But fear urges him on. He leaves his useless canoe and blindly staggers north on foot. North, north, into the heart of the land of waste from which there is no outlet. The weaker he gets the more he longs to go further. His food is nearly gone. On the top of the hills he scans the horizon. South, the line of trees has disappeared. North, nothing but the rolling desert of moss and rock.
On and on he staggers for days. He is starving now, although he is able to quench his thirst at the small icy creeks which wind their way towards the sea.
It is night. The man suddenly hears a dull moaning sound, the everlasting breaking of the surf against the shore. He has reached the end of the Barren Lands. He finds himself staggering down a rocky beach.
His eyes are staring ahead of him. Nothing but a grey, unlimited ocean, dotted with icebergs.
For the first time he realizes the hopelessness of his flight. He remains a few seconds swaying on his feet. Then his brain gives way.
With a scream, he tosses his hands above his head and, lurching forward, falls dead, his face in the foam of the waves.
High up in the sky, over Barren Lands and Arctic Ocean, the Northern lights reel, twist and swirl, in their eternal dance of madness.