The Sun That Won't Set

On her last night, Polly waited for the dark, but the dark never came. This far north, in the middle of summer, the sun does not really set. It rolls down toward the sea, glows red and gold on the horizon, and then climbs back up again. The whole island lay in soft golden light at midnight. Polly's red head and round glasses shone. She decided not to sleep at all.

There is a simple reason for this magic. This island sits so close to the top of the world that in summer the sun barely goes down, and the bright nights are very long. In winter it is the opposite. The sun almost hides, and the days are short and grey. The island swings between endless light and long darkness.

She flew up high one last time. From there she saw the whole week at once. The valley where two continents pull apart. The geysers. The new black lava. The white glacier. The crowded cliffs. Fire below and ice on top, all one young, restless island.

Then Polly turned out over the water. Behind her, Iceland stayed as she had found it, steaming and freezing at the same time, glowing in a sun that would not set. Still burning. Still cooling. Still being born.