Chronological markers: this scene fits like a deleted scene from season 2, following the previous chapter. It takes place during the flashback of the Children of Destiny's travels, at the beginning of episode 3 (around 02:20).

December 31th 1961, Reykjavik, Iceland

There's only a trickle of light, filtering through the slits in the wooden doors of what seems to be a coat closet. I lean in, I squint, I force my gaze across the room I'm spying on. I can see a dozen of men, all in their finest clothes. I frown, I turn my head to the left, only to see Five step back. Suddenly, a metallic object pierces through one of the slits, shattering part of the wood. It's a firebrand, that hits the cupboard door, again and again. *Crack!* Five teleports away, but I stay, immaterial, invisible, the raging firebrand passing through me. under the strikes of a man who knew he was being spied on. A clean-cut goatee, a monocle...

I jolt awake once again, panting slightly.

"Damn it."

I sigh, realizing that I've dozed off while writing in my travel journal, on the small coffee table. I sit up again, I run a hand over my eyes, then I contemplate for a moment the tranquility of the yurt I'm sitting in, in the gentle warmth it maintains above the sheepskins and sturdy wooden furniture. The smell is that of a feast being prepared beyond the thick wool. Judging by the sounds outside, we're still in the early evening.

Why a yurt, especially here, just outside Reykjavik? It was originally a quip from Klaus, which Kitty - once again - took seriously. Back in Mexico, I think. She used her connections, had it shipped from Mongolia to this much-awaited stopover, and had it set up here - under the Icelandic northern lights - with all imaginable comforts. Including a small safe where to store the 'donations' of new comers, most of whom are now joining the 'Destiny's Children' from Europe. Contributions paid in cash, clearly outside any US taxes or regulations.

Whatever you may think of the way Klaus earns his living today, I can honestly say that it's a huge relief compared to the life he used to have. When - even before food and shelter - he was trying to fund his dope addiction. You'll probably hear him talk a hundred times about his many relationships and one-night stands, often in a lighthearted joking tone. All you need to know is that they were extremely rarely 'free of charge', although sometimes enjoyed. At the very least, they were a counterpart for a couch to surf on or a nice watch to pawn; but if possible, for some bucks to cheat at bonto thanks to Ben. Union support, occupational health and - very often - private transportation to get him out of a bad situation at 2 am... well, that was me. Really, take my word for it: I much prefer this absurd era of exalted hippies.

As if connected to this thought, Klaus appears at once through the yurt's opening, quickly closing behind him so as not to let in the cold or any of the clinging 'Children'. He's wearing an improbable lopapeysa pullover with flared sleeves, in silvery wool, over puffy fornmannaklæði pants. And before I can say anything, he's tilting his goatee aside.

"You're waking up from a nightmare," he observes, because my face is probably telling it all. "You've had a 'Kwisatz Haderach' again, haven't you?"

I close my eyes for a moment. And although it might prompt a smile, that reference to Dune makes me tremble a little.

"I don't know," I tell him as he comes to sit at the low table. "Paul Atreides... has visions of the future. I hope they're not".
He shrugs.
"Past, present and future are really overrated concepts. Was Five still there, in your dream?"
"Yes."

Each time, he seems to be central: with this strange impression that I'm in some kind of out-of-body experience where he's contemplating himself. I don't want to find out. I just want to sleep in peace. I rub my hands over my face, my elbows resting on the low table.

"What time is it?"

Klaus claps his hands happily, while laughter reaches us from outside the yurt. Out there, it's dark: daylight hours can be counted on the fingers of one hand, at this latitude, in this season.

"Almost 7pm," he replies; "I can't believe that in five hours time, we'll hit 1962."

I smile faintly, trying to come completely back to myself to be ready for this night of celebrations. This is my first New Year's Eve, since I 'arrived' in the sixties. Klaus, on the other hand, has already lived it once.

"Last year's was so cool", he says. "You're going to be thrilled. The huge bonfire, the poppy seed cake, everyone sitting in a circle singing, laughing, recounting my predictions of the year having actually happened, sharing those for the new year... Damn, I've got another reason to wish I had been a Boy Scout."

I laugh softly. It's a peculiar way of accomplishing together the ordinary temporal leap into the new year, even if I'm still not sure what to think of Klaus delivering to the 'Children' what he calls 'Snippets of Destiny'. Fragments of the future, the ones his selective, impenetrable memory recalls from his homeschool History classes and personal interests. Everyone awaits his predictions with excitement, this year again, almost anticipating his word as if it were sacred.

"Thanks to you this year, Kitty has been the first to send flowers to the family of her beloved Gary Cooper," I say. "And Jill could get used to the idea that we were also going to lose Hemingway."
Klaus chuckles.
"I'll have to tell them it's Marilyn's turn in '62..."

Actually, Kennedy's election, Bay of Pigs, Gagarin's space flight and the Berlin Wall construction have greatly reinforced the perception of Klaus being some kind of fucking prophet, over the course of this year, and no longer just an inspirational figure. This - combined with the little telekinetic tricks enabled by Ben - and some of the Children - like poor Jill - are now in an even more disturbing form of devotion than before.

"We're a long way from our fucked-up New Year's Eves, in The City..."
I rest my chin in my hand, with a vague smile.
"The underground concerts, the improvised fireworks... or the buffets where we'd sneak in without ever having been invited..."
He laughs, clearly cherishing these moments both past and future, then says, his eyes unfocused:
"The herpetological society gala, on that boat, do you remember. And all the college fraternity parties..."
"Boy, in 2014 you were wearing a sarong, because our plan A was to infiltrate the Indonesian wedding next door."
He laughs under his breath.
"A rather lucrative combination of circumstances."

I get up with a slight chuckle, trying to make myself presentable in a fur coat that I quickly slip on. The unpleasant impression left by my dream has somewhat faded, now.

"Then take me to see what the 1961 New Year's Eve will be made of".

He gets up too, quickly puts back on the boots he'd taken off, and pushes aside the wool of the yurt to let me pass outside.

The Icelandic breeze hardly exceeds 3 degrees these days, but around the campfires and under the tent village that stretches wide around the yurt, the cold is bearable. There, lanterns dance in shades of pink and orange in the night of the Seltjarnarnes peninsula. Beyond the cliffs, the Atlantic extends immense and black, in the murmur of the sea winds blowing over the winter-dried grasses. It's still too early in the evening for the northern lights to appear, but almost every evening here, far from the light pollution of the small capital, they stun us with their magnetic curtains of beauty.

Everywhere in this spontaneous village, the 'Children of Destiny' are bustling about, laughing amid the notes of a guitar or sitar, embracing at the corner of a tent, or preparing delicious dishes of fish or smoked meat. Although Klaus won't be touching it, the potato schnapps known here as Brennivín will intoxicate hearts later in the evening and into the wee hours of the morning. As for me, I'm planning to escape with Lloyd around 1 a.m. to listen to Gunnar Þórðarson on the mythical Glaumbær stage, downtown. It's a privilege to hear the birth of Icelandic rock: I miss the albums of Sigur Rós, but I know that it's today that the unborn sounds of the future are taking root.

As Klaus walks ahead between the bowls of delicious cookies that some people present to him as if waiting for him to approve them, Keechie comes to me, trotting along beside me. His sharp nose is red above his bearded grin. He's wearing a dyed suede and wool coat, over his usual suit jacket. And although he's barely taller than me, he towers above my head thanks to the mohair wool cap that protects his bald head from the bite of the cold.

"White Lotus, did you have the privilege of an early 'Snippet of Destiny'?" he asks me as if he's barely allowed to, and I look at him sideways.
"Huh?"
"Predictions... As his 'favorite', has the Holy Wanderer taken you into an early confidence about the future?"
I arch an eyebrow. I'm sick and tired of hearing this all the time.
"Enough of that medieval macho shit, Keechie," I say.
"Did he tell you anything? Is the Cold War going to subside?"
I sigh.
"You'll find out. But you'll hate the Cuban Missile Crisis, for sure."

I'm a bit worried that Klaus will announce the theatrical release of Lawrence of Arabia before anything else, but Keechie wiggles his fingers, as if I'm sharing with him the greatest secret of all. When - to tell the truth - I didn't even get it from Klaus, but from Mr. Patel, the only History teacher who's ever made me regret skipping his classes that much. Keechie tries to catch my eye, as we walk between a few crates and barrels.

"What about the Vietnam War?"
I freeze, I turn my head in his direction, and I quickly grab him by the arm to keep him from walking any further.
"If Klaus doesn't talk about it, don't ask, do you hear me?"
Keechie furrows his brow, a little nervously.
"The thing is... I'd like to know, because my brother's in the Green Berets, see, and there's talk of him being sent as a military advisor for training and logistics, and..."
"He'll probably go..."

My eyes are sad, and I'm not even surprised that Keechie could have such a brother. I shudder at having to tell him this, but I'd rather do it than have him ask Klaus later, in front of everyone.

I know that Keechie has largely cut himself off from his family, that the last phone call didn't go well, and that his whimsical daily life with the 'Children' is very badly accepted by his old father, especially considering what probably awaits his brother. We may live amidst incense smoke and chart-topping Vedas, but reality is always catching up with us. I know it's the same for Klaus, even if he doesn't say so. That each successive year in this decade is more painful for him. And that - just the same - people as radiant as Keechie or Jill actually carry all the anxiety of their time with them non-stop, drowning in the slightest sense of hope as often as they can.

"Will the war escalate?"

I stand looking at Keechie, whose small eyes pierce me through his glasses. The truth is, I don't know how much we're allowed to divulge. How much a simple word slipped between two tents here and now can have an impact on what he will say to his family, on what would happen to them. Suddenly, I remember the organization Five once told me he belonged to. The Commission responsible for preventing things like what I'm about to do from happening. What would be the consequences if I don't keep quiet? For good or bad? I look over at Klaus, laughing as he uncorks a bottle of birch sap juice. And I answer Keechie, only to be sure he won't ask him:

"Yes."
I clench my fingers in my lined pockets.
"Not this year though..."

I must tell him no more. I won't talk about the Tonkin incident in August '64, nor about the Rolling Thunder operation and the massive deployment of ground troops in '65. I'll leave it at that... And anyway, Klaus is already hurrying over to us, gloating, leading us down another tent aisle, towards the cliff.

"The Polish guy with the braid, over there...", he says cheerfully.
"Adrian."
Yes, when Ben isn't around, now I'm in charge of the mental flip book.
"He said we'd be splendidly seated, up there at the cliff, and that we were going to ring in the New Year in grand style."
Keechie scurries up beside him, practically clinging to his arm.
"Yes! Kitty and Jill have crafted nearly six hundred fabric flowers, it's amazing. Nothing is too beautiful for the 'Snippets of Destiny' ceremony!"
Klaus gives him a little wave of his hand as if to sweep away what he's just heard.
"What ceremony are you talking about. This year, I'm introducing you to all the frontal beauty of Britney's lyrics, by the bonfire, I'm sure someone has a ukulele."
Keechie nods briskly.
"I just hope those far from the stage can hear well."
"What 'stage'..."

As we emerge at the edge of the last rows of tents, all three of us freeze: Keechie with a look of blissful wonder, Klaus with a masterfully contained expression of horror, and myself... trying hard not to laugh.

Up there by the cliff, the only fire burning is the little red light of the power generator, next to a stage set up like that of a small open-air festival. With a microphone to drown out the noise of the wind. At the front, a swarm of mats, cushions and braziers is set up, where some of the 'Children' are already settling in cross-legged. Keechie applauds and heads off to help Jill hang a long garland of fabric peonies, which Ben is already gazing at in awe.

"Holy shit," I say amid a breath of laughter. "It looks like a mini Woodstock in parkas."

Klaus, on the other hand, doesn't laugh at all, really not, as I walk up to him and cross my arms and contemplate what is waiting for him, for us. Clearly, we're ten thousand worlds away from last year's convivial songs around the bonfire, in small groups of peers. And most of all, he's realizing that he's going to have to stand on that stage and speak to everyone like the orator he's never been.

"This is a nightmare, and there's not even Five in it", he says with a hint of resignation.

Clearly, his small community is undergoing some changes. I give him a gentle pat on the shoulder and - before joining the others- I whisper one of Britney's holy words in his ear:

"You played with their hearts, got lost in the game... you're not that innocent."

Notes:

The Reykjavik yurt was mentioned so briefly in the series, I really wanted to give it a chapter. It's an opportunity for me to show how the 'Destiny's Children' gradually underwent a shift from a small, cohesive hippie community to a cult based on devotion. It's clear from the series that this happened mainly by inertia, without Klaus deliberately wanting it to happen, and I wanted to emphasize "how", here.

Keechie broke my heart a little in this chapter. A passage that ponders the consequences of revealing the future, or not, in a troubled geopolitical context that weighs on people's lives. Some people - just like here - clinging to the faintest hope... or preferring to know what fateful events lie ahead.

Rin takes it with humor and relief, even as she begins to realize the implications this dawning cult could have on the lives of the 'Children'. Reykjavik and Europe are a new milestone on this journey of almost two years. Soon they'll be off again, this time heading for the Ganges ghats...

Any comment will make my day!