in a cave somewhere outside Akureyri

This story is a contribution to the 14th STSC Symposium, a monthly collaboration from STSC's writers around a set theme. Our topic for this month is Isolation.

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i was in the throes of a suffocating depression when i booked my one-way flight to reykjavik. i don’t recall how i’d decided on iceland - perhaps it was the pictures of devastating, snow-covered tundra which reminded me of my own inner landscape - but i do remember the amusement i felt after clicking “confirm” on my payment details and then checking the weather to find that iceland in january was half a celsius degree warmer than my neighborhood block in long island city.

upon arriving in reykjavik i was ushered off the plane by flight attendants wearing eggplant-colored uniforms and matching under-eye circles. i had read about this phenomenon somewhere; Icelanders tend to suffer from a persistent vitamin D deficiency in the winter which may cause skin discoloration for some. the next memory I have is of the weary tour-guide in faded jeans and a battered Range Rover who picked me up at half past eleven on the next day, at around the same time the first rays of frozen sunlight began to emerge on the horizon. the only sound in the car was of our slightly congested breathing as we turned off of the Þjóðvegur and tumbled across swaths of blue-white terrain, the whale keychain which dangled from his rearview mirror swaying wildly like a drunk pendulum.

Finally we arrived at our destination, the cave, which was unremarkable from the outside, just a semi-circle hole jutting above the ground. My guide descended from the car and went towards the back where he pulled out some equipment for me: spiked shoes, a helmet, a light. He helped me adjust the light underneath the rim of my helmet, allowing his own eyes to settle into mine for only a split second before looking away again.

“about fifty meters in, to your right, you will see a large icicle,” the guide told me as he removed a cigarette from a nearly flattened pack in his trousers. “it’s huge - just about your height - you can’t miss it. touch it, gently, with your fingers. don’t press too hard.”

“wait - you’re not coming with me?” i asked, suddenly noticing the blistering wind on my cheeks.

“what for?” asked the tour guide with a wink. he leaned sideways against the car and studied me.

some twenty minutes later - wobbly, shaking, my palms burning from gripping the nylon cave rope too tightly - i arrived at the icicle. it protruded from the ground just to the right of my path and stood about half a head taller than me - a magnificent, crystalline, phallic thing. it was not unlike the others i had passed along the way except for its size and the outermost layer of ice which quivered in the light of my headlamp, neither solid nor liquid but an oozing in-between state. several moments passed before i instinctively thought to switch off my light. there i stood, with a sudden finality i couldn’t comprehend, in total darkness and total silence simultaneously. darkness and silence interfused, each making the other thicker, heavier, more absolute.

i no longer knew where the icicle was, and i thought to myself you idiot, turn the light back on before you break something! but then another, equally insistent voice responded in return: no, no, please don’t do that - i like it here.

and so i stood, not sure if my eyes were open or closed, and reached tentatively in the direction where i’d last seen the icicle. eventually i touched something cold and solid and wet, and a subdued, flute-like sound emerged from the darkness, a wavering pitch somewhere between a B and a C. standing on tiptoes i flitted my fingers across the top of the icicle and listened to how the note crescendo’d and then decrescendo’d, then slunk towards B-flat as i reduced the pressure of my touch. and then, as my rope-burned palms came into contact with ice my entire hands began to vibrate and brief, surprising currents of warmth spread from my palms into my arms and legs and body, and every pore of my being begin to sigh and shake and sweat. i leaned instinctively towards the icicle, my face dripping with sweat or tears or both, hoping that i could contribute to it somehow, bequeath it with tiny droplets of my body’s moisture to make the ice thicker in parts or its song higher-pitched so that the next visitor who touched it someday might hear a note between C and D.

one to two hours later i re-emerged into the pale pink-orange light of somewhere-outside-Akureyri. my tour guide was almost exactly as i had left him, leaning against the car, a half-smoked cigarette balanced expertly between his fingers.

i carefully removed my spiked shoes and equipment and nodded towards him, wondering if he could see the tears or sweat still spilling down my cheeks.

'“worth it to be in there alone, then?” he asked with a tone which i had never noticed in a human voice before, one that suggested he genuinely wanted to know, had all the time in the world, would wait to hear my answer before taking a single step towards the driver’s side door.

“yes,” i said, meaning it.

Photo by Kiwihug on Unsplash