Reykjavík Grapevine - 04.06.2010, Page 38

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Woolens factory store,
located in Vik
Víkurprjón ehf
Phone: 487-1250
www.vikwool.is
Genuine woolen goods,
made in Iceland_______
Also wide selection
of souvenirs
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 07 — 2010
The Lord thought of Pompeii, and won-
dered why he had let it go at that. In no
longer a time than it took to imagine it,
he was transported to Italy. He walked
around in the shadow of Vesuvius,
among the ruins of the ancient city. Its
inhabitants were long gone, but their
thoughts could still be heard, scribbled
here and there among the remnants of
their world.
“Profit is happiness,” read an in-
scription on one of the water founts.
“Welcome to profit” read another on a
marble f loor not far from the famous
brothels which he too had sometimes
visited in earthly form when he tired of
holy virgins. He had felt young and vig-
orous then, full of hope for the future,
for the destiny of man who still had so
much to learn. The future had come.
Nothing had been learnt.
In old Pompeii, every house had a
statue dedicated to Mercury, the god of
commerce and lies. He had preserved
many of the statues, just as he had
preserved much of the once glittering
city. He had wanted to prove this was
not wanton destruction, that there was
some point to it all.
When he watched the city under the
burning blanket, he decided to keep it
as a reminder. He had let it rain, the
cold drizzle beating on the hot ashes
rendering everything within encased
and eternal. Surely, the complete de-
struction of a city renowned for its
greed could only be taken as divine
intervention by a vengeful god. There
was a moral here to be learnt. It was not
learnt.
Vesuvius became Katla, the Lord as
he was constrained by time, not space.
He looked down on that ridiculous
little cluster of houses that the inhab-
itants called a capital city. How so few
had managed to cause so much grief
was out of all proportion. Like all good
sculptors, God was greatly concerned
with proportion.
With no more effort than the clap-
ping of hands, the land would be re-
stored to its natural spirits. Its dams
and high rises would remain for a while
as testament to human folly, before
disappearing into dust as everything
must. Perhaps, he thought to himself,
it was time to do the same to all man-
kind. It was, after all, unfair to blame all
the world’s problems on the Icelanders.
He should open up the earth and let the
fires engulf every living thing, once he
was at it.
Before the Lord could put his hands
together and cleanse the world of mor-
tal stupidity, he saw four beings ap-
proaching. This surprised him. He had
heard demented prophets warn of four
horsemen at the end of days, but he had
never really taken them seriously. God
was more of a chaos theorist when it
came to outlook. Any event could un-
fold in a million different ways, all in
turn spawning a myriad of possibilities.
That’s what made mankind so interest-
ing to observe. And yet, out of all these
options, they almost always settled on
the worst. They could create Paradise,
but instead opted for Hell. Now he was
in an Apocalyptic vein. And four riders
were approaching. Perhaps he would
prove the demented prophets right af-
ter all. But their elation would be short
lived. When it came to the afterlife, they
would be sorely disappointed.
The Lord was about to return to
work when a thought struck him. If the
prophets had been right about the End,
had they not also been right about other
aspects of existence? Such as in their
fear of the Devil. And if he himself, the
Destroyer of Worlds, represented the
Good, he did not very much want to
meet the Bad.
A shudder went through him as the
creatures came into closer view. Then
relief, as he saw that instead of a rider
on a white horse, the first was a man be-
reft of equestrian assistance. Instead of
a conquerors’ bow, he carried a simple
walking stick. He wore no crown upon
his head, only the simple garb the in-
habitants once utilised and yet believed
every man to be king. His stature was
large, but his manner humble.
The second apparition had horns, it
was true. This struck fear into the ce-
lestial heart, as horned creatures were
generally to be avoided during an Apoc-
alypse. But this was no Man-Devil, no
Daemon from the depths. No, this was
simply a bull which, it had to be said,
would have looked rather foolish with-
out them.
The coming of the third creature
was heralded by a piercing scream,
which sent a shiver down the divine
spine that God had not felt since he
had first discovered the terrible loneli-
ness of his existence. Again he was re-
lieved, for the scream, though inhuman
enough, belonged to an eagle and not
the Anti-Christ.
It was the fourth being that did the
most to unnerve the Almighty. The
fourth had claws and breathed fire and
the Lord, who was an avid reader of
Dante and a great admirer of the Flo-
rentine imagination, began to believe
in the truth behind fiction. His appear-
ance here and now, through the f lames
of a volcano at the End of Days, made
him even more ominous.
It was only when the Dragon began
to speak that the image was shattered.
This was not the Evil One come to claim
the world as his throne. Rather, he
seemed a timid creature, stuttering and
coughing f lames with every attempt he
made to form a word.
The Lord soon realised that the crea-
tures were more in awe of him than he
was of them. It had been long since he
had shown himself publically; he had
quite forgotten the effect he had on less-
er beings who beheld him. He decided
to play his advantage.
“What is it you want?” he said, in a
stern voice that could bring entire na-
tions to heel.
“We have come to plead clemency,”
coughed the Dragon in a sickly voice.
“We come to Iceland’s aid in the
hour of its need,” boomed the Giant in a
tone that echoed throughout the moun-
tains. “Be it the King of Norway or the
Almighty itself, we will not let Iceland
go down without a fight.”
A walking stick against the Word of
God did little to encourage his compan-
ions, nor did it impress the Almighty.
Eagle interjected in order to calm
things down. “Perhaps we can make a
wager,” it shrieked.
The Lord knew that Icelanders could
not be trusted in a game of dice. They
would only play tricks with the num-
bers. Nevertheless, the longer he stayed
on the island, the more he had come to
admire it. The shoreline here was co-
loured in darker hues than his beloved
Amalfi Coast but it was, in its own way,
just as spectacular. It was among his
latest works, a mere 20 million years
old, and proved that he still had it. He
had written it off as a side project at the
time, but perhaps it should be re-eval-
uated as a major piece, a spontaneous
f light of fancy that worked as well for
what it was as the quirkiness of Austra-
lia or the endless depths of Brazil did in
other parts?
Truly, if would be a pity if there was
no one left but him to behold it. And
yet, was its beauty not lost on a people
who understood nothing but cold hard
cash, a people without imagination?
Was there anyone on the island at all
who could appreciate beauty for its own
sake? True beauty could only be appre-
ciated through honest eyes, and this re-
minded him of a bet he had once made
in circumstances similar to these.
“Show me 50 honest people, and I
will spare the country,” he said to the
foursome.
The four beings looked worryingly
at one another.
“Very well then, 40?” offered the
Lord.
Still, there was no reply.
“30?” God attempted. For one used
to having everything as he wanted, hag-
gling was not one of his strong sides.
“20,” he found himself saying.
Still nothing.
“Surely, you must be able to find me
10 honest Icelanders?”
“Perhaps we should just move to
Norway,” said the Giant. “I’ve heard
there is work to be had there for Guard-
ian Spirits up in the North.
As the four Guardians were about to
leave, and the Lord was getting ready to
resume his terrible work, a thought oc-
curred to him. Some innocents still be-
lieved in the fairness of his intentions,
and it now seemed unfair of him to kill
everyone who had been led astray by a
few. Should a country not be judged by
the essence of its spirit as seen in the
fruit of its greatest minds, rather than
by the folly of its financial captains? If
he could find something worth saving
even here, then the same would surely
apply everywhere.
He was not a God of Good or Evil—
both were merely the consequences of
the actions of men. He was the God of
Creation, and it was according to men’s
creations that they would be judged.
“Very well then,” the Lord said.
Name me one single contribution that
the Icelanders have made to mankind,
and I will spare both them, and it.”
God Returns To Iceland pt. 3
Literature | Short story
vALUR GUNNARSSON
ILLUSTRATION By MEGAN HERBERT
This is the third section of a four part short story by former Grapevine editor
Valur Gunnarsson. We have read the entire thing, and we can tell you right
off the bat that it is a pretty damn awesome read. So stay tuned for the stun-
ning conclusion, THE YEAR OF THE OX, in our next issue.
Four Spirits