Shadows of the Short Days

by Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

  “No. The huldufólk came from another world. Not us. We are there, but also here, but in truth we are nowhere. We are in between, behind. Seiður is here. Not galdur. It is nowhere, as I am.”

  “Show me more.”

  “That is impossible, master. Already you have gained more power and understanding of the higher order than I have ever seen a mortal man accomplish.”

  The demon flashed an oily smile.

  Too often he’d been told that something was impossible. Foolish. Heresy. Mad.

  “This was a command, Kölski, not a request.”

  The demon sighed, but its smile did not waver.

  “As the master commands.”

  * * *

  Kölski tried, but it wasn’t enough. The demon could teach him new galdur, new words of power and methods of distorting sounds, but he never achieved results comparable with that initial revelation. That leap into blinding enlightenment. Sæmundur tried to push through his own limitations, but he always ended up losing control. When he kept pushing, the galdur would twist in his hands and leave him exposed and vulnerable to the beyond, to possession and disaster. Despite being significantly more powerful, and with an understanding that was in some sense profound, he was still as trapped as before. He still found something holding him back.

  “It is a common delusion of your kind to view the world in a structured framework of order and laws,” Kölski said after another failed galdur. “What is keeping you back is your very world-view. Something I cannot change.”

  “What do you mean?’

  “You try and try to understand the nature of galdur, to comprehend the nature of a thing which does not exist. It is an impossible task.” For a moment Kölski’s smile was replaced by a look of utter contempt, which vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. “You are thinking on the terms of your reality about something that exists without it. You can’t help but to think in a causal context, where the same cause always yields the same results. That is not the nature of galdur. Galdur is untamed chaos. Yes, what you are doing is harnessing the untamable and bringing it under your will – but that is only temporary, and only a minor fraction of the true power that lies in galdur. With all due respect, master, no mere mortal creature can reach the source of galdur unharmed or unchanged, let alone being able to understand or wield its true primal form. I can hardly explain to you why it is an impossible task – the concept itself is incomprehensible to causal beings. There are no reasons – do you see?’

  “So how are creatures of your kind capable of doing so, if not through understanding? You are teaching me these spells and rituals, opening my mind to new vistas of reality – how is that not making me better control and understand galdur?’

  The demon laughed. “Still, you misunderstand. Always trying to understand, or misunderstand. We do not understand galdur. That is impossible – as I said. We do not use galdur. We are galdur. It’s only here that we break out in a formed, logical image, because those are the demands your fracture of a world places upon us. You are still so filled with the delusions of reality. You probably still believe that the ritual you performed had exorcised me from whatever dimension I dwell in, that one moment I had been a demon cackling in hell, the next being born on your living room floor. Master.”

  The imp added the last word hastily, its tone having grown increasingly harsh as it spoke.

  Sæmundur hesitated. What Kölski described was more or less what he had thought, it was one of the fundamental theories about transmundane beings.

  “Was that not the case?’

  “No, master. Why do you believe that careless and inferior galdramenn risk that so-called demons possess their bones, so they turn blue and their minds are driven to madness? Do you think that there are demons and vættir outside this world, malevolent sentiences waiting for a foolish kuklari to accidentally open the gates to the in-between, so they can charge in and cause chaos and terror in this world? Do you think that is the reason these entities exist? To destroy and corrupt this world?’

  He didn’t know how to reply to the imp. He’d never doubted this truth, which had been repeated to him from his very first day of school. Kölski’s patience wore out.

  “When you summoned me,” it said gruffly, “it was not a being from another world that cracked out of the poor cat you sacrificed, no – it was the ritual itself. When kuklarar mess up their incantations or push their limits so hard that the galdur escapes their weak grasp, it is the galdur itself that settles into their bones, takes form, not some demon from whatever hell you have imagined.” The demon scowled. “That is why you will never completely understand galdur,” it spat out. “Because it does not belong to this cage that you call a world.”

  Sæmundur found himself unable to speak. The demon’s speech had suddenly taken on an angry, almost hateful tone. For a moment he felt as if Kölski would have attacked him, if he had been able to, and he found himself shaken by the dreadful feeling.

  Kölski’s toothy grin returned quickly.

  “So you see, master,” the demon continued, “that you cannot complete the task you’ve set yourself. You certainly have a unique aptitude for galdur, for a human being, and trust me when I tell you that. You have reached further than any other man who has studied the ancient poetry, as they call it. But you’ve reached your limit. No mortal was meant to go further.”

  * * *

  Sæmundur tore open the kitchen window and sucked in fresh air. The air inside had become thick and stale. He felt sick. Kölski was waiting out of sight in the darkened living room, silent and patient, trapped in the protective circle. Suddenly Sæmundur could feel his own hunger and thirst along with a deep exhaustion. His lips were parched. He drank lukewarm water from the tap until he felt nauseous. There was nothing to eat. He didn’t know how many days it had been since he’d eaten. Had he slept at all? His experiments with Kölski had melted into one continuous fever dream.

  He couldn’t stay there any more. He needed to be among people, talking, drinking. Maybe even laugh for a change. A wave of anxiety crashed over him as he thought about Svartiskóli and the library, the fungus that had without a doubt reanimated the bodies by itself after he left it to its own devices. He retched over the sink and threw up the water he’d just gulped down.

  Svartiskóli had to be in quarantine by now. Students or staff might have been infected. Perhaps the fungus had spread over to the main downtown area. Was the entire city infected at this point? His vision darkened, his knees grew weak. He splashed water on his face and wet his hair and beard. The risk had been clear to him – or so he’d thought at the time. What the real price of forbidden knowledge was. Some people would have been hurt, sure. But they weren’t supposed to die. Not like this. Did the brain retain consciousness after the mushroom took over? Were they watching, trapped inside their own bodies, as they stumbled around as unrecognisable monstrosities? Did they feel the spores spewing from the freshly grown fungus caps?

  All that pain, the horror he had invoked. He had taken those lives. And for what? He still found himself restrained. They would come for him, sooner or later. They’d crack his galdur on Kári and discover whatever he could remember. Yet, even so, Sæmundur didn’t fear the Crown. As soon as they realised what he had learned – that he was reading and working galdur from Rauðskinna without losing his mind completely – he would become an asset to them. Not that he wanted to. They would enslave him if they could. Trap his mind and body in sorcerous bindings and shackles. Turn him into just another cog in their machine of empire.

  He threw the front door open, one hand halfway into his coat. This line of thinking was making him sick. He knew Kölski was right. He wouldn’t find any answers in a book. He needed a change of scenery. A cold gust of wind came blowing in, carrying with it a potent stench of rot. On the doorstep was a pile of dead rats, all of them tied together by their tails. White maggots squirmed on their black fur.

  Rotsvelgur.

  Fucking Rotsvelgur. Appa
rently he wasn’t happy with the galdur Sæmundur had woven for him. He didn’t know exactly what this rat king meant, but it was clearly a serious summons. He couldn’t think about this now. The náskári would have to wait. He had to get out, clear his mind. Eat something. He threw the rats in his neighbour’s trash and walked briskly towards downtown.

  The sky was clear, the fading winter sun cast diluted, thin light over the city. Sæmundur found even the weak sunlight almost too much to bear. Steam rose from his mouth as he breathed. In his pockets he found a worn pair of fingerless gloves which he put on, so his hands wouldn’t shake too much rolling a cigarette or two. A leafy-brown slop covered the streets, mixed with grimy slush.

  He walked down Aragata towards Gottskálksgata, heading to the central area. Reykjavík was in full view, a small city on a small hill trying to stretch beyond its reach. Haraldskirkja’s split church tower ruled over the háborg, the acropolis in turn lording it over the city itself. From here the city looked beautiful and dormant. He looked to the south, towards the thaumaturgical power plant, Perlan, where Loftkastalinn floated lazily above its shining dome. Thick cables descended from the fortress, connecting it to Perlan. Loftkastalinn was the first of its kind, a technological colossus that defied the laws of nature. However, its use of seiðmagn wasn’t quite efficient enough yet, meaning the fortress had to charge its engines every couple of days in order to remain aloft. The Kalmar Commonwealth had grand plans when it came to utilising seiðmagn for military purposes. Sæmundur could just hear the roar of the thaumaturgical machines keeping the behemoth afloat, even at such a distance. Over his head a squadron of biplanes soared towards the floating fortress.

  He walked around Reykjavík’s more affluent streets. He took in the upscale houses on Tjarnargata, sombre and respectable, decorated with delicate carvings made by skilled hands. Gnarled trees reached over the shell-sanded garden walls. There was not a spot of rust to be seen, the wood in the window frames white and shiny, the double-glazed windows clear of blooming frostwork. He kept walking. He didn’t know where. It didn’t matter.

  * * *

  Deep in his pockets he managed to find a few krónur, which he used to buy hot dogs at Bæjarins beztu. It was dark, the wind colder and sharper as soon as the sun went below the horizon. The central area was deserted. Those who were outside walked briskly and with determined steps, wrapped in warm clothing like mummies. Armed police officers and volunteer militia crossed Sæmundur’s path frequently, which nearly sent him running at first. They paid him no mind. Reykjavík was still there in one piece, more or less. Security had obviously been increased, the whole place felt on edge. But apparently they weren’t looking for him. Yet.

  Sæmundur wandered up Laugavegur. The walk left him unusually weary, drained his energy completely. He told himself it was because of a lack of nutrition and rest, but he knew that wasn’t the only reason. He went down Barónsstígur and headed towards the Baron’s Cowshed. The Baron’s was an old building, poorly maintained for years now, and it showed. It was one of the oldest bars in the city, the original cowshed had been there long before the Crown showed up and modernised everything. All the tables were occupied inside the dark, windowless space, which was illuminated by fish oil lamps and tallow candles, some of them so haphazardly placed that it was a wonder the place hadn’t burned down ages ago. The smell of stale beer and sweat hung in the air, but faintly in the background the stench of farm animals still lingered.

  Sæmundur sat at the bar and ordered a stout. The soft foam of the beer drenched his moustache when he took the first sip. He felt better immediately. He went through piles of old newspapers and enjoyed listening to people talk. There was something healthy and vigorous about these sounds, the polar opposite of his workings with Kölski. He smiled to himself. A woman laughed, a man ordered a beer and joked with the bartender, someone did an impression with a funny voice, people clinked their glasses together in celebration. The chatter merged into a single sound, as if one voice spoke ceaselessly. He looked up from his newspaper and felt as if there were threads streaming out of people instead of words, long threads that wound up on themselves and wrapped around above them and Sæmundur knew that with a couple of words, one incantation, he could pluck them and make them—

  Someone touched his shoulder and Sæmundur came back to himself. He’d been lying over the bar table, hands over his head. He’d been mumbling, perhaps moaning – he wasn’t sure. Leifur, an old schoolmate of his, was looking worriedly at him.

  “Sæmi. You all right?’

  “Hmm? Yes. Yes, yes, I just … uh … I was thinking.”

  “All right, man, sure,” Leifur said condescendingly. “Maybe you just need a little bit of fresh air,” he added.

  “Yeah,” Sæmundur said. “Fresh air.”

  He couldn’t stand the tone – not from this stuck-up asshole. They’d attended the Learned School together. Leifur had frequently purchased moss from him when he was a first and second year studying seiður. The additional seiðmagn had given him the edge he needed to excel in his exams. He was now on the fast track to take on an apprenticeship in Perlan under Doctor Vésteinn Alrúnarson. He had a chance to become a leading academic in the field. A pioneer. Or, he could become a living weapon of the Crown, a royal seiðskratti. Power and prestige were laid out before him in neat, clear lines.

  Leifur sat back down at his table, where his friends were waiting expectedly. They didn’t try to hide their smirks and stares. He recognised some of them. Second- and third-year students of seiður. As soon as Leifur sat down the others leaned in and started asking. He didn’t have to listen in, he knew what they were saying.

  It’s him, isn’t it? That guy who was expelled. Sæmundur óði – Sæmundur the Mad. He does look like a mess. It’s true what people were saying. His name obviously suits him. Sæmundur the Mad!

  Leifur had everything. Sæmundur had nothing but blood on his hands.

  He couldn’t stay here. None of this had any significance – Leifur, their mockery, it was all just noise. The world had changed in the room with Kölski. He couldn’t act as if it hadn’t. He downed his beer and prepared to leave. Then he glanced at the headlines of the newspapers he had been leafing through.

  ILLEGAL PROTEST TURNS VIOLENT

  The article painted a dark picture of unruly and violent anarchists who had staged an illegal protest outside City Hall, threatening civilians and resorting to violence when asked to vacate the premises. The confrontation escalated into a bloodbath when náskárar had attacked the police, murdering several officers in cold blood, forcing them to retaliate with open fire and tactical use of seiður to disperse the mob. The authorities were offering a significant cash reward for any leads resulting in arrests of the dissidents.

  Accompanying the article was a grainy picture of a crowd, their protest signs askew and in disarray as they were hastily retreating from armoured police officers, seizure-truncheons up in the air, sparking with seiðmagn. In the background he saw a line of crouching riflemen, bracing heavy skorrifles up against their shoulders, and there in the back, almost hidden in the black and white grainy photo, a pale inhuman face. The mask of a royal seiðskratti.

  He scanned the crowd, his heart racing. People were carrying others, who looked as if they couldn’t stand. The people who had been shot. He looked for her, there in the mass. He couldn’t find her. The crowd was a mess of people, only the occasional tail of a marbendill separating individuals from each other.

  She might be dead. They could have killed her. Or arrested her. She could be imprisoned in the dark of the Nine as he was sitting there, drinking beer and feeling sorry for himself. He’d let her down so many times. She could already be lost to him, forever. He had to get back to Kölski. He had to know she was all right. He had to find her.

  “Hey, Sæmi!’ Leifur shouted after Sæmundur as he was heading out. There was something about his tone of voice. “Did you hear about Svartiskóli?’

  A cold shiver ran unde
r Sæmunder’s skin. He slowly turned towards Leifur, sitting with his friends.

  “No,” he said in a quiet voice. “What about Svartiskóli?’

  He felt his face getting warm. They knew. They knew it was him.

  “It’s crazy, man,” Leifur continued slowly, swirling his glass of beer like it was wine. Stirring up the foam. “The entire campus has been shut down, placed in quarantine. People are still held in there. We should be in class now, you know? They say it’s because of an accident with seiðmagn, some botched experiment – but I heard there’s a plague outbreak. And apparently someone broke into the library’s inner sanctum.”

  Sæmundur tried to read the faces of Leifur and his companions. There was not a hint of suspicion. Just the mocking disdain.

  “The library? How? That’s impossible.”

  “Yeah, that’s what everyone’s saying. But something happened, everything’s on high alert down there.”

  “What …’ He cleared his throat, tried to look nonchalant. “Who on earth would think to break into Svartiskóli?’

  “You tell me, buddy. It’s simply mad.”

  Leifur said and laughed with his friends. Sæmundur kept quiet and stared them down. Their laughter quickly dissipated.

  “They’re saying it was a terrorist group,” Leifur said in a serious tone, pleased to find himself the centre of attention. This was his night. “Some kind of revolutionaries. Definitely the same group that has been painting the thaumaturgical graffiti all over town. Fucking bottom feeders. Those psychopaths apparently used some form of seiður at the riot they planned, I heard their signs and banners were laced with seiðmagn. I just hope the Crown can get their hands on those idiots before they do any more harm. It’s because of this sort of garbage that desperate measures had to be taken at City Hall. They act like goddamn savages and make others suffer for their actions. They’re planning something big, you can count on it.” Leifur nodded wisely and took a sip of his beer. “They must have stolen something extremely dangerous from the library.”