FABULOUS BOOKS Emil H. Petersen The Survivor’s Saga

Fantasy EMIL H. PETERSEN / THE SURVIVOR’S SAGA 1

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Emil H. Petersen (b. 1984) is an Icelandic poet and fantasy author. Emil's two poetry books, Refur (Fox) and Gárungagap (Wag the Gap) were acclaimed by critics and readers alike. In his poetry, he examines mythological elements critically, often projecting them into the present day. For Fox he received the Newcomer’s Grant of The Icelandic Literature Fund. As well as being very active on the Icelandic poetry scene, he has translated poems, worked as an editor at a publishing house, worked for the Reykjavik International Literary Festival, and written articles and reviews in literary magazines. The Survivor’s Saga – Höður and Baldur (Saga eftirlifenda – Höður og Baldur, 2009) is his first novel, and has been credited for being the first established Icelandic work of fantasy fiction. Emil currently resides in the town of Lund in Sweden, where he earned his second Master’s degree. His thesis is called “Trickery, Chaos, and Brutality: Norse Mythology in Two Urban Fantasies”, which he presented at The International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts, 2012, in Florida USA. He has also been invited to read from his novel at Swecon in October 2012 (The Swedish Convention of Fantasy and Science Fiction). Previously, he earned an MA in Practical Editorship and Publishing, and a BA in Comparative Literature.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Novels: Saga eftirlifenda: Höður & Baldur, 2010: Nykur

Poetry: Refur, 2008: Nykur Gárungagap, 2007: Nykur

EMIL H. PETERSEN / THE SURVIVOR’S SAGA 2

THE SURVIVOR’S SAGA — HÖÐUR & BALDUR Höður & Baldur is the first novel in the trilogy The Survivors’ Saga, an elaborate and extensive story that combines many literary genres and brings a fresh contribution to the Icelandic literary scene. The story joins together an exciting fantasy-thriller, an existential and comical account of the relationship of two brothers, and a sharply critical representation of the status of men, creatures and gods in a world of conflicts and deception. The Survivors’ Saga tells the story of those who survived Ragnarök, the Norse apocalypse. 7010 years have passed since the world ended, and the story takes place in a alternate version of today's world. The brothers Höður and Baldur are members of the Æsir, the gods of the ancient Norse religion. Both of them have survived the end of the world. Both have seen a new world rise from the ashes of the old. To receive the apple of youth that preserves his immortality, the blind god Höður must journey to the so-called civilized world once a century. When he finds himself stumbling upon a scene of death and wanton cruelty on one such visit, his exile is forcefully brought to a close. Meanwhile, in a blistering desert on the other side of the world, his brother Baldur grows visibly older by the minute, in spite of his struggle to stave off the inexorable decline. Wealthy and dark forces, controlled by yet another surviving god, are on the rise, and the decline of mankind looms on the horizon. Shortly after Ragnarök, conflicts and power struggles between the surviving Æsir derailed all efforts to rebuild the world as a better place. Mankind repopulated the lands, and without divine help, humans went on to build a world largely identical to the old one. History looks set to repeat itself as a pattern of events emerges, similar to those that sent the previous apocalypse in motion. Technology and contemporary world-views are present in the story, but supernatural phenomena have been hidden from humans just up until the beginning of The Survivors’ Saga. The narrative in this first book of the trilogy spans the area of Iceland, Iraq, Sweden, USA and Canada. The author gives his own expanded version of the myths taken from Snorri Sturluson and the Eddas by way of flashbacks, conveying a deeper understanding of the background of the protagonists, their dealings and disputes.

REVIEWS “A knock-out Icelandic fantasy.” (Morgunblaðið newspaper) “The world Emil creates is convincing and the narration is entertaining.” (Kiljan, Icelandic National TV) “A thrilling story that is both a fascinating adventure and a portrayal of the present. Emil Hjörvar brings a unique life to the key-characters of Norse mythology, while simultaneously raising the question: What happened after Ragnarök? The Survivors’ Saga is the answer.” (Óttar M. Norðfjörð, author) EMIL H. PETERSEN / THE SURVIVOR’S SAGA 4

SAMPLE TRANSLATION

CHAPTER ONE Rejuvenation In the beginning of September in the year 2010 after Christ the latter, or seven thousand and ten years after Ragnarök, no one was present to deliver the apples of youth. Hodur took a bite out of a bad apple. To feel the juice rejuvenate muscles, skin and bodily fluids was the only positive thing he had experienced since arriving in Iceland. A whole age had passed since he set foot there and he hoped as before that few would notice his passing. He stood on a patio outside a small lonely shack, a poorly built refuge of the Aesir, which had undergone transformations through the ages, but was presently disguised as a fruit store in the center of a town which bore the name Hveragerdi. Hodur claimed he was bound to nothing but this one place. The fruit store had been left open and empty. After a moment’s desperation, accompanied by rummaging, fumbling and sniffing, he had finally found a single, bruised apple on the floor, covered with sticky dust. He could not know how long the apple had been lying there. But not for too long, evidently, since apples of youth did not start to rot until after many decades. Contrary to ordinary apples, they turned sour with time at room temperature. Hodur thought it indicated that a considerable time had passed. It did not matter, he needed to get younger. Once every century, in order to sustain his life, Hodur was forced to take a journey to the so-called civilization. He tended to hold the sentiment that it was pointless, particularly because he felt like he had no role. Despite this, he could not allow himself to skip this necessary tradition, for he had faint hopes that someday, perhaps, he would be required. So he needed to be alive. A touch of responsibility – deep within his mind – remained. […]

CHAPTER TWO A Morning in a Desert Baldur woke up, covered in sweat. The oxygen had nearly run out in the tent and the smell was unbearable. He crawled into the morning mugginess but was quick to his feet; the sand was scorching. The members of the merchant family were awake and pottered about, folding the tents, getting the breakfast ready and rekindling the pyre which had gone out during the night. The camp formed a semicircle around a dried tree in the middle of the desert. By the tree stood two tethered and burdened camels. Only one day more and they would be at the Euphrates. Baldur inhaled deeply and stared up while he stretched. The sky was powder-blue, no clouds in sight and the horizon wreathed in the heat. They had entirely forgotten to bring sunscreen and as a result Baldur’s white skin burned on the first days, but it had healed by now and turned hazel. Save for his peeled nose and ears. He turned back to the tent and peeked in. His companion snored loudly. […] * * * Riotous laughter and shouting, the mugs are slammed on the wooden tables after each draught, the music of the lute and the drums is fraught with tension. EMIL H. PETERSEN / THE SURVIVOR’S SAGA 5

Hodur sits at the rearmost table while all the others gather and form a semicircle around one of the higher tables. Weapons and random objects are thrown at a blond and white- dressed man standing on the table with open arms. The weapons hit him, they have no effect and fall down to the floor, like they had been thrown at a stone. The blond man grins and through his laughter one can tell how pleased he is with the attention and life in general. But Hodur interprets it as self-satisfaction. Hodur is sick and tired of this part of the feast. Always the same playacting and he cannot take part in it. The only thing he can do is to slurp the mead. “Aren’t you sick of this?” whispers a serpentine voice into Hodur’s ear, startling him. “You can sneak, Loki, I’ll give you that.” Hodur tries to keep calm. “It’s nearly impossible to notice your footsteps.” Loki laughs a dampened laughter and slides his hand behind his back. “Isn’t it miserable to sit here and listen to these fools? You should see Baldur’s shining smile. He thinks he’s invincible. That fool.” “Watch out,” Hodur answers, a bit tipsy from the mead. He faces Loki. “You shouldn’t talk about my brother like that, even though he is … even though he did … Truly I’m not the most loved son, I’m not really noticed that much, but I could break your neck with one hand if I felt like it.” “Hah, take it easy, I didn’t mean it that way,” Loki quipped. “Even though he what? Did what? Snatched her from you? Stole her from you.” He whispers the words but puts heavy stress on them; pretend commiseration. Hodur feels a slender object being pushed into his palm. The fingers feel it until he discovers that its tip has a pungent smell, is dry and rough to the touch. For reasons Hodur cannot understand a chill travels through his body and his face goes sallow. Evil dwells in the object. A fateful death. Hodur shakes his head, tries to speak but can only move his lips: No. “Don’t be like that,” Loki says and closes Hodur’s palm. “Join them. You always sit here alone while the others are having fun. Show your brother what you are capable of.” The shouting and the laughing reach their apex. Baldur laughs the loudest. And the women too. All. All but the blind god. “Throw, Hodur.” Loki’s voice becomes soothing. Hodur stands up, pale, and squeezes the tip of the javelin. “Show them what you’re capable of.” Loki recedes into the shadow. “Throw …” The blood trickles between the fingers when the palm opens. Hodur listens, detects Baldur’s laughter, his footsteps on the table. Location, height and distance have been analyzed. The grip around the shaft tightens and the muscles contract.

CHAPTER SEVEN A Wicked Reunion Breathing was difficult. The mouth was gagged with a cloth and one nostril filled with coagulated blood. For a split second Hodur did not realize what had happened, but when the veil around his mind meandered slowly away, the pain in his feet, hands, torso and head reminded him of the immense impact. He tried to move but it did not work. Limbs EMIL H. PETERSEN / THE SURVIVOR’S SAGA 6 were stuck together with wires of steel and on top of that shackled to a stone floor. Naturally, for if Hodur were tied with an ordinary rope or something similar he would break away in an instant. A horrible smell permeated his nostrils, he had vomited at some point. And the taste made matters even worse; the puke was still for most part in his mouth and when he raised his head it poured down his gullet. Hodur could not think with this inside him, he had to sustain his senses. He swallowed and retched. The feeling of suffocation overwhelmed him. One nostril couldn’t provide enough oxygen for the battered body, so he blew his nose as hard as he could. Almost there. A crack opened. He felt the air creep in and blew again. Solid gobbets of blood spluttered out. This was enough. Breathe, just breathe, he thought, gather my strength. His senses started to revive. At first, Hodur had no idea what had happened to him, but judging from the reverberation retching sounds he was making, he was in a small room. When his sense of smell gradually cleared up he smelled the heavy scent he had noticed at the tavern. After the pain let up a little the skin began to feel the cold in there, and then he knew for sure that the location was a cellar. His blindness prevented him from realizing that this was an ancient wine cellar, more reminiscent of a dungeon because of the shackles. Old and empty wine shelves covered the walls and big broken barrels lay here and there. All alcohol had evaporated long ago, Hodur didn’t detect any smell of that kind. The ceiling was dripping; the dripping sound was all he heard at that point, save his own noises. The cellar door had been mended with various pieces of wood and chunks of iron. Traces of scratching and dents by fists would have let the door’s value fall way down in the eyes of antique salesmen. In the middle of this bleak room there were two chairs and Hodur sat on the one facing the door. The chains dangled along the legs of the chair and rattled with the tiniest movement. The rattling and dripping cut through Hodur’s hearing where he tried, as best as he could, to assess the situation. The other chair faced him and on it was a crowbar. Between the chairs stood a wretched table, small in square measure and with thin legs. The dripping was steady. Hodur had gotten a grip on the cloth with his lips and moved it to his teeth, started to gnaw. Meanwhile he pricked up his ears under the sweaty hair. As he ripped a hole in the cloth he heard dampened footfall from above. It hit in cadence with the drops and shifted farther, above the door. Hodur sat still in order to not let the chain’s noise rise above the sounds he needed to hear. The footfall slammed to a stair of stone and then he could at last identify it. The one who possessed it was heavy-footed and had a slight limp. Judging by the irresolution of the steps he seemed to be angry and nervous as well. Hodur detected other footsteps following the previous ones; light and insidious. The blind one was in no doubt that there walked Vidar and Narfi. […] * * * It’s as if the whole world is crying. Gods and goddesses are gathered at a beach and form a semicircle around a knarr. Behind them, in eyeshot farther up on land, the outline of Valhalla is visible between the treetops. Its golden roof rises up from the fog which lies over the forest. Odin, the all-father, broods over his son’s body where it lies in the well-carved ship covered with kindling and jewelry. He rubs his hands together and handles his ring, tugs it off with effort and places it into Baldur’s palm. Odin climbs down a short ladder and takes his position besides the posterior keel. He gives a command that the knarr should be ignited and at the same time glances sullenly at the blind god. EMIL H. PETERSEN / THE SURVIVOR’S SAGA 7

Hodur stands far from the gathering, leans against a rock and feels his father’s eye on him. He senses that his presence is not welcome here. But he mourns as well. Hodur hears the sizzle of the fire spread, and soon picks out a smell that is a blend of burnt wood and scorched flesh. A heavy and clumsy footfall in the sand approaches the ship and the groaning of an abominable ogress follows it into the sea. The Aesir are broken. They would rather pay a vicious creature to do what they themselves lack the mental strength to accomplish. A sudden shout pierces through the weeping. Baldur’s wife, Nanna, runs to the ship, with a turgid face and bedraggled. No one tries to stop her. She climbs nimbly up into the ship, stands on the gunwale and the flames brush her body. Nanna spreads her arms and permits herself to fall into Baldur’s burning embrace. […]

CHAPTER EIGHT A Long-Coveted Coral The tunnel seemed long to old and worn-out feet. The drops from the ceiling poured down the dusty faces and formed stripes so the hoary and mottled skin peeked out like a weary-fraught brightness through a dirty window in rain. Baldur and Módi had to rest twice those thirty meters that led to the underground cave. With each step the drone from the water rose and the dim blueness at the end of the tunnel became a bit brighter. They stepped into a round cave. A small but powerful waterfall boomed out from the rock to their left, which gave off a lean stream. The stream flowed into the cave wall straight across and divided the cave into two equal areas. On the other bank stood a table and a chair made of stone, rather ponderous structures. On the table lay an object which possessed the blueness and the light pumped in and out, perpetually blinking but always radiating brightness. On the chair sat a human being, stone-still. From this distance, the fellows could neither make out the outlines of the object nor the human – the soothing brightness of the object made it impossible. Baldur and Módi did not have much time left and therefore they crept to the stream with the eld on their tail, which death would soon replace. They waded into the water, but when they were half way across the human suddenly rose from the chair and rapidly the water thickened around their feet; they could not stir. The dough-like liquid curled up around their thighs and all other limbs, heaving them up into the air. Módi meant to shout but the liquid trickled over his mouth. In the air they waddled and were entirely subdued by the power of the transformed water. […] * * * Through the cold waves and snowstorm, Hodur wanders, but he knows there is no way off this enormous ice sheet. Spanning the horizon, at long distance, a circular snow- covered and frost-bitten mountain range dominates the view, so big and well protected that not even the mightiest bird could fly over it. A while ago, Hodur thought he heard a muted sound, echoing voices which approached but fell silent in a snowdrift nearby, either coming from men or supernatural beings. Then the storm hit and he no longer knows where to go. The pain from ripping the arrow out of his his heart had almost been insuperable, but afterwards it did not make any difference; in this place you cannot die again, no matter how great the pain. […]

EMIL H. PETERSEN / THE SURVIVOR’S SAGA 8

CHAPTER ELEVEN The Huntress The rations were limited. Hodur and Lif took turns sneaking out of the box and rummaging the hold, searching for food and drink. They had also exchanged the narcotics for clothes and other linen materials from other boxes. Lif provided herself with a Desert Eagle-pistol, the Mark XIX type, and several clips, in case something went wrong. The blind god got to hear about how powerful guns had become as weapons of murder, about the swift damage they could do; guns had indeed changed struggles and wars since he had experienced such events. Hodur became uneasy at the thought of how close the bullet had passed by his head during the escape from the tavern. He would have to call upon all the techniques at his disposal if he was shot at again. […]

CHAPTER TWELVE Sneaking to Lund Módi went three times with long intervals to the cabins and knocked on the bathroom door. Baldur had been there for more than three hours, all the time saying that he was almost finished. Módi was still extremely filthy and smelled awful. Worse, Hringhorni was a squeaky clean ship so the stench was all the more noticable to other crew members. The four dwarves avoided him because of the stench, mainly as teasing, but Módi killed time by teasing them back; lurked behind them, took them up and squeezed into his armpit. The dwarves subtly enjoyed these tricks since cleanliness was not in their nature, neither of objects nor themselves. But in their service to Baldur they needed to follow the rules. Módi’s and the dwarves’ temperament was similar and they got along well, and one might say that if it was not for the son of the fallen ex-god of thunder the four dwarves would have given up their job on the ship long ago – but then again, what else should they have embarked upon? The crew and the new guests were busy preparing lunch when the door to the cabins opened and thick steam from the bathroom meandered up into the sea breeze. They turned around. At first Baldur was not visible because of the steam but when he walked tripping out on the deck Farrah goggled. The middle aged savior which she had met in the desert appeared now exuding elegance and beauty. Baldur’s shining hair still hanged down to his shoulders but was carefully trimmed and well conditioned, he had a big part of the hair in a pony-tail but let the rest hang along the sides. His cheeks well shaven except he left short sideburns. The skin was smooth, white and perfectly unblemished. The eyes radiated to a certain extent but there was no longer any sign of the weariness of traveling. Baldur was happily back in his everyday clothes, which consisted of a lily-white suit with golden buttons and laceless white Italian shoes. While Farrah and Rostam were amazed by the metamorphosis, Módi, the dwarves and Harbard were not put off by the fact that the white god sported anew his traditional looks. “Goddamn, that took a long time,” shouted Módi raucously. “You shut your mouth and clean yourself,” Baldur answered jesting. He couldn’t keep the smile from his lips because of how divine he felt to be back in his natural condition, young and clean. “This looks delicious. Let’s eat.” He walked smiling to the dining table. EMIL H. PETERSEN / THE SURVIVOR’S SAGA 9

When Módi passed Baldur he pretended that he was going to punch the newly washed one in the shoulder but the latter pulled quickly back like it was an assault. Módi vanished into the steam laughing. […] * * * […] Baldur holds on tight but Nanna’s feet are ripped from the torso, the blood whirls, her hair burns and in the end she dissolves in agony in his hands. Huge, pitch-black holes open up above the skies and pull in everything. Everything. When the holes close again the quakes and drones stop with an extremely powerful bang, so the brothers are slammed to the ground and knocked out. Unconsciousness. Darkness. Silence. Ragnarök. They wake up at the same time. The cold and the rocks are gone. Beneath their feet there is jade grass, no flowers or other growth, only grass and it stretches as far as the eye can see, into the horizon – which seems not to extend as far as before. The sky is clear and the warmth of the sun gives them strength to get up. Baldur’s hand is pulled up. Draupnir is back on his finger the second time and directs the hand in the right direction. Far away, two golden tablets shimmer in the grass, they are calling the brothers. Along with them two beings from each cardinal direction walk towards the tablets. The survivors. Hodur and Baldur are filled with sorrow, they do not speak to each other but together they set forth to the glittering tablets.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN A Supper at Glitnir The smell of food filled the dining room. Two satyrs with dandified upper halves were lugging drinks and accompaniments to the table, while the rested voyagers found their seats and took in the magnificent reception and its ambience. They were surrounded by paintings, artifacts and other treasures, all proclaimed lost in history books. There, sitting on a chest of drawers, was the Holy Grail, serving as an ordinary drinking cup. Baldur had needed a drinking vessel for one of his returning trips; when he said goodbye to Jesus and his Apostles after trying to convince them that the religion they preached would affect the formation of the world in a bad way. The story about how the blood of Christ had been gathered in it was then a mere myth and when the white god heard of the grail’s popularity in the Middle-Ages he found a good place for it in the dining room. Other kinds of artifacts had also their place there, artifacts which literature and mythology described but men thought were mere fiction. For example, the Shield of Achilles hung on the wall and the Golden Fleece beside it, Aladdin’s lamp rested on a shelf – the genie long gone – together with Pandora’s Box, but that was only a piece of decor and had never held the evil of mankind, it came from elsewhere. […] * * * EMIL H. PETERSEN / THE SURVIVOR’S SAGA 10

[…] The tension between the survivors does not change. Quarrels and disputes. Importunity and stubbornness. The brush-off of Hodur carries on and they do not want anything to do with his blindness. They cannot erase it. They do not want his help unless he has vision. Baldur avoids him, Váli despises him. The others do not seem to care. Why is he here? Why the hell does he not leave? The only thing he would regret would be leaving the two humans which tend hard to their role of proliferation. But their kindness is not enough to make him linger here up on this hill. Before dinner starts, and considerably before the sun sets, when the Aesir sit around a recently kindled campfire and wait for the boar to be cooked, Hodur gets up and walks away without any words. The survivors watch him go, look at each other but keep on waiting. All except Baldur. He gets up and watches his brother vanish into the horizon, into this new phenomenon which the Aesir to not fully understand.

CHAPTER NINETEEN Camp Hero No sounds of animals. Only faint tones of the pandemonium from the parking lot, which fell silent surprisingly soon after the car accident. This terrain had been stripped of everything which could be considered good or natural. Hodur detected the smell of dried bark, primarily, but occasionally the redolence of the sea hitched a ride on the breeze. He pulled his legs a little bit when walking, his tracks more visible. At the same, time he tried to keep his sense of the environment at maximum. Listened how Skadi handled the pistol, how she never loosened her grip, holding her outstretched arm close, but not close enough to give the blind god a chance to perform his sudden movements and grappling. She breathed irregularly, plainly very excited, tense and nervous. Periodically she switched hands when the tremor appeared, but with the free hand she ceaselessly stroked her thick and ragged hair from the face. Hodur could, perhaps, take a chance and take some action when the switching took place. But that would include a huge risk. He preferred to wait for a better opportunity and in the meantime find out what reasons lay behind this skullduggery and betrayal. […] RIGHTS

Emil H. Petersen Tel: +46 / 761 619098 [email protected]

www.eftirlifendur.is

CONTACT

The Icelandic Literature Sagenhaftes Island Fund Ministry of Science, Education Austurstræti 18 and Culture 101 Reykjavik Sölvhólsgötu 4 Island 150 Reykjavík [email protected] Iceland Tel: +354 / 545 9451

www.bok.is www.sagenhaftes-island.is