Svolværgeita in Summer

The horns of the goat are two pinnacles that loom over the town. Hiking up from the white church to the amphitheatre of snow, Svolvær is tiny below and the bridge to Svinøya is smaller than the nail on my thumb.
       When I get to the summit, the world opens up — the peaks of Lofoten like an accordion or the trace of a cardiogram, even stranger, a frozen crocodile with its jaws thrown open, 180 degrees.
       But sometimes the water is Caribbean — blues and greens, even turquoise in the shallow bays. The lakes are brilliant white. Fresh water freezes, salt water in the deep fjords stays black. And the blades of my crampons make the crek, creck sound of crystal light. I look down on the pillars of Stor Horn and Lil Horn.
       Jumping from one to the other is a rite of passage. You feel the church and the graveyard rushing towards you. But on the ridge all is quiet.
       Crushed ice in your hand. Well travelled on the sea road, in the morning when you go to work in the clinic, god knows what I do for a living — climbing up to the Devil’s Stool, descending to Svolvær, I cross the threshold from snow to the blue flowers that slope down to the church.
       I could die in this light. Let my ship drown. How will I ever recover from the refuge you’ve given me in the Telegraph House?

Laurence O’Dwyer | Quisling
Contents | Mudlark No. 79 (2024)