“So you finally showed up,” she said. “I suppose the charm you gave me was just useless junk? Not like I’d tell the difference. Or did you spend your days in a stupor smoking moss?’
He shook his head. “Stop it. I’m sorry I let you down. I was … in the middle of something difficult. But I’m here now. I want to help, if I can.”
“And you’re going to do that by getting stoned?’ It seemed as if he was about to protest, but she didn’t give him the chance. “No, you know what – I don’t care. It’s your business.”
He didn’t let go. “The thaumaturgical effect of the moss can affect galdur, Garún. I’m not—”
“A drug addict? Like I said – I don’t give a shit. And I mean it.” She shuffled her feet. “I need you to talk to the Ram Eaters. Katrín owes them money, a considerable amount. We need them on our side and we can’t have them interfering with us because of Katrín, if we’re going to pull this off.”
“Do what, exactly? And why does Katrín owe them money?’
“She smokes sorti. Smoked. She’s clean now.”
“Right. I’ll talk to him.”
“His people suffered greatly at the protest. He must be furious. We can offer him retaliation in the name of the Ram Eaters. Tell him we’ll be striking against the Crown soon. We’d appreciate their help in the aftermath, if possible. You’ll also be helping us with that – if you’re up for the task.”
“Anything,” he said.
She winced from the sycophantic offering of help, the eagerness of it. Thought of the quagmire of guilt and cowardice it spawned from. Sickening.
“At a certain time, we need you to use galdur to disable Loftkastalinn. Permanently, if possible. That can be Rotsvelgur’s revenge.”
It was an impossible request. A gargantuan undertaking, worthy of an army. But as she suspected, he instead tilted his head, considering it, weighing his options, probably already conceiving an insane method of making this suicidal request actually work. And that pleased her. She told him when, and where. Told him what they planned to do, and why. About the protests, the raid. He had no idea what had been happening.
“Níðstöng,” he said, after her summary. “Raising a níðstöng might do the trick. Rotsvelgur has suffered great dishonour at the hands of the Crown. We could offer to take out Loftkastalinn as retribution for the Ram Eaters.”
Fucking bastard.
“I just said that, before. I literally just suggested that you do that.”
Sæmundur looked embarrassed.
“Oh, well, I …’
“Listen, I don’t care. Whatever.” She refocused on what really mattered. “Take it out? Do you think you can actually do that?’
“I can do wondrous things now, Garún.” He sounded gleeful, excited at the prospect. “Unimaginable things. I’ll do anything I can to help you.”
She looked out over the Elliðaár, away from him, taking in the city lights glistening like earthbound stars underneath the moon. Tried to calm herself, soothe the rage that threatened to burst at any moment. The moon was out, bathing the river in light, except the spot where Sæmundur stood.
“Why are you standing there in the shadows?’
“Because. It’s safer.”
She squinted, trying to see him better than as a black outline. Her eyes hurt from the strain, despite her seeing just fine in the gloom. The darkness was stronger around Sæmundur. Just like she’d seen around the police officers who had tried to arrest him.
“What have you been doing these last days? How did you not know about the protest? About the crisis this society is facing? What are you hiding with you in the dark?’
She moved closer to him, starting to feel the restraints of her rage come undone. What kind of mental condition he was in if he really intended to risk raising a níðstöng? She wished she cared enough about him to tell him not to do it, but any semblance of sympathy towards him had been incinerated when she found Mæja’s remains.
She’d buried her dead cat in the backyard. It was dangerous to linger, having found two decomposing corpses of soldiers in the living room. The sight made her sick to her stomach, the entire vile scene of horrors, but she felt that if she hadn’t given herself that moment to say goodbye to Mæja she would have lost something integral to herself.
Sæmundur tossed away the cigarette and crushed it underneath his heel. He blew thick smoke and stepped out of the darkness.
Garún had been shocked when she last saw him in the Forgotten Downtown. She hadn’t been prepared for the changes that had taken place. He had been skinny and pale, his eyes empty. But she’d told herself that it was temporary, that he was under pressure.
But now there was no question about it. He was like a walking corpse, a shade that was neither alive or dead. His skin was waxy and stretched, his hair like dead weeds. But his eyes were the worst. He was like a thing out of a nightmare. His clothes were filthy, caked with dried blood and mud. His presence itself was uncomfortable, as if someone else was present with him, constantly whispering something just beyond hearing, so that it was driving her mad. It was as clear as day that he was walking a road to damnation, an irreversible path that he’d chosen for himself long before she had realised it.
“Sæmundur …’
She couldn’t say anything else. She’d taken an involuntary step back, her hand brought up to her face in shock and revulsion. He looked at her, broken, but in some depraved way stronger than she had ever seen him before.
“What did you do to yourself?’
“I’m close, Garún, so close,” he said in a trembling voice. “All my theories have been accurate, about frequency, syllables, about sound, but I’ve learned so much more, and I’ve still got so much to learn.”
As he spoke his voice became more intense and the whispering Garún felt she could almost hear became more agitated, still in this surreal place between hearing and imagining. For every step he took forwards, she took one back, until she was close to the end of the pier. She cursed herself for not bringing the goggles with her.
“You’re sick, Sæmundur,” she said calmly. “You’re very sick. What would I see if I looked at you with thaumaturgical goggles?’
Sæmundur hesitated, looking shamefaced.
“I saw something, when you found me in the alley,” Garún continued, “and I saw you through the goggles. The darkness around you was glowing with … some kind of force. But you seemed untouched. Would I still see that? Or is the darkness now a part of you, every bone in your body tinted blue, glowing with fiends and demons?’
“You know nothing!’ he spat. “Nothing! You are as small-minded as the sheep in Svartiskóli! How can you say that, after the concert, after seeing that vision? You cannot begin to realise what sort of phases of existence have opened themselves to me, the thresholds I have crossed!’ He ran his thin hand through his grimy hair and slowly breathed out, forcing himself to calm down. “Don’t give me this fake concern now, Garún,” he said in a defeated tone. “Cut the bullshit. I’m about to raise a níðstöng for you, for your cause.” He snorted. “Please. You’re the same, you’d sacrifice anything to further your own goals. Hypocrisy doesn’t suit you.”
“I am also risking my life, and everyone else around me.”
It took everything she had to say these words with calm conviction. She felt as if she owed it to herself, to nail these points in his head with cold precision.
“But there’s the difference between us, Sæmundur. I do what I do because I hope that something will change for the better. But you only want things to change for yourself. You’re walking down a path that only ends in despair and darkness.”
“Darkness to you,” he said quietly, with zealous fervour. “Enlightenment to me.”
She shook her head, filled with both disgust and an incredible rage against this idiotic stubbornness, this insufferable arrogance. He was worse than a child playing with fire.
“I don’t know why I tried reasoning with you,” she
said through clenched teeth. “I do not give a fuck. Do what you will, Sæmundur, but for fuck’s sake, don’t mess this up. Try not to let others down for once in your life.”
She walked to the end of the dock, throwing her sack over her shoulders.
“There’s another thing. After this is done I don’t want to hear from you again – do you understand me?’
He had the nerve to look hurt.
“What? Why?’
“I went to your place. To hide, after the protest. I found Mæja. I buried her in your yard. Or what was left of her.”
He said nothing. Which was just as well. Reasoning, justifications, apologies, would have sent her over the edge. She was burning with anger, with resentment, hurt and betrayal. It felt good. It gave her something to hold on to.
She dived into the river. She didn’t say goodbye.
* * *
“You’ve lost your fucking mind!’
Hrólfur was yelling, pacing back and forth in the plant-lit cave. Styrhildur and Hraki had joined the group, having safely made it to Elliðaár after the protest. They had called Kryik’traak in for the meeting as well. It was cramped down there, but that wouldn’t matter much longer. Some of them would be moving locations soon.
“Kidnap Trampe? For what purpose? Parliament has already negotiated with Kalmar! We won!’
“Oh, cut the shit, Hrólfur!’ Katrín spat out viciously. She’d recovered her strength now, and regained much of her fervour after seeing the news develop these last few days. “You know that’s a bullshit excuse of a settlement.”
“It’s a start! They’ve cleared the gates for traffic,” Hrólfur continued, “and they’re limiting the roadblocks.”
“Roadblocks that shouldn’t be there in the first place!’
“And there are still hundreds of huldufólk and huldumanneskjur inside the city, without any civil rights. Do you think that’s fair?’
Hrólfur furrowed his brow and looked at Diljá. She shrugged.
“Huldumanneskjur?’
Garún was glad he’d caught that.
“I’m sick of this word – blendingur. Me, Styrhildur and Hraki have been talking. It’s a word we’ve grown to despise. Blendingur. Hybrid. It’s disgusting.”
“It’s just a word,” said Diljá, sounding agitated about this change for some reason. “It doesn’t mean anything bad.”
Garún shook her head. “Maybe devoid of all social context, of actually having to live carrying that around with you. Maybe in some detached, clinical meaning. But it’s none of those things when it’s used. It’s hateful, divisive.”
“People spit it out like a curse,” said Hraki. “It’s not a nice word.”
“We’re more than just a mix of two species,” said Styrhildur. “It’s a word of conflict and we’re not conflicted – we know who we are. And we deserve an identity that’s more than just focusing on being a mixture of something.”
Huldumanneskja was the word they’d landed on after some discussion: “hulda’ referencing the huldufólk, “manneskja’ meaning human person. A word they felt was free of conflict and ugly implications of tainted purity, that united rather than divided. When they’d found the word it was incredible how much lighter and freer Garún felt. It was a new beginning. And it was exhilarating.
“Whatever,” said Hrólfur, infuriatingly dismissive. “This is all beside the point—”
“No, it’s not,” said Styrhildur coolly.
“Lögrétta are negotiating with Kalmar,” he continued. “They’ve even started discussions about giving us more control of Perlan, which is a huge step in gaining autonomy.”
“Who exactly is “us” here?’ Katrín interjected. “It’s fantastic news for the Hrímlandic government, yes, many of whom are on the board of Innréttingarnar. Do you really believe they’ll use this chance to improve the lives of regular people? It will only result in the Kalmar military paying a premium to Innréttingarnar for use of Perlan, flushing the board members’ pockets. The Crown uses the power plant to fuel Loftkastalinn – a machine of war that they say is to protect us, but is used to keep us in our place! They’ll never let it go.”
“Further drastic action at this point will only make things worse!’ Hrólfur persisted.
“Worse?’ Garún couldn’t believe this. First his cowardice at the protest, now this. “They’re fucking killing us, Hrólfur! They massacre us in public like it’s nothing, and then print news articles about how a wild mob attacked “innocent” people and police officers, who were just doing their honest duty defending Lögrétta! They kill us for demanding basic rights and rewrite history to make us sound like hooligans. Like the people who died deserved it.”
“So we fight back, the right way.” Diljá looked miserable as she saw the fracture forming in the group. “We get a new printing press, we print the true side of—”
“Oh, please,” said Garún. “Spare me. Just how long do you think you can fight a fucking war with only words? Do you really think that some well-worded articles will grant us basic rights?’
Hrólfur threw his arms up in an exaggerated gesture.
“What on earth do you hope to achieve with this? You kidnap the stiftamtmaður, and then what? Hmm? What then? They’ll find you, and they’ll kill you. More innocent people will suffer until they do. That’s the only thing you’ll accomplish. The slaughter at the protest will become a daily event.”
“You’re talking about starting a war, Garún,” said Diljá. “I can’t condone that. I can’t be a part of that.”
“We’re already at war,” Garún responded. “And we’ll lose something much more important than our lives if we don’t fight. I can’t believe you’re against us on this. After all the suffering they’ve made huldufólk endure.”
“Things are changing,” said Diljá. “For the last few years, more and more huldufólk are getting proper citizenship. Blendingar—”
“Huldumanneskjur.”
“I didn’t … I’m sorry … Huldumanneskjur will get more rights as society changes.”
Garún pretended to think this over, nodding to herself.
“Right. We just have to sit and wait for Kalmar to deem us worthy of receiving basic rights. Sit down and shut up. And for what? To have the right to fully belong to their sick, warmongering empire? Fuck that.”
Styrhildur, Katrín and Hraki showed their agreement with Garún, raising their fists in support as if they were at a meeting.
“Nothing really changes without direct action. You know that’s true. But maybe you don’t want things to really change.”
Diljá looked at them in turn, hurt and desperate. She reached out. Her face changed when she made the connection with Garún. Styrhildur and Hraki reached out as well, further twisting Diljá’s face into some form of fear or despair. Garún felt her emotions: her uncertainty of being against doing this; the mortal fear of possibly following through with it; her nascent love for Hrólfur, and how it was pulling her in the opposite direction.
You’re a coward, Garún couldn’t help but think to herself.
She saw from Diljá’s surprise, as if she had been stung, that she’d noticed some form of her emotional response through their connection.
“There is another way,” said Diljá as Garún cut her off. “There always is.”
“No. This time there isn’t.”
Hrólfur turned to Kryik’traak, who had been sitting silently in the small pool that provided the only exit from the cave.
“What do you make of this? I can’t believe that the Coral Spires would be on board with a full-on act of terrorism.”
Kryik’traak took long moments to contemplate his words, his piscine face still unreadable to Garún. She’d already approached him and garnered his support, but she had only a vague idea of how reliable that was.
“There is a divide in the great lakes,” he said, measuring his words precisely. “The general consensus is that Kalmar does ultimately – and inevitably – more harm t
o all marbendlar off the shores of Hrímland, especially those dwelling in lakes. Reykjavík acts as a noose around our neck, and we would not rely on the kindness of an empire such as Kalmar for the right to breathe.”
“Wait – do the Coral Spires of Þingvallavatn know about this?’ asked Hrólfur.
Kryik’traak shook his head. “There can be no outside communication of this plan. But it is our consensus here, in Elliðavatn, that it would generally do us better to support further action against Kalmar.”
“Kalmar is your main source of trade!’
Kryik’traak pointed an accusatory finger at Hrólfur. Mind yourself.
“It is our only source of trade. My people have roamed the northern seas freely for centuries. Now, we cannot move unless it is with the blessing of their warships and accountants. They have developed underwater ships. Land, sky, ocean – they now move into the heart of our homeland. The deep sea. We must act.”
“And you think any of that will change by seceding?’
“It will grant us autonomy,” said Kryik’traak, a trace of annoyance seeping into his voice. “It will grant us the freedom to sail on our own terms, under our own banners.”
“You’re starting to sound like a royalist,” said Styrhildur, glaring at Hrólfur.
“He does,” said Garún, disappointedly. “But he’s just afraid. Which is somehow worse.”
“I can’t believe this,” said Hrólfur. “I can’t fucking believe this. And what’s the plan? The stiftamtmaður is your hostage – let’s just give us that fucking outrageous outcome – and then what? Declare independence? Put actions in motion that will end with Reykjavík being bombarded by Loftkastalinn, as Kalmar is forced to declare war on its own colony?’
“Loftkastalinn will—”
Hraki fell quickly silent as his sister grabbed his arm. Garún felt them reaching out to each other, communicating in an unseen whirlwind, then reaching a consensus.
“That’s not your concern any more,” he said.
“You say that Lögrétta sold us out to Perlan,” said Diljá. “What makes you think they’ll use Trampe’s kidnapping to further citizens’ rights?’
Shadows of the Short Days Page 32
