The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1945, Qupperneq 43

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
41
over her, like a vast feather bed. And
yet ihe mission stood on a hill overlook-
ing the river. Down in the valley it
was hotter still. Moreover, the mission
was clean. The walls and floors were
scrubbed white, the children and the
native servants all wore white, which
made their skins look darker by contrast.
The sun shone through the west win-
dows on rows of white beds.
Ruth’s eyes ached with all the hard
brilliance of the place. She longed for a
bit of shade. She watched Caroline
moving down the corridor quiet and
efficient, the only cool and calm appear-
ing thing on that hot, white afternoon.
She watched her and envied her; her
capacity for work, her patience and her
self control. She knew that underneath,
her sister-in-law was quite as tense
and anxious as she herself, that she
shared Ruth’s anxiety though no one
coiild have guessed it.
It was over a month now since they
had seen Bob. He and the rest of the
staff from the mission hospital had
gone down into the valley when the
pestilence had broken out. He had been
there ever since and the pestilence still
raged through the city in the valley
and through all the villages scattered
through the jungle. The wailing of the
mourners came up to them from below,
a cry of human anguish now loud,
now hushed, like the pulsing of the heart
of humanity. Ruth wanted to cover her
ears and run, but there was no place
to run to and nothing could shut out
the crying.
So far the mission on the hill had been
untouched by the disease ravaging the
rest of the country. To keep it so, the
door was locked and no one was allowed
to come in from the outside. It was a
tiny island of safety in that great sea
of agony.
Caroline had been left in charge. She
had wanted to go with the others but
one must stay and look after the people
at the mission. Ruth had stayed with
her. Bob insisted that she must on
account of the baby. When she thought
about the baby she knew he was right.
Only sometimes she didn’t think about
the baby. She thought of Bob, facing
a dangerous enemy, the more danger-
ous and deadly because no one seemed
to know the nature of the thing he was
fighting.
Each day, the letters for the mission
were left in a box at the foot of the
hill. So far, there had always been a
letter from Bob. And yet each day Ruth
had stood, her mouth dry with fear,
her heart constricted in an icy band
while the mail was being distributed,
saying over and over to herself, “Please
God let there be a letter from him to-
day, please let me know that he is
still alive.” So far, her prayer had always
been answered.
Right now she was holding one of
these letters in her hand: “Miaybe we
could do something if we only knew
more about the thing we’re up against,
but whichever way we turn, we are
baulked by the ignorance of the natives.
If only we could perform a few autop-
sies we might learn something, and yet
the body of the most despised beggar, or
the most degenerate criminal becomes
sacred in death. We dare not touch
them. At last I have been able to get
some material though I have had to
use the tactics of a nineteenth century
grave robber, and my pathological lab-
oratory is as carefully concealed as a
gangster’s hideout. You must burn this
letter. Not that I don’t trust the people
at the mission, but someone else might
read it, and the fewer people who
know our secret the safer it is.”
There was a small charcoal brazier
in the diet kitchen where Ruth stood
and she thrust the letter into it and
watched the paper burst into flames
and then curl up, a wisp of grey ash.
It was one more risk Bob was taking,
one more thing for her to worry about.
Now she must go back to work. The
nursery was her responsibility. Caroline
with the help of the native nurses
looked after the women and the older
children. The men had all gone to help
in the village. She stepped into the
younger children’s dormitory. It was