The Chill Factor by Richard Falkirk

Author:Richard Falkirk [Lambert, Derek]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2020-11-02T17:00:00+00:00

12

The Fire-Bringing Giant

You could see Surtsey, named after Surtur the fire-bringing giant from Norse myths, quite plainly from Heimaey. A basking whale, black against the bright sky.

It first made its presence known when fishermen saw a glow under the waves and found that the water was hot. Within a week Surtsey had grown to a height of forty metres and a length of 500 metres. In April 1964 it entered into what they called its Strombolian phase, hurling lava bombs 300 metres into the air. And the red lava streams that doused themselves in the sea strengthened the new island’s foundations so that it didn’t slip away again like so many recruits who just faded away since The Grenadiers paraded permanently in the ninth century.

The eruption continued in 1966 then settled with an area of about three square miles.

The Westman Islanders claimed it for themselves. So did Paris-Match. But Surtsey belonged to Iceland and the scientists of the world, and that is how it stayed. A mauve and green island of lava, changing shape, forming its own ashy beaches, permitting the electrolysis of life to start as perhaps it had started on earth at the beginning of time.

The scientists had kept it as sterile as possible and they would not welcome Emil Hafstein or his pursuers as they had welcomed the first moth or the first flower, which had been the Sea Rocket.

The motor boat was very fast and we raced past the minute islands of Sudurey, Hellisey and Sulnasker.

The fisherman at the wheel slowed down as Surtsey swam up in front of us, about two miles away.

‘You want to take some photographs?’ he asked.

‘Just keep going,’ I said.

Waves were slapping the bows now and a dark cloud had appeared in the sky as Surtsey had once appeared in the sea.

The fisherman, about eighteen, young, pale and hard, said: ‘Soon it will storm.’

‘Too bad,’ I said.

He gave his Icelandic friendliness another try. ‘Do you know what they say about the weather in Iceland?’

‘Just wait a moment …’

‘You know.’ He swung the boat so that a wave sprayed over me.

We ploughed on as the clouds gathered. The waves chopped harder and the spray reached both of us. Soon it mixed with rain. My jacket and flannels stuck to my body, the dried blood was swabbed from my leg. My hair was plastered over my forehead Hitler fashion. The helmsman smiled at me with satisfaction.

Behind us Heimaey disappeared in the rain. And a couple of other Grenadiers with it. We were about a mile from Surtsey which in the stormy light looked as if it were made of blended plasticines, the way children mix them.

I saw the boat grounded on the tiny beach, and another one nearby. The wind blew straight at us, helping Surtsey to repel invaders.

At the base of the plasticine cliff I saw a cough of light. Then we heard a crack.

The fisherman looked puzzled. ‘Thunder?’ He shook his head; it was nothing like thunder. ‘Did you hear that?’

I nodded into the rain and spray.

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