Reykjavík Grapevine - 10.11.2017, Side 14

Psyched Up
Uncovering my future with a runestone
reading at Gjafir Jarðar
Words: Charley Ward Photo: Art Bicnick

“I'm aware of a lady and gentlemen
from the spirit world here,” says
Kay Cook, the owner of curiosity
shop Gjafir Jarðar. “Have you got
two grandparents
who were a couple
and are now a man
and a woman in
spirit?”
I do indeed. I
feel somewhat un-
easy. I didn’t really
know what to ex-
pect when I came
for my first psy-
chic reading, but I
was thinking more
of a palm or a Tarot
card reading than
to be reunited with
my dead grand-
parents. I hadn’t
spoken to them in
years before they
died, so if they’re
really there, I’d ex-
pect them to be a
bit miffed.
In any case, I’ve never really be-
lieved that people can talk to the
dead. I’ve watched Derren Brown—
people just want to believe. Kay tells
me the lady is impressing her with
notions of practicality and enjoys
working with her hands. I think of
my grandmother and how she used
to make curtains and dresses for us
and paint intricate scenes with wa-
tercolours and oil paints. My moth-
er told me that during the war she
used to build ships. The sentiment
fit, but, come on—“enjoys working
with her hands” is rather vague.
“She’s got very high cheek-
bones,” continues Kay. “Well, that’s
true, and oddly specific,” I thought.
Perhaps Derren is wrong. I lean in.
Maybe I do want to believe.
Spiritual roots
If anyone should be sceptical about
these things, it really shouldn’t
be me. I grew up in Glastonbury,
in the midst of the vale of Avalon
and one of England’s most spiri-
tual areas. It’s where King Arthur’s
trusty sword Excalibur was forged,
battles were fought and morally
ambiguous, raunchy sorceresses
zapped him with
spells to fix him
up again after-
wards. I was al-
ways bemused
by Glastonbury
as a kid; it was
impossible to get
a bus after 6 pm,
but you could al-
ways purchase a
matching hemp
t w o - p i e c e o r
m i t i g a t e a n y
wifi-induced bad
juju with a crys-
tal from one of
the many spiri-
tual shops.
Now, I ’ve
found myself in
another magi-
cal place, where
elves are real,
trolls hide in caves and ethereal
green lights dance
across the sky. If you’re
going to start believing
in magic anywhere,
it’s Iceland. Plus, on
a more earthly level,
I’m skint and newly
single, so when I saw
the sign advertising
psychic readings in
the new Gjafir Jarðar
on Laugavegur, it was
tempting to find out
if I’d be destitute and
alone forever. I put my
scepticism aside and
decided to give it a
bash.
Reading the runes
Inside, the new shop is clean and
bright—a far cry from the dimly
lit, chockablock emporiums of my
childhood. The shelves aren’t over-
crowded with heavy glass trinkets,
and it's—as yet—without the musty
scent of years-worth of incense
worn deeply into the furniture.
But still, familiar chunks of crystal
greeted me in glass dishes, next to
pretty candles and decks of Tarot
cards waiting to reveal their secrets.
After our conversation with the
deceased, I’m suitably intrigued.
“These are like my Tarot cards,”
says Kay, producing a silk purse full
of runestones carved with delicate
inscriptions. “Pick out nine and let
them fall as they wish.” After lay-
ing them in a square, Kay began to
speak of my future, with some extra
help from my dead grandparents,
of course.
Apparently, within the next 12
months I’m off to America, Canada
and North Sweden for some writing
projects. I’m going to be pleased
with an opportunity in June and I’m
good at persuading people to come
around to my ideas. Less positively,
I’m going to take on too much work,
a female family member will get
sick and I’m going to fall out with a
mate in November.
Looking to the future
Despite my initial uncertainty, I
found myself hooked. The reading
did indicate some things I needed
to address, but there were no real
warnings of impending doom. I
found it refreshing. When we fin-
ished, I only felt positive.
Strangely, it turns out that
Kay—who’s also British—hails
from Bath, just an
hour away from
Glastonbury. She
considered mov-
ing there before
coming to Ice-
land, but decided
against it because
of how little there
is to do. I asked if
she saw herself
staying in Reykja-
vík permanently.
“ I d o n ’ t
know,” she said. “I
don’t know if I can
see myself getting
old here.”
I had a new flash of scepticism.
No idea? From the woman who just
confidently asserted I’d have a spat
with a mate within the first two
weeks of next month?
But I let these thoughts go
quickly. I’d had a taste of the magic
now, and I wanted to believe.
14 The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 20 — 2017
Kay Cook, spiritual medium and Laugarvegur lady of the runes
“‘These are
like my Tarot
cards,’ says Kay,
producing a
silk purse full
of runestones
carved with
delicate
inscriptions.
‘Pick out nine
and let them
fall as they
wish.’”
“Morally
ambiguous,
raunchy
sorceresses
zapped him
with spells
to fix him up
again.”
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