Chapter 6Our Voyage to Iceland

The time to leave finally arrived. The night before, Mr. Thompson hooked us up with the warmest letters of introduction for Baron Trampe, the Governor of Iceland, M. Pictursson, the bishop’s second-in-command, and M. Finsen, the mayor of Reykjavik.

My uncle practically squeezed their hands, he was so excited to meet them.

On the second of the month, at two in the morning, our luggage was loaded onto the ship Valkyrie. We followed, and the captain showed us to a tiny cabin with two bunk beds - not super breezy or comfy, to be honest. But, you know, scientists gotta rough it.

"So, are we looking at good weather?"

my uncle asked, sounding super smooth.

"Perfect wind!" Captain Bjarne replied.

"We'll be out of the Sound and sailing with all sails up!"

A few minutes later, the schooner caught the wind and started moving, with every sail out. An hour later, the capital of Denmark seemed to disappear into the waves, and we were pretty close to the coast of Elsinore.

My uncle was stoked; I was just feeling bummed and kinda expected to see Hamlet’s ghost.

"Total legend," I thought. "You’d probably be all about this journey. Maybe even follow us to the center of the Earth to sort out your problems."

But no ghost - nothing - showed up on the old walls. Turns out, the castle’s way newer than Hamlet’s time. Now it's where the keeper of the Sound lives, and over fifteen thousand ships from all over pass through every year.

The castle of Kronborg faded into the foggy air, along with the tower of Helsinborg rising on the Swedish coast. The schooner really started feeling the breezes of the Kattegat now. The Valkyrie was fast, but with any sailboat, you're always dealing with some uncertainty.

We were carrying coal, furniture, pottery, woolen clothes, and a bunch of corn. As always, the crew was small - just five Danes doing all the work.

"How long do you think the trip will take?" asked my uncle.

"Probably around ten days," replied the skipper, "unless we run into some northeast gales near the Faroe Islands."

"Either way, it shouldn’t be a huge delay," said the impatient Professor.

"No worries, Mr. Hardwigg," said the captain. "We’ll get there eventually."

As evening came, the schooner passed Cape Skagen, the northernmost point of Denmark. We crossed the Skagerrak during the night - sailed along the tip of Norway through the channel of Cape Lindesnes, and then hit the Northern Seas.

Two days later, we weren't far from the coast of Scotland, somewhere near what Danish sailors call Peterhead. Then the Valkyrie cut straight for the Faroe Islands, between Orkney and Shetland.

Now, the ocean waves were really hitting us, and with the wind changing, we had a tough time making it to the Faroe Isles.

On the eighth day, the captain spotted Myganness, the westernmost island, and from that point on, we headed straight for Portland, a cape on the southern shores of the island we were going to.

The trip was totally uneventful, honestly. I handled it okay, but my uncle? Major seasick! It was embarrassing, even for him. This mal de mer kept him from grilling Captain Bjarne about Sneffels, how we’d communicate, and how we'd get around.

He had to put all those questions off until we actually arrived. Basically, he spent the whole time in bed, moaning and stressing about the trip ending. I wasn't feeling bad for him, though.

On the eleventh day, we spotted Cape Portland, and Mount Myrdals Yokul loomed above it - we could see it super clearly because the weather was good. The cape itself is just a giant pile of granite, standing alone against the Atlantic. The Valkyrie stayed away from the coast, heading west.

Everywhere we looked, there were tons of whales and sharks. After a while, we saw this huge rock sticking out of the ocean, like a massive archway where the waves crashed through with crazy force.

The Westman islets seemed to pop out of the water; they were so low you barely saw them until you were practically on top of them. From then on, the schooner turned west to round Cape Reykjanes, the western tip of Iceland.

My uncle was so bummed, he couldn’t even make it up to the deck because the sea was so rough. So, he missed the first glimpse of the Land of Promise. Forty-eight hours later, after a storm that pushed us way out to sea with no sails, we saw land again.

A pilot hopped aboard, and after three hours of seriously tricky sailing, he got the schooner safely anchored in Faxa Bay, just before Reykjavik.

My uncle came out of his cabin looking totally drained - pale, gaunt, but buzzing with excitement. His eyes were wide with pure joy. Pretty much the whole town had come out to see us dock. Honestly, most of them were just expecting some new stuff to arrive on the regular ship.

Professor Hardwigg was super eager to ditch his place - he called it his hospital. But before he did, he grabbed my hand, led me to the quarterdeck of the schooner, put his arm around me, and pointed inland with the other hand.

He was showing me the northern part of the bay, where this huge, two-peaked mountain rose up - a double cone covered in snow year-round.

"Check it out," he whispered, totally awestruck, "Mount Sneffels!"

Then, without saying another word, he put a finger to his lips, frowned, and headed down into the small boat waiting for us. I followed, and within minutes we were standing on the soil of mysterious Iceland!

We barely made it onto the shore when this really well-dressed guy showed up - looked like a military officer. Turns out, he was just a civil servant, a magistrate, the governor of the island - Baron Trampe. The Professor knew exactly who he was dealing with.

So, he handed him the letters from Copenhagen, and they had a quick chat in Danish. I didn’t catch a word, obviously, since I don't speak Danish. Later, I heard that Baron Trampe basically put himself at the Professor’s disposal.

My uncle was totally welcomed by Mayor M. Finsen. He was just as decked out in military gear as the governor, but also just as chill and laid-back, you know? M. Pictursson, his right-hand man, was out of town on some church thing up north. So we had to put off meeting him.

But honestly, it was totally worth it 'cause M. Fridriksson was there - he’s a natural science professor at the college in Reykjavik. Seriously smart dude. He only spoke Icelandic and Latin. So when he started talking to me in Horace’s language, we just got each other.

He was the only person I really connected with the whole time I was on this island.

His house had three rooms, and he let us use two. We were all set up with our stuff in like, an hour. The amount of luggage we had totally blew the simple folks in Reykjavik's minds.

"Now, Harry," my uncle said, rubbing his hands together, "if things go well, the worst part is over."

"What do you mean, the worst part is over?" I asked, super confused.

"Exactly. We're in Iceland. All that's left is to go down into the earth."

"Okay, yeah, you’re kinda right. We just have to go down - but for me, that's not even the issue. I'm wondering how we're gonna get back up."

"That's the easiest part, and it doesn’t even worry me. We gotta move fast. I'm heading to the library. Maybe I'll find some manuscripts from Saknussemm. I'm definitely gonna check them out."

"While you’re doing that," I said, "I'm gonna wander around town. Wanna come?"

"I'm just not feeling it with this topic," my uncle said.

"What is interesting to me about this island isn't what's on the surface, but what's underneath."

I nodded as a reply, tossed on my hat and fur-lined cloak, and headed out.

It wasn't hard to get lost in Reykjavik's two streets, so I didn’t even need to ask for directions. The town's on a flat, marshy plain, squeezed between two hills. A huge lava field borders it on one side, dropping down in terraces towards the sea.

On the other, there's Faxa Bay - really big - with the massive Sneffels glacier looming over it to the north. The Valkyrie was the only ship anchored there right now. Usually, there were a couple of English or French gunboats hanging around to keep an eye on the fishing. But they were out on duty.

The longest street in Reykjavik runs along the shore. Merchants and traders live there in wooden huts built with wooden beams, painted red - basically log cabins, like you'd find way out in the American wilderness.

The other street, further west, leads to a little lake between the bishop’s house and other folks who aren’t in business.

I quickly saw everything I needed to see about these streets - they were kind of a drag. Here and there was a patch of faded turf, like a really old, worn-out rug. And sometimes you'd see a tiny kitchen garden with potatoes, cabbage, and lettuce - so small they looked like they were from Lilliput.

I found the public cemetery right in the middle of the new shopping street, fenced off by an earth wall. It wasn’t huge, but it looked like it could last for ages.

From there, I headed to the Governor’s house - it was basically a shack compared to the Mansion House in Hamburg, but still a palace next to the other Icelandic homes.

Between the little lake and the town was the church, built in a simple Protestant style, using stones thrown up by volcanoes. I’m pretty sure the red tiles blew off in strong winds, which was a real bummer for the pastor and the whole congregation.

Up on a hill nearby was the national school, where they taught Hebrew, English, French, and Danish.

My tour was done in just three hours. Honestly, I left feeling kind of bummed. No trees, no plants - just volcanic peaks everywhere. The houses were made of turf and earth, more like roofs than actual houses. But, thanks to the heat, grass grows on the roofs, and they cut it for hay.

I didn’t see many people during my walk, but I did run into a bunch on the beach, drying, salting, and loading codfish - the main thing they export. The guys looked strong but kind of heavy, with fair hair like Germans, but a really downcast look.

They seemed like exiles, way above Eskimos on the ladder of life, but I thought they were way more unhappy. Having all those feelings and then being stuck inside the Polar Circle? Rough.

Sometimes they’d burst out laughing, like, really hard, but they never smiled. Their clothes? Think a rough black wool capote - that’s called "vadmel" in Scandinavia - a big floppy hat, red serge pants, and some leather tied with string for shoes, basically a tough moccasin.

The women looked kinda sad and gloomy, but they had decent faces, just not much expression. They wore a dark vadmel bodice and skirt. When they were single, they’d wear a little brown knitted cap over braided hair.

But once they were married, they’d cover their heads with a colorful handkerchief, then tie a white scarf over that.