Zelda gets to be her own heroine in Andrew David MacDonald's debut, 'When We Were Vikings'

Note: this review makes reference to mature themes.

Zelda is twenty-one years old and lives by Kepple’s Guide to the Vikings. Kepple’s Guide has made Zelda an expert on Viking history, Viking lore, and the Viking code of life – and her favourite part of all of it is that strong, magical women get to decide who lives and who dies in battle. The spirit of the Valkyries fills Zelda with a sense of purpose and determination – but it begins to appear that not everything can be mended by the application of Viking ideology.

For starters, Zelda’s older brother Gert – the one who saved Zelda from a seedy uncle and set up life in an apartment so they can live independently – has broken up with the best girl Zelda has ever known. On top of that, it looks like he’s made some shady connections in order to keep their income flowing. Zelda and her boyfriend Marxy are thinking about taking their relationship to the next level; after all, that’s what adults do when they’re in love, right? But it’s complicated because they both have their own challenges to navigate. Marxy’s mother wants to facilitate whatever she can to smooth the path ahead; Gert, on the other hand, won’t hear a word of it. Then there’s the inimitable Dr. Kepple, expert in all things Viking, who seems determined to ignore Zelda’s (frequent) emails looking for clarity, further information, or even just a little guidance.

Zelda’s response to all of it is to take things into her own hands and tackle the problems Viking-style: with a quest. And because rules make everything better, she sets herself a series of sub-quests to guide her in her epic journey. The result is a trek through some very dark and grimy spaces with Zelda holding out her own light to guide the way.

I’m conscious, as I write that sentence, that this may begin to sound like just another book where the character with a disability is a precious broken-winged angel sent to heal the awfulness of the world — to be, by their own innocent virtue, better than everybody else, and thus the saviour of the story. I am very wary of this trope, particularly when there are no clues as to whether the author has personal experience with issues related to foetal alcohol syndrome. It scares and unsettles me when disability is used as a prop to build a “meaningful” story. But Zelda is no stereotype, and she is certainly not better than everyone else. At times she’s judgemental, rating the disabilities and quirks of her friends at the local Community Centre. She is self-involved, too, and often plays at emotions she thinks she needs to experience in order to be a fully-fledged adult. But she is also capable of great loyalty and respect. She learns the rules of her world and plays by them, to preserve a tenuous sort of order and to develop the independence she so craves. And she is loveable, richly characterised with all her hopefulness and her no-nonsense sensibility.

In many ways, When We Were Vikings feels like a YA novel, as Zelda’s voice is perfectly pitched for the young adult market. But the content at times feels too gritty. Zelda is surrounded by good people and bad people, and the bad people are more than willing to take advantage of Zelda’s innate trustfulness. There are scenes I had to read through half-closed lids, terrified for Zelda and what might follow. The action skirts too close for comfort to emotional and physical danger in several places, and there is a significant amount of sexual innuendo. The worst of it comes from the predatory men thrown into Zelda’s path, but some of it is filtered through Zelda’s own frank interest in this aspect of adulthood.

Which leads me to a criticism of the text that I’d like to address: that of Zelda’s idea of a first sexual encounter as a key milestone in her quest for maturity. I read a review which hung its final rating primarily on a scene where [mild spoiler alert] Zelda and her boyfriend have decided to consummate their relationship. As Zelda and Marxy both have differing disabilities, facilitating this scenario requires input from trusted individuals in their lives. Marxy’s mum books the couple a hotel room. Zelda’s female friend offers practical advice. The two women book a room nearby so they can be on call if Zelda or Marxy are distressed or worried. Of course, none of this sounds like a recipe for a smooth rendezvous (and it isn’t), but that’s what’s needed in this situation. This is no Hollywood love scene, and the whole scenario is deeply awkward in many ways – which is what made this other reviewer so uncomfortable with the book.

I did not enjoy this scene. It was not fun to read. But it felt so deeply honest. As someone with a young adult sibling with special needs, the experiences Zelda had to confront brought to light the questions my family lives with. How do you help and support young adults who are mature physically but may seem younger emotionally or socially? How do you talk to someone about the mechanics of sex when the fundamental elements of intimacy are difficult for them to understand? What do you do when someone may be incapable of catching the bus alone but they also dream of a committed relationship? When We Were Vikings draws on these questions in a way that feels respectful and inclusive. People with varying levels of ability may want to have sex, and their love stories might not resemble our own. But it does not mean they should be ignored, or we should pretend they don’t also have hormones. In choosing to tackle this part of Zelda’s story, Andrew David McDonald has not shied away from this very real aspect of navigating life with a cognitive disability.

One final thought: When We Were Vikings has one of the best therapist characters I’ve ever encountered in fiction. I wish Dr. Laird was real.

When We Were Vikings
by Andrew David MacDonald
Published February 2020 by Simon and Schuster
336 pages