The Mist by Ragnar Jonasson: A review

The events of the third book in Ragnar Jonasson's "Hidden Iceland" series take place in the winter of 1987-88, ten years before events in The Island and twenty-five years before The Darkness. In this one, we finally learn about the tragedy that has haunted Inspector Hulda Hermansdottir of the Reykjavik police and has contributed to making her own life a tragedy.

We begin in eastern Iceland, perhaps the most remote and isolated section of a relatively remote and isolated country. Far off the beaten track is a farmhouse belonging to a sheep farmer and his wife, Einar and Erla. Einar's family had owned the land for generations and he loved it there. Erla was a city girl who gave up that life for love of Einar but she has never been truly happy on the farm. Erla spends her time reading books that at least allow her to be an armchair traveler. She has constructed a dream world for herself that allows her to tolerate her lonely life.

Back in Reykjavik, Hulda is undergoing her own family crisis. Her young teenage daughter, Dimma, who had always been a happy, cheerful child is suddenly withdrawn and silent. She stays in her room, barely eats, and locks the door to her room. Hulda is very worried. When she comes home from work every day, she tries to talk to the girl and draw her out, but nothing is working. Her husband, on the other hand, shows an utter lack of concern and constantly assures Hulda that the girl is just going through a teenage phase. The consummate detective is unable to detect what is wrong in her own house. As Christmas approaches, the situation deteriorates further and Hulda is determined to consult a psychologist after the holidays. Before she can do that, her daughter commits suicide. Only after the fact does Hulda understand why her beloved daughter had been so distressed and unhappy. She is devastated, realizing that she had failed Dimma.

Meanwhile, another family's daughter had gone missing. The young woman, who wanted to be a writer, had decided to travel around the country on her own for the experience and to gather material for her writing. She kept in regular contact with her parents. Then the contacts abruptly stopped. Unable to reach her, the parents contacted the police who had been searching for her for weeks without a result.

Back on that isolated farm at Christmas, in the middle of a snowstorm, a man knocks at Einar's and Erla's door. He claims to have been out hunting with friends and got separated from them. Now he's lost and asks for shelter for the night as the storm rages. Erla is immediately suspicious but Einar reassures her that everything will be fine and, of course, they cannot turn the man away in the storm.

Two months later, neighbors grow concerned that they have not seen Einar and Erla for quite a while. When someone finally goes to the farm to investigate, they find two dead bodies, plus all the sheep are dead in the barn, having starved to death. Obviously, this calls for a brilliant detective to figure everything out and, fortunately, Hulda Hermansdottir is back at work after her compassionate leave. She is actually grateful for the distraction of the case as it gets her out of the house and away from her husband with whom her relationship is toxic since their daughter's death. We can be sure she will not rest until she digs out the truth of what has happened.

This is a complicated plot but Jonasson is a master of complicated plots. He takes us back and forth through the various elements he has introduced as he ratchets up the tension and builds an inescapable sense of dread. The plot twists and turns its way through unexpected reveals and unspeakable tragedies as it pulls the reader along to a shocking conclusion. And through it all, Jonasson's elegant writing and the excellent translation by Victoria Cribb make it a pleasure to read.

One last note: The final scene of the novel made me smile just a bit as it foreshadowed an event that was reported in the first book of the series and sort of ties everything together. Clever Ragnar!

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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