Although I became acquainted with Olga Gromyko’s work even before her very first book was published and have since followed her writing closely, it so happened that one particular series slipped past me. As I kept reading Olga’s new works, I never found the time to go back to the Year of the Rat duology. This was partly due to several opinions I came across that were rather critical of the series compared to her other works.
However, the time finally came to fill this gap and form my own opinion by reading both parts consecutively. First of all, I must say that this series is best read as a single piece—both volumes together. It’s essentially one story split into two parts, with the second book (Wanderer) released about a year after the first (Seer). The first book ends quite abruptly, right in the middle of the story. Secondly, I must admit that my opinion of the series was mixed, both during and after reading it. I can understand some of the critics, but let’s try to delve deeper into the details.
Year of the Rat was published in 2009 and 2010, and it can, in a way, be considered a transitional work between the Belorian series (which made Olga Gromyko a well-known writer) and the subsequent space epic As*troheads. Yes, there was also the novel A Plus for a Minus, co-written with Andrey Ulanov, which explored an almost contemporary world. But stylistically, Year of the Rat is closer to the Belorian series. The action takes place in a pseudo-medieval setting where magic exists and is generally acknowledged by the populace. The protagonist is, once again, a young woman, although she is now accompanied by two companions. In the next series, Olga would depart from this approach, but here it seems she was still experimenting with new creative directions. Of course, this is just my speculation.
The book is essentially a road movie in literary form, or rather, a road book, where the characters have a distant goal they walk toward, step by step, only reaching it at the end. Along the way, various adventures, pleasant and not so pleasant, happen to them. All this is seasoned with humor, which Olga has been known for since her very first books. The main characters have their own personalities, habits, and, in fact, their own goals. But they are all united by one common task, whether they like it or not.
The main character is a girl named Ryska, who, by the will of fate, is gifted with magical abilities. However, she remains unaware of this for a long time, and even afterward, she barely uses her gift, except for trivial purposes.
About half of the first book — from Ryska’s early years to her transition into adulthood — feels like a very long introduction. This is where I started to understand some of the criticism the novel received because, while the writing style is familiar and there is some action, it’s unclear what it’s all leading to, and the pacing feels overly drawn out. But when the main heroine finally leaves everything behind and sets off on a journey (more like fleeing home, with no clear plan), things slightly improve. She meets the arrogant and somewhat rude white-haired Alk, and later her childhood friend Zhar joins the group, adding flair with his new, unexpected profession. However, as I mentioned earlier, the first volume ends abruptly, mid-sentence, leaving the reader confused (especially if they read it back in 2009 before the second volume was released).
The second volume follows a more established path (pun intended) and is nearly twice as long as the first. The adventures continue, the stakes grow higher, and Alk’s goals and motives are gradually revealed (unlike Zhar’s, which are immediately clear and leave no room for intrigue). Ryska’s abilities and her magical connection with Alk develop in ways unexpected both to them and to some of those around them. Overall, things become livelier and more interesting. Compared to the first volume, my opinion of the novel began to improve.
However, the ending left me feeling somewhat disappointed. While it logically wraps up Alk’s storyline and the now-close friends (or perhaps more than friends) finally understand the secret of Ryska’s connection with the white-haired man, it still feels unfinished and underwhelming. It’s as though the grand construction effort ends up building a shack for Uncle Pumpkin instead of a palace. Moreover, when you piece everything together, you start noticing flaws in the world-building, inconsistencies in the rules, and even peculiarities in the characters’ behavior.
What follows contains some spoilers, so consider this a warning (in case you haven’t read the book).
Let me start from afar. Ryska is portrayed as a village girl who has spent her entire life ignorant of the differences between boys and girls, making her easily susceptible to crude hints and jokes. I find this hard to believe overall, but let’s assume it’s plausible. However, Alke, who is gradually positioned as a positive character throughout the story, spends nearly the entire book being rude and behaving in a manner that is far from politically correct, as we would say today. I would even go so far as to say that he constantly demeans the poor girl. I understand that jokes on various topics can be acceptable and even brilliant at times, but at a certain point, repeatedly joking about the same thing becomes tiresome.
Now, let’s talk about the world itself. It includes several assumptions that make it “not ours.” The main feature is the presence of magic, though it is represented by only one type of “mages”—the Wanderers. These are people who essentially manipulate probabilities and can direct the world along one of them: as if numerous possible outcomes exist, and these Wanderers, using their gift, help alter the predetermined path of this world. I won’t go into how this works for them, as that’s part of the novel’s intrigue. My question lies elsewhere. To manipulate the “roads,” a Wanderer requires a rat, and shifting a situation for someone in a positive direction inevitably worsens it for someone else. In the simplest form, Wanderers don’t alter the road itself but provide advice on what to do or what to avoid (once again, foreseeing probabilities). However, they are also first-class warriors who fight as they think. And here I have many questions about their profession.
The Wanderers themselves are portrayed as some kind of idealized figures, supposedly admired by many who aspire to become like them, as they are heroes and almost superior beings. The official “church” doesn’t fully agree with this, often considering them spawn of evil. Still, overall, they come across as knights without fear or reproach (at least, that’s the impression I got). But if you think about it—what exactly do they do that’s so heroic? Sure, they help people avoid mistakes (by predicting more favorable outcomes). And they’re not above charging money for it. Do they change roads? Fine, they saved one village from a drought, but another burned down as a result. That’s great help, from the perspective of the second village—about as helpful as in the old joke, “You scored a goal, but Vasya drowned.” And lastly, why on earth do they need to be excellent warriors with such abilities? Yes, perhaps in the heat of battle, they manipulate probabilities and can “fight ahead of time.” But first, this isn’t emphasized in the text; instead, there’s a focus on years of training. And second, why do they even need combat skills for their profession? They alter roads and foresee events without this ability. Take the Witchers from Sapkowski’s saga, for example. For them, both magical skills and superhuman combat abilities are necessary because that’s the only way they can fulfill their job of exterminating monsters. Here, though, it feels more like an unnecessary side feature.
Another distinction in this world is the absence of horses, replaced by riding cows. This quirky idea is amusing but isn’t explored further. Sure, they ride cows — great. There are racing cows and dairy cows. But I expected this unique element to play a larger role in the narrative. As Chekhov’s principle dictates, if a gun is hanging on the wall, it should eventually fire. But here, it doesn’t.
On the other hand, there are events that elicit an emotional response but don’t contribute to the plot. For example, the stillbirth of a secondary character’s child. Why? How does this affect the story? It doesn’t. It’s never mentioned again.
And then there’s the oddity of Alk’s people, where almost all the men are fair-haired, and the women are dark-haired. How does that work? I don’t know. Genetics, I guess. Maybe they aren’t human after all.
Given this, the ending also feels lackluster. Many aspects of the world remain unexplored, the theory behind the gift’s origins or transfer isn’t explained, and what happens to Alk and Ryska doesn’t clarify the mechanics of their connection — it just says, “We think we understand how it works, but we have no idea why.” Wanderers turn out to be not so heroic, though it’s unclear why. The world seems like it could have gone on just fine without them, following its predetermined paths. (Sapkowski’s Witchers weren’t saints either, but they were necessary to combat monsters and ensure survival.)
This would have been forgivable if there had been a sequel to address these questions and others. But the book remains a standalone entry in its series.
I wouldn’t say I regret reading it. I enjoyed most of it. But it’s certainly not Olga’s best work. The As*troheads that followed are much more dynamic.
My rating: 3/5 for the first volume, 4/5 for the second
