From Iceland's Nobel laureate, an essayistic tale of the unlikely miracles that return a church--fated to disappear over & again throughout time--to the same hillside 1882. In the still of morning, lafur sharpens his scythe on the bone-dry pavestones that separate his farmhouse from the rest of Mosfell Valley, where life revolves around sheep. The sound of his hammer rings out like a high-pitched bell over the tussocky fields. Across the valley, perched on a hill that hoards more sunshine than others, stands Mosfell Church. Nearby, the parish priest's maid Gunna pours her "slosh," a weak cup of coffee. Further afield in Reykjav k ("down south" as the locals say) the general assembly decides to revisit an old plan to cut costs by consolidating small parishes, and calls for the demolition of Mosfell. Yet today a church stands on that same hillside--its sharp steeple silhouetted against...
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