Under the Glacier by Halldór Laxness

The roaring twelve-ton truck is driven across the homefield, straight over the green pasture, so that the earth trembles and the calf kicks out. The monster comes to a halt among the dandelions and buttercups on the grass-grown pathway between the church and the parsonage. Out steps a broad-built man with a straddling walk (jaunty-arsed, as it used to be called) and broad-faced in the sense that the word broad-whiskered is used about a cat. His sideburns reach down as far as the lobes of his ears.

The following items of freight are unloaded: 1. Three men wearing ponchos as outer garments with an opening in the middle through which their somewhat hirsute heads protrude. This cold-weather garment is usually named after the Bronco-Indians of South America, and they wear it when they ride their special bronco-horses herding bronco-livestock in winter; thus everything is called after bronco- horses, men, and harness. For my own convenience I shall call these fellows winter-pasture shepherds, as that was the first type of human being that came to mind when I saw them; 2. Boxes and drums made of wood, tin, and plastic; merchandise, presumably provisions; 3. Mrs. Fína Jónsen with scrubbing brush and soap. The winter-pasture shepherds rush off into the field at once to visit the calf. One of them brings out from under his poncho a stringed instrument with a convex base, and plucks at a string to entertain the stirk; it was a somewhat weak-toned lute. They assume Buddha postures on the grass around this wretched cloven-footed animal; one takes a flower from his hair and offers it, but the stirk refuses to accept it (probably a plastic flower). The broad-shouldered man in charge has taken Mrs. Fína Jónsen past the church and up to the front door of the bungalow; he produces a key and unlocks this mysterious house as if he lived there. Madam goes in with the scrubbing brush. Now the man in charge carries the lorry's load into the house, piece by piece. With that done he pulled a bottle from the pocket of his parka, took a drink, and pissed luxuriantly to the four winds. He happens to glance towards the parsonage; on the remains of a wall that once enclosed a vegetable garden he sees a man sitting-the undersigned emissary of the bishop. No sooner does the newcomer set eyes on this person than he walks straight over to him.