Æ

By Jon Eschsri

Facing the loss of his job, Dr. Callum Chamberlain, Lecturer in Icelandic Language and Literature at one of England's premier universities, meets and falls for fellow scholar Antonia and agrees to her scheme to search for a lost Icelandic saga. As his journey takes him to Reykjavík and beyond into the uninhabited Icelandic hinterland will he achieve his quest for history or do others have a vested interest in his success?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Eschsri
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798366161480

Jon Eschsri

Jon Eschsri was born in Somerset and currently lives in Cambridgeshire. He has been obsessed with Íslendingasögur, the Icelandic sagas, since he took a holiday on the island in 2018. He has a degree from Manchester University and a Masters from the University of the West of England. He is envious of his fictional characters who are fluent in Icelandic and spends his free time trying to learn the language, mostly unsuccessfully.

Book preview

Prologue

A s the pipe passed through the letterbox, it made a knocking sound. Callum, who sat on the floor in his father’s library, gazed up and looked across the hallway with curiosity.

The boy was at an age where he was fascinated by much of life. An exceptionally gifted student, he excelled at his upper middle-class primary school in a leafy English suburb. His teachers described him as introverted, a classic only child. He had no friends and preferred his own company over others.

His father owned and managed a modest but thriving antique bookshop. Their home a shrine to books. Njáls Saga, a chronicle of several generations of Icelandic families, their loves, and their feuds during the late tenth and early eleventh centuries, lay on the rug in front of Callum. In an act of juvenile precocity, he selected the largest book on the shelves, intending to study forensically its One Hundred and Fifty Nine chapters.

His family had recently returned from a two-week trip to Iceland, paid for by a substantial business windfall, according to his father. The holiday had both inspired and delighted him. On their last day, the boy pleaded with his parents to settle in Reykjavík and make it their permanent home, a request they had refused. Undaunted, he vowed to read and learn everything he could about the country. He might even attempt to master the language. During their stay, the family visited museums dedicated to the Icelandic sagas. With the texts in the house waiting for him to pick them up, he thought this would be a suitable place to start.

The first two paragraphs had introduced a dizzying cast of characters; Mord, Unn, Hoskuld, Thorgerd, Thorstein, Ingjald, often topped with peculiar nicknames, Ragnar Shaggy-Breeches, Ketil Flat-nose, Sigurd Snake-in-the-eye. Their unusual names immediately distinguished the book from other literature he had read. In his thoughts, he had created a detailed family tree. Who was the offspring of whom? Who married whom? Which individuals were related to the others by blood?

A new sound distracted him and he watched as liquid began flowing from the pipe. He should have called his parents, but his bedtime had passed, and if he did, his reading time would be cut short. The smell permeated his nostrils: a harsh, acrid odour that reminded him of cars. Petrol! Almost yelling, his lips formed the words ‘Mum, Dad,’ but he didn’t say them.

A violent burst of white and yellow engulfed his vision as at that moment, the hallway erupted in flames. Fire exploded from around the front door, moving across the hall and up the stairwell. Now he called out, but an animalistic yell of shock and terror, with no discernible words. As he dashed forward, he hoped to escape into the living room and then to the garden, but the heat forced him back. He slammed the library door shut. Plumes billowed through the gap between the doorframe and the floor. As the blaze engulfed the bookcases, he covered his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his pyjama top and watched helplessly. Smoke filled his lungs and he coughed violently. His head spun with dizziness he’d never experienced. His vision closed in on itself and everything in his universe went blank.

***

In the morning, he awoke slowly, his eyes initially refusing to open, his eyesight blurry and indistinct. He had the sensation he was lying in a bed, the thick crisp sheets unlike those at home. The right side of his body pulsed with pain. He tried to speak but found his nose and mouth covered. His vision cleared and familiar shapes formed. He was in a hospital ward, opposite a row of beds pressed against generic cream walls. After hearing a soft sound to his left, he turned, with effort, to see his father weeping softly with his head buried in his hands.

I

I love my job. I really do. Whenever there is trouble, perhaps the farmers are restless, I fall back on the knowledge that what I am doing is making a difference. It’s a satisfied man who can come home from a day at work, look his family in the eye and say, What I did today helped to change the world. Of course, I can’t tell anyone this, my wife thinks I have a dull but well paying Government position, but I know, and that is enough for me.

Not only am I helping to change the world, but I am doing so for and on behalf of the greatest nation on this planet. Foreigners I have encountered think their country is the best; overconfident Americans, posh condescending Brits, or suave haughty Frenchmen - stereotypes, yes, but where do these national clichés come from if there isn’t a grain of truth in them? When I was younger, the way they spoke to me, as if I were a second-class citizen from a second-world state, enraged me. I’m more phlegmatic now. Every day, I can exact a tiny amount of vengeance on these barbarians.

Yes, though they believe their nations to be great they are weak and feeble. They are infected with the same virus, a decadence that runs through them. Men marrying other men, women pretending to be men and visa-versa. There is a strain of liberality which makes me sick to my stomach. Let there be no doubt these societies are living through the equivalent of the Last Days of Sodom. I gain much satisfaction from knowing that I am helping, in my own small way, to bring this last day ever closer.

Even when Daniel, one of our top farmers (though I would never admit that to him), complains about the evening’s tasks, I can keep my temper and calm things with a smile and a joke. In addition, there are the infrequent, yet irksome, power outages, which prevent any work from being done and, detrimental to morale, means no one is paid. I can shrug off the resulting criticisms and insults and take none of them to heart. It helps I am well compensated and my position allows me to travel internationally sporadically, which I make use of whenever possible.

My responsibilities are varied and exciting. I have earned a status within the organisation that ensures I am respected and deferred to by all but the most foolhardy. My superiors employ a light touch, which I enjoy. They want to see results; who doesn’t? But they don’t challenge my judgement or try to meddle with day-to-day operations. They are content for me to do my best to perform the tasks at hand. There is a value to them in the plausible deniability of my actions. I like to think I run a tight ship, and my reputation has spread among the upper ranks.

I’ve never craved fame or celebrity and I find the idea of being recognised by people on the street unnerving. The only recognition I seek is from my superiors for doing my service. There will never be a history book or documentary that mentions my contribution to changing the world. So be it, I am content to hide in the shadows.

I cannot say I am a religious man. So, I am thankful my career not only helps my country but does God’s work at the same time. It’s a fantastic convergence of aims that suits me admirably. It always makes me laugh when I hear American politicians talking about ‘One Nation Under God’ and ‘God Bless America’. Why should God bless such a warped and depraved state? A place where the Christian conservatives elect a twice divorced, multiple adulterer who pays porn stars for silence as president. I am fortunate our leader is strong, powerful, and of unimpeachable character. My loyalty to him is eternal and absolute. When things become tough, challenges pile up and I’m struggling to find the drive to make it through the day, I can look to the top for inspiration.

Additionally, I enjoy high security of employment. It is not a position you get fired from, however numerous your mistakes, nor one you can resign from easily. If you commit too many errors, the consequences are severe, such as a demotion, pay reduction, and relocation - in the worst case scenario, thousands of miles away. But at least I know I’ll never be asked to look for another job.

Chapter One

%22Y ou should start looking for a new job."

Chamberlain gulped. What?

You asked me to express the problem in plain English, so I’ll try to be as explicit as possible, said the Dean of the Faculty. The university is suffering from a major financial crisis - fewer and fewer UK students study foreign languages at A-Level. We are forced to make job cuts.

But why me?

The Icelandic course can no longer be justified. Dr. MacFarlane will retire at the end of term, and we won’t offer it for the next academic year.

But I’m going to take over from MacFarlane, there has always been the understanding that once they retired, I’d be given the role.

Do you have a written record of that? A job contract? inquired the Dean.

No, but…

This drew no comment from the Dean, only a glance that conveyed his argument’s weakness.

He tried another tack. Only a few universities teach Icelandic, and only one other offers a course combining studying the literature as well as the language.

Then there clearly isn’t a market for it, retorted the Dean.

Callum Chamberlain, Lecturer in Icelandic Language and Literature at one of England’s premier universities, contemplated the loss of this title. In his late twenties, his academic career had progressed rapidly and effortlessly from undergraduate to PhD student, and now to his current post, without significant challenge.

The Dean’s use of the word ‘market’, which Chamberlain despised, made him abandon his arguments and return to his office in a foul mood. The weather was warm outside when he stepped out of the yellow sandstone building that housed the university’s administration, but it didn’t improve his temperament.

Of course, there isn’t much of a market for Icelandic, he reasoned; fewer than four hundred thousand people speak the language, less than the population of Cardiff. His thoughts preoccupied, he stepped into the road in front of an oncoming car whose brakes squealed and stopped short of hitting him. The motorist made his feelings known through a torrent of abuse and vigorous hand gestures. Chamberlain gave an apologetic sign and swiftly moved from the scene of the near accident.

He didn’t stand out enough for the driver to see him in advance. His appearance was unremarkable; he stood somewhat taller than average and had mousy brown hair, neither fashionable nor objectionable. It fell to his shoulders and more than once he had been called a ‘floppy-haired academic’, an insult he bore with pride. While he wasn’t thin, he was wiry, but not muscular. There were still acne scars on his face from his teenage years, and sometimes people mistook him for an undergraduate. His limited wardrobe contained only dark sweatshirts, paler shirts, and smart yet comfortable trousers. He wore glasses intermittently, especially when reading and largely for effect, his short-sightedness not being so pronounced as to warrant a prescription. In this university town, he blended in seamlessly.

So hardly anyone speaks Icelandic, he returned to his thoughts; does that mean we should abandon it? Should we ignore the most influential and distinctive historical documents regarding mediæval Europe because they were written in Icelandic? Why should the market get in the way of learning for the sake of learning, he wondered, provoking himself into further rage.

He swept aside the Dean’s subsequent justifications. That his lectures consistently earned low marks in the termly student satisfaction surveys. Words such as ‘impenetrable’, ‘monotonous’ and ‘incomprehensible’ littered the feedback they had received. His seminars either became heated debates between him and the most outspoken students or devolved into sullen silences with no engagement other than monosyllabic responses. These were mere pretexts to get rid of him.

The building that housed his office offered a stark contrast to the one he had left. It was built in the 1960s with unsightly modernist architecture among significantly older and much more attractive buildings. An anonymous wag christened it the Building of Languages and Translation when the Languages department moved in shortly after completion, and it became affectionately known as ‘The Blot’. It had better amenities, and its interior was warmer than its more æsthetic counterparts, with the added benefit that none of the views from within it were spoiled by its own unappealing appearance.

A security guard who recognised him, even with the grimace of anger on his face, waved him through reception. After stomping up two flights of stairs to his floor, he walked through several dimly lit corridors before arriving at his office. This was nestled away from any hub of activity in the department, the way he wanted it.

As soon as he stepped into the room, he conducted a mental inventory of its things, his version of Kim’s game. This building had no locks on the interior doors, and academics had ‘borrowed’, without asking, objects such as staplers and hole punches, causing him days of consternation until the items were returned. His desk, chair and computer were in their proper places. On the opposite wall, a bulging bookcase stood, publications arranged in his singular method no one else could decipher. An old, tattered map of Iceland adorned the picture rail as the only decorative item in the room. He knew the print predated 1973 since it depicted the southern island of Heimay’s north east coast before the Eldfell eruption irreparably transformed it that year. An electric kettle sat on top of the small cabinet that completed the furniture. This was full of tubs of Pot Noodle, his go-to meal while he was studying, simple to make and bland enough not to distract him from his work. The drawer above held tubes and tubes of skin balm and cream.

Angry, he threw himself into his chair, turned on his computer, and spent that morning achieving precisely nothing while the Dean’s words played backwards and forwards in his mind. He worked on the paper entitled ‘Hrafnkels Saga: Analytical Explanations, Editorial Structures, and Textual Variations.’ He typed one paragraph painstakingly slowly before discarding it, grumbling bitterly about how pointless it was.

At noon, a ray of comfort arrived as a message from his flatmate Jen, who invited him to lunch at the nearby canteen.

***

It’s the worst conceivable moment to spring this on me, Chamberlain grumbled. I’ve got an important conference coming over the weekend.

What exactly do you talk about at these conferences? his housemate asked. Your beloved sagas are centuries old, so I can’t think there’s anything new to discuss.

A constant battle rages between Additionalists and Subtractors, he said with a smile.

Jen gave him a quizzical stare. The Additionalists and the … what?

It’s merely the nicknames I’ve given to the two groups. There are forty known Icelandic sagas, he explained. "The ones I am interested in, the Íslendingasögur. There are additional shorter prose narratives called þáttir but let’s not worry about them. Experts agree at least one saga has been lost, but that is where the agreement ends. Additionalists believe many lost sagas previously existed, based on the text of those that survive, whereas Subtractors argue they did not."

Does this lead to fights at these conferences? Jen joked.

This is serious, he insisted. The sagas are among the earliest European literature, the most significant texts of the past thousand years.

That might be so, but you are the only person I know who has read any of them.

That’s everyone else’s loss, not mine, he retorted.

Jen was Chamberlain’s solitary genuine friend, he had to admit to himself in moments of honesty. After relating his morning discussion about his job prospects to someone sympathetic, his mood improved enormously. They had met several years ago at the start of their undergraduate degrees, developing a connection based on their mutual homesickness and feelings of not fitting in. For Jen, who grew up in the Thong Lo neighbourhood of Bangkok, these emotions were perhaps more understandable than for Chamberlain, who now lived less than fifty miles away from his father. Despite their differences, their bond had endured and grown. The random nature of their meeting made him grateful for this companionship. Because of the alphabetical coincidence of her last name, ‘Chaimongkhon,’ she had been seated next to him during many induction sessions during their early university days.

So you’re not around this weekend, she said.

No, I’ll be travelling on Friday and have booked two nights in a budget hotel, so you’ll have the place to yourself.

Wonderful, she said, her eyes gleaming. I’m having a friend over who I’d love to introduce to my bedroom ceiling. It’ll be reassuring to know we won’t be disturbing you.

He twitched as a wave of envy swept through him. With dark brown eyes and hair that matched her complexion, Jen looked young, fresh-faced and petite. Her perfectly symmetrical face had a sweet, anime-like appeal that many men, and, more crucially, women, found deeply attractive. She often teased him, good-naturedly, about the number of girls he had brought back to the flat with him - zero, compared to her. A computer prodigy, she continually complained about the still prevalent gender gap in her chosen sector. Yet Chamberlain recognised her lament wasn’t motivated by a profound sense of unfairness, but her frustration that her chances of meeting a partner were limited.

An alarm buzzed on his phone and he reluctantly left Jen and the dining room to lead a seminar. His seminars were infamous throughout his department for their difficulty and his irritability. He had once reduced a final year student on the brink of their exams to tears, earning him a strong rebuke from Dr. MacFarlane. First-year students, for whom worries about grades were a long way off, frequently missed his lectures. It wasn’t uncommon for him to discover half of the expected six attendees were absent. Today, however, was a dismal affair, with only one undergraduate present, a nervous young man whose name he had forgotten or more likely had not bothered to learn.

Unperturbed by the minimal audience, he spoke for ten uninterrupted minutes on the oral tradition of the Icelandic sagas and their subsequent alteration as they were transcribed. The student sat quietly, as though content for Chamberlain to speak for the entire hour of the seminar. It had been his intention to fire random questions at the assembled attendees following his introduction. Then he realised how impossible it would be to choose a respondent at random.

So, who shall we ask the first question to? he asked slightly sadistically. Originally intended as an amused chuckle, his laughter sounded out as a maniacal cackle, even to his ears. After that, he made a mental note not to laugh for the rest of the session. The student slumped back into his seat, but when questioned explained the historical timeline of the verbal transmission of sagas from generation to generation and their eventual inscription on vellum. It pleased Chamberlain that the undergraduate touched on the controversy of how the sagas came to be penned. Did the author simply transcribe the oral work or did he choose and amalgamate stories into a new composition? Was he a creator or a copyist? Despite the evidence produced by both sides of the debate, it

Reviews for Æ

[L. Dominic · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book was fantastic, and I had a hard time putting it down. The alternating chapters keep you reading just a little more each time to see what will happen next. Despite the fact that I've never been to Iceland, this book does a great job at depicting it and making me want to go there.

[Alex Mayer · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great Read

Ben Elton-esque. If you like politics, history and drama this book’s for you. An entertaining read with a thoroughly believable protagonist.

[FredVerhargen · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Really makes you feel you are in Iceland. Surprisingly humorous in places but ratchets up the tension as you near the end.