In this reimagined and queer-normalized Viking Age tale inspired by the Icelandic sagas, 13-year-old Helga loves life with Goat-Thigh, her adopted father who found her abandoned as a baby. Most of the village shuns Goat-Thigh, though, because of his berserker fits that endanger all around him (though he hasn’t had one since he adopted Helga).
Helga’s plan to ingratiate him with the chieftain goes awry, though, releasing a horde of vicious undead draugar from inside a nearby mountain. Goat-Thigh’s fits return and he just might be cast out of the community entirely—or worse. Helga must work with her best friend, Scratcher, and the chieftain’s prickly tempered daughter, Margrét Thistle-Heart, each of whom have their own family issues, to save the community from the draugar and convince them that Goat-Thigh isn’t connected to the terror. As they seek to do so, they unearth a tangle of family secrets that touch them all.
Queerness is normalized throughout the story; Helga and friends are assisted by the delightful older two-woman couple Gríma Witch-Face and Torfey Wood-Leg (whose prosthetic doesn’t stop her from wielding a sword). A relationship between two men also plays a key role, but I won’t spoil it, though I will note that it’s not their queerness per se that is the surprise, just the fact of their relationship. One minor but notable character is also nonbinary (though the term isn’t used).
While bias rears its ugly head, it is not bias because of any character’s queerness. There are lessons to be drawn from the tale that could apply to how queer people (and other marginalized folks) are treated in the real world, true, but in this imagined version of the era, queerness is fully accepted and prejudices lie elsewhere. As author S. J. Taylor says in an Author’s Note, not every book with queer characters, particularly if it is a fantasy, has to explore anti-queer bias and queer trauma. I completely agree; sometimes, it’s good to see queer characters simply exist like anyone else.
Some (adult) readers might argue that the acceptance of queer people shown here veers too far from the “real” setting of the Icelandic sagas, but (and I say this as someone with a graduate degree in medieval history) the sagas are fictionalized tales, written down centuries after the events of which they speak, and weaving in myths, spirits, and magic as well as historical happenings. They are meant to entertain and to convey virtues and values rather than to be histories in the modern sense. Taylor’s take honors the originals by following very much in those footsteps. As she notes, too, queer people have existed throughout history. Why not include them here?
Helga the Fair is a captivating story of magic and adventure, with engaging and well-rounded characters, but it’s also much more: a surprisingly moving and at times bittersweet tale of family made and found, and of belonging, love, respect, and community. It blends in thoughtful messages about how we don’t always need to be strong or perfect, how we shouldn’t try to “fix” those we love, and how we can forgive and heal. Scattered illustrations by Alla Khatkevich add to the charm (and suggest to me that this would make a splendid animated film someday). All told, it’s a highly recommended book that should find many fans.
Most of the characters read as White; Wood-Leg is said to have brown skin and black hair.
