He’s giving me tips for the journey ahead —
from Kvalvika to Himmeltinden —
everything begins in Svolvær.
Himmeltindan is a beautiful mountain,
you should climb it. I used to drink in a bar
called the Hemel. Dutch is the same as Norwegian,
a trap is a trap and the hemel is the sky —
whistle and a fox comes running,
leaping from star to star,
flinting a marimba of ice —
the Sami believe you can hear a tinkling
or a popping when the aurora dances across the sky;
pure myth of course or methylated spirits,
they’re always faffing around on their snowmobiles,
I met one of the boys at the bottom of a pass,
herding reindeer, he said. He offered me a ride
but I was snowshoeing at the time,
travelling the Kungsleden; a shovel, a stove,
a week’s worth of food in my pack;
we said goodbye but I met him again at the top of the pass
where he met his cousin — a pretty girl —
also on a snowmobile. Where are they? I asked.
The reindeer? Who knows!
He took a slug of beer and laughed.
That was winter, now it’s summer,
the earth tilts back again. A week I’ve been in Svolvær,
first with Inger Marie, now Bjorn;
every morning we set off for a different mountain —
Rundfjellet, Floya, Juffrouw — a little figurine
in a straw skirt bobbles over the wheel of Inger Marie’s van,
a souvenir from the time she worked in a hospital near the equator,
now she ’s a doctor inside the Arctic circle.
She put me up in the Telegraph House,
gave me a shot of B12 last night,
injecting the amber into my arm,
I think I fell in love with her but I’m leaving again.
I’m off to see the end of the islands,
as south as south can be, or west as the locals say.
Laurence O’Dwyer | Miroslav
Contents | Mudlark No. 75 (2023)