Reykjavík Grapevine - 18.06.2010, Blaðsíða 12

12
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 08 — 2010
The Lord had his heart set on destroy-
ing first Iceland, then the world, in
punishment for man’s ignorance
and greed. The four guardian spirits
of Iceland had but a moment to con-
vince the mad Creator that both were
worth saving.
The four spirits looked at one an-
other. The artists worked in advertis-
ing, the products that they spoke of
did not exist. Now a vengeful God
wanted to know if the Icelanders had
ever created anything.
“They managed to co-co-convince
each other, and the world, that they
had boundless riches, when in fact
they had none,” stuttered the dragon.
“Surely, this took some creativity?”
“True creativity calls forth some-
thing that can last,” quoth the Lord.
“All else are houses built on sand.
What here still stands?”
When the Dragon realised the
futility of his argument, he erupted
into f lames.
“They may be deceivers,” the eagle
screeched, “but look at the quality of
the deception. Did this not have a cer-
tain, inherent beauty in itself? It may
not have been truth, but was truth
necessarily beauty? Was it not better
to create a land free of class struggle,
where every man was king, where
everyone could have all they wanted
merely by going to the bank teller and
signing an X in the dotted line? It
may have been an illusion, but what
an illusion it was! Such was the art of
the athafnaskáld.”
Poets of Entrepreneurship! This
self-assumed title had long angered
the Lord. It was one thing when peo-
ple mistook avarice for intelligence,
but when those who hoarded gold re-
ferred to themselves as poets, he took
this as a personal insult. He was the
God of Creation, and this denigrated
his profession.
He did not care to answer, but
instead gave the bird of prey a look
which could melt ice or turn fire to
rock. The Eagle lost its feathers, with-
out which it did not survive for longer
than an instant in the harsh land.
“Now you,” the Lord said as he
looked menacingly to the giant.
The giant stood dumb. But some-
where deep inside, a rumble began
and started to take the form of words.
It was not often he spoke, but when
he did, he liked to believe that it car-
ried an impact.
“You say that the Icelanders creat-
ed nothing,” he said, as if addressing
an equal. “Look around you; have the
people of this country not left their
mark upon it? Did they not take a des-
olate place and here build their dams
and their smelters. There is barely a
spot untouched, in a country hardly
suited to men. Surely, this must at-
test to their ingenuity?”
The Lord looked around at the
scarred land. “You put a slab of rock
on top of the Mona Lisa, and you dare
call it art!” he bellowed.
The giant dared say no more, and
no more he ever did say. For at that
very moment he began turning to
stone, until he could no longer be
singled out from the scenery.
The Lord of Creation was never
lacking for inspiration and so a new
idea took form in the Godhead. As
soon as daylight broke, he would
turn the entire population to stone.
It would be the world’s first, and last,
Sculpture Museum of Economic Col-
lapse. There would be no one to ad-
mire it, but at least the point would be
made.
It would not be long now. The sun
was about to rise and the Lord lifted
his hand in the direction of Reykja-
vik. This was, in fact, not really nec-
essary. All it took was a mental com-
mand for an idea to take the shape of
reality. But he felt that the destruc-
tion of mankind should be accompa-
nied by an appropriate gesture.
So, all for effect, the following
happened in succession: His eyes
turned a blood red. His beard, which
he had let grow for the occasion, re-
ceived a darker hue. His toga, un-
changed by the dictates of fashion,
swayed in the wind. He felt there was
something that needed to be said in
this, mankind’s last hour. Something
that would echo around the world
in its final moment. But before he
could think of the exact thing, he was
distracted by a sound right beside
him.
There was nothing in the scrip-
tures about God being interrupted as
he was about to unleash the Apoca-
lypse. Perhaps the prophets had that
part edited out, as it would detract
from the overall effect. In any case,
it would soon be put to an end. The
sound was not loud, merely the clear-
ing of a throat. But there was some-
thing about it that indicated it needed
to be heard.
The Lord’s eyes momentarily lost
their fire as he looked around. Beside
him were the ashes of the Dragon,
the carcass of the Eagle and the rub-
ble that had been the Giant. Next to
these was yet another creature, the
last of the guardian spirits.
The stout ox did not stand as tall
as the giant, was not as colourful as
the dragon or as brazen and loud as
the eagle. Yet, there was something
headstrong about him. He did not
blow back and forth in the breeze like
the others, but stood firmly where he
had marked his ground. He had the
patience of someone who understood
that his time would eventually come,
when everyone else had worn them-
selves out.
The Lord had set the rules himself
and it was only very occasionally, at
the speed of light or in a moment of
sheer inspiration, that he broke his
own rules. He knew that the ox must
be heard out.
“Be brief,” said the Lord, impa-
tient as he was. It was only when he
saw his own ideas set in stone that he
could really determine whether they
had any significance.
But the ox said nothing.
“And so history ends, first with a
whimper, then with a bang,” said the
Lord. “Not bad,” he thought to him-
self, as his eyes again assumed the
red glow of genocide.
The ox said nothing. Instead, a
book appeared from his side. It was
of Biblical proportions and written,
it seemed, in his own hide. This
aroused God’s interest. Though more
of a visual artist himself, he still en-
joyed a good read, particularly since
so many of the books were about
him. Even if the unauthorised biogra-
phers, gossipers and sycophants nev-
er managed to get him quite right, he
enjoyed seeing them stretching their
imagination to the limit.
The Lord picked up the volume
and leafed through it. The ox looked
on with silent, deep eyes which
seemed to say more than an eagle’s
shrieks or the puffing of a dragon
ever could.
Most of the stories were set over a
thousand years ago, before the dull-
ness of Christianity had infected the
land with mediocrity. The characters
were in turns vicious and kind, spite-
ful or loving, but always so very hu-
man. They fought, they loved, they
betrayed each other and they strove
to find the best way to conduct their
lives. In fact, human beings in all
their exasperating complexity were
better represented here than in all
the myriad tomes that had been writ-
ten in his honour.
Perhaps none of this was true.
Perhaps it had all been made up. But
what kind of people could create such
wonderful stories?
He closed the book and looked
into the eyes of the bull. God under-
stood that the people the bovine crea-
ture represented were the same as
those who had once told the greatest
stories of their, or perhaps any, time.
Such a people did not, for all their
mistakes, deserve destruction. They
could learn from their mistakes, and
if not, then at least compose master-
works out of the follies of their com-
patriots. He looked forward to read-
ing them.
And so it was that yet again his-
tory was saved by the Icelandic Sagas.
The Lord left Iceland, and promised
never again to intervene in the affairs
of its inhabitants. It was so much
more amusing to watch them try to
find their way on their own.
God Returns To Iceland pt. 4:
Literature | Short story
THIS IS THE END OF VALUR GUNNARSSON'S SHORT STORY ABOUT GOD
RETURNING TO ICELAND. For more God-related shenanigans, we reccom-
mend The Holy Bible, y'all!
The Year of the Ox
vALUR GUNNARSSON
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