by Chris Angus
And so the dilemma: How to deal with this perceived threat to the authority of the church, to its sole power to interpret the laws of God? For this was how the church viewed Laki. Not as proof of its belief, at long last, that there actually was a living god, one that revealed himself as no other ever had. Instead, the church rejected Laki. The hierarchy would never accept solid proof of God’s existence. They were wedded to their concept of faith and beliefs unrooted in evidence or substance. This was the way forward for the church, as it had always been.
The Pope knew that Wormer and his fellow cardinals had been sent on a mission from which they would likely not return. What was Laki? God or devil? The church chose the latter, against all evidence to the contrary. In utter denial of Skari’s proof.
Laki’s anger at this rejection had festered for many centuries. For he was an ambivalent God. Willing to leave man to his own devices, yet fond of his creation in the way only a Creator could be. The conflict would send Laki into a rage that manifested itself finally in the real world.
The sudden appearance of that manifestation had chilled the hearts of the Pope and his papal Secretariat. For what if they were wrong and Laki was indeed God, as Skari insisted? Then the church had spat in the face of the Supreme Being and all was lost.
Ricci ran his hand over the ancient text, reassuring himself of its physical reality one last time. The subsidence of the Icelandic magma chamber and volcanic activity around the world was final proof, in his mind, that Laki had been the devil and that they had defeated him. After all, how could they have ever defeated God?
Maybe Wormer’s prayer had done the trick. Saved the church from the wrath of Laki. Perhaps Ricci would suggest to His Holiness that Cardinal Wormer be canonized. It seemed the least they could do.
The papal Secretariat reached one hand into his robes and pulled out a small butane lighter. He held it to the pages of the manuscript until it caught and then watched contentedly as Skari’s truths disintegrated into a pile of ash.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was a perfect baseball moment. Ryan stood at the plate and surveyed the infield. They were playing shallow. The game was tied with two out in the bottom of the ninth and the winning run on second.
The sky was that brilliant cobalt blue that comes only on rare, clear days in Iceland, where baseball was not a national pastime. He leaned over and picked up some dirt and rubbed it between his fingers. The smell of the newly mown grass was joined by the whiff of hot dogs and rosin. There was a satisfying roar from the crowd.
Sort of. The stands held a smattering of a dozen wives and girlfriends. Two young girls were making a weak attempt at the wave, standing up and down, raising their bare arms. He saw Sam, sitting halfway up the bleacher, her head in a magazine. The Journal of Volcanology or something. She didn’t seem to know he was at bat.
He took a practice swing and stared out at the pitcher. The pitch came in low and probably inside. But he swung anyway. There was a satisfying crack and the ball headed for center field. The second baseman misjudged it and leaped, but the ball was already past him, rolling toward the fence, the center fielder in hot pursuit.
Gonzalez, the overweight smoker on second, took off on contact. He ran like greased lightning, jagged and erratic, puffing and grunting. As he rounded third, the outfielder threw the ball to the cutoff man, who turned and prepared to throw to home. The runner was going to be out by a country mile.
As Ryan prepared to slide uselessly into second, he watched the cutoff man’s throw to the plate sail over the catcher’s head and go all the way to the backstop. Gonzalez scored standing up and the game was over.
Sam had closed her magazine and was jumping up and down cheering. She had her hands in the air, thumbs up, as he trotted in to take the high fives of his teammates.
A perfect baseball moment.
A month had passed since volcanoes around the world had gone silent. The surface of Laki was peaceful once again. Prescott Carlisle and his scientists were gone, taking their incredible buses with them. It had required the importation of a crew of workers to construct a temporary bridge to allow the vehicles to cross the encircling lava trails, which still retained too much heat to risk driving over.
The government of Iceland sent a delegation to survey the extent of the damage to the southern Ring Road. Infrastructure had been severely compromised in the region, and the prime minister determined that it was too soon to decide if tourism could once again become a major part of the southern island’s economy.
IranOil had begun to withdraw from Iceland. Oil prices worldwide were stuck in the doldrums and Iran’s economy was in desperate shape. The contraction meant there was no longer money for foreign investments. The refinery on the outskirts of Reykjavik was shut down, and local businesses could no longer rely on the magnanimous, charitable contributions they’d become accustomed to.
Ryan kissed Sam and they began to walk off the field, when they saw Dagursson standing next to the backstop, holding a newspaper.
“Good game,” he said. “I don’t know anything about baseball, but I thought your runner on second was going to be dead on arrival.”
“No sure thing in baseball,” said Ryan.
“Thought you might like to see this.” He had the paper open to a short news item.
Ryan read it with Sam leaning over his shoulder. In Tehran, one of Iran’s most successful business owners, a man named Rashid, had been bankrupted. Without the protection of his influential friends, charges had been brought against him for compromising the nation’s nuclear program. Details were thin, but after a quick, public trial, Rashid received twenty years in prison, along with sixty lashes.
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” said Sam. “Any news on when they might reopen Laki?”
Dagursson shrugged. “There have been a handful of aftershocks still. Then they’ll have to reconstruct the road. Why? You staying on to continue your research?”
“Well . . .” Sam hesitated, looked at Ryan.
“We’re going to take a month off,” he said. “Sam’s father is insisting on a big wedding in D.C.”
“It’ll be a splash,” Sam said, “knowing my father. Might even help his reelection bid. The President is opposing him.”
Dagursson nodded. “Hadn’t heard that,” he said. “Congratulations on you two getting together. Don’t ever ask me for marriage advice, okay?”
***
Deep beneath the volcano, the waters of the Southern Ocean retreated through cracks and fissures, down long passageways and cooling ventholes. Much had returned to the sea, but equal amounts flowed back into the hole at the center of the Earth.
As the waters dissipated, they left behind once more the vast, complex universe of stars and galaxies that had so stunned Ryan, Sam, and the others, though no one would ever know.
Once the last government experts, surveyors, and bridge builders had gone and Laki was again silent, seismographs in Reykjavik recorded a magnitude 8.3 earthquake, the epicenter of which was located at the volcano. A flyover by a government plane reported that the surface of the volcano had apparently pancaked in on itself, sealing forever the subterranean levels. The elevation of Laki had decreased by an estimated three hundred feet.
***
Laki observed the changes and saw that they were good. What frustrating, exasperating beings these humans were. He found them endlessly amusing. From this perspective, they were the best of his creations, even though they rejected his truths so routinely. He did not wish to be worshiped, and those few who rejected him completely, the ones who called themselves atheists, he found most interesting.
Perhaps, as Skari suggested, it was time to step back and leave them to their own devices. He would revisit them someday and see what new detours they had taken.
In a few million years, perhaps. There was no rush. They weren’t going anywhere.
sp;