Shadows of the Short Days

by Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

  The air was bursting with vibrant colour – an unnaturally high condensation of seiðmagn in the air. A supercharged stream of raw seiðmagn flowed down from Landsímahúsið towards the uncolour. The uncolour was a void of colour, the seiðmagn hypercoloured – the former unnatural, the latter supernatural. Some of the hues in the seiðmagn reminded her of delýsíð colours, others were more akin to other-worldly colours that reminded her of the ruined world of the huldufólk.

  Garún fought for a better look at the top of Landsímahúsið and then realised what was happening. Three royal seiðskrattar stood up on the roof, soldiers filed behind them, skorrifles trained up at the sky, shooting down any approaching náskárar. The seiðskrattar wore dark and heavy robes, covered with crimson symbols of seiður. Black masks of leather covered their faces, with long, ivory beaks and dark red lenses. Mysterious materials and herbs were placed inside the beaks, a mixture infused with seiður that boosted their powers. She recognised one of the masks, decorated with red, hand-drawn sigils, and gritted her teeth in hateful frustration. The seiðskrattar amplified and contained the seiðmagn and cast it towards the uncolour, manipulating it. She saw that some kind of faint energy emanated from the uncolour itself, a force that was strikingly different from what the seiðskrattar used. As if it were from another world entirely.

  The thing spread out like an umbrella, sending out slow-moving tendrils. Its furthest reaching feelers reached the panicked crowd. The tendrils, not exactly liquid or gaseous, grabbed hold of their first victims and pulled them into the air. They struggled, trying to resist, grabbing hold of their friends, but their efforts were futile against the creature’s unnatural strength.

  Garún watched in horror as people lifted into the air were drained of life in a matter of minutes, from the moment the first feeler hooked itself into the flesh of its victim. First, the vision went, the eyes swelling up as dark clots of blood coagulated, sometimes bursting. Delirious from pain and fear, the people fought against the overwhelming strength of the feelers, but more constantly grew out of the uncolour’s mass, further hooking themselves into the victim’s body. They shook and trembled. Eventually they stopped resisting. Their skin turned taut and grey. Their cheeks became hollow and their lips shrunk into nothing. When the tentacles dropped their prey to the ground all life had been drained from the bodies, leaving only withered and dried-out corpses behind.

  Then the tendrils moved towards fresh prey.

  All thoughts of fighting back had been abandoned. Escaping was the only option. The army and the police held the line at all fronts, trapping them in the square. A wave of people crashed on Garún as they rushed away from the floating uncolour, hitting her so hard that she lost her footing. She was only spared from being trampled into the ground because she was crushed so tightly up against others, somehow managing to keep herself upright. She’d lost sight of Styrhildur and Hraki. More people rose into the sky, hooked on the uncoloured tendrils, dropped moments later as lifeless husks. Garún could barely move her limbs. She struggled to breathe, pressed in between people. Suddenly she found her footing and pushed forwards, fighting for some room. Before she knew it the crowd had violently pushed her back, shoving her to the edge of the no man’s land in the middle of the field.

  The ground was already scattered with grey corpses: humans, huldufólk, marbendlar. A náskári had been trapped in the sky and crashed down in the middle of the field, its muted feathers falling from its body like autumn leaves. The uncolour kept on growing, hooking itself into anyone who found themselves at the edge of the crowd. The unnatural feelers danced above her, feeling blindly like lethargic lightning. She tried to squeeze herself back into the mass, into the safety of the crowd, but she might as well have been running into a brick wall. The feelers came closer, splitting into more, ravenous tendrils.

  She didn’t think. She ran.

  Shrivelled flesh and brittle bones cracked under her feet. She kicked up grey ash with each hurried footstep. She tried not to look up at the monstrosity, did not look down at the massacre below, cleared her mind of everything except a single command: run.

  She slipped and fell flat on her stomach. She was looking right into a mummified face, petrified in a look of absolute terror. She pushed the body away from her in dismay, kicking herself to her feet and sprinting back into the opposite side of the crowd, slamming into the wall of people so fast she managed to force her way through.

  Suddenly something gave way and the crowd started to move. The military had opened a gap in their ranks, letting people through. They ran from Austurvöllur like a stampeding herd. Outliers were caught by rifle fire or seizure-bludgeons; people were tackled and handcuffed, black bags thrown over their heads. The marbendlar proved slow in their escape, and she feared none of them would make it out. She wanted to help them. But she didn’t know how. She ran from the merciless slaughter without looking back.

  She ran until she couldn’t take another step. The buildings were constricting, hostile. She felt as if Reykjavík wanted her dead. The streets were empty and quiet. Numb and exhausted, she started towards the only nearby place she thought could resemble a safe haven. Maybe it was a foolish thing to do, but she had to rest and find some semblance of comfort.

  Sæmundur’s apartment was unlocked. She walked in on trembling legs, flicking the light switches back and forth. None of them worked. The living room was a wreck – upturned furniture, broken items all over the floor. Except for a circle in the middle, white chalk in a sickening geometric shape, surrounded by birch branches. And in the middle of it, something she at first refused to recognise, refused to process – the dried blood and torn fur of what used to be her darling Mæja.

  She fell to her knees, defeated. And she finally gave herself permission to break down and cry.

  Tuttugu og sex

  BEFORE

  “Here, put this somewhere,” said Lilja.

  She handed Garún a convex stone, ocean-polished and soft. On one side an esoteric symbol had been carved into it.

  “What is it?’

  They purposely lagged behind the group, which sauntered onwards, cheerfully laughing, spilling beer.

  “Huliðshjálmur. Or so I was told. Quick, put it in your pocket or something.”

  “You have got to be kidding. Why? So I’ll be invisible?’

  She laughed. “Come on, you won’t turn invisible, you can’t do that!’

  She fell quiet for a moment and took a sip from the bottle of wine she was carrying. Almost as if she regretted Garún couldn’t vanish completely.

  “It will just make you blend in, so there won’t be any trouble.”

  A familiar, heavy weight settled over Garún’s chest.

  “Fuck. You.”

  She threw the stone at the nearest house and shattered a window. The group looked back, shouting in shock and amusement.

  Garún! Are you kidding me?

  Did you break the window, are you insane?

  You are so fucking crazy!

  Someone shouted angrily into the street, presumably the window’s owner. They ran away laughing, like naughty children. Lilja seethed, even though she tried to pretend that nothing had happened, but Garún didn’t give a shit. Lilja was just like the rest of them, deceitful and false. She regretted not throwing the stone in her face. Garún went regularly enough to Karnivalið and even though they didn’t know each other that well, Lilja knew as much. It was one of the few places that let blendingar in without much trouble. Most of the time. It still didn’t mean that trouble wouldn’t find her indoors, but she didn’t intend to lie low and slink along the walls. She would not hide who she was.

  Jón made himself fall behind the group and walked alongside Garún.

  “Are you all right?’ he asked in a quiet voice.

  “Yeah. Just Lilja being a bitch.”

  “There’s no use in getting upset over that. You might as well get angry at the sun for setting.”

  Garún looked up into the bright sky
.

  “The sun doesn’t set. It’s the summer solstice, you idiot. Shouldn’t you, of all people, know that?’

  He took a contemplative sip of his beer.

  “What? Why?’

  “It’s Jónsmessa. The first priest of the first king apparently was born today and his name was Jón. Just like you. Don’t they teach you anything at school here in Reykjavík?’

  The question was laced with more than a hint of resentment. So much of what she knew of the world, how it worked and its history, she’d had to unearth herself. Nothing had been freely handed to her.

  “Nothing and nothing. Nothing but bullshit.”

  “Tonight all foul spirits are supposed to become unchained,” she said. “And here we are. A fun coincidence, huh?’

  “Poetic! he exclaimed. “You should get into poetry, I’m telling you.”

  “Ha – ha.” She pushed him jokingly. “Paint me a picture and I’ll write you a poem. Then we can compete in which was more dreadful.”

  “I’ll win, with no contest. The vættir have seen fit to bless me with consistently awful artistic talent.”

  Outside the bar people stood smoking and talking, finishing their beers before they went inside. Some people had brought along entire six-packs and were trying their best to pound them down before the bouncers had enough and ran them off. It was bright out and relatively warm, as good as it got on a summertime northern island. It was just past midnight, but the place was absolutely packed. Gísli, whom Garún was on familiar enough terms with, was working the doors and he let her through without accepting the crumpled bill she tried to slide to him. That made her feel good. Even though no one else had to bribe the bouncers.

  She made her way through the crowd towards the bar. Jón and the others were already there and called out to her.

  “Garún! Brennivín shots!’

  It was dark and humid inside, smoke mixed with stale beer and sweat. They ordered a line of shots, then another. Garún got a beer and the third shot along with it. She’d had some liquor earlier that night, home-brew that she’d made herself from discarded fruit found in the colonial stores’ trash bins. It was drinkable but dreadful, and wasn’t strong enough to get her over the edge. After the third shot she felt a familiar numbness come over her. This was what she needed.

  The bar was completely packed. Up in the corner an electronic musician stood on a minuscule stage consisting of a couple of pallets, jamming cassette reels into a massive home-made synthesiser precariously stacked on top of a stack of speakers. She was constantly switching out reels, running them through the clunky device. With a simple keyboard she produced pounding electronic music. The music was loud and the tempo rapid. People danced in a ceaseless throng, writhing like a pile of worms. She danced along with them, song after song seamlessly blending together. She felt alive and free. Something came loose inside her and she loved to feel like a part of the crowd, felt as if she connected with everyone else in there through the music.

  Suddenly someone pushed her. A few young huldukonur were shouting something at her she couldn’t make out. She tried to reach out and find any common ground, but they rejected her attempt with disdain. People were looking at her, suspicious. Garún suddenly felt sick. She was squashed between humans and huldufólk who pushed her back and forth in waves, trapping her so she felt as if the crowd was threatening to swallow her up, that she’d sink to the floor and be trampled to death. The music sounded like a relentless drone. The huldukonur were still yelling something aggressively at her. The only thought in her mind was to get out.

  She saw a hint of daylight through an open door. The back alley. She tried to move towards it, squeeze herself through the crowd, but for every step she took she was pulled back by two.

  She got hit in the back and lost her footing. The rest of her beer spilled on the floor and she was about to follow it when someone grabbed her hand and pulled her up.

  He was tall and hefty, not fat and not muscular, just big. Even inside in the heat and the crowd he wore a thick coat; still, she didn’t see a hint of sweat on his brow.

  “I’m sorry! Are you okay?’ he yelled over the noise.

  “I’m going out!’

  She turned away and kept moving towards the exit.

  The light cut into her eyes and nothing made sense. The world was a collection of shards that by themselves had no meaning and that she couldn’t put together. She managed to find a chair and sit down at a table. Everything spun around her. The man who had bumped into her suddenly sat next to her. He had two beers and put one on the table and pushed it towards her.

  “Here. I’m sorry about being so clumsy before.”

  “Ew,” she managed to say. She felt nauseous just looking at the beer. “I’m too drunk. You’ll have to drink it.” She leaned forwards on to the table. “Eugh, I’m going to be so hung-over tomorrow!’

  He laughed and started to roll himself a cigarette.

  “I’ll still take a cigarette if you can spare one,” she said.

  “Of course. Do you smoke moss?’

  “What.”

  Her mind felt slow and groggy. Everything was crashing down around her. She felt like throwing up.

  “Yeah, highland moss.”

  She’d tried it once and didn’t care for it. She didn’t like those thaumaturgical drugs, like sorti and delýsíð.

  “No, nothing like that, just tobacco. Lowland tobacco,” she said, drawing out the last words.

  He laughed and handed her the cigarette.

  “All right then. You should still have that beer. I’m not about to drink two at a time. If you want I can help with the hangover, sober you up a little.”

  She lit her cigarette, but had a hard time doing it. She realised she was trying to light it in the middle. She adjusted her hand and lit it.

  “What the hell are you talking about?’

  He leaned in. “I happen to know a thing or two. I’m a galdramaður.” He started to roll another cigarette for himself. “I know a short incantation, a common household cantrip that I picked up out in the countryside. Carried me through all my student years. It’s more like a kind of seiður, really, but there’s some elements of galdur in it that technically …’ He caught himself and shook his head. “I’m sorry, never mind. That doesn’t matter. It makes you sober up quickly, no hangover.”

  “Aha. You don’t say. Galdramaður.”

  She mulled the word over, pronounced it slowly. She’d never met anyone who practised such a thing before. Not seriously, although lots of people knew simple chants or rituals. Herself included. Kukl had been a regular part of working life in Huldufjörður.

  “So you’re in Svartiskóli?’

  He nodded.

  “All right, then!’ she said, throwing all caution to the wind. “I don’t want to be hung-over as shit tomorrow, I don’t want to vomit, and I’d like that beer. So sing me one magic solution, please.”

  He finished rolling the cigarette and lit it. The smell of moss was potent. He inhaled the smoke deeply. For a moment, she felt a distant sense of panic. Fear that she was doing something way too dangerous and reckless. Then he looked into her eyes and she saw nothing but kindness.

  He started to talk. His voice sounded all around her. She closed her eyes and felt like a child in a cradle, in the arms of a mother who sang to her a comforting, incomprehensible poem.

  Then she came back to herself. Her mouth was parched and the feeling of nausea was still as strong as before. She felt a pain gather behind her forehead.

  “Aah!’ She grabbed her head. “You said there would be no hangover!’

  “Yes, I’m sorry! That wasn’t really accurate. It should only last for a moment.”

  He was right. Suddenly the pain vanished and she felt as if she hadn’t tasted a drop all night. She felt as if she had cheated in a test. She caught herself smiling. He beamed at her in return.

  “You don’t say. This is quite something.” She reached for the beer. “I th
ink I’ll take this now.”

  Her cigarette had gone out. She lit it again and tasted the drink. It tasted fresh, crisp. Like the first beer of the night. He sat there looking at her, suddenly kind of awkward. She found herself blushing. There was something different about him. There was something there she hadn’t seen before. She didn’t know what to call it. This was uncharted territory for her. A human stranger had rarely lent her a helping hand, except for that farmer who had smuggled her in through the wall years before. But even then it had mostly happened because of her own effort and determination.

  “Skál,” she said and raised her beer.

  He raised his drink and toasted with her, smiling.

  “Skál to you.”

  She smiled with him. “My name is Garún.”

  “Sæmundur.”

  Tuttugu og sjö

  Garún threw the waterproof sack tied around her waist on top of the decaying pier before she pulled herself up. Kryik’traak stayed behind in the river and stood watch. The jellyfish slid easily off her face. She spat out the blue mucus without retching or coughing, but still couldn’t help an involuntary shiver. It became easier with practice, but was still always as repulsive.

  The pier was about to fall apart, having been out of use for years. They were at a branch of the Elliðaár rivers that had once seen a lot of traffic, but had fallen into disrepair after the Crown came and a large part of the industry moved out to Grandi. Abandoned fisheries and machine workshops lined the docks, the crumbled coral buildings sticking out of the river on the verge of collapse. In the moonlight they looked like coarse porcelain, lined with cracks.

  Sæmundur stood by a stack of fish tubs, almost invisible in the gloom. She wouldn’t have noticed him except for the glow of a cigarette in his mouth. When Garún came closer she could smell the highland moss.