Storytellers
Would you murder your brothers to keep them from telling the truth about themselves?
On a long, cold Icelandic night in March 1920, Gunnar, a hermit blacksmith, finds himself with an unwanted lodger – Sigurd, an injured stranger who offers a story from the past. But some stories, even those of an old man who can barely walk, are too dangerous to hear. They alter the listeners' lives forever… by ending them.
Others are keen on changing Gunnar’s life as well. Depending on who gets to tell his story, it might lead towards an unwanted marriage, an intervention, rejoining the Church, letting the elf drive him insane, or succumbing to the demons in his mind. Will he manage to write his own last chapter?
Bjørn Larssen’s award-winning, Amazon #1 best selling novel is an otherworldly, emotive Icelandic saga – a story of love and loneliness, relief and suffering, hatred… and hope.
Purchase Link - https://books2read.com/storytellers/
Author Bio –
Bjørn Larssen is a Norse heathen made in Poland, but mostly located in a Dutch suburb, 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, following this achievement several decades later with his first book containing multiple sentences and winning awards he didn’t design himself. His writing is described as ‘dark’ and ‘literary’, but he remains incapable of taking anything seriously for more than 60 seconds.
Bjørn has a degree in mathematics and has worked as a graphic designer, a model, a bartender, and a blacksmith (not all at the same time). 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. He owns one (1) husband and is owned by one (1) neighbourhood cat.
Social Media Links –
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https://www.facebook.com/bjornlarssenwriter
Bjørn tells his readers,
When I started working on Storytellers,
I didn’t know yet it would be set in Iceland. I already knew, though, that it
would be about a small community, claustrophobic rather than cosily tight-knit.
One where the only person who believes something to be secret is the one who
doesn’t know everyone else talks about it openly behind their back.
Klettafjörður, the Icelandic
village that became the book’s setting, established itself as more and more
people built houses near each other. It wasn’t just about geographical
proximity, though, but the roles that needed casting. The gossip hub, for
instance, used to be the inn, but when prohibition was introduced and the inn
closed down the local store’s owner, Anna, gladly took over. Brynhildur, her
daughter, is much less happy with her role, which is that of her mother’s
spinster daughter who failed to land a man.
As it happens, technically
there is an eligible bachelor around, Gunnar. Unfortunately, he’s the local
outcast. What, how, why, or when that happened is hard to say… those days are
about to come to an end, though. True, he’s a dirty, smelly, drunken
blacksmith. But… if it were to turn out that he had more money than he appears
to have… Brynhildur would be more than happy to fix those problems. It’s time
for Gunnar to clean up his act, join the Church, become a respectable citizen –
and, of course, get married. Gunnar’s opinion on any of those things is not
required.
Anna and her daughter Brynhildur
were busy having a fight.
“What you are
wearing is not only inappropriate, but will also give you pneumonia,” huffed Anna. “You’ve got
goosebumps all over your forearms. Put on a sweater.” Brynhildur,
who made her dresses and blouses herself, seemed to enjoy exposing her cleavage
to the burning cold. The large cross pendant did nothing to disperse unclean
thoughts.
“A sweater over
this dress is going to look… inappropriate.”
“No, now you look inappropriate. Give this to me.” Anna twisted a
thick knit shawl around Brynhildur’s neck and secured it with a heavy
green brooch from the “unsold forever” box. “Here.”
“You’re still
treating me like I’m a child,” complained her
daughter. “I’m a grown up, I can take care of
myself.” She removed the shapeless brooch
and untangled herself from the shawl, trying to look resolute.
“Funny,” said Anna. “At your age I
was already married for five years. And your sister got married at the age of
twenty-seven, same as me. Happy as a pig in mud. Maybe you take care of
yourself too well. Give me that.” She started wrapping Brynhildur in
the shawl again.
“It’s not my fault
that Ásta is so egotistic. It was my turn. Since
when are you pleased about her marrying the merchant’s son? She
betrayed us!”
“Do not raise
your voice at me,” huffed Anna, securing the brooch. “Don’t you dare
take this off. You don’t get to marry someone because it’s ‘your turn’. You need to
give them reasons to think you would make a good wife. Put on a nice warm hat.” She was
rummaging through the “unsold forever” box again.
“I don’t want a hat,
it will ruin my braids. I don’t care what they think, as long as
they notice me!”
Anna turned away from the box
sharply and hit her daughter with a fierce glare.
“I’m sorry I
shouted,” said Brynhildur, demonstratively
pulling the shawl tighter. “I’m just trying to look warm and
welcoming,” she continued, then shivered
involuntarily. “But it’s like they
are afraid of me…”
“They’re not afraid,” huffed her
mother. “They think you’re a hussy.
All these powders, lipstick and whatnot are only going to get everyone to talk
about you. And not in a nice way.” She pulled a beige woollen hat with
pom-poms out of the box. “Here. Wear this.”
“That doesn’t fit my
complexion.” Brynhildur pushed away her mother’s insistent hands.
“As long as you
live in my house, you’re going to do what I tell you.
Stop moving!”
Brynhildur’s lower lip began to tremble slightly just as the doorbell rang. Both
women, completely enmeshed in their fight, turned to look at the customer.
Their facial expressions were identical: eyes wide open, mouth agape, as if
shocked that someone could actually enter the store.
Gunnar, who – as always – tried to
open the door so softly the bell wouldn’t make a
sound, and – as always – failed, froze as well. His heart leapt into his
throat, beating faster and harder. Four identical eyes the colour of grass in
October stared at him, unblinking. Gunnar’s hand
convulsively jumped towards the flask in the inside pocket of his coat, he took
half a step back and bumped into a shelf. A cookbook fell next to his head and
made all three jump. Anna withdrew swiftly towards the back of the store,
leaving her daughter to deal with the blacksmith.
He’s a bachelor, Brynhildur
remembered. An unusually warm smile brightened her face, and her hand
absent-mindedly started fiddling with the brooch. As Gunnar squatted clumsily
to pick up the book, Brynhildur took in the sight of his wide shoulders. “Gunnar, dear!” When the blacksmith straightened up, she couldn’t help but
notice his eyes were gentle and displayed vulnerability. “Good news, we
sold your roses, so I’ve got some money for you. Bring us
more roses, dear. People come here and ask for them and they get angry when I
say we don’t have any at the moment. They’re very
popular decorations for graves.” An artist, she thought, creative,
perhaps a bit moody, but talented. A drunk, true, but that was fixable…
“Ah,” said the
blacksmith, whose imagination presented him with the image of a rose-adorned
gravestone with his name on it. “I’ll, eh, see what I can do. I need
some things…” He touched the 100 kronur in his
pocket, and blushed. Brynhildur’s unblinking stare always made him
think about birds of prey. Perhaps he could make do with his old clothes for a
bit longer.
“Yes?” she urged him.
“I need, I need…
newspapers. And a mattress–”
“Oh my gosh! You’re in luck, imagine, Helga just died!” enthused
Brynhildur, then quickly cast a look towards her mother. “I mean,” she continued
in very different tone, “of course, it’s very sad and
unfortunate… You know Helga? The one with the cats? Used to own the inn? She
lives, I mean lived, down the street, on the corner…”
“Aye,” said Gunnar.
He didn’t know Helga. “What about
her?”
“Well… she died
recently and she lived alone. There’s a list of
things the family are getting rid of, here, in the window. There should be a
mattress, if it’s not sold yet. They might still
have some chairs too, maybe a sofa…”
Gunnar shuddered at the idea of
buying other unnecessary furniture. He was already dealing with more than
enough changes in his own homestead. “Just a
mattress. And pillows, if they have them. And blankets. Goodbye.”
“Just a minute,” said
Brynhildur quickly, her voice pitched a bit higher than she intended. “You can buy
blankets here too, new ones! I just thought I’d mention it
for your convenience. And your newspapers! I’ve got the old
ones here for you. Anything else?” The brooch she was fiddling with
finally opened, and the shawl fell to the ground. The only person that noticed
was Anna, who managed to remain silent by pressing her lips together so firmly
that they formed a thin, white line. Gunnar let go of the door handle, then
reluctantly turned back towards Brynhildur. A hot ball of dread sat inside his
chest and it would remain there until he had a chance to ingest some
medication.
“Aye… current
newspapers, too.”
“Oh? Anything
in particular?”
“Just, eh… one
of each.”
“How nice! Er… why?”
“Interested,” he said. “In, um, news.
Who knows what could be happening in the world.”
Not even Brynhildur’s expertise at extricating information from customers
was enough to find the reason for Gunnar’s newfound
interest in the world’s welfare. She did, however, manage
to liberate him from all the money he had earned through the sale of roses. The
moment the door shut, she immediately turned towards Anna. “Imagine!” she gasped. “What do you
think this means?”
“What it means,” erupted Anna, “is that you
are not only a hussy, but also blind and stupid. For Gunnar? He stinks, for God’s sake! He’s constantly drunk. And look what he’s wearing…”
“There is no
shame in not being rich…” Brynhildur’s voice died out. Anna shook her
head, looking at the blush slowly colouring her daughter’s face.
Brynhildur squatted to pick up the shawl. “I’m cold,” she said
meekly. “Would you perhaps be able to help
me with this brooch, Mother?”
“I’m not as
stupid as you think,” scoffed Anna, tightening the shawl
a bit too much. “If you want to live with a dirty,
smelly, poor alcoholic, suit yourself…”
“I wonder,” Brynhildur
said, thoughtfully, “why would the doctor and his wife
take so long to conceive? Her being, you know, the doctor’s wife and
everything? Not that I am suggesting they had any problems, of course.”
“Stay away from
Gunnar Karlsson is all I am saying…” Her mother’s eyes
softened. “Of course they didn’t have any
problems. Although it is very interesting indeed, and perhaps I could visit her
mother and ask. But have you seen her? She has such a pretty glow, she must be
so happy! And it will be such a lucky child, having Brynjólf as a father…”
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