his tail feathers to
create a fan-shaped headboard for the double bed nestling inside his body. Ice
tre es grew in the corners of the room, their gnarled branches creeping
across the ceiling and intertwining to form a dense canopy. A myriad of tiny
white lights, glowing hypnotically, hung like raindrops from the branches.
It would soon be the hour when the Icehotel ceased to be a
gallery and became a hotel. I found the signs to the foyer and left by the main
entrance.
The Ice Chapel stood separated from the Icehotel by a narrow
path leading to the river. From the Chapel door, I could see the expanse of
frozen water and the snow-capped forest on the far side. The temperature had
dropped, and a chill gripped my body, but the sun had not yet set. Promising
myself only a few minutes outside, I started towards the bank.
Workmen were warming their hands at a smoking brazier. They
watched silently as I passed, making no attempt to detain me. A JCB was still
out, its faint angular shadow stretching long arms as it lifted the ice blocks
and laid them in neat piles. I walked onto the river and peered down. The
water, black in the failing light, slid silently past, carrying fragments of
blue ice. The man at the controls shouted what could have been a warning,
signalling to me to move away. I stepped back and watched the cutting of the
ice until a combination of boredom and cold prompted me to leave. As I turned
away, I glimpsed the church tower in the distance. The tower with the viewing platform.
Perhaps the aurora would be visible tonight.
I retraced my steps to the Chapel, and pulled at the antler
handles.
The interior was larger than I’d expected. A dozen ice pews,
strewn with skins, lined the nave, although there was room for easily twice
that number. At the far end, a bare ice altar, striking in its simplicity,
stood on a platform. It was overshadowed by the rose window carved high into
the wall, its tracery as intricate as anything in a stone-built church. But
there was no glass; the Chapel was open to the elements. Glass would serve
little purpose, I remembered then, as the daytime air temperature would be the
same inside and out.
The pulpit stood at the side, its curving sweep of steps
sprinkled liberally with snow. Unlike the Icehotel’s columns, it was crudely
assembled from small slabs of ice. Snow had been pressed into the joins,
masking them. There was nothing else in the Chapel other than the broad columns
at the ends of the pews.
Something at the pulpit’s base caught my eye: symbols,
carved into the snow. They jumbled around each other as though the sculptor had
overreached himself and run out of space. I removed a glove and traced the
outline of a shape with my fingers. It was a mythical beast, the long arrowed
tail curling back under the belly to protrude obscenely between the front legs.
Lettering, too faint to be legible, was scratched into the pedestal beneath.
I was trying to decipher the letters, my fingers touching
the ice, when my legs buckled. I staggered and fell to my knees. The back of my
throat tightened, and I realised with dismay that I was going to be sick. I
swallowed repeatedly, trying to control the convulsions, bracing myself for the
ultimate indignity of vomiting up my lunch in a church. In desperation, I pressed
my face into the gritty coldness and hugged the pulpit, praying for the nausea
to subside.
I lifted my head, and looked at the figures. And I saw
something that sent a ripple of fear through my body. The mythical beasts had
vanished. In their place, a half-formed vision appeared.
It took shape slowly, like a developing photograph, faint to
begin with, then taking on recognisable form. It was a body lying on the
ground, blood pumping from it like wine from an overturned bottle. Snow fell,
shrouding the figure, melting in the red warmth.
I squeezed my eyes shut and, shaking uncontrollably, willed
the image to disappear. After what seemed like an eternity, I opened my eyes.
The
create a fan-shaped headboard for the double bed nestling inside his body. Ice
tre es grew in the corners of the room, their gnarled branches creeping
across the ceiling and intertwining to form a dense canopy. A myriad of tiny
white lights, glowing hypnotically, hung like raindrops from the branches.
It would soon be the hour when the Icehotel ceased to be a
gallery and became a hotel. I found the signs to the foyer and left by the main
entrance.
The Ice Chapel stood separated from the Icehotel by a narrow
path leading to the river. From the Chapel door, I could see the expanse of
frozen water and the snow-capped forest on the far side. The temperature had
dropped, and a chill gripped my body, but the sun had not yet set. Promising
myself only a few minutes outside, I started towards the bank.
Workmen were warming their hands at a smoking brazier. They
watched silently as I passed, making no attempt to detain me. A JCB was still
out, its faint angular shadow stretching long arms as it lifted the ice blocks
and laid them in neat piles. I walked onto the river and peered down. The
water, black in the failing light, slid silently past, carrying fragments of
blue ice. The man at the controls shouted what could have been a warning,
signalling to me to move away. I stepped back and watched the cutting of the
ice until a combination of boredom and cold prompted me to leave. As I turned
away, I glimpsed the church tower in the distance. The tower with the viewing platform.
Perhaps the aurora would be visible tonight.
I retraced my steps to the Chapel, and pulled at the antler
handles.
The interior was larger than I’d expected. A dozen ice pews,
strewn with skins, lined the nave, although there was room for easily twice
that number. At the far end, a bare ice altar, striking in its simplicity,
stood on a platform. It was overshadowed by the rose window carved high into
the wall, its tracery as intricate as anything in a stone-built church. But
there was no glass; the Chapel was open to the elements. Glass would serve
little purpose, I remembered then, as the daytime air temperature would be the
same inside and out.
The pulpit stood at the side, its curving sweep of steps
sprinkled liberally with snow. Unlike the Icehotel’s columns, it was crudely
assembled from small slabs of ice. Snow had been pressed into the joins,
masking them. There was nothing else in the Chapel other than the broad columns
at the ends of the pews.
Something at the pulpit’s base caught my eye: symbols,
carved into the snow. They jumbled around each other as though the sculptor had
overreached himself and run out of space. I removed a glove and traced the
outline of a shape with my fingers. It was a mythical beast, the long arrowed
tail curling back under the belly to protrude obscenely between the front legs.
Lettering, too faint to be legible, was scratched into the pedestal beneath.
I was trying to decipher the letters, my fingers touching
the ice, when my legs buckled. I staggered and fell to my knees. The back of my
throat tightened, and I realised with dismay that I was going to be sick. I
swallowed repeatedly, trying to control the convulsions, bracing myself for the
ultimate indignity of vomiting up my lunch in a church. In desperation, I pressed
my face into the gritty coldness and hugged the pulpit, praying for the nausea
to subside.
I lifted my head, and looked at the figures. And I saw
something that sent a ripple of fear through my body. The mythical beasts had
vanished. In their place, a half-formed vision appeared.
It took shape slowly, like a developing photograph, faint to
begin with, then taking on recognisable form. It was a body lying on the
ground, blood pumping from it like wine from an overturned bottle. Snow fell,
shrouding the figure, melting in the red warmth.
I squeezed my eyes shut and, shaking uncontrollably, willed
the image to disappear. After what seemed like an eternity, I opened my eyes.
The
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