Shadows of the Short Days

by Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

  Eitt

  Garún removed her mask and stepped away from the wet graffiti to see clearly the whole of the hex sigil she’d painted. It was difficult breathing through the filters on the leather mask and it felt good to taste the fresh air. It was dark, the only light came from the pale moon that sat low in the sky. She relied on insight and feeling when she painted, so the dark didn’t bother her. She didn’t need to see to know if the graffiti was good or when it was ready. She simply felt it, but it was a raw feeling. She wanted to be sure, so she slipped the goggles over her eyes in order to see the sorcerous seiðmagn bleeding from the paint.

  Sharp geometries jutted out unexpectedly from the red and obscure graffiti, and even though the paint wasn’t dry yet the seiðmagn already radiated powerfully into the environment. Exhausted from the work, Garún felt dried up after using so much delýsíð paint in such a short time. While she painted, the emotions expressed within her art were amplified by the delýsíð in the paint and cast back to her in a vicious psychedelic cycle: she was the snake that fed on itself. Now, it was complete. Garún turned down the volume of the electronic music booming in her ears and focused on letting the painting speak to her.

  The graffiti was in a good location atop the store Krambúðin and with luck it would be weeks until it was discovered. All the while it would continue to bleed seiðmagn into the environment, where it would infiltrate the subconscious of those nearby. It would slowly infect their minds and sow the seeds of discord. If left undisturbed, the painting would become as a death mask over the building and its neighbourhood.

  Krambúðin was a store owned by Sigurður Thorvaldsen, a merchant who ran several enterprises in the greater Reykjavík area. The one below Garún’s feet had become one of the most popular colonial stores in the city since Sigurður had moved to Reykjavík and set up shop almost the same day as the occupation of the Crown began. Not for the soldiers, but for all the people from the countryside flooding to the city to work for the army. The Crown needed a large working force, especially to build the forts in Viðey and the barracks on Seltjarnarnes. Sigurður had pushed those out who threatened his business, threatening, blackmailing and maiming – but, above all, profiting. By the time occupation became colonisation and the forts of the colonial masters were built, Sigurður Thorvaldsen had become a wealthy man and Reykjavík a fully grown city.

  The graffiti Garún had sprayed on the roof was an anti-prosperity hex. It was intended to drive away the establishment’s elite customers who prized Krambúðin’s imported luxury products. Exotic spices, delicate fabrics, handmade soaps, candies and perfumes were only a small fraction of the merchandise available. Those who did not subconsciously avoid the store would become victims to the hex. Pushy customers would argue with the staff, who in turn would be unhelpful and patronising. With luck the influence would spread over the whole street as the graffiti fed on the people’s negative emotions and spewed them back out. She hoped that it would be able to remain unharassed for longer than her other work, which had all been found within a few days.

  She took the spray cans and the painting mask and stuffed them into her backpack along with the goggles. Before climbing down from the roof she double-checked that she’d left no empty cans behind. She slid down the fire escape ladder in the back and turned up the volume again. It was calm and slow, the bass steady and comforting, telling her that nobody was around, nobody was watching. She ran silently through empty yards, vaulted over the fences in her path. The beat became faster the closer she got to the Hverfisgata Road and the stressed rhythm hinted that the police might not be far down the street. She weaved through alleys and backyards alongside Hverfisgata’s busy road. The evening traffic had barely started to trickle downtown. Sudden breaks and booming bass lines told her if someone was about to cross her path or about to look out of their window, and she reacted instinctively, ducking into cover and waiting for the threat to pass. She could never be absolutely sure that she had not been seen, and often it was hard to read the music, but after endless practice it had become almost second nature, a part of her natural reflex. She let go and let the music speak to her subconscious.

  The closer she got to Hlemmur the more uneasy the music grew. Patrol automobiles were lined up in front of the police station, which was fused with the central station like a tumour grown outside a body. The beat was thick and murky, the music absolutely deafening. She turned down the volume so it was barely audible, pulled her hoodie up and tried not to think about what would happen if she was stopped for a random search.

  The central station was home for those who had nowhere else to go. Hobos, junkies, a few blendingar. She made sure not to glance towards them as she felt them notice her walking past. As if they resented her for not sitting with them in the gutter. Policemen stood by the ticket booth and gates, docile but formidable. She tried to keep a low profile, but without it being suspicious. Just as would be expected from a blendingur like her.

  She took the train to Starholt. Most working people had got home by now and the nightlife didn’t pick up until after midnight, so the train was relatively empty. The city lights took on a blurred halo in the grimy windows.

  * * *

  No one greeted her when she came home. She missed Mæja. What was she thinking, leaving the cat with Sæmundur? He could barely take care of himself, let alone a cat. She was unsure what her intention had been, exactly. She’d wanted him to feel guilt or remorse, or anything at all, there at the end. But he had been simply too numb and now her little cat was probably starved to death underneath worm-eaten manuscripts and dirty socks. One more thing she tried not to think about.

  Her studio flat was a bedroom, kitchen, working area and living room simultaneously. The sink was filled with paintbrushes and squeezed paint tubes were found on almost every surface. Half-completed paintings were scattered around in stacks leaning against the walls. The air smelled of paint, oil, acrylics and spray mixed in with a faint, sour reek of delýsíð. It was probably good that she was rid of Mæja. The cat would have been long dead from all the toxic chemicals in the air.

  Garún took off her large headphones and removed the audioskull from the backpack. Sæmundur had summoned the noisefiend himself and bound it into the skull when she’d started to tag small, powerful delýsíð staves here and there. Wires stuck out of the bare headphones, an old operator’s headset she had converted. She had always meant to make a casing from wood or brass, but had never got around to it. The headphones were plugged into the forehead of the audioskull. The skull had a blue shade to it, covered in runes and esoteric symbols coloured a dark red. It was both illegal and dangerous to summon demons, but Sæmundur never cared about risks. She’d got a used portable transistor radio cheap and had been listening to it on the go, carrying it around in her backpack. That’s what had given him the idea. Transmundane beings were incredibly dangerous even when bound in bone, and Garún had absolutely lost it when he gave her the skull. Still, she had used it.

  She took off the black clothes and emptied her backpack. She hid the clothes, along with the backpack and audioskull, under a loose board in the closet. Inside there was a hidden compartment where she put the nearly empty delýsíð spray cans. She was practically out, and she needed more. She’d gone tagging a bit too frequently these last weeks, excited for the upcoming protest they had planned. She would have to get more. The bright and unnatural colours had stained her fingers. She turned on the shower and washed her hands with strong and coarse soap before stepping in. The water smelled faintly of sulphur, a familiar and soothing feeling.

  After the shower she dried off with a towel and wrapped it around her head to dry her shoulder-length hair. She stirred a raw egg into skyr and read a book while she ate. The book had come free from a nearby café; many of the coffee houses in Starholt had various kinds of free shops and trade markets. Many of the local residents were artists and it aided them in their never-ending pursuit of inspiration and materials. Almost a century had passe
d since the book was written, long before the occupation by the Crown. The novel was about a huldukona who wanted to become a poet, but her poems were rejected by the Hrímlanders because of who she was. Because of what she was. All her life was one long struggle. The book was a handmade reprint some decades old. It was singed and burned and many pages had been ripped out of it. There still remained some readable parts and Garún devoured them. She’d never found a novel about huldufólk before.

  When she finished eating she wrapped the towel around herself, sat out on the balcony and rolled a cigarette. Just a bit too tight, so she had to work her lungs to inhale the livid smoke. Winter had begun smothering autumn and the evening dark was sharp and deep. The apartment buildings surrounded a playground where a few children played in an old wooden play castle that had once been multicoloured, but the paint had peeled off long ago. No one was monitoring them. Late as it was, this was a common sight. She looked over to the other balconies. Clean laundry hung out to dry on taut clothes lines everywhere, among the junk that artists and collectors had gathered: old fishing nets, rusted iron and driftwood, sheets of corrugated iron and other garbage that was a gleaming treasure in some eyes.

  Garún threw the butt over the balcony and went inside. She had to get more delýsíð spray paint. Viður would hook her up. She put on a pair of old jeans and a plain black top, grabbed a moss green coat on the way out. She took her time walking to the central area of Starholt, the epicentre where the artistic types and other ideological outcasts, self-declared or not, met each night with the common goal of gossip, flattery, drink and dope in various degrees. As she got closer to the heart of it all, the neighbourhood came to life. Massive cement towers gave way to lower, friendlier houses. Electric lamps with stained glass lit up the streets, twisted modern sculptures that were a welcome change from the Crown’s uniform standard issue lamps everywhere else in the city.

  Gangs of náskárar sat on eaves over dark alleyways, selling drugs. They were adorned with markings of their tribe, all of them warriors with iron claws or beaks. Bright laughter moved through the crowd like an infectious cough and occasionally glasses of beer shattered. Huldufólk and humans hung together in separate groups outside bars and clubs.

  The huldufólk’s attitude towards her was reserved when she walked past them, all of them reflexively reaching out to see who was there. Garún barely noticed, having grown used to shutting it out long ago. Not that humans considered her an equal either – on the contrary – but some huldufólk had a vicious way of upholding what they considered the old ways, and she served as an offensive reminder to them of how far they had fallen.

  She shook off these thoughts and lit another cigarette to clear her head. Those strangers didn’t matter. She had found her own people. And above all, she had herself.

  Tvö

  Sæmundur reached out on the floor and fumbled around for the carved wooden pipe. He tapped last night’s ashes out of it and stuffed it with moss, finishing the rest of what he had. Started the day with a smoke, as usual.

  Sometimes he woke up and thought for a moment that she was lying next to him. Between waking and sleeping his mind and body reached out for her. The sting of waking up alone didn’t seem to be fading. If anything, it had grown to reach deeper with time.

  Mæja climbed on top of him and purred loudly. He petted her and somehow she managed to purr even louder. His mind wandered to Garún and he thought about what she was doing now. She had left the cat behind and it only reminded him of her. He pushed the cat off his torso.

  He stretched out in the bed and smoked, scratched his balls. It was time. A big task to do today. He couldn’t reschedule the hearing again.

  When he finished the pipe he sat up, sniffed his clothes and found those that stank the least. It took him a long while to get dressed properly. The moss was starting to work and rippled the waters of his mind. Next to the mattress was a bass amplifier that served as a nightstand, desk and dining table. Half-empty beer bottles, an ashtray, notebooks and dirty plates were stacked on top of the amplifier. Sæmundur turned it on and lit a badly rolled cigarette. He picked up the bass from the floor and tuned it, started playing.

  The room vibrated with music. He felt the way each object echoed the sound and warped it through itself, how his body fell in tune. He stretched the note, drew it deeper and the world sank into the deep with him. He sang along, preparing the galdur incantation in his mind.

  He started chanting. Each syllable had its tone, which was amplified in the pounding bass line. The light faded, becoming grey and pale as it retreated slowly. The incantation grew stronger and clearer, the notes of the bass heavier, and the room appeared to bend under the pressure of sound. Dirty clothes, which lay scattered about on the floor, trembled like a wild growth and began moving in a convulsive dance around the mattress. Sæmundur sang louder and louder. He warped and stretched each sound that came from him, rode the chaos of galdur and gave it form, reined it in.

  He drew these sounds inside himself, into his voice and the bass, then transmuted them and locked them into the incantation, bound them with rhythm and words of power. Everything sounded with transformation. Drenched with galdur, the rags on the floor crawled into small piles that slid together into a single mass of clothing in front of him. The melody grew stronger, the beat faster, and the dirty laundry rose up and shaped itself. Shirtsleeves and dirty socks became jutting limbs that grew erratically from the central body. Sæmundur stopped playing, handed the creature a wad of crumpled bills and commanded with a strong voice:

  “Go to Rotsvelgur. Buy moss. Return.”

  Immediately the thing collapsed and rolled out towards the window. Underwear, shirts, jackets and jeans, stretched up to the window ledge and pulled themselves up. Woollen socks and hoodie sleeves grabbed the ledge and the creature rolled itself out of the window.

  Sæmundur threw himself back on to the mattress. He felt as if he was coming undone from the reverberation of the world’s composition.

  * * *

  Sæmundur slept while the highland moss wore off. He dozed on his mattress in a fugue and didn’t come around until noon had passed and the cloth-golem returned. Rotsvelgur had put a rat’s tail in the bag with the moss, a sign that this was his last chance – it was time he paid his dues. A problem for another day. Sæmundur commanded the filthy pile of clothes to go and wash themselves in the laundry room. He really should have done that yesterday, he thought. The hearing was today, after all.

  He moved to the kitchen and prepared a simple breakfast. Oatmeal and a few slices of liver sausage. While he ate he scanned through a yellowed manuscript, one of the countless documents that lay scattered around the apartment. Bruise-coloured patterns and symbols decorated the page and even though Sæmundur could read the ancient scribble well his mind couldn’t stick to it.

  No one could use galdur like he did. The cloth-golem made that obvious. It never occurred to anyone to make a golem any way other than with the traditional methods, which Sæmundur found preposterous. Cowards. All he had done was combine the foreign tradition of golem-making with a Hrímlandic svartigaldur – the thieving tilberi. To properly fuse them together one needed not only the exact esoteric language, but a new cadence, a new rhythm, which belonged to both incantations equally. He had looked outside academia to find the methodology to combine these two incantations: music. It was very risky, yet he’d made incredible progress.

  Still – it wasn’t enough. Not for Sæmundur. He still couldn’t comprehend the source of galdur’s power or how it worked. But he was closer. He just had to risk pushing the limits a little bit further.

  But he’d get nowhere without Svartiskóli.

  After Sæmundur’s expulsion from the university he had discovered a remarkable wellspring of ambition within himself. He’d dived head first into his independent studies, inspired by a sense of liberation from the dogma and distractions of the university’s overbearing bureaucracy. He’d used all his available resources to get t
he manuscripts he needed for his research, or at least copies of them.

  Then he’d reached a dead end and with no favours left to call in, nor allies to lean on, he’d made no progress for weeks. Admittedly, he had learned something before getting stuck, but it wasn’t nearly enough. He had to get back into Svartiskóli.

  Sæmundur had studied galdur at the Royal University of Reykjavík. The School of Supernatural Sciences was housed in a special building, called Svartiskóli after the Hrímlandic school of old. Svartiskóli was split into two faculties: seiður and galdur. To the public these two were basically interchangeable; sorcery was sorcery, no matter what you called it. But that was not the case within the walls of Svartiskóli.

  It was once believed that seiður transcended human understanding; that it was an unpredictable and esoteric force, which did not abide by the rules of the natural sciences. This force was found in certain places of power, where seiðskrattar drew seiðmagn from the land like water from a well and used it for supernatural works. Few such places remained in the world. And where seiðmagn could be found in sufficient quantities, the energy source was violent and primal. Hrímland, mostly the highlands, was such a source for seiðmagn, but had been considered too dangerous and unworkable up until a few decades earlier, when Vésteinn Alrúnarson stepped forward with his theories on seiður and built the first sorcerous power plant on the forested hill of Öskjuhlíð. The esoteric rituals of seiður became supernatural science. Seiður became a force of supernature that could be understood, controlled and harnessed.

  Galdur was fundamentally different; it could not be drawn from nature like seiður. Unlike its supernatural cousin, the force that powered galdur was unmeasurable and unknowable. It did not belong to this world. All you needed to use galdur was the right incantation and words of power, an uncomfortably low threshold for the dabbling kuklari – the slightest error could result in terrible consequences. If a slight warping in pronunciation or the smallest syntax error crept into the incantation then the effects were unpredictable. Many galdramenn had doomed themselves because of a simple mistake or a lack of precision. When rituals of galdur took a turn for the worse, demons tainted the bones of the unsuspecting galdramaður, sometimes resulting in their becoming possessed. The threat of the demonic was always there, even in the most innocent galdur. This fact resulted in a strict ban on experimentation and research in galdur at the university. Only studying tried and true rituals and maintaining an age-old tradition was permitted. That was the only way to be safe from the devouring outer dimensions.