As our plane descends into Bergen, the clouds are ripped from my window like white bandages and I see Norway looking back at me. Fjords gouge deep wounds in the mountains. The water is black-silver, like mercury, as if Norwegians have given up on weather, snapped the thermometers and poured them over the fjords.
A primordial green grows thick as fleece on the mountains. This is where green began, in a quickening of ice and fire. This is where green comes from. This is the green they had in Eden, green so plush and potent it’s dangerous. It could devour the city in a minute. The green has imperial dreams.
Our plane skates into Bergen at half past ten in the evening, but daylight has not yet knuckled under to night. It’s already late in the game, but we’re nowhere near checkmate. This is not a shy, sly violet twilight. This is a bleach-blue midsummer midnight. At midsummer, they siphon their light straight from the halls of Asgård, where night has never been invited. This light is immortal and arrogant as a god.