Ut blant folk

Eg skal altså ut blant folk. For aller første gong skal eg lese opp frå Song for Eirabu for framande folk.
På engelsk, berre for å gjere det litt spanande for alle partar.
Eit rom på Breiseth hotell i Lillehammer.
Seks norske forfattarar, med kvar sin redaktør til å smile oppmuntrande til dei, og sju utanlandske forleggarar. Og så meg, då. Det står «author» om meg i informasjonspapira. Men boka mi kjem ikkje før oktober. Er eg forfattar no, då? Skribent, kan hende? Eg er klam i hendene.

Det var eit kick å sjå teksten sin på engelsk. Eg har lese ein del engelske bøker, og min eigen tekst blei brått framand og verkeleg for meg. No har eg øvd. Eg har lese høgt for kyrne utanfor sommarhuset. Dei var nøgd. Kyr er dumme og svært interesserte. Eit takksamt publikum. Og så har eg øvd framfor folk (familie i alle fall). Det var vanskeleg.
Eg får berre halde på i femten minuttar. Det er ikkje mykje, når ein har ei bok på snart 600 sider, og hovudet fullt av ei fiksjonsverd med eigen mytologi og verdsorden, tre kongehus, intrigar, gryande vennskap, kompliserte slektsforhold, svik og konspirasjonar, kaoskrefter og kosmosverger.

Det fine er at eg får komme litt ut blant folk. Det er ikkje sjølvsagt no i innspurten.
Og så får eg møte nokre andre som driv med liknande greier. Skriving og sånn. Det blir litt fint.

Her er ein liten bit engelsk omsetting, dette er saksa frå prologen:

The woman’s body lies deep; the head of one horse after the other left to sink into the moor above her for centuries. Layer upon layer of sneering, rectangular heads in the peat. They had all been exsanguinated before they were left to the moor.

The woman’s body lying in the peat had no wounds. No tears in the dark leather of her skin. She had not been a sacrifice. She had not been lowered into the moor. She had not died before she sank. She had chosen to lie down and sleep on the moor. And she had slept there for almost a thousand years; she had slept since the big earthquake, and human beings now reckon their time such that it was 950 years after Eletiel.

The light rested on an island in a fjord. The fjord flowed like two narrow channels around the island, thinning at the north of the island, but gaping around the island, large and broad in the mouth of the fjord. Breath flowed in and out with the ocean¿s tides; inhaling, exhaling. The fjord breathed in and out slightly less than two times a day, the water reaching highest around the island about four hours after the moon stood directly in the south. The woman had slept in the peat while the fjord had drawn its calm breath as many times as a human draws breath in its little lifetime. The woman in the peat had not drawn a single breath since she had allowed herself to sink into the acrid water.

The last thing she did before lying to rest was to play out her part in the course of the world. She had a key that would put everything in motion. She had the prophecy of the world’s end. And someone had come who wanted to know everything. The one who would bring her words to the gods and bards, to the world that would end. To those who would die and to those who few who would survive and be remembered.

This was her fate, in this world as in the last, and as it will be in the next. She carried with her the prophecy of Ragnarok and would deliver it when it was time.

Og slik blir omslaget, bortsett frå at det vil stå Bind I og ikkje Fagerheim:

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