Shadows of the Short Days

by Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

  “Right,” Sæmundur said. “All right, Leifur. See you around.”

  He headed out and heard the snickering and mocking remarks as soon as he turned his back on them. He was glad. To them nothing was as preposterous as him doing the heist. Sæmundur the Mad? The drug addict and lunatic? To them he was just a burnout who wouldn’t amount to anything. They wouldn’t be saying that, in the end. He’d silence these fools, no matter the cost. He just had to take the next step. He had started down a winding path he didn’t fully understand yet. Kölski would guide him.

  His heart was pounding as he left the bar. They were blaming Garún’s group for his heist? He was furious at himself. He couldn’t do anything right. He’d first betrayed her by being ashamed of her. Then again by sacrificing Mæja. He was doing a fantastic job proving her right, that he was selfish and egocentric. He’d sacrificed lives for his search of power. Now he’d sacrificed her as well. He wanted to disappear. Become nothing. But that wouldn’t do. He had to find Garún and make things right.

  Trailing behind him, consistently keeping Sæmundur at such a distance that he was always just a step from being out of sight, was a man so wholly unremarkable that he could have passed his own mother without a second glance. He adjusted his hat and followed in the galdramaður’s wake. If anyone had noticed him it would have been an uncomfortable, if forgettable, moment, as the man in question didn’t look like anyone at all.

  Fjórtán

  Garún was a Hrímlander. She was used to the everlasting darkness of winter. But in the Forgotten Downtown, time ground to a halt. There was no way to tell if it was night or day. At first Garún had made an effort, but as time wore on the boundaries quickly became more abstract and she stopped caring. There was only candlelight and the dangerous glow of the hrævareldar. She’d given anything for a glimpse of sunlight.

  She wanted to get out after the first night. The thought of being truly forgotten here stirred a real fear within her. She sat on the bed and lit a tallow candle to see her watch. There were no electric lamps here and no moon in the sky to illuminate the dark. Seven thirty. She’d slept for almost twelve hours.

  Her room was a wreck. Old furniture, that no one had ever built or purchased, had been broken into scraps and splinters of wood. Squatters had stayed here before, leaving behind ruined mattresses and broken junk. Time stood still. She kept the bare necessities ready in her backpack, in case she needed to move. This was not a place she intended to settle into. She had to get out, go somewhere else. The air in the apartment was suffocating, the reality waiting outside like a bad dream. Reality had failed her. Now only nightmares remained.

  At first Garún spent her time wandering around the Forgotten Downtown, but she quickly gave that up. She had nowhere to go and the streets weren’t safe. The empty windows looked as if they were hiding something. The hrævareldar were stalking her. She found them appearing unusually frequently in her way, so she had to regularly divert her path to avoid them. It felt as if they were tracking her.

  Her fingers itched to paint. She had nothing better to do than drink, so she spent her time at Gómorra. The place was empty and depressing. Dejected drunkards and addicts stared down into half-empty glasses of beer. An old record player played old-fashioned songs about romance in the countryside and that most beautiful island in the north. The warped records and ageing record player lent the sound a hollow tone, making the cheerful songs sound sombre. Gómorra was the only place of entertainment in the Forgotten Downtown, located in a house that seemed have been converted from old fishermen’s huts. Around the neighbourhood were many buildings related to the fishing industry, even though they’d never been used for that purpose. They were useless; after all, no one rowed out into the unnaturally calm sea.

  She ignored everyone and everyone ignored her. A silent agreement had been established. It was only here, on the edges of the real, that she could live a life where she was free to be herself. There were no glares here, no people to bribe just to be treated like everybody else, nobody looked at her twice, let alone gave her any kind of shit. Whether it was apathy or open-mindedness wasn’t a concern to Garún. It was the only nice thing about this forsaken place. It made her remember that things could be different – would be different.

  That night the record player was thankfully off at Gómorra. On the stage a band played a lethargic funereal jazz. The band members were clad in black from head to toe, wearing black hoods over their heads. They took turns drumming, playing the trumpet, accordion, keyboards, violin, even shaking heavy chains. They were so identical to one another because of their clothing that you could not keep track of them as they switched instruments. Garún slumped over the table, trying to listen to the music. Her beer tasted stale and sour. She was starting to lose even her appetite for drinking.

  A slurring vagrant spouting obscenities was more often than not the only person actively holding a conversation at the bar. Without fail the man would always introduce himself to Garún as Jón-not-reverend-Jón. Every night he told a different tragic story from his own life. From the sound of it. Jón-not-reverend-Jón seemed to have packed more suffering and hardship into each year of his life than the average person could possibly manage. Looking at his weathered cheeks and tattered clothes, it was easy to believe him.

  If Garún somehow drew his attention then he usually started cursing her for being a blendingur, talking about how her interdimensional presence made him exceptionally uncomfortable, which she found hilarious coming from a hobo reeking of piss. After that he usually diverted into ranting about various other races – náskárar, marbendlar, huldufólk. If it wasn’t human, it couldn’t be trusted. Garún didn’t know why she indulged him. Possibly because it was better than the silence. It was too quiet here. When Jón-not-reverend-Jón wore himself out, she moved in with her response. It was almost sad watching him losing his grip on his vile world-view. It was just a front – something for him to latch on to, to hate. They were no different from him in this sense. It felt good to break down his pathetic rants. It fed the fire burning within her. It gave her some kind of twisted hope. If Jón-not-reverend-Jón, a broken wreck of a human being, filled with nothing but moonshine and resentment, could be changed, then, well – maybe – there was hope for the rest of the Hrímlanders as well.

  After his usual epistle of hate, the bum ranted about how life had mistreated him and kept him down, that nobody had ever shown him a shred of kindness, which is why he had to drink so much. She kept quiet while he gushed out his life’s sorrows, and bit her tongue while he ranted yet again about the deceitfulness of huldufólk and the unnatural violation that was the blendingur. It reminded her of when she was a child and went to church with her mother, where she had to sit under sermons that condemned her in a new way every week. She’d endured worse.

  All her life she’d heard the same story. That she was unnatural. That she carried the worst of both worlds. That she shouldn’t exist. The Forgotten Downtown had drained her strength. The fire burning in her heart now felt too much like a bloody cavity. A tender, sore wound. She avoided thinking about Jón Fjarðaskáld. If the funeral was over yet. She had seen what the newspapers were saying about him and the protest. The Crown painted him as a degenerate, a man of violence and an alcoholic. The rest of them were called degenerates and delinquents, rioters without a purpose beyond that of violence. The Commonwealth had taken him and others away from this world and now she was hiding here in the dark, hidden from sight on the blurred edge of reality. It made her feel trapped. It made her sick.

  When she spoke to Jón-not-reverend-Jón she pretended she was talking to the late poet. As if this Jón was just a misguided friend who needed some help and perspective. It felt hollow. But even that was better than nothing.

  “Why do you think you can’t get any work in the city, Jón?’ she asked him. “Because the huldufólk are taking the available jobs?’

  He nodded in agreement and was about to interject, but she didn’t give him an op
ening.

  “Think – who is the biggest employer in Reykjavík? The Crown. Kalmar has been building almost non-stop for the last couple of decades and they only hire humans. Do you know why? Because it’s according to the law. Hiring non-citizens, people with no official status within the government system – which are mostly blendingar, marbendlar, náskárar and a lot of huldufólk – is illegal. So what’s left behind?’

  She noticed other people glancing at their conversation. She wasn’t sure if it was an interest of ill-intent or not. People had lost all hope here. Maybe she could spark something in them. Kick these outcasts out of their apathetic slump and get them to do something.

  “Humans. Kalmar only hires humans. When you blame the huldufólk for your troubles you’re putting ammunition into the hands of your oppressors, Jón-not-reverend-Jón. You’re giving them the fuel they need to keep their empire running.”

  This shut him up for some time. She was certain not a word had seeped into his thick, groggy skull, but maybe she had reached someone else there. Rökkurvík was not a place where you would find allies of Kalmar. And she needed all the backup she could possibly find. She ordered another beer. She was halfway through it when Jón-not-reverend-Jón started mumbling again.

  “It’s not for an honest man such as myself to work these days,” he said in a self-pitying tone. “What little I manage to scrounge together is stolen by scum like you, and if not you, the fucking huldufólk. And if you manage to keep the rabble away, the Crown takes every ten krónur you manage to acquire, as greedy as huldukóngar in their hidden palaces, if not worse! But if I peddle my wares here, their filthy claws can’t reach into my pocket. That’s where I get them.”

  She looked up. “What do you mean?’

  He didn’t reply to her, turning to his empty glass.

  “Ah, so now you’re listening? You thieving bitch. You’re all the same. Forget it, it’s not a place for an aberrant such as yourself.”

  “Where do you sell your junk? Is there a market here?’

  The vagrant ignored her, trying to catch the bartender’s attention. She grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to turn to her.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Without taking her eyes from him, she stuck a dagger she kept in the inside pocket of her coat up against his side. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit. Where do you sell your stolen loot, you miserable wretch? Where?’

  He looked around for help. No one spared him a glance, not even the bartender, who stood calmly at the other end of the bar, pretending not to notice anything. The band kept on playing their melancholic eulogy.

  “All right, all right! Control yourself,” he spat out. “If you can, you half-breed bitch!’

  She pushed the dagger up against him, puncturing his speckled coat, possibly breaking his skin. He yelped.

  All right! Kolaportið!’ he whimpered through a clenched jaw. “Put away the blade and I’ll tell you how you can get there.”

  The dagger didn’t move until he’d talked. She downed the rest of her sour beer and headed straight outside.

  * * *

  After saying goodbye to Leifur at the Baron’s Cowshed, Sæmundur had headed straight back home. He knew of a galdur which could be used to track down Garún, but he couldn’t risk leaving Kölski behind. He’d strongly felt the demon’s absence. The more time that passed away from the demon’s presence, the weaker he felt. When he opened the door to his apartment he was out of breath and trembling, stars flickering at the edge of his vision. Inside, Kölski waited, just as Sæmundur had left him, silent as the grave.

  “What … have you done … to me,” Sæmundur groaned.

  “Nothing, master,” Kölski said with a sharp smile. “Nothing you didn’t do to yourself.”

  Sæmundur collapsed on his mattress. He immediately felt better, now that he was back in the company of the demon.

  “What do you mean?’

  “When you dragged me into this … world –’ it spat out the last word like a curse – “you did so with two sacrifices.” Kölski held out its black, chitinous claws. “The flesh.” It opened its right claw. “And the spirit,” it added and opened the left.

  Sæmundur stared into the demon’s silver eyes for a while before he realised what it meant. The shadow.

  “Shadow has no essence, it has no material component, no frequency. You can’t use a shadow, it’s …’

  He thought about the ritual, how shadows had danced on the walls like living darkness. How they had been drawn in by the demon. He reached for a tallow candle that was on top of the amplifier and lit it. He held up a hand against the flame, tried to cast a shadow on the wall, floor, something. Nothing happened.

  “Impossible.”

  “Darkness is everywhere. You just need light to see it. Every man casts a shadow if they stand in front of the light. Like fire burns and suns shine, people are radiant with darkness. That is the essence of life.”

  Sæmundur collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.

  “Absurd. That doesn’t make a shred of sense.”

  Kölski’s laughter was like a cold wind over bleached bone.

  “Do not despair, master! Gottskálk considered this to be a good sign, by exorcising a demon he was ridding himself of evil’s influence. “A man without shadow is pure of heart,” he said. You should rejoice!’

  Everything has a price. It had been one of his earliest lessons, but he’d never taken it seriously. Galdur meant being powerful, not powerless. All these words, these incantations, they were his weapons. How could they turn on him like that? How could he have unwittingly sacrificed a part of himself ?

  No.

  He stood up. No, this sort of thinking would not do. He knew what the risks were when he decided he had to read Rauðskinna, no matter what. No price was too dear for him. This was the nature of ascending – transformation. After only a few weeks he’d reached a higher understanding and control than any galdramaður who had ever studied at Svartiskóli. All the taboos and prohibitions that he’d been taught were irrelevant. He had to see them for what they were – falsehoods and hindrances placed either from misunderstanding and fear or as a way for those in power to keep it from the reach of others. He was beyond them now. He had started to gain a true understanding of galdur.

  That was when he noticed the corpses, hidden away in the dark corners of the room. Twisted bodies, entwined together, seeping blood from skin as if it was porous. It took him a moment, staring at them frozen in disbelief, to recognise their uniforms as those of the military.

  He resisted the urge to stumble backwards and flee from the room. Instead he turned to Kölski, speaking slowly, but clearly.

  “What … the … fuck?’

  “Ah, yes. The visitors.” Kölski moved to the edge of the circle, tilting its head as it considered the warped bodies. “I thought it would be best to take neat care of them, master. They came in as soon as you left. Snooping around.”

  “You did that?’

  Kölski performed a neat, flourished bow.

  “Yes, master. I will not let lesser beings compromise your domain. Soldiers of Kalmar, their broken spirits told me before I sent them off. They have been hiding for some time now, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.”

  Sæmundur threw up on the floor. He was glad he had something to vomit. He felt disgusted. Sick. How had he not spotted the soldiers?

  It was some time before he found the strength to speak again.

  “Are there others waiting outside now?’

  The demon shut its eyes. The walls creaked as the darkness inside grew thicker.

  “Yes, master. They are shrouded by feeble illusions. Seiður, it feels like. A person who has been stalking you. Their leader.”

  Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  He should have performed a galdur of hiding. Something. But he’d just stumbled around like an idiot.

  “I can’t stay here. We have to go.”

  “Very we
ll, master.”

  “You can’t remain as you are. If you’re seen among people there will be hell to pay. You’ll have to be disguised somehow. Can you turn yourself into a fly or some creature?’

  “I’m afraid not, master. If only it were that simple. But with a simple word of command I can retreat back into the form of your shadow. Would that suit you?’

  “It will do.”

  “You can temporarily bind me back into the shadow-form with an archaic incantation. It is fairly simple in structure, but to keep the galdur strong you will have to constantly reinforce it. It will be draining. You will also need a different name from the one you now use to call me. Kólumkilli is one of my ancient names – one of hidden power and patience. That name is laden with the power of deception and illusion. I will teach you how to sing your shadow back into existence.”

  It took him a long time to pronounce the name properly and incorporate it into the chant. There was something about the pronunciation that he had a hard time with. When Sæmundur spoke the galdur, the protective circle broke and the demon faded back into a flickering shadow.

  * * *

  Garún had walked past the building countless times, the windows broken and nailed shut here like everywhere else. When she looked inside there was nothing to see except scraps of wood and rusted iron, remains of large industrial machines. It was a dead place, abandoned, although she was certain that nobody had ever worked there. The only door was rusted shut. It turned out to be quite easy for her to break in through one of the windows. Silently she made her way between the machinery. The floor was covered with broken glass and scrap: screws, bolts, faded electrical wires with worn-out ends. No one had ever used these things. No one had made them or left them behind. Still they were here. Why? She pushed these thoughts away.

  At the end of the factory floor was a dusty break room. Dirty mugs were in the sink and yellowed notebooks lay open as if someone had just stepped away decades earlier. Nothing was written in them. Rows of pale green steel lockers were at the end of the room. The paint was mostly peeled off and had fallen in flakes on the floor around them. Garún crammed herself into the third locker from the left and closed it.