Once that moment was hours long in a fading summer, driving against the sun (against the stars, the moon) from Mývatn to Reykjavík. The clouds were black, but the sky, here and there, was a faded aquamarine. She could feel, out in the darkness to her right, the Vestfirðir passing like a spoke. The car was still and the black earth turned under its wheels like a great, flat disk.
No, that is wrong: the wheels of the car turned the disk of the earth, like the tread of a pit pony turning the wheel that drives the bellows that pumps the air to the miners, deep in a yet blacker night below.
2 ummæli:
Noble pony.
I like your image; I think the metaphor suggests something specific. To wit: who are the miners in the scenario? I think your heroine (with her car) is certainly the pit pony; the spinning disk of the world pumps the bellows.... Who labors deep below, beneath her feet? Who survives thanks to her constancy, able to work thanks to her work, in a night blacker than her own darkness? I know it is someone.
It is a very good question.
Did you know that pit ponies were imported from Iceland to the collieries of Britain? Most hauled, of course, and did not work a treadle like Agricola's horse in the print.
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