Shadows of the Short Days

by Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

  Surprise. Regret. Anxiety. Fear. Shame.

  She felt them as clearly as if they were her own emotions welling up inside her. He was afraid to be seen with her. Afraid to be judged. To be ostracised even more. He wanted to hide her, to bury her away from his academic life. He wanted her, but not visibly by his side. And then, the hurt. The feelings of betrayal over her breaking his confidence, of her reaching out and reading him like an open book. Everything else was flooded by a wave of self-loathing as he realised what this all meant. That his true feelings had finally been laid bare.

  “Here,” she said coldly and handed him the cat. He hesitated. “Take her!’ she yelled.

  Speechless, he took the cat. Mæja mewed, miserable and wet from the downpour.

  “What are you doing?’ he asked.

  “She’s yours now. Maybe she’ll help you find a place for someone besides yourself in your life.”

  “Garún, come on. You can’t just—”

  She put her hand up, silencing him. They looked at each other. Without saying anything at all, they said goodbye. Sæmundur saw something in Garún’s face he’d never noticed before, an unknown feeling and intention that was a mystery to him.

  She stood on the threshold and looked as if she was about to say something. Then she walked away and left him holding the cat.

  Fimm

  Sæmundur’s place was a wreck. He didn’t want to let her in, but given how they’d last left things he felt he had no choice. His amplifier was upturned, shards of broken plates littered the floor, piles of books and torn manuscripts were scattered everywhere. Sheets of papers showed esoteric symbols and layouts of a building, interspersed with unreadable scribbles. He cursed as he knocked over the inkwell on the floor and spilled black ink over them.

  Garún took a moment to register the complete mess.

  “What … the hell … happened?’

  “Nothing, it doesn’t matter.” Sæmundur gathered up the papers, using one sheet to soak up the spill. He suddenly turned and glared at her. “It’s none of your business. What do you want?’

  She put Mæja down on the floor. The cat trotted over to her bowl and started eating the pellets of cat food that had spilled over.

  “Right. I’ve obviously caught you at a bad time. I’m here because I need a favour.”

  He was about to flat out reject her, but he hesitated for a moment.

  “Why?’

  “You’re the only person I know who knows any náskárar. And we need to get in contact with them.”

  “Who the hell are “we”?’

  “The Kalmar opposition. Or something – it’s not like we have a name. We’re staging a protest and we want the náskárar to join us. We’ve already got a few marbendlar on board from the riverfront at Elliðaár.”

  “Right. So you want me to introduce you?’

  “Yeah. You don’t have to back me up or anything. Just get me a meeting with them.”

  He thought about this for a while. Of all the days she could have knocked on his door, it had to be today. But it was an odd turn of fate.

  “Well,” he said, “it so happens that I was just heading out to meet a náskári this afternoon.”

  She spared him a smile, then looked as if she regretted it.

  “Sounds good.”

  * * *

  A sprawl of factories, warehouses and shabby-looking storefronts, Skeifan had been designed to be the market hub of Reykjavík, and its manufacturing heart. The heavy industry might be in Gufunes, with its ironworks, quarries, leather works and tanneries, but here the city’s more refined industries were placed: textile and woollen mills, meat processing plants, cooper workshops, along with various stores and small markets.

  Sæmundur hadn’t been in any hurry to meet Rotsvelgur. He owed the náskári a considerable sum of money at this point and he was about to ask for more credit, plus introduce him to a stranger who also wanted something from him. His entire plan depended on getting the gandreið mushroom, which was a big ask. Even for someone as notorious as Rotsvelgur. Sæmundur would have liked to have asked Garún to wait, but he’d been so shocked at seeing her that he didn’t have it in him. It had hurt a surprising amount to see her there on his doorstep. He hadn’t admitted to himself quite how much he had missed her. How much he despised himself for being too craven to stick up for her and stand with her.

  If his plan worked, he wouldn’t need the approval of anyone in Svartiskóli to do his work. He would be his own master. Breaking into Svartiskóli’s library had become something of a mind exercise for him in these last months. It was a cathartic exercise which soothed his nerves. Proof that despite his having burned every bridge, there was still a way forward; that he could not be stopped. Still he had never thought he would actually be desperate enough to do it.

  The náskárar convened at a vacant lot in Skeifan, the cleared site of a building that had burned down a few years earlier. Currently it was used as a store yard for stacks of pallets, rusted iron rods, mounds of fishing nets and colourful buoys. There were plans to build something new there, but they had all been halted when a bureaucratic cog had broken somewhere in City Hall. Now it was common enough knowledge that the náskárar roosted there, although they wouldn’t deem just anyone worthy of engaging in conversation with.

  A pair of dark silhouettes took off from a rooftop far to Garún and Sæmundur’s left just as they entered the storeyard. Scouts. Sæmundur glanced above them. No dark shapes in the overcast sky. But náskárar had incredible eyesight and could be watching them from a good few kilometres away. He kept wiping his sweaty hands on his coat. He and Rotsvelgur went way back – but there was a limit to his patience.

  The náskárar landed like falling meteorites, hitting the ground with four resounding, heavy thuds as they dropped from the sky like dead weight, their enormous wingspan slowing their descent just enough to keep them from injuring themselves. Sæmundur jumped, although he had been expecting this, but Garún just grew more alert, her posture shifting to that of a cat about to pounce or flee. He almost told her to relax, they were fine, but then thought better of it. They were probably far from fine.

  The náskárar surrounded them, perched on freight containers, their rough, iron talons digging into the rusted steel as if it was soft earth. Each náskári had three legs, with a heavy set of talons on each foot. The leg in the middle was commonly called krummafótur – raven’s foot. Something parents said to their child when they put their shoe on the wrong foot. Should one of the náskári choose to pick Sæmundur up in their claws and carry him aloft there would be little he could do about it.

  Right in front of them was Rotsvelgur – the hersir of Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram. He was large for a náskári, towering over them despite his hunched back. Menacing and cold eyes sat behind a long beak that curved a little further down than was usual. Sharp iron like hardened lava covered it – a weapon made for tearing and disembowelling. He was armoured in helskurn, a roughly cast half-plate armour that covered his torso. The story went that it was made from the armour of soldiers Rotsvelgur had killed, fused with the arcane seiður of the náskárar. His hertygi, the harness going over his shoulders and around the armour, was decorated with trophies and status symbols Sæmundur could not identify. Many seemed to be from kills of monstrosities found in the sorcerous highlands, but among them were skulls and scalps from humans and huldufólk, claws of náskárar and fins from marbendlar. The other náskárar were similarly ironed on their talons and beaks, their hertygi decorated with varied trophies. Each of them had a large horned skull of a ram dangling from their harness, splotched red with dried blood. Blóðgögl, as he suspected. Soldiers. This wasn’t a polite meeting, as he had hoped.

  Rotsvelgur leaped down and shambled towards them with his uneven three-legged gait. Garún and Sæmundur both reflexively took a few steps back. He was a predator, a lumbering creature of malice and iron, his breath reeking of old blood and marrow. His black feathers ruffled in the wind.
It looked as if it was going to rain.

  “Sæmundrr,” the náskári growled in rough, archaic Hrímlandic. “Err þérr arriv’d to pay the skuld?’

  “Hail and well met, Rotsvelgur. I received the … er … memo, that was included with my last purchase. So I have come to negotiate with you.”

  “Negotiate, þérr say’t,” spat Rotsvelgur, and he leaned in closer. It took everything Sæmundur had not to step back. He could not afford to show weakness now. “Talking err-at paying.”

  “I can’t pay now. But I promise you, I just need one last thing, and then I’ll pay you back. Double.”

  The náskári leaned back, stretching out his back. Contemplating. Calculating. He stood on his third leg only, using his other two talons to contemplatively shuffle his claws. At his full height the corvine being stood at almost three metres.

  “Who err that gestr þérr brought?’

  Rotsvelgur glared suddenly at Garún, his pitch-black eye narrowing.

  “This … uh … is—”

  Garún interrupted Sæmundur before he managed to make a mess of introducing her to the leader of the most powerful tribe of náskárar in Reykjavík.

  “My name is Garún. I’m a friend of Sæmundur’s. I’ve come to talk to you about an alliance.”

  Rotsvelgur tilted his head sideways, staring her down inquisitively. So much like a raven, but still so different. This close, the dark stains of blood were visible in the coarse iron that had been fused with his beak. It reminded Garún of the wild lava fields by Huldufjörður.

  “Þérr err betwixt worlds,” the náskári said after a while.

  Garún’s heart sank – was there no goddamn being on this fucking island that couldn’t give her a break for who she was? She kept silent, waiting for Rotsvelgur to make the next move.

  “Err-at bad,” he said finally, nodding slightly.

  It seemed like a learned gesture – a human gesture. Garún looked towards Sæmundur, who nodded at her encouragingly. It seemed like the at ending was a negative.

  “Such err the way of skrumnir, as well. Powerful seiðr.”

  She made a mental note to ask Sæmundur about that later.

  “I represent a group of people who are staging a protest against the city walls that are being used to oppress the people of Reykjavík. We will be protesting Kalmar’s presence in the city as well. I’m here to talk to you about a possible alliance with your tribe. We could change things if we stood united against the Crown.”

  Rotsvelgur kept staring her down. She held his gaze. She felt as if she was being tested. She’d heard of how confrontational the náskárar were, how highly they valued ruthlessness, strength and cunning. This was the first time she had talked with one, however, and she was becoming alarmingly aware of how much of her information was second- or third-hand knowledge and prejudiced hyperbole.

  “Ok what ask þérr of Krxgraak’úrrtek? At die for another’s cause? Convenient. This wall err-at of relevance to us.”

  She didn’t understand a bit of skramsl, but even she knew what Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram called themselves in their own tongue.

  “That’s not what I’m asking at all. We will not incite violence at the protest. We only want to make ourselves heard. I know that Kalmar constantly harasses the náskárar all around the country, not just in Reykjavík. We are fighting to remove their death grip from our society.”

  The náskári started pacing from side to side as she spoke. He cawed when she finished speaking, a sharp sound of disapproval.

  “Kalmarr understan’t only violence – respect only violence. As þeirr should. Ok þérr shall be slaughter’d by their hand. As þérr should.”

  “There must be something we can work out. If we discuss this and you could hear—”

  “Vér speak-at to weaklings who fight-at.”

  Garún was seething, trying to calm herself down with the thought that this was at least a good first step. A dialogue had been established. She hadn’t been lifted up and dropped from the sky. Politeness was mandatory when you were surrounded by armed, flying soldiers. The náskári turned away from her to face Sæmundur.

  “Rotsvelgur,” Sæmundur started, “I swear to you I will make this worth your while.”

  “Ok what hav’t þérr to trade what ek desir’t?’ asked Rotsvelgur.

  Sæmundur found them weighing heavily on him again – those pitch-black raven’s eyes that did not see a man standing before them, but meat and bone. He only had one thing to trade. Whether this would end peacefully or in disaster rested on this moment.

  “Svartigaldur,” said Sæmundur in a grave voice.

  Rotsvelgur laughed. A náskári’s laugh sounded like teeth being dragged down an iron rod, smiling all the while. The story went that they did not know to laugh until humans settled Hrímland, and then the náskárar had only learned it to be able to laugh at their competing settlers. Sæmundur was uncertain if he had offended Rotsvelgur. He stood prepared, with an incantation on the tip of his tongue in case he needed it.

  “Svartgaldr, say’t hann, as if Gottskálk the Cruel ha’t arisen.”

  Rotsvelgur strutted back and forth in front of Sæmundur, his iron claws hitting the gravel with sharp, ugly sounds.

  “I’m not an idiot, Rotsvelgur.” Sæmundur leaned in towards the towering náskári. He reeked of sea salt and carrion. “I know why you’ve let me rack up all this debt. Why you’ve been dealing with me, personally, even after you became hersir of the Ram Eaters. Galdur is forbidden among the náskárar. A vile, despised art. Do me this one last favour – and I’m your ace up the sleeve.”

  Rotsvelgur stopped pacing.

  “Do not forget yourself, old friend.”

  He spoke in slow, clear skramsl. The language of the náskárar was rough and ill-suited to the vocal cords of other species, but through the years that Sæmundur had known Rotsvelgur he’d made the effort to learn the basics of the náskárar tongue, so he could better understand him.

  “You are my tool regardless of whether I help you now or not.”

  “Perhaps.” Sæmundur weighed his options. “But it’s up to you whether I will be a volatile weapon or not.”

  “First you do what I ask. Then I will consider your request. What is it – moss?’

  “Fungus. Gandreið fungus, mushroom caps heavy with spores.”

  He ignored Garún glaring at him, knowing she would have some words for him later.

  Rotsvelgur tilted his head. He seemed to be intrigued by this.

  “I will call upon you in the next few days. Be ready. Then you will have your cursed fungus added to your total debt.”

  “Wait, Rotsvelgur—”

  “Fail me on this,” the náskári interjected, speaking in a low voice thick with the promise of violence, “and you will be fodder for our ravenous young.”

  He raised his iron beak and cawed to the other náskárar. They took off at once, the force of Rotsvelgur’s beating wings threatening to throw Sæmundur and Garún off balance. And then they were gone.

  “Sæmi,” Garún said in the quiet industrial yard, “what the hell are you up to?’

  He ignored her question. The gravel ground against his boots with every step.

  Sex

  BEFORE

  Ever since Garún could remember, her mother had dragged her to church. It had been a weekly event that broke up the monotony of her early childhood, as Hulda had insisted that her daughter never skip Mass. Not even if she was sick. Garún didn’t go outside much and so the trips to the church were some of Garún’s earliest memories.

  She hated and loved it. Going outside was frightening but wonderful. Sitting in the church was dreadful yet beautiful. That was life in Huldufjörður for many people.

  Garún’s grandmother would babysit her when Hulda went to work or to the grocer’s. Garún didn’t like being left alone with her strict grandmother. Her name was Snædís and she looked as if her name suited her well – a cold, pale goddess of snow. Most
of their time was spent in silence. Her grandmother would knit while Garún played with her shells and bones. Garún’s grandmother taught her that they were animals and that she could play at keeping them as a farmer. She hadn’t ever seen real cows or sheep, but she knew what horses were because they pulled carts filled with linens and fish, and she knew what dogs looked like because there was one in a yard on the way to church and he always barked at her when they passed by.

  Her days were spent staring out of the window, where the neighbourhood kids would see her as they passed and shout obscenities at her. When they went too far and threw stones, Snædís would storm out and drive them away, screaming even fouler words at them, sometimes swiping at the kids with a broom if the mood struck her. Garún was often afraid and embarrassed, but she also felt warm seeing her harsh, distant grandmother standing up for her. Garún knew that she was different and that her grandmother didn’t like it, even though Snædís pretended not to mind. But she still stood up for Garún. They were still family.

  Sometimes Garún was home by herself when the kids came along and she would hide under her bed until they gave up and left. She was always terrified that they’d break in and beat her up. A few times they went too far and broke a window, for which Garún was scolded and sometimes beaten when her grandmother came back home. If her mother came home first, she would find her in her hiding place and hold her tight for a long time. She showed how afraid she was in front of Garún. Her mother cried later, when she thought Garún was asleep.

  When Garún’s mother had first taken her to church the reverend had tried to eject both mother and daughter. Garún couldn’t remember it, since she was just an infant, but her mother repeated this story every time Garún kept dragging her feet when she was getting ready for church. As soon as they entered the deacon had fetched the reverend in a panic. The priest came partially dressed, with only his cassock on and the collar not properly attached. Her mother had heard people whispering disapprovingly, but she didn’t care. She’d come with her newly born daughter and wanted her to be baptised. She deserved to learn the history and customs of her people. The priest did not agree with her on that and said that Garún did not belong to the old world – she belonged to this world. She was tainted by it and should be cast out.