World Light (29 page)

“Bee-bee,” said the French great-grandmother.

“This is absolutely extraordinary. May the good Jesus give her strength; she must have become a bird,” said Pétur
ríhross. “And that reminds me of something, Friðrik. Some time ago, when I went in for shooting birds, I had a Spanish game dog whom I called Snotra, she was so intelligent that she understood human speech and could even read thoughts. I have never missed any living creature so much as I missed that one when she was killed. Now I want to ask you one thing, do the souls of dogs live on after death?”

He had hardly finished the sentence before a loud barking was heard from somewhere in the next world, and soon a friendly howling was heard in the room.

“Ah, are you there, poor beast,” said the manager, with a catch in his voice. “Come here to my knee and lick my hand to prove that it’s you.”

“Bow-wow,” said the dog.

“Ah, I’ve found you again,” said the manager. “How are you, anyway, beastie?”

“She hasn’t got so high yet that she can talk,” said Friðrik the elf doctor. “But still, she has begun to see the light.”

“Does she get enough to eat, poor creature, do you think?” asked the manager.

“Yes,” said Friðrik the elf doctor. “In the afterlife, people never forget to feed the dog.”

“Bow-wow,” said the dog, and was gone.

“This is by far the most remarkable meeting I have ever attended,” said the manager. “Now then, have we all had proofs now?”

“Mm—I don’t need proofs,” said the secretary. “I know. But there’s still the doctor. And the pastor.”

“To hell with the doctor,” said Pétur. “Judging by his snores he’s in the next world already and no mistake. But there’s our blessed pastor. He certainly deserves to get strong proofs. Now then, my dear Pastor Brandur, isn’t there anyone you particularly want to talk to on the other side, haven’t you lost some loved one?”

“No,” said Pastor Brandur, “I haven’t lost any loved one. But I believe all the same. Proofs or not, you see, I believe according to the Word.”

“Yes, you have lost a loved one,” declared Friðrik the elf doctor, in flat contradiction of the pastor. “There is one loved one here on this side who wants to talk to you, but he is so peculiar in shape that I don’t know to what I should liken him, he seems to me to be rather like a very large house in shape.”

“He can’t be wanting to meet me,” said the pastor, and became evasive. “I haven’t lost any loved ones, luckily.”

Then there came a voice that sounded hollow, as if from inside an empty barrel: “Yes, you have certainly lost me, Pastor Brandur, no longer ago than last winter. Am I to believe that you have forgotten how much you missed me, you who took to your bed when you lost me?”

“This must be some sort of misunderstanding,” said the pastor, “I never took to my bed. And if I did take to my bed, it must have been with a cold.”

“Ah, do you no longer remember the little shed that stood at the south side of your house?” said the voice. “Don’t you remember how I was torn away in that great storm in the middle of March, and my debris was blown all the way out to sea, and no one ever saw a splinter of me again?”

“Isn’t this absolutely wonderful?” said the manager. “There one can see that inanimate objects, too, have a soul. Everything God creates has a soul.”

“Pastor Brandur, I have become a palace in the next world, and rest on golden pillars,” said the shed.

“This is contrary to God’s Word,” said the pastor, feverishly brushing the fluff off his nose in the darkness.

“May I make a short observation?” said the manager then, formally. “According to old theology and pure Lutheranism, only human beings have souls; that is not my view, to be sure, but it is the pastor’s view as such, and therefore I take the liberty of proposing that he should get proof which is in accordance with his doctrine and can bring him joy and encouragement in his responsible task. Accordingly I want to raise a highly important point with you, Friðrik. As you must know full well from English and American spiritualist writings, it has frequently happened in Great Britain and America, when men of true doctrinal faith were present at a seance, that the Father of the spirits himself has looked upon them in his mercy and sent them a few words of encouragement directly through the medium. Do you think you can arrange it that He might look upon us in His mercy at this crucial moment of our lives?”

“It is undoubtedly extremely difficult,” said Friðrik.

“Yes, but nothing is impossible for God,” said the manager. “And think how often He has revealed Himself to people in various ways, both natural and supernatural.”

“God is everywhere near,” said Friðrik, “but those who live in darkness and have little spiritual maturity and lack the right current, they cannot hear him.”

“Are we then so much worse than people in England and America?” asked the manager. “I have difficulty in believing that, at least as far as our Pastor Brandur is concerned.”

“You could try singing ‘Praise the Lord,’ once,” said Friðrik.

When “Praise the Lord” had been sung yet again there was a brief silence, and then a little whispering sound began to be heard, accompanied by strange rattling noises as in an old, asthmatic gentleman who had lost his voice. For a long time no words could be distinguished. “How should one live in order to achieve spiritual maturity?” whispered the manager, deeply moved.

“One should p–pay,” said the voice, stammering and hesitating, from the great distance, and so low that it could scarcely be heard. “One should pay in money.”

“Yes, isn’t that what I’ve always said?” said the manager. “And what else?”

“One shouldn’t interfere with girls who don’t concern us,” said the voice a little more firmly, “they can become pregnant and who is to look after the child?”

“Hmmm,” said the manager. “Quite so.”

“One shouldn’t drink too much, either,” said the voice.

“Quite so,” said the manager, and was obviously a little disappointed. “That, too, is something I have always maintained. But can’t we expect anything, even if it’s only a couple of words, which could bring to the public joy and encouragement in the battle of life?”

At that the voice spoke plainly and directly, almost peremptorily: “The public is to have enough money and live a healthy life and get plenty to eat, meat six days a week and fish one day . . .”

“Huhuhu, that cannot be correctly reported,” the rural dean was heard to mumble, “it cannot be the highest powers who say that the public is to eat meat every day, the public has to get into the habit of diligence, thrift, and saving in all things, and never to make demands upon others . . .”

But now God was annoyed that one miserable early wretch of a pastor should dare to interrupt Him with trite and captious wrangling, and He suddenly raised His voice and said angrily, “I won’t hear any drivel about thrift. I have created enough for everyone; my world is full of the good things of life I created. Everyone can live well on my earth; all paupers could become wealthy if they had the sense to get rid of the thieves and plunderers and murderers . . .”

“Tcha, tcha, tcha,” said the manager. “It can’t be the Lord who has begun to talk like this; this is undoubtedly some stray spirit, probably from the underworld, who is trying to make a fool of us.”

“Yes,” said the pastor. “It is not the Father of the spirits who speaks like that. Let us say the Lord’s Prayer a few times to drive this evil spirit away from us.”

So a few Lord’s Prayers were recited to purify the air, but it was easier said than done to get rid of the dreadful currents which had accompanied the evil spirit, and the medium was ill at ease for a long time. Eventually, however, Friðrik said that the right light was approaching; gradually the meeting managed to free itself from the influence of the Evil One and introduce an atmosphere of peace and love anew. Finally he announced that it was safe to bring the Lord’s Prayers to an end—a blonde and blue-eyed woman had arrived from the fair country.

“Whom has she come to meet?” asked the manager.

“She is standing beside Ólafur Kárason,” said Friðrik. “She loves him. She says that his blue, clear, kind eyes are her eyes. She asks whether he doesn’t remember the sunny days when the two of them were alone in the fair country long, long, long before he was born?”

“Do you remember, my dear?” asked a tender and lyrical woman’s voice from outer space, but not entirely free of affectation.

Ólafur Kárason was as unprepared for this sweet address as he was deeply moved by the secret, distant memory of the fair country, and for a moment he was quite incapable of finding a suitable answer.

“M–my mother isn’t dead,” he said at last. “She lives in Aðalfjörður.”

“You must be mistaken, Friðrik,” said the manager. “The description of this fair-haired woman fits perfectly my late mother, and the voice was quite clearly her voice.” Then he called out, moved, “Mummy, mummy, come and kiss your darling little boy, who will never, never disobey you again.”

But scarcely had the manager finished speaking before the medium suddenly started up from her trance and screamed, “Light the lamp quickly; I’m suffocating; where am I?”

The secretary lit the lamp at once.

órunn of Kambar stood in front of her chair, drenched in sweat and dishevelled, with distaste on her face as after a bad dream, and holding one of her shoes in her hand; the sheriff rested his paunch on his thighs and his cheeks on his shoulders and continued to twiddle his thumbs; the pastor took the opportunity, once the lamp had been lit, of brushing from his sleeve the fluff that had gathered there while the seance had been in progress; the doctor snored powerfully with his head on his wife’s lap; but Pétur Pálsson the manager sat with his false teeth in one hand and his pince-nez in the other, ready to kiss his mother. The widows and mothers were moist-eyed.

órunn put a hand to her eyes as if the sudden brightness caused her sharp pain, and with the one hand shielding her eyes she turned first towards Pétur the manager and struck him a swinging blow on the face with her shoe, and said, “You beast!” Then she stormed across the room and struck Ólafur Kárason a similar blow and said, “You’re even more of a beast!”

“Eh? Eh?” said the sheriff, and his thumbs suddenly stopped twiddling.

“They have bad currents,” said
órunn of Kambar. “They have currents that clash.”