Alfred Döblin (1878–1957)

Messages were spread. In the townzones they had manmade magical devices that broadcast to every other place what people were up to, what they were talking about, how they were modifying their surroundings, what distinctive changes were in progress. Tele-pictures sent out images of people and objects. Any stimulus that stood out was a firestorm that grew from a spark to a flame to engulf a whole neighbourhood, a town. In distant lands, on mountainsides, along wide rushing rivers, on sultry tropical animal-teeming plains dwelled people who kept themselves to themselves. Stimuli words images reached them. Images were there before their eyes, appeared again and again, tugged at them. Told them to leave the river behind, come away from the cradling heat. Like a shovel under a pile of stones lying mossy on the ground, the blandishments scraped at the people, lifted them, scattered them.

Wild beasts had been shot, tawny lion panther. Termites had been expelled, streams diverted, huts built, solid houses, villages with dogs, sheds for hens geese cows. In southern zones were regions that had been cleared deforested only a century or two earlier. Northmen in their iron glory had come, had torn ripped throttled the land, devoured mangled chewed plants and roots. Stones buried in the soil had been lifted and dumped in rubble heaps. In the black bed left behind by the corpses of trees and plants, they had sown pale delicate seeds by the million. The ground welcomed these, the seeds pushed green tips above the surface. Wide green fields, dense forests of stalks, ears of grain waving gently in the breeze. There they lay, beside the barns sheds living quarters that now were emptying. People returned to the vast cities. They encysted themselves in the cities. Left most of the Earth to itself. The soil rested.

Images of dead landscapes appeared in every waiting clamorous town. There was no attempt at concealment. No defeat was declared. Only: nothing had changed. Youngsters, men and women, the leaders, flags held high, had cried their power. Fire from the Earth, in human hands, blazing up to the stars: there it is on the Russian Plain, from the Urals to the Valdai hills. Ground torn up, rivers drained, people trees animals devoured. Horrible dead land. This was the work of the youngsters with their flags. Their achievement. This was the secret of the devices, the marvellous powers of Nature harnessed to their retorts. Those returning from the fleet told that these were no mere fables, what the technologists and experts said about the air-squalls water-squalls long-wave and short-wave radiation fiery explosions. But nothing could be done with it. People in the cities went about as before, grew flowers in greenhouses, enjoyed sport and circuses. What were you supposed to do? The young ruling men and women had failed. Their ridiculous flags. Let them tear up the earth, poison cities. If they want, they can destroy our western lands as well.

Like a people defeated and subjugated centuries before, its men and women scattered, their language banned, their tribe scorned, their customs held to ridicule; the men went as slaves into foreign service, let themselves be taken off to foreign wars. And some defected, shone among the foreigners who despised them. Like when young men and women, half-children, emerge covertly among such a people; angrily in private they confront the elders of their people and in secret rooms they say: we've had enough of cowardice, the appeasement that's fed to us, of being insulted and demeaned. They'd give their lives to wipe away the shame. And they go about, distribute leaflets, hold furtive meetings. A stir goes through the people, through every little family, through the young girls who must clean house for foreigners and fall prey to foreign men. And one day it's war. And one day the streets are empty. And one day a flag flies from the rooftops, a new flag. And processions fill the streets, rejoicing in a language - what language - the despised and now victorious language! Everyone weeps behind windows and in the streets. In this hour the dead of lost centuries stir in their graves, flutter in huge swarms to the living from their bare unmarked resting places, to join the jubilant procession. Thousands, thousands sing along, run ahead of the flags and hold the battle-streamers and kiss the muddy boots and caps of the young marchers.

Like these men and women and people, the rocks the mountain ranges the craters ridges the deathly silent ice-covered giant peaks were seized, gripped like a lock by the key, and had to yield. Followed thrumming, and around them everything exploded into light.

Loosened, great Dyngja Herðubreið Tögl Skjald-breiður.

Water had wedded itself to this swelling of the Earth at the North Pole; unlike the other continents water had not abandoned the land and withdrawn to the seas. It scrabbled hammered tore at primordial rock. Dropped swirling unceasing from dark and daylit air, snow, myriads of shimmering six-branched crystals stars motes, sprinkled pressed softly silently down on giant stolid domes peaks hollows. And as the motes sintered and froze they congealed, cemented together into greenish glacier ice that laid itself over the older ice sheet. And through its gaps new water flowed, froze again in the depths. The mountain of ice grew.