Stories of Folks and Places

Iceland is a magical place that floats inside a nebulous spot in spacetime. The way locals respond to Northern Lights remains a mystery to most.

I had already spent four months working in Nóra's farm when she told me I could join in with the great sheep round-up at the end of the summer, though on the last of a three night journey only. Soon I got set one early morning, seated on my short furry horse, ready to quell sheep errands, still tipsy from the previous night's celebrations.

Smooth-trotting after a sheep, a couple of hours into herding I somehow registered that the horse, a juniper, and I were the only breathing bodies under the vast cotton sky. We were lost in the mossy wilderness, my horse and me, trapped in a windy fable of harvest-gold hills and miles of plushy rocks and crevices around.
No sign of the rounding fellows. Even the unruly sheep was gone.

A most likely prospect of eternal oblivion pulled my mind back to a few nights prior when I had spotted my first Northern Light – as if that marvelous impression were to be my last, in case I got shapeshifted into a Yule Cat or something. The horse walked mellow toward a hill and I recalled the shades of light which had disclosed an odd vibration in the sky that memorable night, how Nóra had trumpeted a temperature drop and it was cold indeed, so I would venture out in the electric darkness.

I hadn't stuck long when a hazy arch unwound between two flares half the firmament apart. An immense mother-of-pearl bow blurred, cascaded, and swung. The sky pulsed. Slowly, the whole gleaming arch lit up and danced to the notes of a soundless harp. It showered me with its radiance, bared my soul. It swam through constellations turning slightly off, then on.
My blood flow resonated with the Universal Beat.

It's funny how all communication with the locals took off after that night. The aurora had cast a friendly spell.

Lost in the grazeland with my horse, I was now redeemed in Northern Light enchantment and Nóra's husband, Svan, came to the rescue. At home at last after the réttir separation, the aurora washed all over us again, herders eating and drinking like a big happy family. Illuminated and reeking ovine, I was no longer a stranger.

At the cheering tribe, Svan told the story of my retrieval, "She lit up a cigarette as soon as she saw me." Then it was all a piss-take of my stinky habit, especially from Nóra.