“Crude, unfinished, but – inspired.” Vésteinn took out a handkerchief and polished his glasses, giving himself a moment to gather his thoughts. “You have some potential. Don’t give up on your work yet, Sæmundur,” he added quietly. “It could lead you to some very interesting conclusions.”
Doctor Vésteinn put on his glasses and headed out, his footsteps the only sound in the room. As the door clicked shut behind him Sæmundur slammed his fists on the desk, stifling a roar of frustration.
Þrjú
Karnivalið was one of the few places of entertainment in Reykjavík where humans and huldufólk drank together. Garún was familiar with the bouncers working the doors and slipped them a few krónur as they let her in. She’d had the cash ready in case someone unfamiliar was on shift, but decided to still slide them the money. The bouncers wouldn’t hesitate in deciding who to evict the next time she throat-punched some asshole, probably human, for groping her. Hopefully.
The bar was filled with smoke and loud, drunk people, located in an antiquated house that was in no way built to house a bar of this scope. Every night Karnivalið filled up with people who called themselves artists, writers, poets, kuklarar, revolutionaries, and so on. Everyone was busy being seen and seeing others.
Garún felt as if she vaguely knew everybody in there, as if the same night was on repeat weekend after weekend and everyone knew their designated role and lines beforehand. They identified as artists, but Garún felt they were more into saying they were instead of actually working at it. They talked ten times more than they worked; every sketch was an accomplishment, every idea pure brilliance. Some of them lived together in communes, usually as squatters. It was a source of pride to live on the margins of society, of not belonging. But for them it was a self-imposed exile, a choice. Many proudly identified as part of some grass-roots organisation, as radical revolutionaries, but when the call came to take real, dangerous action, there was always a sudden change of tone.
Her friends were gathered in the same corner as usual. Or, she hoped that they were her friends. Most of them, at least. She did not know what they said about her behind her back and while she tried not to care, she sometimes couldn’t help it.
Not all of them were like that, of course. But some. They were like most of the people in this bar, in Reykjavík. When it came to fighting for real change, to take action that truly meant something, they hesitated. They became afraid.
Garún glanced at the group and tried to spot if Diljá, Jón or even Hrólfur were there. Didn’t look like it. She’d been avoiding most of them all summer. She really could have used Jón’s presence there to get into the conversation. Garún thought it was largely due to him that the others had accepted her so quickly when she’d started hanging around the same bars as them, seeing them at the same art openings. He’d always given her space to talk, to be heard. To exist. When she’d voiced the idea of staging a demonstration in front of City Hall, he had been first to back her up. Instead of giving in to their reflexive fear, dismissing her, they’d listened. He was a poet, called himself Jón Fjarðaskáld – poet of the fjords. A bit tacky, but it had stuck. He wrote beautiful, subversive prose, where opposition to oppression and injustice were hidden in naturalistic metaphors. Garún wasn’t much for poetry, but she thought she recognised the real deal when she read it.
Garún was the prime agitator for the demonstration. It had been her idea. Not that it mattered, but still. It made her feel as if she was doing something that truly mattered. They were going to change things. The others hadn’t liked it initially, but Jón had supported her fully through the debate. He’d convinced some of them to take part. Make a difference. She’d been surprised at how even the most passive and content people had joined in. But she didn’t really feel comfortable facing them right now. She had other things on her mind.
Garún tried to sneak past them unseen to the stairs that led up to the upper floor. Lilja noticed her and waved, gestured for her to sit with them. A friendly sign, but Garún knew better. The looks on their faces as they noticed her told her everything she needed to know. She signalled to them that she was first going to the bar. She might as well start drinking now.
At the bar she almost had to scream at the bartender to get service. Even though Karnivalið was open to blendingar, that didn’t necessarily mean that they were well treated. When she finally got her beer she was pretty sure that she paid considerably more for it than the other guests. But at least she was served.
She made her way back to the table and grabbed a free chair. At the other end of the table people were talking politics at full volume. It overwhelmed any other discussion, as so often before.
“The protest will just be the beginning,” said Jónas Theium.
He called himself a poet, a radical, and a revolutionary. He’d been adamantly against Garún’s idea when she first brought it up. He and most of the people at the table were unlikely to show up, she thought. It would have to be up to Jón. Garún wasn’t good at sucking up to people she hated.
“The people have the power and we need to show it! It’s just a matter of gathering a crowd and marching back down to …’
Garún stopped listening. She’d heard it a dozen times before. Others agreed with Jónas and rattled off hollow and meaningless clichés, inflating their own egos with a superficial discourse about equality and revolution. None of them had taken any part in the organising, in reaching out to people. They hadn’t understood her in the slightest when she started talking about how oppressive the city walls were, how they were intended to keep the “undesirable’ non-humans out, not to protect the city from the dangers of untamed nature. The walls were a comfort to them. Just like the Crown itself. The Crown meant stability and security – who cared if a few people got hurt in the process? Did they even consider huldufólk, marbendlar and náskárar to fully be people? None of them actually wanted change. Real change was painful and demanded a bloody sacrifice that these people were not willing to make.
“Hi. Long time no see,” said Lilja over-enthusiastically, as she moved over towards Garún. She tried to hide her discomfort as she felt Lilja reach out and feel her surface emotions. She wasn’t really feeling sociable, but it would be incredibly rude to just block her off.
“Yeah. I’ve been busy.” Garún replied in turn by reaching out and feeling Lilja. Giddiness. Contentment. Joy. A thin trace of underlying smugness. Not good.
“You don’t say? There’s been talk about that,” Lilja said, and smiled.
Garún wondered what Lilja herself had felt. If she had managed to obfuscate her own deeper emotions.
“What do you mean?”
Garún’s voice was lined with a cold edge, but it was contaminated by fear.
Lilja was a huldukona and reminded Garún of the huldufólk from the old tales. Too beautiful and too dangerous. Ravenous for drama and disaster. Lilja had never liked Garún, although she’d always tried to hide it.
“Oh, you know. The exhibition you’ve got going on is spreading like wildfire.”
Garún relaxed. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Lilja leaned in closer, smiling in a conspiratorial tone.
“And haven’t you also started tagging all over town? Every week I hear about thaumaturgical graffiti that’s driving everyone crazy.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Oh, well. Suit yourself. Dangerous to do such things.” She put up an insincere look of worry. “You could end up at the Nine for that. Especially if you’re a blendingur.”
Garún didn’t reply. She didn’t like the way Lilja had said that last word. It had not been meant in a nice, neutral manner. It had not been said like a regular word. She let her silence turn cold and angry. Tempered her anger into a sharp weapon. A calculated, ruthless strike.
Lilja went on, mindlessly unaware of Garún’s body language. If she had reached out to her right then she would have recoiled, as if touching a burning hot stove.
&n
bsp; “But you know me. I’m known for my discretion.”
She winked at Garún, as if they were just two friends bonding. Right.
“Hold on a minute. I’ll be right back.”
* * *
Garún was stopped at the top of the stairs by a heavyset man. He was way too muscular for his height and it looked as if his suit was about to burst at the seams.
“Closed upstairs. Private party.”
His voice matched his appearance, heavy and slow. Everything about him resembled an unmovable boulder.
“Is Viður in there? Tell him it’s Garún.”
The slab of a man walked up to the door with heavy steps and knocked. A skinny huldumaður opened it immediately and looked down at Garún. His nasal septum was completely eroded. The grunt said something to the huldumaður, who sighed and told her to wait a minute. They stood there silently, the bouncer staring ahead at nothing, Garún sipping at her beer. In a few minutes the huldumaður returned and said Garún could enter. She squeezed past the bouncer, who didn’t move an inch to let her through.
The top floor was thick with smoke. People lay numb and smiling on old sofas or piles of pillows, humans and huldufólk alike. On low tables were pipes and torn cigarettes, along with small piles of sorti, highland moss and white, crystalline delýsíð. A few couples were lethargically making out or perhaps copulating under thin sheets, others lay paralysed from an ecstatic high. People smoked and coughed, snorted delýsíð up their noses. Not many had their septums whole, on most of them it was burned off. The rich smell of sorti mixed with the mossy smoke and created a vile concoction, a thick and pungently sweet smoke that tore at her lungs.
Viður sat by himself in a small room that just contained two couches up against a small table. Dirty ashtrays and various kinds of pipe decorated the table, which was laid out with drugs like a buffet. Garún was unsure if he was in the process of packaging it or about to use it himself. He was lithe for a huldumaður, almost like a teenager, his hands delicate and smooth. Viður had avoided hard work his entire life – but that didn’t mean he was soft. He smiled when he saw Garún in the doorway.
“Well, well. Good to see you.”
He spoke slowly and she noticed his dilated pupils. He didn’t have a septum either. Snorting delýsíð had burned it away completely.
“Hello, Viður.”
She sat on the couch against him. He felt around for her emotions in the customary greeting, clumsily, sloppily, like a drunken man trying to give a handshake but turning it into a hug halfway. She in turn felt around his feelings in a curt, distanced manner. He was fucking wasted and felt like a goddamn mess.
“What the devil have you been smoking now?”
“A-hahaha-haha-ha.” His laughter was empty and erratic. “You can’t smoke a demon.”
“I know, I was just—”
“Unless of course you’ve got it in a bone. A femur, maybe. And you grind it into dust. And snort it.” He looked as if he was dumbfounded by what he was saying. He wrote something down. “Actually … that’s not such a stupid idea. But you can’t smoke it!”
He laughed again at the thought.
“Anyway.” She tried to bring him down to the ground with her. “I came because I need delýsíð. Liquid, same as last time.”
Viður shook his head. “Nope. All gone!’ He smiled like a naughty child.
“What do you mean all gone?’
“Nothing left. No liquid, no powder. Nothing. Crown found the last shipment. All gone.” He hung his head. “Poor lads. I hope they were hanged and not sent to the Nine.”
“Damn it, Viður!’ Garún stood up, agitated. “If they trace it to you then I’m as good as dead, if I’m in luck! Why didn’t you let me know earlier?’
“No, no, no, sit.” He motioned to her to quieten down. She looked at him, livid. “Sit!’ he commanded in a harsh tone.
She obeyed. She had a bitter taste in her mouth. Iron.
“Relax a little.” He dug around on the table for a pack of cigarettes. “You are always so wound up. They can’t trace it to me.” He held up a finger before Garún could interrupt. “Because there are people at customs and the police that work for me. Not the Crown. Me.” He lit himself a cigarette. “Don’t worry. It’s all good. Sometimes they just need to hit their smuggling bust quota.”
He offered her the pack but she shook her head. He stared at her and smoked so intensely that the cigarette almost burned up all in one drag.
“You really are tense tonight,” he said, exhaling smoke slowly.
She felt him suddenly fumbling around for her hidden emotions. It was aggressive, clumsy, a vulgar intrusion of her personal psychological space. It was repulsive. She pushed him back, hard, making him recoil visibly, and shut herself off from him. He looked surprised and then actually had the nerve to smile. Fuck that rotten son of a bitch.
“Just had some trouble downstairs,” she said. He nodded slowly, as if he knew exactly what she was talking about. “It’s nothing.”
“Anything I can do? You just have to ask.”
She knew that would be a dear favour to pay back.
“It’s all right. I’m fine. I just need the delýsíð.”
“I’m out, Garún, I told you.”
“You must be able to hook me up. Do you know anyone else? Someone who can be trusted?’
She emphasised the last word, even though she knew it wouldn’t matter in the slightest to Viður.
“That you can trust, huh?’
She felt him reach out again. Just on the surface this time. But she didn’t feel like letting him get close to her.
He furrowed his brow. Garún held his gaze. She tried to keep her face completely neutral. Frozen. But who knew what he could see? She might try to close herself off, but the huldufólk could possibly still pick something up. She also knew that Viður smoked highland moss regularly – a thaumaturgical plant that had a unique effect on the conscious mind. It might make him more proficient with the huldufólk’s innate gift. She couldn’t stand it, but Sæmundur had used the moss unsparingly in his research. Or that’s what he told himself it was for.
“Well,” Viður said finally, when she didn’t let down her guard or reach out in turn. “I know people who know people, who … know people. I still can’t guarantee anything. You’re not buying directly from me as usual. And the price is higher. Considerably higher.”
“Who are they? How do I reach them?’
“It’s not easy. He’s in the Forgotten Downtown.” He stopped her before she could say anything in protest. “I’ll give you instructions on how to get to the other side. Solid instructions.”
He started scribbling something down on a wrinkled sheet of paper. It took him a long time to write, in long careful strokes.
“Can I trust him?’
She tried to catch a glimpse of what he was writing.
He didn’t look up.
“Can you trust me?’
No.
“Yes,” she lied.
“If you say so,” he said with a smile, and looked up. The smile didn’t reach his dilated eyes. “It’s a big old house in Rökkurvík. You’ll find a huldumaður there. Odd fellow, with long hair, looks like he’s dying from hunger. Always wears the same torn leather coat. Name is Feigur. Tell him I sent you and you should be fine.”
“How do I get through to the Forgotten Downtown?’
He handed her the note. “These are solid gates both in and out. New ones, still hidden. Don’t let anyone see you cross.”
She nodded and stood up. Handed him a few banknotes without being prompted. He took them without counting.
“Thanks, Viður.”
“Any time, Garún.”
He watched her leave, never dropping his smile.
* * *
When Garún came downstairs Diljá had joined the others at the table. Styrhildur and Hraki were there with her. A strangely upbeat but sombre song blared from the speakers. Someone had put on a record
. Diljá noticed Garún and looked concerned as she came closer and reached out for her emotions.
“Are you all right?’ she asked, and respectfully dialled her emotional outreach back. Garún replied in turn, but only out of politeness. Diljá felt mellow, tired, and now, slightly anxious. “I’m sorry,” Diljá continued, “but you look and feel like a goddamn mess.”
Garún shook her head quickly, then nodded. She noticed Styrhildur and Hraki sitting quietly next to Diljá, trying not to look as if they were worried about Garún.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just need another drink.”
As she moved towards the bar Diljá placed a hand on her arm.
“Don’t worry,” Diljá said. “Let me do it. Cheaper, too,” she added, and flashed a quick, apologetic smile.
Garún returned it and went to sit down at the table. Diljá did that all the time. If something was easier for her because she was a huldukona, then she did it for Garún. If someone gave Garún shit because she was a blendingur, or just gave her shit in general, then Diljá always had her back. Always. Garún hadn’t known many friends like that in her life. The most beautiful thing about it was that it wasn’t exclusive to Garún. Although Diljá had taken more of a big sister approach to their relationship, she was also like this towards most people. She often helped or spotted other blendingar or huldufólk and backed them up in trouble. She stood up to injustice, regardless of whether it was major or minor – to her they were all gravely serious.
Styrhildur and Hraki had made it into the city only a couple of years earlier. Garún was so relieved and happy that Diljá had somewhat taken them under her wing. She’d helped them find jobs in Starholt and a small apartment that the siblings rented together. Garún loved them, they were blendingar like her and she’d known them since they were kids, but she didn’t want the responsibility of taking care of other people. Taking care of herself was enough.
“What’s up, guys? Aren’t you a bit too young to be drinking?’
“You’re only a few years older than me!’ Styrhildur said in a scolding tone.
Shadows of the Short Days Page 4