Shadows of the Short Days

by Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

  “Sæmundur,” she said in an exasperated voice. “By all means, invite yourself in. You are no longer a student of Svartiskóli. What do you think you’re doing here?’ She dipped her pen in the inkwell and scribbled something down, then stamped the document. “If this is regarding your expulsion, then I assure you there’s nothing further to discuss. You’ve dug your own grave, Sæmundur. Do not come begging to me, expecting me to help you out of it.”

  “No, professor,” Sæmundur said in a strained voice. The books were overflowing with words; forbidden, cursed mutterings poured into his mind. He had difficulty hearing what Almía was saying as the whispers intensified. “I have not come here to beg.”

  He reached the end of her desk. She looked up to him with an annoyed glare. Sæmundur felt inside his coat for the right leather pouch. It took him a while. He felt odd, ill but somehow well, his hands as rigid as crab’s claws.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, as she watched him fidgeting around for the right pouch. She flashed a loathsome smirk as she took in his overall condition. “Sæmundur – oh, Sæmundur. Did you seriously show up here intoxicated?’

  Sæmundur stuck his gloved hand into the pouch and pulled out a handful of fine dust. Before Professor Almía could go on, he leaned over her desk towards her, holding out his hand with a flat palm, and blew the dust right into her shocked face as the whispers in the room reached a violent crescendo.

  “What the hell!’ Almía shouted.

  Sæmundur leaped backwards, partly because he feared Almía might lash out with galdur, but mostly because he was absolutely terrified of the mushroom spores that covered her. He ripped off his gloves and tossed them away. Almía stood up, dusting herself off, coughing uncontrollably.

  “This is the … the last time that I … that I … What the fuck is this?’

  Her breathing was becoming ragged. The cough became more intense and rough. Almía stopped dusting herself off and looked at Sæmundur, into his dilated pupils.

  “Oh, no. You didn’t. Even you wouldn’t—”

  “Almía, I’m sorry. I just … I just had no choice.”

  Almía started chanting a powerful galdur, her hands trembling weakly as she tried to reach for an obsidian dagger on her shelf, but the cough tore deep into her lungs, not allowing her a chance to speak clearly. None of that registered to Sæmundur. He stared dumbfounded at the glowing creature that blossomed inside her chest and started spreading. He knew he wasn’t hallucinating. In front of his eyes the mushroom spores spread through Almía’s lungs. She’d stopped chanting to focus on being able to breathe. Sæmundur saw the lethal roots of the fungus, of which he’d just drunk moments before, move through Almía’s body like oil through clean water.

  She collapsed on her knees, heaving, trying to soundlessly breathe like a fish on dry land. The black-glowing infestation reached Almía’s spine and coiled tightly around it, spreading up and down. A piercing headache hit Sæmundur and he grabbed his head, feeling as if he was splitting open from the inside. Almía mimicked him and for a moment they moved like marionettes controlled by the same hand. Their agony was completely in sync, and then the fungus reached Almía’s brain and anything went instantly still.

  * * *

  Gandreið can be cast in several different ways. Sæmundur knew the major theories about the phenomenon and its various manifestations. No method was as exact and precise as this one, but it was considered the vilest svartigaldur, despicable even by the measures of those who practised such heinous acts. No amount of reading could have prepared Sæmundur for the paralysing horror that crippled him as his consciousness was split in twain. He gagged, threw up into his mouth and forced himself to swallow it back, which just made him want to throw up all the more. He couldn’t lose the shroom broth from his body. Everything would fall apart if he did. Almía sat limply on her knees and mimicked Sæmundur perfectly, hands clasped over her mouth. The sight made him despise himself afresh.

  When Sæmundur was sure he wouldn’t throw up, he sat down with his head in his hands. Almía did the same, her face numb, her eyes like glass marbles. He moaned hopelessly and jumped when she moaned as well.

  The gandreið fungi was one of the most lethal organisms found in Hrímland. It lived wild on the highlands, spreading either by growing clusters of toadstools in nature or inside a host. The fungus killed the host and controlled it, drove it mercilessly in order to spread spores as much as possible until the body broke down and couldn’t move any further. The corpse would then become fertile grounds for a new colony of toadstools.

  Reining in control and trying to comprehend what he was seeing was more difficult than he had ever expected. The visions that assailed him were not meant for human comprehension, or for any other sentient creature on this earth. The simultaneous perception of his conscious reality alongside the conscious reality of Almía’s corpse was an experience of a completely alien nature. Everything was wrong. Himself most of all. He had been assimilated into the grotesque nightmare world of the mushroom.

  * * *

  He stood up, almost collapsed with dizziness, sat back down. Almía did the same in an almost mocking mimicry. There wasn’t much time. He had to get this under control.

  Sæmundur stood up and stared straight into Almía’s face. Almía mimicked him, her facial features slack. She mirrored Sæmundur’s movements, but not in an accurate manner. There was something unnatural about her movements. They were sluggish and rough. Delayed. Almía looked unnatural even when standing still. She wasn’t breathing. When Sæmundur raised his right hand, she raised her right hand. It was like standing in front of an enchanted mirror. Little by little he managed to get Almía to move somewhat convincingly, but he couldn’t get the hang of moving only her body, not his own as well. Finally Sæmundur got down on the floor while forcing her to keep standing upright and tried to control her like that. It felt incredibly odd to walk while lying on the floor, but with a little bit of practice Almía’s movements became approximately normal.

  Getting a human look on her face proved to be even harder. The hallucinations were coming in strongly now, crashing over him, and Sæmundur felt as if her nose and mouth were melting off and that her eyes kept shifting in colour – which, for all he knew, was as likely as anything else. Recorded knowledge of practical gandreið using the fungus was very limited. In the end Almía seemed normal enough, at least by Sæmundur’s reckoning, but he knew well that in this state he had no right to be the judge of that.

  Opening the door was more difficult than he’d expected. Almía handled like a stiff wooden puppet. Sæmundur finally realised that by closing his eyes he could ignore his own self and almost feel that he was only controlling one body. Eventually Almía grabbed the door handle with an odd, stiff gesture. Sæmundur made her reach into the folds of her robes and pull out her pocket watch. It was a golden antique, and had no doubt been in her family’s possession for generations. This whole endeavour had only taken him around twenty minutes. Kári would be out for a while. There was still time. Sæmundur took great care in putting the watch back in its pocket. The gesture could have almost seemed natural from a distance.

  Sæmundur walked Almía through the halls towards the library. Everything was quiet; he didn’t meet anyone on his way. Finally, he came to the only door that was different from the others, a double door made from a heavy and dark wood, a miniature version of the door at the main entrance. He hesitated and gathered his courage for a moment before he made Almía open it, sticking his own hand up into the empty air as if to open the void.

  It took him a while to get used to the gloom in the library’s reception, after having been in the unrelenting fluorescent lighting. The room was a short corridor, at the end of which was a wide service desk that went from wall to wall. Behind the desk was a quite ordinary office door with a matt glass window. Stacks of books and manuscripts covered the desk so the librarian behind it was hardly noticeable.

  The service desk was the toll gate between
the library and the outer world. The librarian of Svartiskóli alone decided who went in and for what reason. Her rule over her domain was absolute in every regard. Most students found it very uncomfortable to meet her for the first time. Compared to the dreary surroundings and Svartiskóli’s reputation, most expected a wizened hag, a gaunt ghoulish person, or even a limping hunchback. A freakish outcast that was in accordance with the oppressing sense of foreboding that dominated everything, that came with the stories of every library visit told to freshmen and outsiders. Sæmundur, walking as Almía up to the desk, was greeted by a warm, elderly lady with half-moon spectacles and her hair in a tidy knot. The glasses were delicate and golden, hanging from a fine pearl necklace. A beautiful pin accented her neat, grey suit, which she wore over a spring-yellow cardigan. The pin depicted an open book with a flaming quill, the symbol of the thaumaturgical order to which she belonged.

  Her name was Edda. Like the halls of Svartiskóli, she was uncannily mundane, so amicable that it was disturbing, especially in contrast with the library itself that lurked beyond the door. Her smile was warm and her manner calm and caring. Despite that, nobody could stand her – and everyone feared her.

  “Can I help you, dear?’ Her voice was soft and kind.

  Sæmundur was wholly unfamiliar with the terms on which the librarian and the head lecturer of galdur spoke. He tried to dig around in her memories, but found himself reeling from the disorienting cacophony that threatened to overwhelm him. Only noise.

  “Edda, this is a matter of urgency,” he ventured, in a similarly harsh tone that Almía had taken with him before. “I’m here to enter the inner sanctum.”

  The librarian leafed through a large logbook that lay open in front of her and searched it carefully.

  “I can’t see that you are signed up today, Professor Thorlacius, and neither tomorrow or the next day. Is it possible that you forgot to apply for access?’

  He tried to smile at her, but felt like an ape in a zoo baring his teeth.

  “Enough of the act, Edda. Not today. You will find that I can be a considerable thorn in your side, if I decide you’re worth the effort.”

  “Is that so?’ Neither Edda’s face nor voice implied anything but helpfulness. “For what work was this regarding?’

  “Rauðskinna.”

  Sæmundur made Almía put as much weight behind the word as possible. It didn’t cut it. He could just as well have asked to be seated on the king’s throne.

  “Impossible. Simply impossible. Such an application would never have been lost or misplaced, and besides, it is simply unthinkable that permission for a viewing has been acquired without my knowing.”

  “I am aware of the seriousness of the matter, please spare me your little lecture. As I said, this is a matter of considerable urgency. I will remind you that I am head lecturer of galdur at this university.”

  “And I will remind you who the librarian of this facility is. No one, do you hear me, no one can show up here and expect to leaf through the inner sanctum manuscripts as they were today’s issue of Þjóðviljinn!’

  Her face became red as she spoke, with spots flaring up on her throat.

  “Let me through, Edda,” Sæmundur said in Almía’s gravest voice, “or I will let myself through.”

  The librarian stared at her, stunned for a moment. Then an eerie calm descended upon her.

  “Almía,” she said in sincere disappointment, “what has got into you?’

  Sæmundur was starting to panic. This was not what he had expected. How did Professor Thorlacius herself not have ready access to the inner sanctum? Had he overestimated her power at the university? Or underestimated the paranoia and security surrounding the closed library department?

  “I can not find any permission for this kind of access, nor even the application for it, and so I simply cannot let you pass. Almía, please, this is pure folly. And furthermore, this must be reported!’

  Edda pinched her lips together and spat out the last word as if it were toxic. One by one his options were being taken off the table. She’d cornered him. So there was only one thing left to do.

  He relinquished control over Almía.

  Sæmundur was thrown back into his body, suddenly not aware of Almía any more. The mushroom high was unexpectedly potent now that his consciousness was only inhabiting his own flesh. Everything was crooked and wrong, the background filled with inexhaustible noise, and the feeling that he was now experiencing the world for what it truly was had become even stronger than before. As if he were closer to some kind of truth. Time passed oddly. It was hard for him to gauge for how long he’d left Almía out of control. He mumbled a word and—

  —his hands were around her throat, his maw wide open, the jaw dislocated, his face right up against hers and when he released his grip on her neck and she drew in a quick breath, a cloud of spores erupted from him—

  Sæmundur cried out and left the professor behind, let the merciless, wild fungus do what was in its nature.

  * * *

  The spores took control of Edda with frightening speed, just like with Professor Thorlacius. The shock of splitting his perception of reality and self into three parts was even greater than before, even though he kind of knew what to expect. Sæmundur got Almía to crawl under the librarian’s desk and remain there. While he manoeuvred her body, Edda sometimes moved in the same grotesque, stuttering jerks as Almía and Sæmundur himself. It was almost more than he could manage to be simultaneously in control of three bodies. Almía’s corpse had been transformed into a walking horror. Toadstools erupted from her open mouth and every ragged breath now spewed out spores, her lungs having blossomed into fertile mushrooms. Sæmundur looked at the librarian with Almía’s eyes. His brain could hardly manage to process the three perspectives at the same time. She looked terrible. Her hair was now a mess and her glasses were bent; her neck was red and bruised after Almía’s iron-grip stranglehold. He managed to straighten the glasses, but the hair became even more ragged after he made a mess of fixing it with jittery motions, so he left it as it was. He hid her injuries by throwing a shawl around her neck. It didn’t do much but it would have to do.

  He opened the door to the library and entered an enormous vault. Tall and dusty bookshelves reached up into the dark, powerful monuments of knowledge. Only the bibliognosts knew how many volumes the library held. The only source of lighting was from torches and candelabra on baroque fittings, but no smoke came from their flames. The air was dry and dead, like in a freshly opened tomb.

  The head bibliognost greeted Edda as soon as the door shut behind her. He was dressed in a plain, torn robe which had probably been in use for two or three generations. Hanging from his belt was a large tome in a chain, locked with iron hinges. He was small and scrawny, his hair thin and miserable. They were all pale and weak, as if they weren’t fed enough or never saw the light of day. Rumour had it the latter was true, at least.

  “Edda,” the bibliognost said worriedly, “are you all right?’

  “No,” said Sæmundur in her ragged voice, “I wouldn’t say that. I have received a request from the head lecturer of galdur. Professor Thorlacius has requested a page copy from Rauðskinna.”

  The little blood that was in the bibliognost’s face drained.

  “Why am I hearing of this only now?’ he hissed in a low voice. “Why on earth does she wish to see Rauðskinna?’

  Sæmundur dug desperately around in the woman’s memory, searching for a name connected to the face. It was confusing and messy, like tearing up mouldy boxes in an old basement and tossing their contents on the ground.

  Árni.

  His name was Árni.

  “The application has been reviewed and approved by the head lecturers as well as the rector. This is not a regular, official request by any means, do you understand? Now tell me, Árni – are you going to escort me to Rauðskinna or must I make a fool of you by going there by myself ?’

  Officially Edda was “just’ the li
brarian, but she wielded considerable authority within its walls and received as much reverent respect from her colleagues and student body as the most esteemed professors and scientists at the university. The rector was in charge of Svartiskóli – Edda was in charge of the library. Those were the top ranks of Svartiskóli’s academia. Sæmundur made Edda give Árni a friendly smile. The librarian had been uncanny when she was still alive. Whatever it now looked like to Árni, then it did the job. A bit startled, he gestured for her to follow.

  Árni led her along aisles between the bookcases. Svartiskóli’s library was massive, a sprawling maze spreading both on the surface and underground. Parts of it predated the modern building, no one knowing who built it or why, only hushed rumours circulating about its original builders. On their way they came across other bibliognosts carrying out their work: filing books, looking for certain volumes, escorting other guests to their allotted destination. Each and every one of them had a tome hanging from a chain on their belt. The books were of various sizes and shapes, but none was as great and heavy as the tome Árni carried. They were all locked. Their path led them past a row of reading tables with small oil lamps, where students sat busy reading while the bibliognosts patrolled from table to table. Sæmundur grew nervous seeing all these people and was glad he had locked the reception area. Hopefully it would be enough.

  After threading the maze of the library for a good while, they finally came to the vault. An enormous round iron door shut off the inner sanctum. It was a rare event that anyone was let through. Two guards stood at the heavy door, tall and muscular so they filled out their torn, ill-fitting robes. They didn’t have any books attached to them and were dressed in some sort of leather armour over the thin rags. Their thick leather gloves had iron knuckles fused to them. They reminded Sæmundur of club bouncers. An odd thing to find in a library. The thought made him smile, but he stopped himself when he realised that the librarian must be smiling as well.