Lit by the dazzling cold fire of the aurora borealis, they walked among glittering icebergs; a blizzard blew arctic white, his bone-white forehead and icicle eyes, her silver-frosted hair bright with ice flowers under the pole star. A thunderclap boomed in the ice. He fought a polar bear, strangled it with his hands, to train her in toughness taught her to take the skin with his wicked knife. When it was done, she crept close for warmth. The huge skin covered them both, its long white hairs tipped with blood. The snowy thickness hid their two bodies; blood dripping from the tips of the dense fur turned the snow blood-red.
I saw her standing in torchlight with dreaming eyes. I watched her, wanted her, wanted to take her away with me. But that other had claimed her; her white girl's body fell through the smoke of smouldering torches across his knees. I was out searching for her, marauders were sacking the town. I searched everywhere, could not find her, stumbled over her in the rubble, her head awry. Through the smoke and dust filling the air, I saw her skin white against dirt and debris, the blood first red and then black on the white, her head twisted sideways by the unbelievable hair, the slender neck broken. Victimization in childhood had made her accept the fate of a victim, and whatever I did or did not do, this fate would ultimately achieve itself. To leave her to it was one thing. To leave her to that man was quite a different thing. It was something I could not do.
I had to get to her before he did. But the difficulties were overwhelming. The total absence of transport meant resorting to bribery, every kind of deception, worse. In my mind's I eye kept seeing the iceline moving across the ocean, towards the islands, towards that particular island I had not identified on the map. I thought of her at the centre, not knowing she was encircled, while we advanced towards her from different sides, me from one point, he from another, and then the ice. . . . My chances of arriving first seemed almost non-existent. Every mile would be slow and difficult for me. He could get to her by plane in just a few hours, whenever he felt inclined. I could only hope for the important conference he was now attending and other military matters to detain him as long as possible. But I was not optimistic.
My head wound and slashed face had begun to heal normally, but I did not feel normal. My head ached all the time, I was pursued by horrific visions, disasters exploding in violent death, universal destruction. I was always aware that I was going to execution. Not that my own death seemed to matter. I had lived, I had done things, I had seen the world. I did not want to grow old, deteriorate, lose my intelligence and my physical faculties. But I had this compulsive urge to see the girl once more; to be the first to reach her.
I had to travel an enormous distance. Because I could not risk crossing the frontier openly, for two days I went on foot through wild country, without shelter, without food or drink. Later I had the luck to be taken some of the way by helicopter. A naked woman, life size, was painted on the side in crude colours; pop art in the midst of war. A person in occupation had to be disposed of; I was not going to lose the chance of a lift. The luck did not last. In a frenzy I searched the wreckage for the man who had been shot down. Only the painted face simpered at me among the debris, round pink circles for cheeks, black eyes blankly serene as a painted doll's.
In a country at war I tried to keep away from the fighting. I came to a town unexpectedly quiet, except for the lorries that thundered through, crammed with troops or workers. A dull grey day and a dull grey town, sickly women languidly slapping their dirty washing on flat river stones. I was worn out and started to lose heart. Without some form of transport I would never complete my journey. I saw nothing encouraging here. Passers-by averted their eyes when I looked at them they were suspicious of strangers, and with my scarred face my old torn muddy guerrilla's outfit, my appearance could not have been reassuring. I went about searching for someone who looked approachable, found no such person. I talked to the owner of a garage, offered him money, a new foreign rifle with telescopic sights; he threatened to call the police, would do nothing to help me.
At dusk it began to rain, rained harder as night came on. A curfew was in force: no light showed from the houses, the streets were empty. I was taking a risk by staying outside, but was too despondent to care. A siren howled, distant crashes, gradually coming nearer, followed at intervals, alternating with bursts of gunfire. Rain fell in sheets, the street had become a river. I sheltered under an archway, shivered, could not think what to do; my brain seemed paralyzed by discomfort. I felt desperate, in despair.
