Journey to the Center of the Earth - Jules Verne (spicy books to read .TXT) 📗

a very small distance from the capital, is reckoned among the inhabited and cultivated portions of Iceland. What, then, must other tracts be, more desert than this desert? In the first half mile we had not seen one farmer standing before his cabin door, nor one shepherd tending a flock less wild than himself, nothing but a few cows and sheep left to themselves. What then would be those convulsed regions upon which we were advancing, regions subject to the dire phenomena of eruptions, the offspring of volcanic explosions and subterranean convulsions?

We were to know them before long, but on consulting Olsen’s map, I saw that they would be avoided by winding along the seashore. In fact, the great plutonic action is confined to the central portion of the island; there, rocks of the “trappean” and volcanic class, including trachyte, basalt, and tuffs and agglomerates associated with streams of lava, have made this a land of supernatural horrors. I had no idea of the spectacle which was awaiting us in the peninsula of Snæfells, where these ruins of a fiery nature have formed a frightful chaos.

In two hours from Reykjavík we arrived at the burgh of Gufunes, called aðalkirkja, or principal church. There was nothing remarkable here but a few houses, scarcely enough for a German hamlet.

Hans stopped here half an hour. He shared with us our frugal breakfast; answering my uncle’s questions about the road and our resting place that night with merely yes or no, except when he said “Gardär.”

I consulted the map to see where Gardär was. I saw there was a small town of that name on the banks of the Hvalfjord, four miles from Reykjavík. I showed it to my uncle.

“Four miles only!” he exclaimed; “four miles out of twenty-eight. What a nice little walk!”

He was about to make an observation to the guide, who without answering resumed his place at the head, and went on his way.

Three hours later, still treading on the colourless grass of the pasture land, we had to work round the Kollafjord, a longer way but an easier one than across that inlet. We soon entered into a pingstaœr or parish called Ejulberg, from whose steeple twelve o’clock would have struck, if Icelandic churches were rich enough to possess clocks. But they are like the parishioners who have no watches and do without.

There our horses were baited; then taking the narrow path to left between a chain of hills and the sea, they carried us to our next stage, the aðalkirkja of Brantär and one mile farther on, to Saurboër “Annexia,” a chapel of ease built on the south shore of the Hvalfiord.

It was now four o’clock, and we had gone four Icelandic miles, or twenty-four English miles.

In that place the fjord was at least three English miles wide; the waves rolled with a rushing din upon the sharp-pointed rocks; this inlet was confined between walls of rock, precipices crowned by sharp peaks 2,000 feet high, and remarkable for the brown strata which separated the beds of reddish tuff. However much I might respect the intelligence of our quadrupeds, I hardly cared to put it to the test by trusting myself to it on horseback across an arm of the sea.

If they are as intelligent as they are said to be, I thought, they won’t try it. In any case, I will tax my intelligence to direct theirs.

But my uncle would not wait. He spurred on to the edge. His steed lowered his head to examine the nearest waves and stopped. My uncle, who had an instinct of his own, too, applied pressure, and was again refused by the animal significantly shaking his head. Then followed strong language, and the whip; but the brute answered these arguments with kicks and endeavours to throw his rider. At last the clever little pony, with a bend of his knees, started from under the Professor’s legs, and left him standing upon two boulders on the shore just like the colossus of Rhodes.

“Confounded brute!” cried the unhorsed horseman, suddenly degraded into a pedestrian, just as ashamed as a cavalry officer degraded to a foot soldier.

“Färja,” said the guide, touching his shoulder.

“What! A boat?”

“Der,” replied Hans, pointing to one.

“Yes,” I cried; “there is a boat.”

“Why did not you say so then? Well, let us go on.”

“Tidvatten,” said the guide.

“What is he saying?”

“He says tide,” said my uncle, translating the Danish word.

“No doubt we must wait for the tide.”

“Förbida,” said my uncle.

“Ja,” replied Hans.

My uncle stamped with his foot, while the horses went on to the boat.

I perfectly understood the necessity of abiding a particular moment of the tide to undertake the crossing of the fjord, when, the sea having reached its greatest height, it should be slack water. Then the ebb and flow have no sensible effect, and the boat does not risk being carried either to the bottom or out to sea.

That favourable moment arrived only with six o’clock; when my uncle, myself, the guide, two other passengers and the four horses, trusted ourselves to a somewhat fragile raft. Accustomed as I was to the swift and sure steamers on the Elbe, I found the oars of the rowers rather a slow means of propulsion. It took us more than an hour to cross the fjord; but the passage was effected without any mishap.

In another half hour we had reached the aðalkirkja of Gardär.

XIII Hospitality Under the Arctic Circle

It ought to have been nighttime, but under the 65th parallel there was nothing surprising in the nocturnal polar light. In Iceland during the months of June and July the sun does not set.

But the temperature was much lower. I was cold and more hungry than cold. Welcome was the sight of the boër which was hospitably opened to receive us.

It was a peasant’s house, but in point of hospitality it was