and buried his face in the sweet turf.
In the morning they woke to find their camp ringed by a delegation of crouching savages who eyed the argonauts as if undecided whether to worship them or eat them. Raul initiated negotiations. The isles were called the Westmans after Irish slaves who’d fled here from their Norwegian master two centuries ago. The present inhabitants — fewer than eighty souls — eked out their fishing and fowling by trading with the occasional passing ship and plundering wrecks. In return for a dozen nails and a block of salt, Raul obtained a side of mutton and a string of sea parrots culled at their nests that morning.
The company rested in the haven for two days, sleeping, eating or just staring across the bay. The place had a monastic calm and in months and years to come, when Hero was heavy of heart, memories of that cove would come stealing back to ease his troubled mind. It was not a place where he would choose to live, but he sometimes thought that it was a place where, in the fullness of time, he would be content to die.
They left with detailed sailing directions. Two days brought them to Iceland’s south-west peninsula. From here they tacked north-east along an uninhabited coastline of ash and lava. The sun was bleeding into the sea behind them when Wayland called out that he could see the settlement of Smoking Bay.
Richard grabbed Hero by both shoulders and shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth.
‘We’re here!’
Gliding towards the harbour, Hero kept revising his expectations downwards. He hadn’t expected a city, or even a fair-sized town, but he had anticipated more than a sprinkling of houses — not even a village — backed by a few farmsteads. Only the sight of two knarrs tied alongside a stone jetty convinced him that Reykjavik had any connection with the civilised world.
As they crossed the bar, Richard told him that it was the twenty-first or twenty-second of May. More than thirty days had rolled round since their flight from England.
Iceland and Greenland
XXII
Beacons must have been lit to announce their coming. How else to explain the crowd gathered on the jetty to watch their arrival? Others were still trickling in by foot and on horse, some fresh from their fields and carrying hoes
