I’m not sure how All the Wild Horses of Iceland came into my possession—I suspect my friend Tanis MacDonald sent it to me in trade for some books about walking, because there’s a postcard from her tucked inside—but I’m glad it did, and that I read it near the end of my trip to England, since it’s partly about the difficulties of travelling across continents a thousand years ago. Eyvind of Eyri, the protagonist of the story our unnamed narrator tells, travels from Iceland to somewhere in Central Asia and back, and his remarkable and life-changing story makes the small problems of contemporary travel (missed trains, airline food) seem very small indeed.
I was impressed by the way Tolmie imagines Eyvind’s world, which is so dramatically different from ours, in a way that feels completely believable. This is a kind of fantasy, of course, but it has a dense texture and heft. I know “heft” suggests a long book, which this isn’t—it’s short enough that I read most of it over dinner last night—but I can’t find another word that describes its serious evocation of historical otherness. So many people love fantasy fiction, and although there are no elves or wizards here, that otherness, that strangeness, ought to appeal to those readers. At the same time, though, there’s a complexity and nuance here. No clashes between good and evil, no moral absolutes, just people navigating events and obstacles they didn’t choose.
And the writing! What a voice. I wish I could write like this. No single quotation is likely to give you a sense of what the prose is like, particularly because of the way Tolmie immerses us in Eyvind’s world. A quotation from the middle of the book wouldn’t make sense; you’ve got to begin at the beginning, slowly developing a feeling for this alien but recognizable environment.
The internet tells me that All the Horses of Iceland made the New York Times list of the best books of 2022. It deserves that honour.
So, Tanis, if you read this, thanks for the book, and I wish I’d read it sooner.