The King at the Geysers

In Reykjavik, there are various formal affairs but one of the major goals of his hosts is to show the king the Geysers. The geysers are one of the wonders of the world. The geysers don’t erupt but much is revealed about both the Icelanders and the king during the time the king waits to see the Great Geyser send its legendary column of water skyward.
Although the King has ordered 160 horses for his trip to Thingvalla and the geysers, Zoega manages to find 30 more horses for Bayard Taylor’s group of twelve men. This group is made up of seven visitors, the steamer’s cook, the second steward plus three Icelanders—Geir, Zoega’s nephew, Eyvinder and Jón. First, they travel to Thingvalla. They stay overnight, then continue to the geysers. The Americans set up their tents and wait for the geysers to erupt. The King’s party arrives shortly after them. They, too, set up their tents and wait. During this waiting, Taylor learns something about Icelanders.
“I saw half a dozen—four men and two women—stand vacantly grinning at the King as he
passed them, and even when he politely saluted them, the men hesitated, in awkward shyness, before they even touched their hats. Another, to whom he was speaking in a kindly manner, with his hand upon the man’s shoulder, suddenly remembered that some mark of respect was necessary, and snatched off his hat with as much haste as if there had been a hornet inside of it.
“Among the people were several sick persons, who had made long journeys in the hope of finding a physician in the King’s suite. Disappointed in this, they turned to Dr. Hays and our jovial Rejkiavik friend, Dr. Hjaltalin.
“The first case was a man suffering from Bright’s disease, for which, unfortunately, we had no medicines. But the medicine-chest, when it was opened, attracted our visitors with a singular
power. Men and women crowded around, gazing with eager interest and (as it seemed to me) longing upon the bottles of pills and potions.
“Soon afterwards there came a married couple, the mother carrying a baby which, as it needed but a glance to see, was almost dying of croup. They had carried the poor child on horseback for five hours, in the hope of finding relief. There was no time to be lost ; hot baths and poultices were ordered at the byre near at hand, and in the meantime an opiate was administered. The gasping and writhing of the child was too much for those strong Icelandic men. The mother stood calm and firm, holding it; but Zoega (he has come with the King’s company) ran away in one direction and Eyvindur in another, crying like children, and the farmers turned aside their heads to hide their tears.
“At the byre nothing could exceed the kindness of the farmer’s family,—in fact, of all who could help. The King’s purveyor furnished white bread for a poultice; a hot bath was made ready, and the father stuffed the child’s clothes into his bosom to keep them warm for it. All night the people watched with it, and the next morning everybody looked happy, on hearing that its condition had somewhat improved.
“The next case was a boy with hip disease, for whom little could be done, though the Doctor constructed a temporary support for his foot.
“The people invariably asked how much they should pay, and gratefully shook
hands when payment was declined. I made an effort to talk with a group of farmers, finding them ready enough, only a little embarrassed at the start; but when I asked: “Do you know Saemund’s Edda !” there was an instant flash and flame in their faces, and all shyness vanished. The Njal and Volsunga Sagas, Snorre Sturlusson, with a score of obscurer Sagas of which I had never heard, were eagerly mentioned and discussed. It was remarkable to see their full knowledge of Icelandic literature, and their vital interest in it.
Do you know who first discovered America?” I asked.
“Yes, yes!” they all cried, in a body; “it was Leif, the son of Erik the Red.”
“When was it?”
“About the year 1000. And there was Thorfinn Karlsefne, who went afterward, and Thorwald. They called the country Vinland.”
“We know it,” said I. “I am a Vinlander.”
“They silently stretched out their hands and shook mine. An instinct of the true nature of the people arose in me. Within an hour I had seen what tenderness, goodness, knowledge, and desire for knowledge are concealed under their rude, apathetic exteriors. To meet them was like being suddenly pushed back to the thirteenth century; for all the rich, complex, later-developed life of the race has not touched them. More than ever I regretted my ignorance of the language, without knowing which no stranger can possibly understand their character.”
The Americans and the King’s party are to be disappointed. They’ve come, like many others, to see the Great Geyser. At one moment, it sounds like an eruption will occur.
“The King, who had turned aside to salute our company, was in the act of expressing to me his admiration of the scene, when the Little Geyser gave sudden signs of action. There was a rush of the whole party. His Majesty turned and ran like a boy, jumping over the gullies and stones with
an agility which must have bewildered the heavy officials, who were compelled to follow as they best could. It was a false alarm.”
Even a king cannot command the Icelandic wilderness.
(With notes and quotes from Egypt and Iceland in the year 1874, Bayard Taylor)

Pollution

“I’ve got a headache,” my daughter said, except she was three so it was heag-ache. “I fixed.” She held up an empty aspirin bottle.
 I was busy writing and said, “That’s good.” She was always playing at something, pretending one thing or another.  It wasn’t until after another four paragraphs that the empty pill bottle popped into my head again.
 “Did you give Nan an empty pill bottle to play with,” I shouted down the stairs to my wife.
 “No,” she said. “Why?”
 We pulled on our daughter’s winter clothes, bundled  her onto a sleigh and hauled her to the nearby hospital. There was a doctor and nurse but they needed my wife’s help in holding or daughter down while they pumped her stomach. Up came aspirin, two colors of crayon and a button. She’d been sampling whatever was handy. While our daughter screamed and flailed, I hid outside the operating room completely unable to assist. On the way home, I couldn’t stop shaking.
 “She’ll be fine,” wife said. “They got it all out. They’re just keeping her in overnight for observation.
 I couldn’t sleep that night. Instead, I paced the floor, round and round, too agitated to sit down never mind lie down.
 Over the years we ended up at emergency any number of times. With two kids that’s not surprising, especially when you’ve got a daughter who’s a jock. She slipped and dislocated a collar bone at school, broke an ankle at soccer, fell on her head during gymnastics–I’d sit petrified while my wife took charge, directing events, obtaining information.
 When our daughter got pneumonia we drove her to a hospital in Kansas and they whipped her into a nightgown and began a regime of a needle of antibiotics every four hours, I drove back and forth to the hospital every day frantic with anxiety.
 I was, I told myself, an absolute coward, unable to deal with crises. Ineffectual. Helpless.
Then one day, I was hiking with a friend. We’d stopped before crossing a small stream. Some branches had formed a barrier and, instead of pristine water, pollution was piled up against it.
 “That’s coming from somewhere upstream. Let’s see if we can find it,” he said.
 After two kilometres we came across an old sewage pipe. We’d have missed it because of the brambles but the water above it was clear and we backtracked. My friend knows people in the environmental movement. He told them about the pipe and they reported it. Awhile later he told me the owner hadn’t even known about the pipe. Someone else had put it in.
 I’d just made another trip to emergency and the pipe and the hospital somehow came together. The idea that everything had to come from somewhere. It was a startling idea. “When I was ten,” I said to my friend, “I came home one day for lunch and my mother wasn’t there.”
 “Your mother’s been taken to the hospital,” our next door neighbor said and I nearly collapsed.
 It turned out that she was pregnant in her fallopian tube and had to have an emergency operation. A number of days went by before I rode my bicycle to the hospital. I was in tears at the door and chewing on my fist by the time I got to her room. To my relief she was sitting up in bed looking quite healthy.
 Maybe that’s what brought it back strong enough to wake me up from a sound sleep. I sat staring into the darkness, listening to my father say when I was little, not once, or even twice, but over and over, “People go to  hospital to die.” He must have been twenty-three or four then because I was around four or five. That’s what happened to his mother when he was twelve. They took her to a hospital in Winnipeg and she died. An old event, forgotten and obscured, like that sewage pipe covered in brambles and fern.