It is 1883 and a man goes foxhunting in the mountains of Iceland, armed with plenty of confidence, wholesome food, and his trusted rifle.
Soon he catches the scent of the fox and starts pursuing it, getting strange vibes and hearing voices which speak of a bond between man, earth, and animal. Voices that let him track the prey effortlessly.
Then a blizzard sets in, the man moves deeper into the hills, and things take an ugly turn which eventually carve away his man suit to lay bare the animal flipside of humanity.
That's about it, really.
Or not.
Framed by the ill-fated foxhunt of Reverend Baldur Skyggeson (whose name it is well worth looking into a little bit...) a second storyline picks up. It is the tale of the burial of Abba, a strange girl who arrived as the only survivor on a huge, shipwrecked Dutch trading vessel years before.
She is buried by Fridrik B. Fridjonsson, the man who has taken care of her through most of her life, and seemingly he is just about the only man who has also respected her as a human being.
Others have hurried to put her Down's Syndrome into an evolutionary classification system where she ends up somewhere after negro and before indians - and far from white men.
The system goes like this: Fish-reptile-bird-dog-monkey-negro-asian-indian-white, with the "asian" category also containing those with Down's Syndrome since their evolution in the mother's womb most have somehow halted at this stage after which they we born. Cute...
Kids like that are usually killed in Iceland anno 1883. But Abba has survived, and to cut to the chase without too many spoilers: her existence links together the two storyline in a very subtle but important way.
The context for this Icelandic masterpiece, and 2005 winner of the prestigious Nordic Council Literature Price, is what Fridrik fittingly calls "the edge of the inhabitable world", somewhere in rural Iceland, closer to giant jökulls and avalanche prone peaks, blizzardous skies and stony grounds than towns or townships, farmlands or settlements.
Out here the foxes and ravens roam, and men walk into the hills only to disappear forever in a flash of ugly weather.
Sjón, who among a million other things has written lyrics for fairy-pop-poetress-icon Björk herself, has cut back the story to expose only the tersest, dry descriptions of hunting, burying, living.
It is North Atlantic prose-poetry-novel-style at its best, and once you get your mind working, and you get down to speed, you can slowly start filling in the blanks, connect the dots, do whatever you gotta do, as long as you use your imagination. Then Skugga-Baldur ignites with life.