On the seventh day God rested.
In hindsight, that was a little premature.
For when He woke up on the eighth day, made coffee and took another good look at His creation, He saw that something was not quite right.
There was light.
There was darkness.
There were mountains, seas, trees, people and animals.
Africa had turned out beautifully. Norway had perhaps been given its fjords a little too enthusiastically, but never mind. He had really overdone it with Italy, and He was quite pleased with the Netherlands too.
But in the upper left there was still a rather messy patch.
Water mostly.
God picked up the blueprint.
“Peter?”
“Yes?”
“What is this?”
Peter looked.
“Water.”
“I can see that too.”
“Should something go there?”
God looked again.
“No idea.”
He had actually taken the day off.
Still, He put on His boots and went to take a look.
It was windy there.
Not a little.
The wind blew sideways.
God turned up His collar.
“We’ll leave that as it is.”
“Why?”
“It will make them strong.”
“Who?”
“The people who are going to live here.”
Peter looked around. There was water, reeds, mud and, in the distance, more water.
“Voluntarily?”
“Just wait.”
God began.
He scattered some sand in the south-east. Put clay in the north. Stuffed peat into any gaps He could find and left water running between it all.
Then He looked satisfied.
“Lovely.”
“It’s flooding.”
“Then they’ll build dykes.”
“Who?”
“Those people.”
“Which people?”
God sighed.
“Peter, do try to pay attention.”
He made lakes. Ditches. Canals. A few islands. Here and there a forest, but not too much, because you still had to be able to see the horizon.
Then the wind picked up again.
“Shall I turn it down a little?” Peter asked.
“No.”
“It’s blowing rather hard.”
“That’s how it should be.”
God put down a church tower to see whether everything was level.
The tower leaned slightly.
“Fine.”
Then He made the Frisian.
That turned out to be more complicated.
The first version said nothing.
“He doesn’t work,” Peter said.
“Yes, he does.”
“He doesn’t say anything.”
“Ask him something.”
Peter walked over to the man.
“Good morning. How are you?”
The Frisian looked at the sky.
“Could be worse.”
God smiled.
“You see?”
The second version talked a little more, but only when there was actually something to talk about. The third immediately wanted to know who owned the land. The fourth began repairing a fence without being asked.
God looked satisfied.
“We’ll keep these.”
“They are rather headstrong.”
“Independent.”
“Stubborn.”
“Steadfast.”
“They don’t listen.”
God looked at Peter.
“I have that problem with more people.”
Then He gave them a language.
“Is that necessary?” Peter asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Otherwise the rest will soon think they understand them.”
Peter had no answer to that.
By evening it was nearly ready.
God walked through His new land one more time.
He saw cows in the meadow. A farmhouse behind a row of trees. A church tower on the horizon. Water glinting in the last light.
A skûtsje sailed past.
On the bank stood a man, his hands in his pockets, looking at the sky.
“Lovely weather,” God said.
The man looked at Him.
“Could be worse.”
God nodded.
Success.
Peter came to stand beside Him.
“What shall we call it?”
God thought for a moment.
“Fryslân.”
“And what do we do with those Frisians later? When they come up here?”
“What do you mean?”
“At heaven’s gate. The regular admission procedure?”
God looked at him as though Peter still had not understood anything after eight days.
“Of course not.”
“A special queue?”
“Queue eleven.”
“Why eleven?”
“No idea. Just write it down.”
Peter took out his book.
QUEUE 11 — DECEASED FRISIANS
“And admission?”
God looked once more across the land.
Over the lakes, the meadows, the towers and the stubborn people who were already busy pumping away the water He had created.
Then He smiled.
“Always green.”
“Even if they have sinned?”
God thought for a moment.
“Peter…”
“Yes?”
“They’re Frisians.”
And so it came to pass.