Questions about "Icelander"

The biggest question about Icelander for me was, does Dustin Long even know who the villain of his own story is? I've read the whole thing and he kind of leaves the whole situation a mystery. I guess he probably has his own idea in his mind, but I think it was open for interpretation. The most obvious choice (if we trust Our Heroine) is that Surt was the villain. He could have been disguised as any of the characters. I noticed that the narrator from Wible & Pacheco's sections was neither Wible nor Pacheco. He/she talks about "we," yet also refers to both Wible and Pacheco by their names so I got the feeling that the narrator for these sections was another person tagging along with W&P, whose presence we weren't necessarily aware of. This could have been any of the other characters, or it could have been Surt.
Surt would be considered the villain from the point of view of the Bean family. However, to the people of Vanatru, the Beans and Shirley MacGuffin could have been considered the true villains. They put Vanatru on the map, exposing it to outside influence, tourism, unwanted attention, etc. I can see why the people of Vanatru (ie. Gerd) would think of the Beans and Shirley as the villains. This idea also coincides with the opposing viewpoints the text offers us. We have the text (which is mainly Our Heroine's narration), and we have the footnotes which were written by the "editor." This editor could be from Vanatru and therefore his point of view on the whole issue would naturally be much different than Our Heroine's.
I think Long meant for his readers to doubt the truthfulness of all these different accounts (from Our Heroine to W&P, to the editor, to Dustin Long himself). All could be liars trying to persuade the readers to see their point of view. In answer to my question, I don't think there is one true villain; it depends on whose point of view you are looking at the situation from, just like any situation in life.

A Mundane Event From My Childhood...

This is not neccessarily a one-time event from my childhood, like those we read about in the short stories. This was a nightly occurence in my life from about ages 3 to 10. As I was tucked into bed every night by my father, I had the chance to have him all to myself for the first time all day. He worked hard in a mostly bare cubicle in an office full of other equally boring cubicles in York, Pennsylvania from nine to five. After we'd eat a family dinner and my mom would give my little sister and I a bath, it was time for bed already. Since our mother had been with us mostly all day long, the "tucking in" was reserved for my dad. First, he would read to both my sister and I until she fell asleep (she was always able to fall asleep at practically any given time whereas I have always been a night-owl), and then he would be left to talk to me until I was tired enough for bed. In my room in the dark, he'd sit beside me as I laid in bed all tucked in. We'd chatter about my day and any qualms I had about a friend, an enemy, or a teacher. I'd ask him all kinds of questions about the world, as children do. When he'd say "Ok well, you need to go to sleep now, kiddo. Guten nacht!" I'd exclaim, "Not yet! I'm not tired! Let's play a game." Surprisingly, he'd always agree to play one of our games. The only game I remember specifically is "The Fruit Game", where I would think of a fruit and he'd have to guess it. I usually chose kumkwat or made up a fruit that I knew he'd never guess because it didn't exist. If he did happen to guess the fruit, I'd make him think of a fruit and I'd guess his. This would go on for a few rounds until my dad would, rightfully so, get annoyed and tell me I really needed to go to sleep. The point is that I never wanted those nighttime talks with my father to end and I never wanted him to leave. Through this bedtime ritual, my father became the person I spilled my guts to every night. He knew every little detail about my day by the time he'd leave my room. He was also my protector. Before he'd leave me for the night, he would stand by my bedroom door and say, "All you bad dreams and monsters, I demand that you go away now and leave my daughter alone!" And for the most part, it worked. After this was said, he'd tell me that he loved me and walk out into the bright light of the hallway, closing my door except for a tiny crack to let some light in. Sleep rarely ever came to me for quite a while after he'd leave (I have always had sleeping problems and achieving sleep usually required hours of reflection, talking to stuffed animals, listening to my reggae lullabies tape, writing in a Goosebumps journal, and looking out the window at the deserted streets below). Regardless, this was always my favorite part of the day. When I finally slept, I felt completely safe. I didn't have to worry that there were monsters under the bed because my dad had demanded that they go back from whence they came. I didn't have to worry about a mishap at school because my dad had just told me everything would be okay. I no longer tell my father every detail about my life. And I never really reflected on exactly what time in my life this changed, but I'm guessing around age 12 or 13. All the authority and space that my father had once filled in my life began to be filled by my friends, or by pressure to fit in, or by boys that I wanted to impress. I do still wish that only a word from my father would send the harsh realities of this world back to whatever monstrous place they came from. Regardless, this seemingly mundane nightly ritual from my childhood has been one of the most important factors in shaping the person I am today. My father became my best friend and forever protector, I believe, through this nightly occurence of putting up with my antics and being truly interested in my childish thoughts and questions. He continues to be the first to know about my happiness and sorrows, though now our talks are long-distance. And every once in a while, my sister and I jokingly ask him to play the "Fruit Game." It is our little way of saying, "Don't ever leave, who else in this world could chase my monsters away?"

Another vocab word...

Finally, I can use my second vocab word! Dustin Long is very good at using this tactic: synaesthesia. It means "a sensation that normally occurs in one sense modality occurs when another modality is stimulated." Or, in other words, stimulating more than one sense at a time, in our case through literature. A wonderful example comes from Dustin Long's novel Icelander: "She smelled smoke before she saw it, a buttery blend, brimming visibly, volubly, from Mr. Wible's short and wide pipe" (28). This sentence gives an image of the smoke brimming, while also giving us a sense of its smell, taste, and smooth texture. And that is the beauty of synaesthesia.