A Parish Chronicle, by Halldór Laxness
“Then, it must be said, that poor church fell. Still, many believe that God’s wisdom and long-suffering achieved a certain victory in this matter here in Mosfell Valley, even if it took some time, and the world might well take notice of this, although there may in fact be something to the viewpoints of those who think differently.” — Halldór Laxness
I, the undersigned, will attempt to convince you, dear reader, of the magic and miracles found in this slim novella, A Parish Chronicle, the latest English translation of Icelandic author Halldór Laxness.
The novella tells the story of a church and that of a parish in which the church was located or, perhaps, over which the church held sway.
It is a story straight out of the ancient sagas, pulled from a revolution of the spirit of one local farmer—Ólafur of Hrísbrú (HREES-broo).
In favour of the unification of the regional churches and cutbacks on expenditures in the communities, the late 19th-century Danish-ruled Icelandic government chose one Mosfell Church for destruction.
In protest, Ólafur the farmer decides that if he and the Hrísbrú parishioners allow the church to be destroyed that they must simultaneously relinquish their heads. The preservation of the church is vital. Parishioner’s heads, he believes, are synonymous with the head of Egil Skallagrímsson, hero of the ancient sagas and unofficial patron saint of Mosfell Church. (Egil’s actual head, as late 19th-century Hrísbrú folklore informs us, is believed to have been buried under Mosfell Church since it was first consecrated.)
Ólafur the farmer, bearded hero of this story, thus sharpens scythe and rake and rallies to the menfolk of the parish that “blood must be met with blood” and that “the devils” who have ordained the destruction of Mosfell Church must be burned. He calls on the women to bring mugs of boiling urine and to stand behind their men. He calls to those who have not the strength to fight for their old parish church to be torn to pieces by dogs and ravens.
Laxness writes a lot about churches.
In Laxness’ most well-known novel, Independent People, the church watches over the cairn of Gunnvör that lies along the edge of the heath of Summerhouses. Those that pass by honour the legacy of Gunnvör: her torment and death by dismemberment still echo on the landscape and within the folk memories of those who inhabit the land.
In Iceland’s Bell, the theft of the church bells of Iceland by the Danish colonial government spurs the epic journey of another remarkable, bearded anti-hero.
From Under the Glacier, we find the church boarded up. Its pews are used for more-practical purposes; its pastor tends to the temporal rather than spiritual needs of his parishioners, with the Glacier that overlooks the community inhabiting a spiritual presence of its own.
No churches in Laxness’ novels exist in any normal sort of way: the priest has run off to shoe horses; the chalice is in the hands of the maid; the bell is buried in the dung pile; the priest’s wife neither washes nor sleeps and is thought to be fae; the services have ceased on Sunday, with a Glacier that periodically takes over as spiritual overseer of community.
The church in A Parish Chronicle disappears altogether in eras: it is lost to a landslide and to government demolition. It wanders throughout the community, finding its way into the hands of its most-worthy citizens; the church becomes ethereal with the loss of timber and visibility on the community’s horizon. It thus locates itself on the mountain, with the sheep, and within the hearth of the parish households.
It is both magic and miracles that might be found only in stories such as those by Halldór Laxness. Such as their manifestations in a young boy, a runaway from the south, who finds himself lost in the northern wilderness, in search of his dead mother.
When the boy stumbles upon the doorstep in the parish of a farmer and local church defender, the light from the window of the farmer’s wife, bed-bound for 18 years, draws the young boy near. The family, against local custom, invites the lad in where he stays for the next 20 years.
Less so a story about a whimsical young boy in search of family, and his subsequent relation to a church destined for destruction, A Parish Chronicle, as mentioned, is the story of a church that proves to be indestructible.
If one has not read Halldór Laxness, I, the undersigned, might conclude that this reader has not ventured to explore a great treasure of the world. As one might quote Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Rytkheu or Wilde, so should one quote Laxness.
Readers might be challenged with the pronunciation of Icelandic names and locations, but if readers are able to overcome this barrier, a reader would find this latest Laxness’ translation both approachable and of epic proportion.
A Parish Chronicle incorporates motifs from Laxness’ longer novels, such as Independent People and Under the Glacier, both found within the Whitehorse Public Library catalogue and that recreate the social history of a church, parish, and people.A Parish Chronicle is described as “essayistic” and includes veritable aspects of Icelandic history within its pages. The story is both wise and humble in its retelling of a church whose deconstruction a parish refuses to sanction.
Originally written by Halldór Laxness in 1967, AParish Chronicle has, for the first time, been translated by Philip Roughton (from the Icelandic language) for English readers. It was released on Feb. 10, 2026, by Archipelago Books.
