We were standing in a field, freezing cold, with about two hundred other tourists, in the middle of the night, in the middle of (Icelandic) nowhere. “Oh come on”, we thought. Fingers and toes painful with the below-zero temperature; frost pellets in my beard. We’d been here half an hour, staring at the sky, seeing … nothing. “Just” the stars; just the entire Milky Way, spread out for our pleasure. But this is not why we’d driven all this way. Not why we’d paid to be driven all this way, to be accurate: surely, the voice of doubt began to whisper, this is just a con, to subtract expensive kroner from gullible tourists’ wallets.
But then. Oh, then. A mist started to coalesce in the heavens — as much like the appearance of the creature in Night of the Demon as anything: something substantive in front of our eyes, formed from nothing. Some of the watchers screamed, and “Oh come on”, I thought again, it’s not that great, just a bank of what could be a grey, pulsating rain-cloud, hanging loose and low in the dark sky.
But again: another convulsion! And suddenly the cloud snapped tight, like a sheet pulled taut, and everyone was screaming. We ran from one side of the field to the other, chasing the aurora’s flight and pointing, shouting aloud its movements. It swirled and reshaped itself, a non-verbal message to the planet: pick your eyes from the ground! Look at the sky, man! The northern lights danced their fizzing, silent dance for us; for a moment, just a moment, the universe noticed our presence, and told us: “This matters.”
We rolled back to Reykjavik in the bus, everyone silent. I thought: I will never waste another day of my life.
The next day I stared at the Íslendingabók – the Book of Iceland, which describes the 9th century settlement of this astonishing country – in the National Museum. No matter that I can’t read a word of 12th century Icelandic: the beautiful pages spoke to me. A touch of the aurora’s magic remained: “This [story we tell of ourselves] matters”.
It was a shock to return to London: noisy, messy, polluted, crowded London, a city which simply doesn’t work any more. Worse was to switch on my Twitterfeed. Here on social media is the Book of Our Land, a rolling screed of words, more words than the Íslendingabók every minute of every day.
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