Shadows of the Short Days

by Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

  Naturally, this core edict was what Sæmundur had set his sights on bringing down.

  From the beginning, his questionable theories turned the whole of academia against him. He had dangerous theories on the true nature of galdur and wanted desperately to find out what really made it work through the use of the ultimate taboo – experimentation. He wanted to unspool the thread of words and incantations and get into direct contact with their primal, chaotic source.

  In Svartiskóli this was considered borderline heresy by any stretch of the imagination. It bordered on treason to bring up such blatantly dangerous ideas. His fellow students nicknamed him Sæmundur óði – Sæmundur the Mad – and soon he heard even his lecturers use it. They flunked every critical essay, every thesis he put forward. Even the most menial assignments were scrutinised and rejected if he drifted ever so slightly from the established canon. They made it clear he was a deranged outcast who had no business in an institution of higher learning.

  It had been several months since his expulsion. The first thing he did was demand a hearing, but when the assigned date drew closer he kept on postponing it. As much as he resented himself for it, Sæmundur couldn’t help but be afraid. Afraid of rejection, afraid of feeling powerless and helpless at the mercy of the institution he both despised and loved for being the only venue for his academic ambition. But now he couldn’t run away from it.

  He’d finished eating and realised that he was reading through an entirely wrong manuscript. It didn’t matter, it was all there. All the knowledge he’d gathered was clear and organised in his mind, all neatly lined up to back up the false, dishonest argument to reassure the committee and allow him to be readmitted.

  Today Sæmundur would disown his previous theories entirely and pay lip service to the stagnant dogma the university had set itself to preaching. He’d play the well-behaved, disciplined student for them, at least for now. Begrudgingly he’d admitted it to himself: he needed them. He needed their facilities, their faculty, their library, for his research to progress further. He had to play the long game here. Convince them now to live to learn another day.

  * * *

  Sæmundur’s tie was askew and his jacket was stretched tight over his broad shoulders. It turned out that the dress trousers from his Learned School graduation five years ago didn’t fit him. But that didn’t matter. He looked presentable enough. It was about the work, after all. The shirt was relatively unwrinkled, at least. He’d glanced in the mirror before he went out and thought he looked mostly fine. Respectable enough.

  The sour glances of the hearing committee immediately smothered any meagre sense of self-worth he’d accrued from wearing his suit as soon as he walked in. The disapproving stares of all eight people in attendance told him in no uncertain terms that yes, he probably should have sent his clothes to be cleaned yesterday. The thought of the cloth-golem invoked a fierce sense of pride in him. No, to hell with them. To hell with what he wore. He was the best galdramaður to be found on Hrímland, and they knew it. No one could chant galdur like he did. This hearing would be over soon enough and he’d be able to continue his work in peace.

  They didn’t invite him to sit, even though there was a desk, a chair and a small cabinet nearby, apparently intended for his use. He was surprised at this – it seemed a practical test of some sort was in order. Each of them noted something down. Sæmundur took his place in front of them, trying to look serious.

  “This appeal hearing is now in session with the plaintiff, Sæmundur Sigfússon, the plaintiff’s head of department, Professor Almía Dröfn Thorlacius, and the appeal committee in attendance.”

  The chairman of the hearing committee was Doctor Laufey Þórhallsdóttir. Sæmundur didn’t know her personally, but he was glad to see her there. Laufey had a reputation of fair-mindedness and avoiding most of the politicking and power plays of academia. Next to her sat a sour-faced older woman, her jacket decorated with the golden esoteric sigils of high mastery. Professor Almía Dröfn Thorlacius. Sæmundur had butted heads with both her and her department’s faculty dozens of time during his studies. She was the lecturer of galdur at Svartiskóli and was considered the supreme authority on the craft. And, he suspected, the prime reason for his expulsion. The other members were unfamiliar to him, except for Doctor Vésteinn Alrúnarson. Almost everyone in the country knew who Doctor Vésteinn was.

  “Sæmundur Sigfússon, you were expelled at the end of last semester from Svartiskóli’s Department of Galdur for the use of illegal thaumaturgical narcotics, disorderly conduct when attending classes, failing to meet the academic standards for your thesis after having received two semesters to rework your thesis statement, as the university’s code dictates, and last but not least, inciting canonical dissent. You filed a request for an appeal on the grounds that your expulsion was not in line with the university’s rules. Please elaborate on the matter and submit any evidence you might have to further your case.”

  “Yes, ah, I do have some documents …”

  He opened up his suitcase and started rummaging around in it. Even though he was no longer a student himself, he still sold moss to a couple of the students working at the university press. They’d sneaked in a quick print run of a dozen copies for a few grams of moss. He handed each committee member a copy.

  “Here you have my expulsion defence and a new dissertation outline, rectifying the misconceptions –” he paused to emphasise the word even further – “of the outline I initially submitted.”

  He glanced at Professor Almía. She was leafing through the papers and slightly smirking to herself.

  Good.

  “We will get to your dissertation should your expulsion be reviewed,” Doctor Laufey said in a flat tone. “What have you submitted in order to back up the appeal against your expulsion?”

  “Yes, well.” Sæmundur cleared his throat, straightened his posture a bit. “In my report I’ve gathered a few points which I believe render the expulsion invalid. To begin with, the use of the highland moss was an infraction, I’ll admit, but not worthy of an expulsion in and of itself. It’s worthy of a stern reprimand and a log on my record, yes, but that’s as far as that should go. Every year students are apprehended with thaumaturgical materials charged with either seiðmagn or galdur of various degrees of illegality, and they are not expelled until repeat offences have come to light. I’ve noted which segments of the university’s code of conduct apply to this situation and provided excerpts in the appendix.”

  His voice felt raspy and dry. He was starting to sweat. The committee leafed through his papers, uninterested, barely paying attention to him. Except for Professor Almía. She stared him down with unwavering attention.

  “As regarding my supposed disorderly conduct, I argue that it has a direct correlation with the third reason for expulsion. My …” The words caught in his throat like barbed wire. “My misconceptions about galdur in theory and praxis are what led to most of the more heated confrontations in the classroom. I regret my previous behaviour. I was arrogant in my misplaced theories and overreacted to criticism. I sincerely apologise for my behaviour and believe that my new, refined dissertation will show that my mind has changed completely.”

  Professor Thorlacius had been leafing through Sæmundur’s dissertation outline while he was talking, and the smirk on her face had now reached insufferable levels of smugness.

  “Sæmundur, in all seriousness – your theories on galdur verged on being blatantly heretical. And now you submit before us a mind-numbingly simple thesis about the grammatical nuances of the Seven Opening Incantations. You expect us to take this seriously?”

  Doctor Laufey leaned over and glared at Almía.

  “Professor Thorlacius, I will thank you to speak to the student in a respectful manner, as he has seen fit to himself, and to allow his new dissertation the benefit of the doubt.”

  Almía hand-waved the reprimand, squinting at Sæmundur.

  For crying out loud, Sæmundur thought to himself, she re
ally wants to see me grovel.

  He nodded, swallowed back a snide remark.

  “Well, professor, you are correct. It is a drastic change. But my theories were dangerous and …’ He struggled to finish the sentence. “Unethical. I now fully realise that.”

  “And what exactly,” Doctor Vésteinn Alrúnarson suddenly interjected, “were those theories?”

  He arched his eyebrows at Sæmundur, who found himself at a loss for words. Part of his inspiration had come from what Vésteinn had done for the modernisation of harnessing seiðmagn and using seiður. Vésteinn was over sixty years old, although he barely looked fifty, and most of his ground-breaking work had been accomplished when he was a university student himself, a few years younger than Sæmundur.

  Professor Almía jumped in before Sæmundur could possibly risk defending himself.

  “Sæmundur has theorised that by deconstructing a series of magister-level incantations, he could start practical –” she spat out the word to a chorus of gasps around the table – “and experimental research on the very nature of galdur itself. A canonical truth which requires no further scientific testing! By unravelling the very essence of the grammatical and acoustic elements, he thought he would gain some insight into the underlying forces that dictate galdur and achieve some imagined mastery over it.”

  “I see.” Vésteinn nodded slowly. “So, in short, a disastrous invitation to transmundane possession.”

  “Exactly,” Almía added. “As if a mere postgraduate could conduct this series of experiments, which would elude the highest master of galdur in the modern world. And when faced with valid and – dare I say, sane – critisism of this mad endeavour, he quickly burst into a rage, spouting obscenities!’

  Sæmundur winced. She was exaggerating, but she wasn’t that far off. He’d lost his temper several times in class, once resulting in his being dismissed from the lecture. It wasn’t his fault, he reminded himself. It’s hard to hold one’s temper in check when people refuse to listen to sound logic.

  “Sæmundur here believed that he could revolutionise the way we think about galdur. That he could reach some imaginary heart of its power and return unscathed, bearing bountiful and profound wisdom for the rest of us mere humans.” Almía scoffed. “I’ve spent hours arguing with you, Sæmundur. You are an insurgent and a heretic – you offer nothing but discourse where there is none to be had. Without the canon we lose control. Without control there is nothing but unchecked chaos and ruin. Do you seriously think you are the first young, arrogant galdramaður we’ve had who wants to revolutionise the craft? That other misguided galdramenn before you have not tried to achieve the same lofty results you are hoping for?’ She shook her head and stared him right in the eye. His gaze did not waver. He did not even blink. “This is a charade. A farce. I know your kind. Talented, intelligent, yes – but reckless. Misguided. You will not know when to stop when the forces beyond tempt you with more power. And it will turn your bones blue and bring disastrous ruin upon us all.”

  The room turned cramped from the oppressive silence that followed. After a short while, which felt like an eternity of time, Sæmundur spoke.

  “Thank you for the critique, Professor Thorlacius. I do empathise with your feelings on the matter, but I reiterate my point – I am completely serious in my change of mind. My current dissertation is something I stand by one hundred per cent. I have abandoned my previous …” Mad theory. He bit his tongue. “Unorthodox theory of the origin and nature of galdur as a thaumaturgical force. I only wish to continue studying the craft and gain a deeper understanding and mastery of it, within the limits of the established and proven canon. It is as you say, Professor Thorlacius – it is what keeps us safe from demonic possession.”

  The board considered this for a while.

  “Thank you, Sæmundur,” Doctor Laufey said. “We will review your documents and call on you within the next hour. Please wait outside the meeting room.”

  * * *

  Sæmundur waited outside for less than half an hour before he was summoned again. The board’s expressions were inscrutable – stone-faced and serious academics, the lot of them. Even Almía’s face was unreadable. In the middle of the room someone had placed a pile of irregularly shaped rocks. On the desk a thigh bone had been set out, along with a ball of rough wool yarn and an instruction sheet. Sæmundur already knew what was in store.

  “The board has decided to consider your request,” Doctor Laufey said, “but feels that additional verification is in order. As such we’ve set up a practical test for you.”

  She pointed towards the desk and shelf Sæmundur had noticed when initially entering the room, which now had a variety of components in place.

  “A simple enough task for any postgrad student. Please.”

  Sæmundur shuffled over to the desk and picked up the instruction sheet which had been placed there for him. The galdur’s description, instructions and invocations had been clearly written out by hand, accompanied with a few galdrastafir. Those magical symbols were believed to ground the galdur and provide it with more structure, helping the galdramaður to keep his focus and control the incantation. Sæmundur had quickly found them to be a crutch – and a bad one at that.

  The galdur was intended to summon a tilberi, a mindless demon created for a single task. Traditionally it was used to steal milk from cows and sheep belonging to unsuspecting neighbours, writhing around like a bloated worm, the size of a newborn. It spat out the milk after having returned to its master, who fed the abomination on their own blood. It was a complex spell – for uneducated peasants – albeit with some practical applications. Sæmundur had used it as a basis when constructing the galdur for the cloth-golem, but it was a needlessly convoluted galdur. This made the incantation as a whole that much riskier.

  It was a trite, convoluted mess of a ritual. The incantation was full of needless gibberish. The sigils, the hand movements, the burning of certain alchemical mixtures – all nonsense. He’d figured that out long before. It was an insult to the craft.

  He took the end of the woollen thread and tied it around the femur. He fished out a knife from within his coat and ran it across his palm. He started reciting the incantation as he wound the thread around the femur while smearing blood into both.

  The words flowed through him. Language. Sound. Vibrations of his own voice, moving through him. The bone started to change shape. The blood-matted wool grew together, starting to throb and ebb as though the bone was breathing. The end of the femur twisted and deformed into a mockery of a face.

  He was doing it before he realised it. The traditional incantation was ugly, uncivilised, bafflingly idiotic in its coarseness. It was almost all superstition, there was no reason behind it. Reciting it like a mindless drone, without thought or intent, felt wrong. He knew better. He was better than this. And he would show them. He would prove to them how far he had come and how far he could go.

  He wove the elements of the cloth-golem’s incantation into the galdur. The bone started to elongate and took on a pale shade of blue. Ridges rose in waves, a spine growing underneath the grey wool. The wool thickened and spun itself into a myriad of limbs, making the tilberi rise from the table on thin, spindly legs. At the end of the femur the head grew bloated and lengthened, a sharp crack divided into a mouth. Thin and razor-sharp teeth glistened in the newly formed maw. It had no eyes, but it looked around, tendrils feeling the air around it. He’d never made a tilberi such as this one. This was no single-tasked automaton. This was a complex summoning, capable of complex tasks. A ritual worthy of a master. It was the culmination of his work so far, the promise of what could be in store. He stretched out the last vowel and started to weave the galdur into a different incantation. With more sense and intelligence the tilberi could be a promising servant, if he only utilised the—

  Sæmundur did not get any further. The words stopped in his throat. Professor Almía Dröfn Thorlacius was standing along with the rest of the committee, their clothes
billowing in a wind unheard and unfelt. They were all speaking in unison, although he could not hear the words. He could not hear anything. Almía’s face was twisted in righteous anger. Sæmundur tried to combat their efforts, but he did not stand a chance against their unified efforts. His vision faded out and back in, rhythmically. They were unmaking his galdur. All of them, in unison. They had been prepared for this. Perhaps even wanted this. The tilberi shivered and fell as its weak limbs gave under its weight, its thin back cracked and shrunk in quick spasms. It threw back its misshapen head and roared with a cacophony of voices that sounded almost human. Its chest rose and fell with its breath. Then it burst. And the screaming stopped.

  Sæmundur could hear again. He listened to the committee finish off the undoing galdur. When Professor Almía finished the incantation and started her outraged tirade he wished he was again trapped in that world of silence.

  * * *

  The committee exited the room, leaving Sæmundur by himself, bearing the weight of his failure on his shoulders. Only one of them lingered: Doctor Vésteinn. The man looked deep in thought.

  “It was … interesting, what you were attempting,” Vésteinn said after a while.

  Sæmundur leaned against the desk, forcing his hands to remain still. Trying to calm himself down.