‘Yes, but…’ Stoker coughs a little. ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that when the stage set disappears, so does the nothing.’
‘And then what’s left? Nothing?’
‘Which is logically impossible,’ says Stoker calmly. ‘Which tells us that the stage set won’t disappear. It can’t, from a philosophical point of view. But – nota bene – it’s going to change! As day becomes night, so will—’
‘But while the stage set is, then the nothing is as well.’ Jón Karl leans back on the couch with a triumphant smile. ‘Like two sides of the same coin. End of story!’
‘Very well,’ says Stoker with a careless sniff. ‘But since you’re granting a specific world view – that is, existence on the one hand and nothing on the other – you must grant some kind of purpose that—’
‘Life is without purpose,’ says Jón Karl, silencing his host with a piercing glance and domineering gesture. ‘There is nothing in nature that could be called a higher purpose. Purpose is simply an empty word that humanity uses to excuse various actions. Basta!’
‘A bit of a simplification, maybe. Your point of view is narrow, your attitude unyielding and your mental world black and white… but, even so, you’re not so dumb.’ Stoker returns to his customary leer. ‘I saw right away that there was some glint in your eye. Something that—’
‘Take it easy, mate!’ Jón Karl stands up from the couch and snaps his fingers in Stoker’s face. ‘Snap out of it. None of this “me and you” bullshit, huh?’
‘Take it easy yourself,’ says Stoker, wiping the leer off his face. Then he turns to concentrate on mixing the warm tobacco and the melted hash oil.
‘Um, tell me…’ says Jón Karl. ‘When did you get interested in all this… this mumbo jumbo?’
‘When?’ Stoker turning his suspicious raven eyes towards his guest.
‘Yeah.’ Jón Karl yawns.
‘“Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein”,’ intones Stoker dramatically, his voice trembling. ‘“Let them curse it that curse the day, who are ready to raise up their mourning”.’
‘I see,’ says Jón Karl, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table.
‘So says Job in the Old Testament,’ says Stoker and he stuffs a short, black, wooden pipe with the oily tobacco. ‘The Leviathan he mentions in his Lament, where he curses the night he was born, is the Hebrew name for Tiamat, the snake or dragon of disorder that’s coiled in the abyss and has been worshipped and raised up by the followers of Kutulu for hundreds and thousands of years.’
‘Indeed,’ says Jón Karl with a nod.
‘Since I was born into this world I have been one of the few who fight against the many.’ Stoker presses his thumb into the bowl of the pipe. ‘“Let that day be darkness” – to quote Job again – “for they will know nothing but misery and woe who know the truth and see through history’s web of lies”.’
‘Aren’t you going to light that, man?’ asks Jón Karl, rocking back and forth.
‘You asked,’ says Stoker. He presses his thumb even harder into the bowl of the pipe and looks calmly at his guest, who is losing patience. ‘And I’m going to tell you about the primordial powers that were worshipped and called to meetings with humanity long before the days of Kabbalahs and the early Christians. I’m going to tell you about The Ancients from the religious writings of the Sumerians, who are the oldest culture in the world and reigned in Sumeria where Iraq is now, and Mesopotamia was before. For some reason this great nation disappeared from the face of the earth, in the blink of an eye, but their language is still whispering in the Shadow beyond Time, and in the dark corners of the Western world you can find age-old manuscripts that tell of the ungodly and terrifying powers that wait beyond the Gate, ready to break through and usurp the power anew!’
‘Yeah, great,’ says Jón Karl, snapping his fingers. ‘Just get that fucking pipe lit!’
‘All good things to those who wait,’ says Stoker with a cheeky grin. ‘Hannibal Lecter, this time, not Job!’
‘I’m warning you.’ Jón Karl points a threatening finger at his host.
‘If you don’t start calming down, I’m going to spit in the pipe instead of lighting it,’ says Stoker, his voice shaking. He takes a deep breath and straightens his back.
‘Then I’ll tear your head off and throw it all the way to hell!’ Jón Karl thumps the table so hard with his clenched fist that the books bounce and the flames flicker.
‘And there’s a hearty fire in hell.’ Stoker lights a match. ‘Because I’ve worked so hard shovelling coal for the Master!’
‘Just light the pipe. After that you can shovel coal in hell till the fire reaches God’s arsehole.’
‘Ha ha! Bloody good!’ says Stoker, putting a match to the pipe and the pipe to his lips, then drawing the fire into the tobacco and the smoke into his lungs, between bursts of chilling laughter. ‘God’s arsehole! Ha ha! The fire reaches to heaven! Ha ha!’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ says Jón Karl, irritated, and reaches out his right hand. ‘Come on, let me have the pipe.’
‘Ha ha! The clerics may have managed to turn things upside down and got the masses to believe that the devil is inferior to God, that he’s down there and really just a shadow of the Godhead, whose only purpose is to tempt man and punish him but the truth is something else entirely.’ Stoker speaks while inhaling then hands the pipe to Jón Karl. ‘The Sumerian creation myth recognises the personification of evil as the oldest of all ancient gods. Christianity teaches us that Lucifer was a rebel in heaven who fell into disgrace with God, who is supposed to have sent him to earth to be punished, taught and humiliated.’
‘Yeah, right,’ says Jón Karl, preoccupied with drawing the heavy, thick smoke into his lungs which then send it throughout his body like a burning-hot cloud.
‘But, in truth, the future creator of the world and godfather of mankind rebelled against the gods of old, killed the eldest of the ancient gods and made the universe from his body, which was the body of an enormous snake,’ says Stoker, blowing smoke through his nose. ‘Our Icelandic Eddas confirms this. They tell how the sons of Bor killed the giant Ýmir and moved Ýmir’s body to the centre of Ginnungagap and made the earth from it, the ocean and lakes from his blood, and the mountains from his bones… and woman, all humankind.’
‘This is good…’ Jón Karl closes his eyes and lets the smoke slide like a headless snake out of his open mouth.
‘Therefore mankind’s position in creation is eternally between a rock and a hard place,’ says Stoker with a leer. ‘In our veins runs the blood of the enemy, the vindictive and fearsome ancient gods who do not live but dream all the same, while our spirit is a gift of the gods of old, creators of the universe, mentors and protectors of mankind, this childish offspring of evil and the Holy Ghost.’
‘Here,’ says Jón Karl, handing back the pipe.
‘But the snake that doesn’t live but dreams all the same, it hides in that endless outer space and pitch-black abyss which they call man’s subconscious,’ says Stoker, taking the pipe and drawing in the smoke. ‘That dragon of disorder coils and twists like a spring… like the galaxies of the universe… like the snake that twists in each of us and biologists call the code of life… DNA.’