The Icelander

He had always been uncomfortable with card games. Everyone round the circle looked at you expectantly and, somehow – he never could do it himself – they all had worked out precisely which cards you were holding and they judged you harshly for your decision on which one to put down. Never mind if it was the best card, he was never sure if it was even permitted for that card to be played.

As he crawled into his tiny tent that night he was anxious. There was no water at tomorrow’s stopping point. That meant that if their support vehicle broke down on the track they might die. The desert is no place to survive without water.

The Icelander had won all the games of cards that night – as usual. Felix the German had lost of course. The Lithuanian had just laughed and smiled. The heat of the night had pressed in around them.

The Icelander – his name a mouthful of consonants like a volcano stopping air traffic – had, as usual, been ebullient and dominating as he continued to win and to regale them with stories of his deeds and opinions.

‘We had to rise at 6am for our devotions and I was completely unable to wake up. It went on for days. I was desperate to do the right thing. Eventually I prayed to God before I went to bed to wake me in time in the morning. The next morning I heard a mysterious tap, tap, tapping at my window. I got up, looked, and there was a huge, black, Icelandic raven tapping on the window.’

They were impressed. The Lithuanian smiled and laughed.

‘And then I went back to bed.’

They guffawed. The perfect ending.

Perhaps, tomorrow they would all come up trumps.


Barnaby McBryde