Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

Hrímland was first written back in 2014 in Icelandic, translated and then published by Gollancz in the U.K. in 2019, then reached U.S. shores through Titan Books in paperback in October 2020. There is a brilliant piece on John Scalzi's The Big Idea blog about Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson’s process of translating his own work, exploring the use of language, and deciding what to keep or not along the way. I was delighted at the introduction and glossary that presented me with the proper pronunciations and definitions I would need for some words that were not familiar to me as a U.S. reader. By the second chapter, I was barely having to glance back to make sure I was getting something reasonably right. The word choices helped draw me into the fantastical world of Hrímland. The back of the book mentions Shadows of the Short Days is for fans of China Miéville and Neil Gaiman. I would add to that alchemical blend a touch of Elizabeth Hand and dash of Charles DeLint.

Hrímland is an introduction to an Iceland inhabited by pure humans, huldufólk (extradimensional exiles), huldumanneskja (those born of human and huldufólk parents), náskári (the ravenfolk), marbendill (aquatic folk), and the four landvættir (the spirits of the land). We are introduced to Sæmundur who has been expelled from the Svartiskóli, the School of Supernatural Sciences and driven by an obsessive need for knowledge and understanding of terrifying, undefinable, spoken magic called galdur. Its companion is seiður, a more orderly, land-based, sorcerous energy (seiðmagn) that can be harnessed by industrial means. We also meet Garún, a mixed-breed artist of huldufólk and human parents with a foot in both worlds and part of neither. She is on a singular quest for belonging by destroying the Kalmar Commonwealth’s hold over her homeland and guided at times by her demon-powered audioskull that plays changeable music through her headphones to alert her of danger.

As our two obsessed protagonists continue on their separate journeys, we are introduced to a Reykjavík where everything is a potential threat under an authoritarian regime that is deeply intelligent, crafty, spies on its own citizens, and has no qualms about using violence to put down protests. At their disposal is not only a looming airship and a prison from which none escape, but also disturbing seiðskratti (wielders of seiðmagn) in red robes and plague doctor masks who call to mind the worst imaginings of inquisitional torturers. Sæmundur and Garún continue to spiral into ever deeper shadows and riskier situations in their personal quests from venturing into the Forgotten Downtown to the depths of Svartiskóli’s forbidden magical library. The protest scenes and dystopian atmosphere are very timely as our world sees a rise in authoritarianism and as one character points out, “They will kill us for demanding civil rights and rewrite history to make us sound like hooligans.”

At turns deeply satisfying, rebellious, and disturbing. Vilhjálmsson plays with music, sound, and silence as a part of his rich worldbuilding. At one point he calls this out directly: “As a composer [Sæmundur and Vilhjálmsson both] break up his work with the absence of sound, he used the silences as well to draw in the power from beyond, lying behind the entirety of creation.” If as Vilhjálmsson writes, “No space is as infinite as the gulf between the mind of a living being and the reality outside it,” he has done an excellent job at creating a bridge between one mind and another to draw the reader into his astonishing first novel.

As we get toward the end of this Icelandic opera, we are treated to a carefully orchestrated discordant tone. Where other authors might linger over action in Reykjavík at a particularly dramatic moment, Vilhjálmsson instead pulls us headlong into the obsessive nature of the protagonists with shorter passages switching between the two that rushes the reader into the explosive crescendo of a conclusion that should not be told here, only experienced.… (plus d'informations)