The Valley of the Sword

HAD not seen Twisden for six years, and then I met him in the lift of an hotel in London. He was going up to his bedroom, and I was going up to mine. The mutual recognition drove sleepiness away, and we decided to come down again to the palm court and have a cigar and a talk.

The last time I met him he had just returned from the Riff Country, where he had been prospecting for gold. To-night he had just returned from Iceland, where he had been prospecting for metals in general and having a look at the disused sulphur mines at Krisuvik.

"I reached there by the first boat to arrive in April," said he, "and I was there till the thirtieth of June—that's a week ago. The sulphur mines are useless—the transport is too costly—there's no gold, there's no silver that I could find, but there's something better than gold to be found in Iceland."

"Diamonds?"

"Better than diamonds—radium."

"You have found radium?"

"My dear man," said Twisden, "I have located a patch of pitchblende, which, as you know, is oxide of uranium, and it's not more than one quarter the area of this palm court of the hotel, but it is simply living with radium. It is the richest radium deposit on this earth, and I've come back to London to get the money to work it and pay the Icelandic Government for the mining rights. Now, what do you say? I do not want to get the ordinary financiers into this business. You are a man with money. Will you put up the money to work this thing, and go half shares in the profit?"

I did not reply for a moment. I had absolute confidence in Twisden's integrity, and I knew him to be an expert in his business. But I knew also that he was a most terribly unlucky man. His bad luck was fantastic. Yet, strange to say, this man who could never make money for himself was always making money for other people. He was one of the foremost men on the Klondyke business, and all he got out of it was a frost-bitten finger, and he even lost that, for it had to be amputated. He was the discoverer of the New Potosi Mine in Mexico, and a flaw in his contract with the Government left him out in the cold. I could give you other instances, but those are enough. Yet he was a brave man and a straight man, and I liked him, and I am a bit of a speculator, and, in short, I said "Yes."

We fixed the whole thing up that night, and a week later we were both on board the Botnia, the mid-July boat for Iceland, steaming out of Leith Harbour.

All my female relatives had given me mascots, and Twisden had been presented with a Billikin by some friend—he had no relatives. There was a black cat on the Botnia, and we sailed on the fifteenth, which was my lucky day. The omens were with us.

"I believe in luck and signs," said Twisden, "but if all the signs were set dead against us, it would not matter. Iceland can't run away or sink into the sea, and nothing else could stop us. Say, what shall we call the mine—something with both our names in it?"

"Let's wait till everything is finished," I replied. "There is no use in naming a child before it is born."

We were passing through the Pentland Firth when this conversation took place, and northward of us lay the Old Man of Hoy, the sinister rock that has seen so many wrecks. To westward lay the sunset of fine weather—weather that held in an almost glacial calm till, on the evening of the fourth day of the voyage, Twisden led me by the arm right to the bow of the Botnia and pointed to the west-nor'-west, where, vaguely stretching itself like a grey pavilion on the sky, stood Vatna Jokul, the great ice dome that stretches from Tugnafells to the Hornafyordur on the Eastern Sea.

"That's Iceland," said Twisden.

It was Iceland indeed, and, even without the view of Yatna Jokul, the land would have told of its presence by the birds.

Coveys of red-billed puffins were paddling on the glassy swell, all diving like one bird at the approach of the ship; great gannets were hovering and fishing, falling like stones into the water and sending the spray yards high; a white tern or two, graceful as swallows, came flitting about us as if to inspect the ship, and a burgomaster gull came sailing across our bows, stern and fierce, a true predatory gull, pirate and overlord of the air.

But all these were nothing to the guillemots that greeted us next morning when we anchored to discharge mails and passengers at the Westmann Islands. They lined the cliffs by the thousand, and the storm of their voices followed us as we put out, steaming by the southern coast for Reykjavik, that coast where there is not a tree, or sign of a house or habitation, where the mountains stand in their desolation as they stood a million years ago, and where no movement breaks the stillness, with the exception of here and there a wind-blown plume of smoke rising from a boiling spring.

It was eleven at night when we cast anchor in the Faxa Fiord, with Reykjavik a biscuit-throw to port, and to starboard the fifty-mile-broad bay with Snaefel at its northern horn, the very same Snaefel down whose crater Jules Verne led his party on their expedition to the centre of the earth.

It was still broad daylight, and we landed in one of the shore-boats that surrounded the ship, and made straight for Zoega's Hotel.

I could scarcely believe that I had left London only five days ago. Here, walking up the street of corrugated iron houses, with its background of volcanic hills and the light of afternoon still lingering over everything, as though the sun had forgotten to sink, I seemed a million miles from London and civilisation and the whole world I knew.

"Did you notice the first man who came aboard the ship?" asked Twisden, as we tramped along through the street, crowded as though it were midday, for the whole population had turned out to welcome the Botnia.

"No," I replied. "What about him?"

"He had a squint."

I knew how superstitious Twisden was, and, as I knew superstitious people, I was quite aware that it was useless to talk of common-sense. Besides, my attention was distracted by a dramatic incident. Dismounting from a pony at Zoega's Hotel was a man whom Twisden pronounced to be Kellerman, a rival prospector, who had been in Iceland ever since May-end, and who had declared to Twisden his intention of leaving by the next boat after Twisden's. Instead of leaving, he had stayed on, and he had just now returned from a prospecting trip, to judge by the number of ponies that were unloading tents and equipment.

"And he has my guide," said Twisden. "I see it all. I have been given away. This chap has got word of the radium from the guide. I never said the word radium, but the guide would have known that I wasn't hunting for mushrooms, and he'd have known from my face, and from all the time I was pottering about there, that I'd found something. Well, he hasn't done me yet. If I can get first in the morning to the Government man who has the mining lands under control, I'll do him. Come right back to the Reykjavik Hotel; we'll stay there instead of at Zoega's, and so we will avoid him."

We turned in our tracks and went to the Reykjavik Hotel. It was now nearly midnight, but the extraordinary town of tin houses was still filled with daylight. People were walking in the public square, where the little stone Parliament House is, and the statue to Thorwaldsen, who was an Icelander. We could not sleep, and, though we had been travelling since dawn, we did did not feel a bit tired. You never feel tired in Iceland. We talked and talked and smoked. Lying in that bare double-bedded room, we talked of radium, its value and its wonders, but mostly of its value. Then we talked of what we would do with our great wealth when we got it. Twisden said, whatever else he did, he would build a Radium Institute. I, less philanthropic, declared for a steam yacht, an ocean-going boat built on the lines of Drexel's La Margharita; and we discussed all the steam yachts we knew till a man in the next room hammered on the wall with a boot-heel.

We were up at six and out at seven. There was no sign of Kellerman anywhere. At eight we were in the Government office that deals with lands and mining leases, and at half-past eight Twisden had in his possession a document giving him the right to search for and to mine for minerals in the Valley of the Sword—that was the Icelandic name for the location—a lease that held good for thirty-three years under a Government tax on all minerals and deposits found and exported. We would not have got the lease so quick only that Twisden, before coming to London, had put the thing in train. The Minister for Iceland was a friend of his, and a friend at Court like this greases the bureaucratic wheels wonderfully.

As we left the Mines Office, whom should we meet but Kellerman. I never saw a man so taken aback as Kellerman was when he saw Twisden.

"So you are back," said Kellerman. "I thought you had gone for good."

"So I did—for the good of my pocket," replied Twisden.

Then he explained. He rubbed it in beautifully, and the stolid German stood like a sheep being scrubbed with sheep dip, not liking it, perhaps, but unprotesting.

"Ah, then, you are a lucky man," said Kellerman. "And where is this so rich radium deposit, if it is not asking you too rude a question?"

"In the Valley of the Sword, beyond Thingveller," replied Twisden, giving the name in Icelandic.

"I have been there only three days ago," said Kellerman, "but I did not see any indication of what you say."

"Did you look in the dead centre of the valley?" asked Twisden.

"No," replied Kellerman, "I did not."

"If you had, you would have found what I did. Well, there it is. I've got the mining rights and the Government lease and permit, stamped, in my pocket. Keep your eye on the money columns of The Borsen Courier next month, Kellerman, and see the price the shares stand at."

"Assuredly I will. What is the name of your mine?"

"We haven't named it yet," said Twisden. "What would you suggest?"

"Something local," replied the German. "A thing that will have mostly a local interest should have a local name—the Reykjavik Mine, or, better still, the Geyser Mine."

"Geyser will do," said Twisden; "and as for only local interest, you watch The Borsen Courier and see. Confound him and his local interest!" said Twisden, as we went off to breakfast. "He'd give his left hand to have a share in the thing. I've never seen a man madder under the surface, though he kept his temper—I will say that for him."

That day, at eleven o'clock, we started with twelve ponies, a native guide named Olsen, scientific apparatus, picks, tents, and provisions for a fortnight. We were going to make a preliminary survey of our property, and we had instructed M. Helgi Zoega, that kind-hearted friend of travellers, to have all preparations ready to send a large staff of workers when we should telephone for them.

We crossed the Elethaar River and took the road by the boiling springs, where the town's washing is done with hot water provided by Nature free of expense. Up, up we went till we reached that tremendous plateau which stretches from the confines of Reykjavik to the sheer drop where begins the great plain of Thingveller. The road is the most desolate I have ever seen. It is the only road in Iceland—all other ways are bridle-tracks. Cairns border it, to give the traveller direction in the snows of winter, and the great Icelandic ravens perch on the cairns like evil spirits on the heads of men who have been turned to stone by enchantment. There is no sound but that of the wind and the cry of the, that most musical and desolate of all bird cries.

Towards evening, Twisden, who was riding beside me, and who had been silent for some time, broke out.

"I've been wondering," said he, "if Kellerman by any means has got the cinch on us."

"What makes you think of that?" "I don't know. Seems to me he took the thing too coolly. Of course, he's a German."

"Why, my dear man," said I, "that's nothing. Germans have the name for being phlegmatic, but they are really the most emotional people on earth. But how could he have got the better of us? You have the papers giving us our rights in your pocket."

"I know; but there are so many dodges in this mining business, and I know Kellerman is one of the shiftiest chaps that ever put pick to earth or pen to prospectus. It seems to me that calm of his was unholy, for I'm sure he's been after this job himself. He had my guide. What I'm thinking of is this: if I have made any flaw in the business, or mistaken the name of the valley, he'll have us, sure."

"How could you have mistaken the name?"

"Oh, I don't know. Only this—I had the name from the guide, and I have my doubts about him. I may be wrong. But the fact is, he was with Kellerman after I left, and I believe he led Kellerman to the place. There are two valleys lying side by side, separated by a great cliff of basalt. Mine—the Valley of the Sword—is the most eastern of the two. Now, if that guide lied about the name, and if my valley is, let's say, the Valley of the Scabbard, and the other is the Valley of the Sword, we're done."

"Don't let's think of it," said I; "there's no use making trouble. Olsen, the man with us, is to be trusted, and he'll soon tell us the truth when he sees the place." "Ay," said Twisden, "he's to be trusted, right enough." And we left it at that.

We descended by the road over the River Oxara to the plain of Thingveller, a large lava field ringed with mountains, a veritable amphitheatre, just as it was when the Icelandic heroes fought together there in the days of Burnt Njal. In the centre of the plain there is a summer hotel made of corrugated iron and matchboarding. Here we put up for the night, starting again early the next morning on the road that leads to the great geyser. We pursued the road, or, rather, track, for some four miles; then, led by the guide, we struck off to the right and into a scene of the most tremendous desolation I have ever witnessed. It was a fine day and hot. The great walls of basalt lining the valleys we passed through cut the sky with their battlements; one could have sworn that they were fortifications built by man, for there were towers of basalt, over which the ravens fluttered like black flags, and the splits in the stone, running vertically and longitudinally, were so evenly placed that the stones seemed to have been laid by hand.

The evil spirit of these valleys lay in the mirage. The heated air shook so that hounds seemed racing along the basaltic ledges, and the far-off mountains seemed in undular motion.

When the path reached an eminence, Iceland could be seen, far and wide, a tempest of basalt, crags, hills, highlands, all sweeping toward the vast and presidential heights of Vatna Jokul, and showing, amidst their far-off confusion, the snow-tipped cone of Heckla.

Towards evening Twisden, who had been silent for some miles, suddenly became talkative and animated.

"We are nearly there now," said he. "When we reach that hill-top, half a mile away, we'll have the place right at our feet."

His manner from depression had changed to gaiety—he was flushed and excited. Half-way up the hill-slope we left the ponies to Olsen, and raced each other to the top.

There beneath us lay a narrow, mournful valley, and Olsen, who had just joined us, put our doubts to rest at once. The other guide had not lied to Twisden—the name was right.

"And there in the centre is where the mine is," said Twisden. "Yet the ground looks yellower there than it was. Good Heavens, can that scamp Kellerman have done anything to it?"

As if in answer came a sound, faint and muffled, like the sound of a gong beaten in a cave, and away down there, in the quiet light of evening, a white plume slowly rose from the place where the radium location had been, stood stiff in the windless air for a minute and a half, and then sank and vanished. It was a geyser.

When, an hour later, we reached the spot where the pitchblende deposit had been, there was nothing but yellow mud, in the midst of which the geyser was playing again. Volcanic action had, since Twisden's location of the place, swallowed again the radium deposit born of volcanic action, but I wish it had not left that geyser.

"That's what Kellerman meant when he told us to call it the Geyser Mine," said Twisden. "Look at it! You'd swear it was mocking us. A million of money gone, and a geyser in its place! Well, Olsen, do you call that bad or good luck?"

"Neither," replied the guide, whose face wore the sorrowful look peculiar to his countrymen. "Neither good nor bad luck—it's only Iceland."