New Year

New Year

It is almost New Year as we return to the house on the edge of the ice
field.

"New Year is something of an event in our house," says Torn.

"In what way?" I ask but if Torn has heard then he doesn't answer. He
is already opening the front door. I follow him in. Momentarily I am
caught in the cone of brightness coming from the light hanging in the
pine tree high above. I feel like ship returning to port after a
journey across seven seas.

**

Inside the house is much as we left it. Torn's parents sit on either
side of the chessboard muttering quietly to each other in old
Icelandic. And then I notice the penguin.

"What are you doing here?" I ask. "We've just taken you home."

"Sometimes you don't know where home is until you leave it," says
Torn.

I think of my bedsit on the disused edge of an urban conurbation and
imagine it falling into the burning mouth of an erupting volcano. There
is neither remorse nor pity there nor anything in between.

The penguin patters over and places its beak against Torn's
shinbone.

"He came back," says Torn's mother.

I notice a notice hanging by a shoelace from the penguin's neck. On it
are scrawled the words, 'Please look after this penguin'. This, I know,
is an almost direct quote from a story my mother used to read to me. It
was my favourite story for a long time and for a moment I feel a sense
of almost bewildering loss.

I pat the penguin on the head and wonder if it is a message.

**

We climb the ladder to the room at the top of the house. Torn secretly
rummages in his bag and then holds something out to me.

"I got you this," he says. "For the New Year."

'This' is a pair of underpants. On the back they have a picture of two
polar bears. On the front is a picture of a lizard.

"I got them mail order," says Torn. "Try them on."

I remove my current trousers and my current underpants. Then I pull on
the new pair over both my real leg and my false one. The underpants are
a perfect fit.

"What do you think?" says Torn.

"I didn't get you anything," I say.

"Come here," says Torn and he holds out his arms like a polar
bear.

**

At ten thirty we go downstairs for the New Year's party. There are four
other guests and Torn introduces me to them one by one.

"This is Halldor," he says.

"This is Tryggvi," he says.

"This is Valdis," he says.

"This is Hrafn," he says.

Each of the people looks like their names, like they should be in a
constellation somewhere leading lonely wanderers to the sanctuary of a
warm heath.

"You know my parents," says Torn.

"Game," says Torn's mother and she claps her hands like a disabled
acrobat about to do a cartwheel.

Torn produces a Twister set from behind a rack of worn shoes and tells
me as chief guest that I am first to spin the wheel.

At one point in the game I find my cheek pressed firmly against the
left buttock of Halldor. The buttock is firm yet gives gently against
the enforced pressure.

Then Valdis spins and her face is positioned next to Halldor's right
buttock. Valdis is the wife of Halldor. We smile at each other and
there is great companionship in this. For the first time ever I feel
among my own kind.

**

At one minute to midnight Torn's father coughs loudly and the Twister
set is hastily put away.

"This is the good part," says Torn.

"What is?" I say.

"Shhh," says Torn's mother and from under the table where she is
sitting she draws a top hat.

"We each put our hand in the top hat," says Torn, "and draw out our
resolution for the year."

"Shhh," says Torn's mother.

Halldor is to go first. All the guests and we are quiet. Halldor walks
up to the table. He places his hand in the top hat and draws out a
piece of paper. He reads it and smiles.

"This year I must eat more fish," he says. There is a round of a
applause.

Next it is Tryggvi, then Valdis, then Hrafn. They each draw out a
piece of paper and read out the words. They each have the same words.
That they are to eat more fish.

"I don't understand," I say quietly to Torn.

"The top hat tradition was started by the fishermen of Husavik in the
1960s," says Torn. "At this time Iceland was being opened up to the
Western world. Processed foods from America were flooding the market."
Torn lifts his arms and drops them again to his side. "People were
eating less fish. You understand?"

Torn leaves the question open, like a tin of sardines, and tells me it
is my turn.

I step up to the top hat confident in my expectations. I put my hand
in and draw out a slip of paper. I read it carefully.

"What does it say?" says Torn.

I read the paper again, trying to find the part about the fish. I
can't.

"Well?" says Torn.

"It says I must complete the adventure of Tyr's folly," I say. "I
don't understand."

Torn's father stands abruptly and pulls on a pair of jackboots. Torn's
mother claps her hands and nods her head silently. The penguin scuttles
across the floor like a bullet.

All eyes turn on me wide open.

**

Torn and I are in bed. I am no longer wearing my new underpants. I can
feel Torn's willie resting against the thigh of my one good leg.

"So who is this Tyr?" I say, "And what is his folly?"

Torn props himself up on one elbow and his massive chest looms above
me.

"In Icelandic mythology Tyr is the son of Odin," says Torn. "He put
his arm in the mouth of the wolf monster and it was bitten off."

"So that is his folly?" I say.

Torn shrugs. "Maybe and maybe not." He glances over to where my false
leg is leaning against the window ledge.

I have one leg, Tyr has one arm. There is the connection.

"What must I do?" I say.

"To find your folly you must go out and look for it," says Torn. "We
leave at dawn."

Torn leans back and swiftly falls asleep. I hold onto his willie for
comfort. In my mind I can see my bedsit tumbling towards the volcano
mouth once more. Sleep comes like a dragon and burns me.

**

The living-room bears witness to the party of the night before. Halldor
lies naked on the sofa, his legs spread-eagled. Crushed cans of lager
lie at his feet. Of Valdis and Tryggvi there is no sign. It is like
they never existed.

As we make to leave the penguin blocks our way.

"What shall we do?" I say.

"There's no reason for a penguin not to come with us," says Torn and
we head outside.

It is still dark and the air is frozen. The light flicks on above us
and then flicks off as we head off into the field of ice. It is days
now that I am surrounded by this ice and I am beginning to warm to
it.

"What happens in the Spring?" I say.

"It is still cold," says Torn, "but not as cold. Are you wearing your
willie warmer?"

"Yes," I say.

I am also wearing my underpants with the polar bears on but I don't
say that. That, for the moment, is my secret.

**

We walk all day, Torn, the penguin and I. We don't see anyone and if we
are going somewhere then it doesn't feel like it.

As night comes Torn says that it is time to stop. He hefts his pack
off his back and drops it to the snow.

"I will put up the tent, you can make the fire."

Torn hands me six pieces of wood and a pink Bic lighter.

I feel the penguin looking at me as I arrange the sticks. Some things
are designed for cold and some things have to bear it I think. Those
that bear it do so through their own endeavours. I manage to start a
fire.

"So tell me more about Tyr and his folly," I say as Torn passes me a
sizzling cocktail sausage on the end of a four pronged fork.

Torn shakes his head. "Not yet." He points up at the stars. "When I
was young we used to come out here and look up at the stars. We called
it star-gazing."

I look up at the stars. They are all there in the sky.

"Sometimes we would spend hours just looking at them. We could spend
whole nights like that."

The fire bursts loudly and the penguin moves closer or further away.
It is one or the other. Eventually the time for bed has long gone and
we go to bed.

**

In the morning Torn packs away the tent and we are off again.

"Is it far now?" I ask.

"That depends on where we are going," says Torn.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"That depends on you," says Torn and he steps up the pace.

**

At lunchtime we come to a small village on the edge of an evergreen
wood. There is a bus stop here and I say we should wait for a bus. Torn
smiles at this and I ask him why and the bus pulls up.

Apart from us and the driver there is one other man on the bus. He has
tightly curled hair and he looks like Passepartout would have looked if
Passepartout had been Egyptian. Next to the man on his seat is a wicker
basket.

"What have you got in your basket?" asks Torn.

"It is a snake," says the man. "I am a snake charmer. The snake's name
is Fenrir."

"I see," says Torn and he turns to me. "Now we are getting somewhere.
Fenrir is the name of the wolf monster whose mouth Tyr put his arm in.
Listen and I will tell you the whole story."

Fenrir, the wolf monster, refused to be bound unless one of the gods
put his hand in its mouth. If the wolf monster wasn't bound then it
would eat everybody in the land one by one until they were all
gone.

There was much debate among the gods. They thought it might be a
trick. Except for one. This was Tyr. He walked up to the wolf monster
and put his hand in its mouth. The hand was bitten off but after that
the wolf monster let himself be bound. Tyr became the god that
symbolised courage.

"Then I must put my hand in the mouth of the snake?" I say.

"Your problem is not in your arm but your leg," says Torn. "When was
the last time you ran a marathon?"

I have no answer to that and Torn turns away from me and asks the
Egyptian where he is going.

"I am going to the fare of the world's end," says the snake
charmer.

"Then that is where we are going too," says Torn.

**

The bus stops and we get off. A short distance away in the centre of a
landscape of ice rise the outbuildings of the fare.

Footprints head towards the fare from all directions. We set off
towards it adding footprints of our own.

**

Inside the grounds callers shout from stages in front of multi-coloured
canvas tents. Small children with old faces turn brightly shining
tombolas and call for people to roll up roll up. There is candyfloss
and noise everywhere.

We go past a place where a monkey changes into a man and another place
where a man changes into a monkey. A dwarf plays a trumpet beside a
chalkboard which states it is three krona to see the tallest man in
Iceland and then we come to the wall of death.

"This is it," says Torn. "We are here."

I look around.

Before us rises a circular construction with a door in one side. There
is a yellow motorbike and next to the motorbike a man with no
face.

"You want to ride the wall of death?" says the man with no face.

"I can't ride that," I say and I am thinking of having only one
leg.

"How much?" says Torn.

The penguin which up until this point has been quiet begins to squawk
loudly.

**

I am standing next to the bike in the centre of the wall of
death.

"You know what to do?" says the man with no face.

"Why is it called the wall of death?" I say.

The sides rise sheer around me. At the top is a balcony. I can make
out Torn standing here. He is holding the penguin up so he can
see.

"You ride the bike as high as you can," says the man with no face. "I
warn you it makes a lot of noise."

I look at the bike. It has a patch of rust on one side like a small
island in the centre of a large ocean.

"Can you help me get on it?" I say. "I only have one leg."

The man with no face pushes out his lips and I see him looking me up
and down.

"One real one," I say. "The other is false."

This is the first time I have admitted this to a total stranger.

**

The bike roars as I kick start it. The man with no face has gone now
and it is just me and the circle of wood.

With my one good leg I squeeze myself tight on the motorbike and inch
forward. A certain velocity I understand is necessary to enable me to
climb the wall.

I make onetwothreeforfive trips around the base and then I hit the
curved wood running. I have no helmet and I can feel the wind in my
hair.

Torn's favourite expression is that a risk in time saves nine.

The ground is five feet below me. I am horizontal to it. The bike is
going round and round and all I can hear is the sound of the bike
bouncing back of the walls. It is like a volcano erupting.

I go faster and faster.

**

When I first lost my leg the doctors told me I was lucky I hadn't lost
both of them. I said I would never walk again; not with two legs
anyway.

I remember one day the doctors gathering around my bed and telling me
that fate has a strange way of coming and biting you on the ass. That
was their medical opinion.

**

It is a question of keeping steady. I lock my arms. I move further up
the wall. As I near the top I see Torn and the penguin getting larger
and larger. They both have their mouths open. I would say that it was
in wonder. I feel it too.

I just hope that I know how to stop.

In this life, stopping is often the hardest part. I wonder if that was
Tyr's folly. Or if it was something else altogether.