Polar Vortex

by Matthew Mather

“Hej hopp i blåbärsskogen,” Bjorn said. His breath was warm and smelled of onion and tickled my left ear. “Means we are taking a jump into the blueberry forest together. Seems you are better.” The Norwegian disentangled himself from behind me.

“We might say to this, å være midt i smørøyet.” Bjorn dropped a suitcase next to mine and deposited himself onto it. “Means being in the middle of the melting butter in porridge. When you are somewhere unbelievable.”

“Same principle as neon light tubes,” Bjorn said as he watched me watching the aurora. “Charged particles from the sun—the solar wind—are funneled into channels by the Earth’s magnetic field. When they hit atoms in the atmosphere, it gives off light. The red”—he pointed high overhead—“is from oxygen atoms way above two-hundred

hundred kilometers, the blue over there from nitrogen, and the big green”—he traced the warbling ribbon—“is oxygen at about a hundred kilometers.”

Bjorn laughed and shook his head at the same time. “Howard has han har roterende fis i kasketten. Rotating crap in his cap. Not all quite there. He’s off his meds. You know that?”

“Att lägga lök på laxen.” Bjorn had two of the LED headlamps and kept them pointed ahead, sweeping the light back and forth in the semidarkness. “Means to put onion in the salmon. I think maybe we made things worse. From the frying pan and into the fire, as you would say.”

With them came our escort, a pack of monks—a special order called the tulku—wearing the same robes as Jang. The tulku were Tibetan Buddhist Lamas, spiritual teachers, who had taken a vow to help all other sentient beings escape suffering in this world. Pemba