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Journey to the Center of the Earth
Chapter 10. TRAVELING IN ICELAND
One would have thought it should be night, even near the sixty-fifth parallel of latitude, but the night light didn't surprise me.
In Iceland, during June and July, the sun never sets.
The temperature, however, was much lower than I expected.
I was cold, but hunger bothered me even more.
The hut that opened its door to us was truly welcome.
It was only a peasant's house, but in hospitality it could have been a king's palace.
As we got down at the door the master came forward, held out his hand, and without more ceremony signaled for us to follow him.
We followed, for not following was impossible.
A long, narrow, gloomy passage led inside, made from beams roughly squared by an ax, this passage led to every room.
There were four chambers in the house, each serving a different simple purpose.
There was the kitchen, the workshop where they wove, the general family sleeping room, and the best room where strangers were especially invited.
My uncle, whose tall height hadn't been thought of when the house was built, managed to knock his head on the roof beams.
We were shown into our room, a kind of large room with a hard earthen floor, and lighted by a window.
The panes were made of a kind of parchment from sheep intestines, and were far from clear.
The bedding was dry hay thrown into two long red wooden boxes, decorated with sentences painted in Icelandic.
I really didn't expect to be so comfortable.
One problem with the house was the strong smell of dried fish, macerated meat, and sour milk, which the three smells together didn't suit my nose.
As soon as we had taken off our heavy travel clothes, our host called to us to come into the kitchen.
It was the only room in which Icelanders ever make any fire, no matter how cold it's.
My uncle, glad of the invitation, quickly obeyed, I followed.
The kitchen chimney was made in an old style.
A large stone stood in the room as the fireplace, and above it the roof had a hole for the smoke.
This room was kitchen, parlor and dining room all in one.
When we entered, our worthy host, as if he hadn't seen us before, came forward ceremoniously, said the word that means "be happy,"
And then kissed both of us on the cheek.
His wife followed, said the same word with the same ceremony, and then the husband and wife, placing their right hands on their hearts, bowed deeply.
This excellent Icelandic woman was the mother of nineteen children.
The children, little and big, rolled, crawled, and walked about in the smoke from the square fireplace in the middle of the room.
Now and then I saw a fresh white head and a slightly sad face peering at me through the vapor.
Both my uncle and I were very friendly with the whole group.
Soon three or four children sat on our shoulders, as many on our boxes, and the rest clung to our legs.
Those who could speak kept crying saellvertu in every possible key.
Those who couldn't speak only made more noise.
This concert stopped when supper was announced.
At that moment our guide, the eider-duck hunter, came in after seeing to the feeding and stabling of the horses.
He had let them loose to feed on the short green of the Icelandic plains.
There was little for them to eat but moss and very dry poor grass.
Next day they were ready before the door, some time before we were.
"Welcome," said Hans.
Then calmly, like an automaton, without any more feeling in one kiss than another, he embraced the host and hostess and their nineteen children.
When this ceremony ended to everyone's satisfaction, we all sat down to the table, twenty-four of us, somewhat crowded.
The luckiest had only two youngsters on their knees.
As soon as the unavoidable soup was put on the table, the natural quietness, common even to Icelandic babies, took over.
Our host filled our plates with lichen soup made of Iceland moss, not a bad taste, and an enormous lump of fish floating in sour butter.
After that came some skyr, a kind of curds and whey, served with biscuits and juniper berry juice.
To drink, we had blanda, skimmed milk with water.
I was hungry, so hungry, that for dessert I finished a basin of thick oat porridge.
When the meal ended, the children vanished and the adults sat around the fireplace, burning turf, heather, cow dung and dried fish bones.
When everyone was warm enough, a general moving away took place, all going to their own beds.
Our hostess offered to take off our stockings and trousers, as was the custom there.
But we politely declined to be so honored, so she left us to our bed of dry fodder.
Next day, at five in the morning, we left these hospitable peasants.
My uncle had much trouble making them accept a fair and proper payment.
Hans then gave the signal to start.
We had hardly gone a hundred yards from Gardar when the country changed.
The ground became marshy and boggy, and less easy to travel.
To the right, the mountain range stretched on like a great system of natural defenses, of which we followed the edge.
We met many streams and small rivers we had to cross, and that without wetting our luggage.
As we went on, the deserted look grew, and yet now and then we saw human shadows moving in the distance.
A turn in the track brought us near one figure, and I recoiled at the swollen head with shining hairless skin.
His repulsive and awful wounds showed through his rags.
The unhappy people never came forward to beg.
On the contrary, they ran away, not so fast however but that Hans could salute them with the usual saellvertu.
"Spetelsk," said he.
"A leper," explained my uncle.
The very sound of that word caused a feeling of repulsion.
The horrible disease called leprosy, which has almost disappeared because of modern science, is common in Iceland.
It isn't contagious but hereditary, so marriage is strictly forbidden to these unlucky people.
These poor lepers didn't make our journey happier.
The scene was unutterably sad and lonely.
The very last tufts of grass seemed to die at our feet.
Not a tree was seen, except a few small willows about as big as blackberry bushes.
Now and then we watched a falcon rising in the grey misty air, flying toward warmer and sunnier places.
I couldn't help feeling melancholy, I sighed for my native land, and wished to be back with Gretchen.
We had to cross several little fjords, and at last came to a real gulf.
The tide was high, and we could cross at once and reach the hamlet of Alftanes, about a mile farther.
That evening, after fording the Alfa and the Heta, two rivers full of trout and pike, we had to spend the night in a deserted house.
It looked fit to be haunted by all the fairies of Scandinavian myth.
The King of Cold had taken up his home there and made us feel him all night.
The next day had no particular events.
Always the same damp and swampy ground, the same dreary sameness, the same sad and monotone scenery.
In the evening, having done half of our planned journey, we slept at the Annexia of Krosolbt.
For a whole mile we had under our feet nothing but lava, this land is called hraun.
The crumbled lava on the surface was in some places like ship cables stretched out, in others coiled up in heaps.
An immense field of lava came from the nearby mountains, all extinct volcanoes, but whose remains showed what they once were.
Here and there we could see steam from hot springs.
There was no time for more than a quick look at these phenomena.
We had to go on as fast as we could.
Soon the soft and swampy ground returned under the horses' feet, and at every hundred yards we found one or more small lakes.
Our journey turned westward, we swept round Faxa Bay, the twin peaks of Sneffels rising to the clouds less than five miles away.
The horses now moved fast, the ground's difficulties no longer slowed them.
I confess fatigue began to hurt me badly, but my uncle was as firm and hard as on the first day.
I couldn't help admiring both the excellent Professor and the worthy guide, for they seemed to treat this rough trip like a simple walk.
On Saturday, the 20th June, at six in the evening, we reached Budir, a small town picturesquely placed on the ocean shore.
And here the guide asked for his money.
My uncle paid him at once, it was now Hans's own family, that's his uncles and his cousins, who offered us hospitality.
We were very well received, and without taking too much of these good people's kindness, I'd have liked to rest with them after the journey's fatigue.
But my uncle, who didn't need rest, had no thought of that, and though the next day was Sunday, I had to mount my horse again.
The ground was again shaped by the nearby mountains, whose granite stuck out of the ground like the tops of an old oak.
We were skirting the huge base of the mighty volcano.
My uncle never took his eyes off it.
He couldn't keep from making gestures and looking at it with a kind of angry defiance, as if to say,
"That's the giant I have decided to conquer."
After four hours of steady travel, the horses stopped by themselves before the door of the presbytery of Stapi.