Today I join fellow bloggers Jera's Jamboree and The Divine Write on the Blog Tour for the new book by Bjorn Larssen - Storytellers which sounds so tempting I couldn't pass by the chance to share an extract even though I haven't yet got around to reading my much-anticipated copy.
The Blurb
In March 1920 Icelandic days are short and cold, but the nights are long. For most, on those nights, funny, sad, and dramatic stories are told around the fire. But there is nothing dramatic about Gunnar, a hermit blacksmith who barely manages to make ends meet. He knows nobody will remember him – they already don’t. All he wants is peace, the company of his animals, and a steady supply of his medication. Sometimes he wonders what it would feel like to have a story of his own. He’s about to find out.
Sigurd – a man with a plan, a broken ankle, and shocking amounts of money – won’t talk about himself, but is happy to tell a story that just might get Gunnar killed. The blacksmith's other “friends” are just as eager to write him into stories of their own – from Brynhildur who wants to fix Gunnar, then marry him, his doctor who is on the precipice of calling for an intervention, The Conservative Women of Iceland who want to rehabilitate Gunnar’s “heathen ways” – even the wretched elf has plans for the blacksmith.
As his defenses begin to crumble, Gunnar decides that perhaps his life is due for a change – on his own terms. But can he avoid the endings others have in mind for him, and forge his own?
A free Extract
For Icelanders, America was the New World, a place they barely dared to dream of. Bjarni had spent his youth trying and failing to go and build a new life there. Arnar, his brother, made it, but decided to return – why...?
When Arnar joined the other patrons, Niels was already finishing his second ale. “Why did you return from America?” he asked between quick swigs, as if worried Guðrún was going to change her mind and take his pitcher away.
“And a good evening to you,” answered Arnar, immediately irritated.
“Manners,” huffed Guðrún. “So, Arnar… would you like some brandy whilst you’re telling us about it? On the house.”
Arnar looked around, as if seeking escape, only to find five pairs of eyes glued curiously to his face. Bjarni’s stare was the most intense, the taste in his mouth bitter. He, too, was ready to hear why anybody would return from the New World to live in a fishing village without a name. A year before Arnar’s escapade Bjarni tried to join the others who went to America. He failed. When his brother’s attempt not only worked but turned out to be such an enormous success, Bjarni took it personally. As he was still putting together basic cabinets and digging shacks in the hills, Arnar was earning a lot of money and courting the most beautiful woman in the world. It would have been an easier pill to swallow if Arnar had stayed there and never returned.
“If only you knew,” sighed Arnar. “Thank you, Guðrún. America isn’t what people describe in their letters and articles. It’s an awful place to live. Aye, if you’re smart, strong and hard-working, like me, you can succeed. Just look at my wife and my house,” he said proudly, before returning to his gloomy tone. “But living there to stay? A whole different story. People who do not return are simply failures who can’t save enough money to make it back here. They have to lie to pretend they are better than they really are.”
Doubtful looks were exchanged.
“It’s nothing like here. Imagine that someone takes all this away,” Arnar waved his hand around. “All the farms, the valleys, the sheep, the huts, the skies, the coast…”
“I wouldn’t mind that at all if it got me rich,” said Valdimar.
“The weather is unbearable. In the summer it’s too hot to breathe. In the winter you get so much snow your door won’t open. But can you take a break from working? No. Do they have winter-gatherings? Maybe they do, but I wouldn’t know because Icelanders are not invited. Not unless they want to show off that they can afford one. Like a pet. Remember the powdered sugar, Bjarni?”
His brother muttered something and shifted uncomfortably on the bench.
“What about powdered sugar?” asked Niels immediately.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Bjarni quietly.
“Well, we want to know,” said Niels. It was easy to be brave around Bjarni. If he got upset the worst he would do was leave the inn in a huff.
“Someone get my brother another ale, he’ll need it,” laughed Arnar. “This was a year before I left. Hallgrímur, a friend of ours, came back to visit his family and Bjarni invited him over to listen to his stories. Hallgrímur told us that in America raisins grew in the earth like grass grows here in Iceland, so people did raisin-making like they would do hay-making at home. Then Hallgrímur said they would get blizzards in America, but it wouldn’t melt, because icing sugar fell from the sky instead of snow. So, when you had a wife – and it is very easy to marry in America, I can tell you that’s true – she would love sweeping the porch to save the icing sugar for later.”
Bjarni was staring at his pitcher, his face purple.
“So, this will come as a surprise to all of you, but it wasn’t true. There were no raisins and no powdered sugar waiting. Just a lot of work for people who made fun of you. Weird people you couldn’t even understand.” He wagged his finger threateningly. “That is what happens there. Your friends who went to America, why do you think so many of them never return? They are too ashamed. If you ever go there, do as I have: take the Americans’ money, take their women, and run…”
“Isn’t that illegal?” interrupted Niels. “How did you manage to get a permit?”
“You don’t need a permit there.”
“So you didn’t even ask her parents’ permission?” Magnus was dumbfounded.
“Of course not! We made a plan, took all we needed, then went straight to the boat and came here.”
“I don’t know if I believe you,” said Bjarni, his voice finally back and his face slowly returning to its normal colour. “So many people wrote letters, and I’ve read it in the papers as well. I don’t think you’re telling the truth.”
“I swear to God,” answered Arnar, then grinned at his brother. “If you don’t believe me, go and find out. Bring back some raisins and powdered sugar.” He got Bjarni another ale to soften the impact of the joke. “It’s not worth dreaming about,” he whispered into his brother’s reddened ear. “You’re doing just fine here. If you went there you’d be yet another pet Icelander working for somebody else. Here you’re an independent man who hires others. You have me working for you, that’s how well you are doing. Trust me, brother. There’s nothing for you in America. I swear to God,” Arnar repeated, then smiled. He had no intention to remain Bjarni’s employee for long.
Buy the book here
US - https://www.amazon.com/Storytellers-Bj%C3%B8rn-Larssen-ebook/dp/B07P8Z74CCAbout the author
Bjørn Larssen was made in Poland. He is mostly located in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, except for his heart which he lost in Iceland. Born in 1977, he self-published his first graphic novel at the age of seven in a limited edition of one. Since then his short stories and essays were published in Rita Baum Art Magazine, Writer Unboxed, Inaczej Magazine), Edurada.pl, Homiki.pl, and Holandia Expat Magazine. He is a member of Alliance of Independent Authors and Writer Unboxed.
Bjørn has a Master of Science degree in mathematics, worked as a graphic designer, a model, and a blacksmith. He used to speak eight languages (currently down to two and a half). His hobbies include sitting by open fires, dressing like an extra from Vikings, installing operating systems, and dreaming about living in a log cabin in the north of Iceland, even though he hates being cold. He has only met an elf once. So far.
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