Shadows of the Short Days

by Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

  Kryik’traak had been busy fishing something out of a vat and turned to them, holding a jellyfish in his hands. It was upside down, transparent mouth-tendrils dangling limply from its colourful core like a grotesque flower. From the middle a long, tube-shaped stalk stuck out.

  “Put them on.”

  He handed the jellyfish to Garún. It was so slippery that she almost lost her grip on it.

  “What do you mean?’

  “Like this.”

  Hrólfur lifted a jellyfish to his face. He put the stalk into his mouth and the jellyfish latched on to his head. His face was distorted behind the gelatinous coelenterate. He threw himself into the river. Diljá moved the jellyfish slowly to her face, biting carefully around the stalk. Immediately the jellyfish attached itself to her face. She clawed at the creature, but it wouldn’t relent, she started struggling as if she was choking. Kryik’traak pushed her so she fell into the water. He placed the jellyfish on Katrín, who struggled weakly as he carried her into the water in his arms.

  The jellyfish was so slimy and foul-smelling that Garún could hardly bring herself to hold it, let alone put it on her face. She held her breath, forcing herself to stop thinking about what she was doing, and placed the jellyfish on like a mask.

  The jellyfish emitted a brief electric shock when it attached itself to Garún. Her face became numb and she couldn’t feel the stalk in her mouth any more. She was unable to breathe, but she had been expecting that. She was only able to see very faded outlines, only differences in brightness and vague colours, but when she jumped into the freezing water she was able to see as clearly as up on the surface. The bone-coloured coral structures created a sort of aquatic avenue, its bottom laid with slimy brown algae. The buildings were crooked and twisted, the windows open and empty, like primordial huts made at the dawn of civilisation. She tried to breathe but found herself unable to, choking for a few panicked moments before she realised she had to relax and let the jellyfish breathe for her. Hrólfur and Diljá were waiting for her across the street. Kryik’traak was just ahead, swimming towards an empty doorway, still holding Katrín. The marbendill, so awkward and slow on land, was an entirely different being in the water. Agile and sharp, moving like a bird of prey in the sky. They followed him as he swam into the building.

  It was pitch black inside. The water was freezing and absolutely still. The cold was almost paralysing and Garún wondered how much longer they would be able to stand it. Kryik’traak’s silhouette moved into a hallway, which was lit by strange, faintly luminous plants growing from the walls. Kryik’traak tore one off by the roots and it flared up, glowing like a torch. The plant looked like a hybrid of two oceanic creatures. At its roots glowed something that seemed like a sea urchin, while a kind of sea anemone grew from its top, streaked with glowing stripes and patterns. Garún tore one plant for herself and immediately it glowed brighter with that unsettling light. Kryik’traak led them onwards through a monotonous maze of coral hallways.

  After some while, when Garún was really starting to worry about the cold, a lukewarm stream of water suddenly came rushing over her. They went around the corner and found themselves out of the coral labyrinth. The glow from the plants illuminated rough stone walls. The tunnels were mostly natural, but it was clear they’d been widely chiselled and shaped. Green algae covered almost everything, moving gently in the stream like grass in a gentle wind. The luminous plants grew in the tunnels at regular intervals.

  Kryik’traak led them to a tunnel with a strong opposite current, against which he swam effortlessly, but they had to drag themselves forwards using a slimy rope threaded between iron loops that had been nailed into the walls. Soon enough the luminous plant he carried was the only visible light in the darkness, as Garún had to leave hers behind to pull herself forward. The rope was slippery and difficult to get a grip on, but they still moved faster than if they’d walked along the slippery bottom or tried to swim. Their heavy clothes impeded them, making the process that much harder.

  Finally they surfaced in a small cave. The same pale light reflected on shining lava rocks, uneven and sharp. Garún pulled herself up on the bank. The only way in or out was the small pool they’d come out of. As soon as she surfaced she was again unable to breathe and the jellyfish clouded her sight. She pulled and scratched at it, but stopped when she felt the webbed hand of Kryik’traak on her shoulder. He did something and the jellyfish slid off her. As feeling rapidly returned to her face, she felt the mouthpiece retract, drawing in a slimy tendril that had crawled deep down her throat. The feeling was repulsive. Garún collapsed on her knees, vomiting and coughing. A blueish mucus came out of her stomach and lungs. She breathed in the stale air and the effort tore at her lungs. She was exhausted but forced herself to get up. Behind her came Hrólfur and Diljá. Kryik’traak had placed Katrín on the floor. She was trembling uncontrollably, lying limp on her side, throwing up. Diljá kneeled and saw to her.

  Kryik’traak picked up the jellyfish and put them in a small puddle of water, which filled a naturally formed bowl in the rock. There were many of those in the cave, most of them host to the glowing anemones, which were the only source of light, just as in the tunnels. Crates and barrels were stacked at the end of the cave, which seemed to be a lava bubble, deep underground. Among the supplies were blankets, clothes and supplies in waterproof leather sacks. Garún couldn’t remember what the route was to the exit, how many turns or paths leading up or down they’d taken. She’d never find her way back on her own.

  “Take care of the jellyfish. Or else you’re stuck,” said Kryik’traak. “Don’t tear up the lights. Won’t last long and grow back slowly.”

  “Is there any other way out?’ she asked.

  “Tunnel’s only way.”

  “There’s not a chance I’ll find my way back. What about you?’ she asked the others. One by one they shook their heads.

  “I’ll come, with food and more. You’ll learn the way. There is a system. Don’t worry.”

  Garún went quickly over the supplies. Rye flatbread and steam-cooked rye bread, a bit of smoked meat, dried fish, whey-pickled sour meats, fresh water in tins. Not too much, but enough for several days. She noticed a couple of chamber pots in the stack.

  “How do we empty the chamber pots?’

  “Ah.” Kryik’traak seemed a bit awkward. “Don’t empty in the pool. Rather a corner.”

  They were hardly better off here than in the Forgotten Downtown. But it was only temporary.

  “All right. It will do. Thank you for your help.”

  The marbendill nodded sombrely. “I have faith in you. I and all of us.”

  “How many know we’re here?’ said Garún harshly.

  “No one but me, I swear,” the marbendill replied, flustered. “But many of us are waiting. Waiting and praying. That everything will change.”

  “Garún, relax,” said Diljá. “We can trust him. How often are these tunnels used?’

  “Rarely. Old and obsolete. You are safe here.”

  With that he bade them farewell and dived back in.

  Garún felt the weight of the earth above them, the city pushing down, wishing to crush her beneath its weight.

  * * *

  Katrín regained consciousness a few hours later. She didn’t know where she was or what had happened. Her entire body was trembling uncontrollably, her skin cold and clammy. The cool air of the cave wasn’t helping.

  “What happened?’ asked Garún, when Katrín had somewhat gained her senses and gulped down way too much of their limited fresh water supply. “Why did it take you such a long time to get to Rökkurvík? Why didn’t they capture you?’

  She tried to hold her hostile tone in check, but she couldn’t help herself.

  Katrín’s eyes widened. “My family, they …’

  She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

  Garún nodded and ignored the looks Diljá and Hrólfur were sending her. They’d long moved past the point of pleasantries
.

  “The house was empty,” Garún said. “Ransacked and some signs of struggle. We don’t know what happened to them.”

  “I wasn’t at home when they came.”

  “Then where were you?’

  “Garún, relax,” said Hrólfur. “She’s obviously sick from … whatever that thing was that attacked you.”

  Garún got up and sat down on one of the barrels. She was dying for a smoke.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I was also in the mire with the thing.”

  “What was that?’ asked Katrín. Garún didn’t like how she diverted the conversation elsewhere. “It looked like a nightmare.”

  Garún shrugged. “No idea. But I think it was using or creating the hrævareldar to hunt.” She leaned back on her hands. “I stabbed it in the face, if you could call that a face. I hope it’s alive and kills a few of those fucking pigs.”

  They told Katrín what had happened. How the Crown had raided Rökkurvík. They could only guess what had happened to the people caught in there.

  “They’d have no rights,” said Hrólfur. “It’s a serious violation of the law, crossing a transdimensional border like that. They’ve most likely been categorised as non-citizens.”

  Diljá snorted in annoyance. “More like non-persons. How on earth did they get clearance to mobilise into Rökkurvík, anyway? I thought the place didn’t exist to them.”

  “It doesn’t, legally speaking,” said Katrín. “They’ve been trying to find ways to isolate it since the Crown took over. But two new gateways open up when the seiðskrattar close one. They can’t send the army over in an official sense, either, not without a royal decree.”

  “Maybe they have that,” said Diljá.

  “I doubt it,” Hrólfur said. “It would almost be considered an act of war. I don’t think that was the Crown that moved in. Not in a political sense, anyway.”

  “Then who?’

  “Those weren’t soldiers, they were heavily armed police officers. It could have been a special operations task force set up by Trampe, or maybe it’s some other government agency, but you can bet Trampe was behind it. There’s no way that this would happen without him knowing and approving of it. But as far as Kalmar knows, it never happened. You’ll never find any official reports about this. They’ll bury the cost through some bureaucratic trappings. No reports, no trouble. The place doesn’t exist, after all.”

  “How the hell do you know all that?’ asked Garún.

  Hrólfur’s brow furrowed with concern. Garún didn’t care much for his mock offence. Let him be offended.

  “I used to work for the city,” he said. “As I’m sure I’ve mentioned to you. Urban planning. You’d be surprised how much we had to confer with Trampe’s office, directly or indirectly. The stiftamtmaður has to personally approve almost anything that has to do with governing Reykjavík and the entire country. You’d think that he mostly dealt with legislation and so forth in Lögrétta, but no – his authority has a much greater reach. He’s the cornerstone of Kalmar’s rule. There’s just no way he didn’t plan this, logically speaking.”

  “Logically. Right, so logically speaking …’ Garún leaned forwards and started cracking her knuckles idly. “How did the Crown know that we were hiding in Rökkurvík?’

  Diljá stood up, fed up with her.

  “Didn’t some officer almost arrest you coming out of Rökkurvík in a fucking bar?’ she shouted at her.

  Garún grimaced. She hadn’t told them about her encounter with Sæmundur, how they had been ambushed by that same officer. But they were all dead now. Probably.

  “So why now?’ Garún replied, raising her voice as well. “Why do they move in at the exact fucking moment that Katrín comes back?’

  Katrín was covering her face in her hands, crying quietly. Garún didn’t care. She was furious. She remembered for a moment that she still had the delýsíð sheet up against her, underneath her clothes – the delýsíð sheet she had infused with seething, relentless rage, without compromise or compassion. It wasn’t doing her any good at this moment, but she didn’t know how much it was affecting her. Probably better to remain on her toes.

  “You’re hiding something,” Garún pressed. “What aren’t you telling us?’

  Katrín held a hand up against her temple, her eyes closed. She couldn’t look them in the eyes.

  “I haven’t been home for a few days. I think. I sometimes go to a … friend of mine. In Hlíðar.”

  “Why? Who is this friend?’

  “Garún! Can you shut up for a second?’ Diljá spat. “Let her talk.”

  Katrín swallowed and forced herself to open her eyes.

  “I was …’

  Her voice broke. She looked down, frantic hands playing with the hem of her skirt. She looked like a little girl. She steeled herself again and forced herself through the words.

  “I was smoking sorti.”

  The confession charged the air between them. Katrín kept talking, slowly.

  “I was smoking sorti when they came … when they came to my house. And now they’re all … My family is …’

  Something gave inside her. The crying was bitter and raw, pain that had to be released. Diljá sat next to Katrín, but hesitated in comforting her, unsure how to act even though she knew exactly what she was going through.

  Garún let her grieve for her father and mother, her sisters, thinking of the feather-covered pool of blood in their house. She felt no compassion. They’d all known what risks their insurrection demanded. Perhaps Katrín had not fully realised it until this point, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

  After Katrín had settled down she told them about how she’d woken in some drug den after someone shook her awake, telling her something she couldn’t quite understand but knew was serious and important. Sorti was one of the strongest drugs you could find in Hrímland, a highly addictive substance made from thaumaturgical materials. People differed on what the components were in sorti, which was like a thick, dark ichor, but its users found a complete sense of numbness, apathy laced with ominous visions that faded from their memory as soon as the high did. But something else remained. Sorti ruined people, weathered them down into nothing. It was for the broken and desperate, people who were utterly devoid of hope. Katrín was the last person Garún thought would be using it.

  “You’ve been lying to us,” Garún said in a flat voice. “How can I trust anything you have to say?’

  “I know!’ Katrín’s outrage gave her the strength she needed to calm down and speak. “And I understand that. But don’t act like you don’t have any secrets. Didn’t we keep on trusting you after we found out you were tagging everywhere in Reykjavík without us knowing?’

  “You’ve got some fucking nerve!’ said Garún, standing up, clenching her fists. The others tensed up. “I’m fighting for something that matters! I’m trying to actually change things! Meanwhile you live your comfortable little life, hiding behind words posted by a pseudonym, wasting your time and your abundant money smoking drugs. Like a fucking idiot! Nobody forced you to go and play rebellion against your father! It’s not my fault the Crown took your family – that’s on you.”

  “Garún!’ Diljá got up into Garún’s face, matching her aggressiveness with a sudden ferocity that had Garún reeling back. “Can you shut the fuck up! Haven’t we had enough? Just shut the fuck up and let her talk!’

  They fell quiet for a while. Hrólfur eyed them cautiously, almost as if he was more curious about this whole affair than worried about it. Diljá went back to Katrín and placed a comforting hand on her back. Garún paced around the cave. It was too small. No way out. What a goddamn mess.

  Katrín nodded slowly as Diljá encouraged her to go on.

  “Like I said, I was in Hlíðar. Someone told me something about the police and my house. I didn’t quite understand, I was … I was out of it. But I knew I had to go. So I swapped clothes with another girl and went outside.” She played with the hem
of her skirt while she spoke. “They were everywhere. The police. Soldiers. Seiðskrattar. The streets were barricaded. I didn’t know where to go. None of my friends would help me, they are—”

  Filth, Garún thought to herself, stuck-up filth.

  “—not quite ready to stand up against the Commonwealth. There are so many cops and soldiers in the city now. They have checkpoints set up everywhere. So I went and met the only person I knew would be able to help me.”

  “Who was that?’ asked Hrólfur.

  “Hræeygður. My dealer.”

  Tuttugu og þrjú

  BEFORE

  Katrín Melsteð was not her own person. To every person she met, she was first and foremost Valtýr Melsteð’s daughter. A specimen of a fine pedigree. Everywhere she went she dragged the chains of her great lineage with her. Attached to it were the ancestral ghosts of her famous relatives: goðar, poets, bishops, scholars, merchants, not to mention her own father’s overbearing presence. It was incredible how the long grasp of deceased men of wealth and power managed to claim her at every turn. She belonged to them. To others she was nothing but a reflection. A by-product of the achievements of great men.

  When Katrín was a child she fantasised about going to the Royal University in Hafnía. The mainland seemed like a dream made manifest in the waking world, a beacon of everything cultured and refined: literature, architecture, philosophy, art. It was everything this island was not. She devoured travel journals of Hrímlanders visiting Kalmar’s capital and travelling its great empire. She wanted to study archaeology in Hafnía. She was going to become an explorer. There were so many secrets hidden in the earth, waiting to be rediscovered: ancient sorcery; ruins of vast, forgotten empires. She’d find relics that would change the course of history. She would decipher hieroglyphs and runes that had riddled scholars for decades. She’d make a name for herself – her own legacy.