Garún smirked and playfully pushed her shoulder against her. The girl smiled, but Hraki looked embarrassed. He was a few years younger than his sister. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen. The three of them quickly reached out to one another. Styrhildur felt excited and happy, Hraki a bit nervous, but still, that same kind of happiness. They were living independent lives in the city, at a bar surrounded by friends. This was good. Maybe better than any of them had ever expected. It made her feel pensive. Something so normal shouldn’t feel exceptional.
Diljá returned with a beer and Garún reached for her purse.
“No, no, not this again,” said Diljá, but Garún didn’t let off until she’d successfully pushed the coins into Diljá’s hand. “All right, but this is the last time. One day you’ll have to let me buy you a round.”
“Nobody buys anybody rounds, what even are you talking about?’
They stared at each other, flaring out scans of each other’s emotions. This was a set routine between them by now. Each focused on mock-feelings of stubbornness, trying to outdo the other.
Finally Diljá caved in, as always.
“Okay, maybe nobody really buys rounds. But still. One day I’ll buy you a beer.” She grinned.
Garún shrugged. “I don’t like owing anybody anything.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Diljá took a sip of her beer. “Lilja said you were upstairs.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “Is everything good?’
“Viður’s out,” Garún said in a low voice, “but he knows a guy who’s selling. I’m not sure if I should trust him on this.”
“Who’s the guy?’
“Nobody I’ve heard of. Apparently he lives in Rökkurvík – permanently.”
The nickname was a bad pun, one that had stuck. The Forgotten Downtown was cast in unending darkness, its decrepit old-style houses reminiscent of faded photographs of the city that Reykjavík once was. So it was nicknamed Rökkurvík, literally meaning “twilight bay’ – as opposed to Reykjavík’s “smoke bay’.
“Come on, Garún. The Forgotten Downtown?’
“I have to try.” She hesitated. “Will you spot me when I enter and exit?’
“Of course,” Diljá replied without hesitating.
“We will help,” Styrhildur said quietly. “With us three, you can cover a lot of ground.”
Garún was more relieved than she expected at hearing that. She wanted to say no, to tell them that they should stay out of it. But they wanted to help, to make themselves useful.
“Thanks,” she mumbled. She handed them the note Viður had handed her. “Look over the points of entry and exit. I’ll go in at a specific time. I’m not sure how long this will take, but it shouldn’t be long.”
They nodded and started perusing the notes, memorising them as quickly as they could.
Then Garún recalled Lilja’s remarks earlier.
“Listen,” she said to Diljá, pulling her in and a bit away from the siblings. “You haven’t told anyone about the tagging, have you?’
“No, of course not.” Diljá suddenly looked extremely worried. “Why?’
Garún glanced around. They sat next to each other, slightly away from the others at the table, who were deep in discussion about the latest theatre review to appear in the Tíminn newspaper. Garún focused on Diljá and instigated a deep reach out for her feelings. She felt her initial hesitation, which quickly gave way as Diljá embraced her with open arms. Garún felt uneasiness, joy, and both fear and worry in sharp, almost hurting pangs. Whether it was because Diljá had let something slip, or because she was worried that Lilja knew something, Garún had no way of knowing. Garún felt Diljá reach out in the same way and also gave in.
They held their connection steady, holding each other by the hand, staring into each other’s eyes.
“I’m worried,” said Garún, still holding the connection, “that we have a snitch.”
“Who?’ asked Diljá. “Katrín?’
They let their connection search and probe their feelings on the matter until they reached a united conclusion.
“I agree,” Diljá continued, “that she’s a risk. But I believe she has the best interests of the cause at heart. She has her reasons.”
Garún felt a sudden upsurge of pain and regret, empathy, anger, injustice. She knew something about Katrín. But there was also trust there. A feeling of a kindred spirit, a sister.
“Hrólfur?’ she ventured. “He would hardly gossip to huldufólk.”
Diljá smiled and Garún smiled with her. Diljá’s joy was her own joy.
“Well, you never know,” said Diljá.
Garún felt something surprising. A hint of warm affection. The feeling invoked a quickening of her own heartbeat. Dangerous.
Diljá sensed Garún’s hesitation at the new feeling she’d inadvertently broadcast and blushed.
“It’s not anything, it’s just—”
“I know,” Garún said. “Don’t worry. I’m sorry I reacted that way.”
“That’s all right, you don’t need to apologise.”
They let their mutual understanding reinforce itself for a while. Then, Garún’s mind turned to Lilja. The dark cloud in her heart passed over Diljá’s face.
“Garún … Oh no,” Diljá said.
“It doesn’t matter who it was. She still knows, when she shouldn’t. I have to do it.”
Diljá couldn’t have possibly known from their connection what Garún was thinking about, but they knew each other well. Diljá knew what Garún had in mind.
“You don’t have to—”
“We can’t trust her. We have to remain safe. No matter the cost. And besides –’ Garún knew she didn’t say this with full conviction, and that Diljá would feel it – “she won’t remember a thing.”
Diljá’s sadness and anxiety washed over Garún in strong waves. She let her own feelings show, feeling them echo in her friend. Fear. Determination. Anger. Hope. A strong, relentless fire.
Diljá nodded. “Okay,” she said.
Garún finished her beer in a long gulp, then got up and walked straight to Lilja. She was chatting with a few people at the other end of the table, who all fell silent as Garún came and leaned in towards her.
“Come with me to the restroom. Let’s have a little talk.”
Lilja raised her eyebrows but stood up and followed Garún to the toilets. There were only two restrooms in the bar, in a narrow hallway. The line was long and coiled oddly around the tight space. Lilja was not interested in standing in line with Garún and bullshitted her way to the front of the queue, which was not a difficult task as most regulars at Karnivalið knew her. They went in together.
The lock on the door clicked. Pipes and valves stood out of the walls. The seat was loose on the toilet, which didn’t look as if it had been cleaned in a very long while.
“Ooh, what fun!’ Lilja laughed as she checked herself in the mirror. “It’s about time we caught up with some gossip.”
Garún leaned against the door and felt the pulse from the music and the people outside.
“Right,” she said, and pushed Lilja down on the toilet. “We have to freshen up your make-up. Let me fix it.”
An angry grimace flared up on Lilja’s face, which she tried to subdue. She reached out for Garún’s emotions, which she kept closed off as tightly as she could.
“Aw. Thanks,” Lilja replied.
Garún opened her purse, took out a powder box and started painting Lilja’s face.
“How did you know I was behind the delýsíð graffiti?’
“I wasn’t sure. But I’m sure now.”
“Did you hear it from someone?’
“What?’ Lilja stared numbly up at Garún. “No. I … just … It made sense. You’ve always been so much … like that.” She started to slur her words. “Don’t be scared, I … I won’t tell anyone. I was just joking earlier.” Her eyes glazed, her voice sounded far off in the distance. “I just like to play around … and see wh
at happens …’
Garún rubbed her make-up sponge against the powder, crushing the microscopic delýsíð crystals that were hiding there. She stroked Lilja’s forehead delicately. She spoke to Lilja in a soothing voice as she painted her face.
“When we go out, you won’t remember that this happened. You won’t remember our conversation earlier. You won’t remember that I painted that graffiti. You will never connect me to anything illegal. You would never believe that I would do such a thing.”
Lilja nodded slowly while Garún painted over her memories.
* * *
Sæmundur slammed the door behind him and stood for a moment in his hallway, frozen with impotent rage. Then he kicked the wall, once, twice, cracking the wooden boards. He stormed into his room, kicking over his amplifier, sending the mess of ashtrays and dirty dishes on top of it crashing to the floor. He cursed. He screamed profanities, spitting with each word. He ripped off his tie and jacket, tearing them in the process. He grabbed his bass guitar and flung it across the room. It hit the wall with a thud.
They’d undone his incantation before he was even able to finish it. Startled by the horror of the unknown, or perhaps by the capable way he’d woven a new galdur from seeming nothing, they’d resolved to unmake his work instead of allowing it to be. They had summarily destroyed it. They’d screamed at him afterwards. Threats of lawsuit, of having his tongue severed and vital digits removed. Of severing his ties to galdur completely. He was too dangerous, Professor Almía had said. Foolish. Naïve. Reckless.
Worm-minded pieces of shit. Worthless, pathetic insects. They had no higher understanding of the craft they practised, and they did not even desire to seek any glimpse of it. They were content with fumbling in the dark, ignorant of the powers they messed with. They were the halfwits. They were the careless ones. How could civilisation ever progress without research? Experiments? Anything that was worth something demanded a sacrifice of equal measure. But they were too craven to make it.
But he would. They would not stand in the way of enlightenment. If they would not hand him the tools he needed to hone his craft – to gain higher understanding of the nature of galdur – then he would seize them for himself.
An idea resurfaced in his head. Something he’d given up long ago, deemed to be too dangerous, too mad. But that’s what they called him now. Sæmundur the Mad. He turned over a pile of books and manuscripts in the corner. It was there somewhere.
His notes were in disarray, but they all seemed to be there. He didn’t have the manuscript any more, but he recalled it clearly enough. Coarsely copied illustrations of spores, twisted roots, wide mushroom caps littered the pages, which were covered in a nearly intelligible scribble. It wasn’t much. But it would do. He just needed the materials and then he would get what rightfully belonged to him.
* * *
He worked through the night, putting together a plan. He had an idea of how to make the gandreið mushroom non-lethal, of how to control the fungus so that it wouldn’t completely take over. But still, the galdur he was working on was a bit too theoretical even for his own tastes. He was assuming too many things and if he was wrong about any part of this the results could be disastrous. Not only for others, but for himself as well.
He just needed some time to work on the formula. Structure a new kind of incantation. And when it was done it would be a masterful stroke. With an unseen hand he would swipe the most sacred texts of Svartiskóli’s library for himself.
He would read the pages of Rauðskinna and live to tell the tale.
Then there was a knock at his door.
* * *
Garún couldn’t stand art exhibitions, even less so when they were her own. For that meant she didn’t have the liberty of just disappearing when she’d had enough. Gallery Gjóta was a hole in the wall establishment in central downtown, known to exhibit relatively unknown artists as well as the ones more established in the scene. She’d shown up at the opening for as long as was the absolute polite minimum – she didn’t want to be disrespectful towards the curator who’d brought her in all those years before – but she found it absolutely insufferable. Tightly wound, rich art snobs and pretentious hipsters all stirred together in a toxic cocktail. Diljá would usually keep her company, but she’d not been able to make it last time, and Garún had felt alone and stranded in a sea of disapproving human faces. The only other non-human there had been Bragi, a huldumaður who was one of the founders of the gallery. He’d been the one who’d brought her in when he saw her work for sale in one of the weekend flea markets in Starholt. It had been the first time someone paid her a real sum of money for her work. She wouldn’t forget that.
This wasn’t an opening – her exhibition had been on for a few weeks now. Apparently a few clients had asked to meet her. It was not something she really did, but in this case it was for a very expensive painting. And she needed the money for the delýsíð. Her plans for the protest depended on it. So she’d agreed to meet them.
She walked through the cramped alley into the hidden courtyard where the gallery was located. A few hipsters sat by a bench, gossiping while they smoked. They all stared at her unabashedly as she crossed the small yard and entered the gallery.
Gjóta’s gallery space was bright and open, but still small enough that there wasn’t a clamour when a decent crowd gathered together. Bragi stood alongside an older man and his wife, both of them looking over one of the bigger paintings in the room. It was Garún’s work, something she called Untitled Mask of the God in the Stone, a massive, amorphous shape like something out of a cosmology book, a murky, swirling galaxy in formation. At a distance, if you relaxed your vision and focused on the work, it could almost resemble a face. Garún had laced the painting with microdosages of delýsíð. She hid the shape of the mask from the viewer, so that although it visually didn’t seem to be there, it was actually hiding there in the formless void. Your brain picked up the shape of a face, a mask, in the murky painting, but your eyes couldn’t see it. None of this was known to Bragi, of course, or if he suspected anything he’d at least kept quiet enough about it. It was the most expensive work Garún had ever had on display, and Bragi had asked her to come over today because the prospective buyer was apparently dropping by to view it for the third time. This time he was bringing his wife. Or more likely, his mistress.
“… one of the most exciting artists in Starholt today. A true rarity among her—”
Bragi stopped talking as he heard Garún’s footsteps approach in the hall.
“Ah, speaking of the brilliant artist. Garún, pleased you could make it.”
He flashed her an encouraging smile. She’d noticed when she was walking in that several of her paintings had been marked as sold in the last weeks. She found herself beaming, but her smile froze and her heart started pounding when the man and woman turned around to greet her.
She recognised him instantly. She’d been tagging one of his stores not that long ago. Sigurður Thorvaldsen. One of the richest people in Reykjavík. He was well into middle age, impeccably dressed in a fine suit. The woman, markedly younger than him, was his wife, Anna Margrét Eydal Thorvaldsen. She was descended from finer folk than Sigurður, her mother’s side of the family having bishops and celebrated composers, and more than one goði on her father’s side, the Eydal family. Garún had a simple rule of thumb when it came to people with family names instead of the traditional patronyms: don’t trust them. Either they belonged to the upper classes, or worse, they wanted to be one of them.
Her heart was pounding and her ears were buzzing.
Run. Get out. He knows.
She met his eyes, trying to remain calm. Did he know? Was this an elaborate trap? If so, the police were already waiting for her outside. No. Better to stand still. Frozen in front of a dumb, lumbering predator.
Sigurður held out his hand. Garún shook it almost reflexively and immediately regretted it. Anna Margrét looked at her coolly and offered a stiff smile, the polite gestu
re not reaching her eyes.
“Garún, yes? I am happy that you could take the time.”
“It’s the least she could do with the price she’s asking,” Anna Margrét interjected.
Bragi replied before Garún could find the words to lash out at this stuck-up woman.
“Yes, indeed! This is one of the finer pieces we’ve put on display in recent years. Truly a tremendous, authentic work of the huldufólk’s deity.”
“Doesn’t look like much, does it?’ Sigurður approached the painting and squinted at it. “I thought their … or well, your god was supposed to be holding a hundred masks?’
“Adralíen-toll has a myriad of depictions, one of them being with an uncountable number of masks, yes. This is a more modern take on this story.”
Sigurður stared at the painting for a while. They stood in silence. Why had these people brought her over, Garún wondered. A power move? Because they were bored? She was finding it hard to believe that Sigurður had been made aware of her recent work. It shouldn’t even have triggered properly – that was supposed to take days.
He sniffed and shook his head.
“I don’t get it. I mean, I like it – but I don’t get it.”
Sigurður looked at Garún expectantly. Anna Margrét and Bragi followed his cue. She stared at them blankly. Bragi gave her a hopeful look.
Go ahead. Sell it. Sell them the damn thing.
“It’s an interpretation of the huldufólk’s god,” Garún said. “It’s not traditional in that sense. There’s not much to get. Just to … experience.”
Anna Margrét shook her head. “Nonsense. I said so, darling. We’d be much better off with a Kjarval.” She glared at Garún. “She’s not even one of them.”
She almost spat out the last word.
Garún bristled. Bragi looked alarmed, but most likely only at the thought of losing the sale. Typical. She felt herself clench her fists and forced herself to loosen her hands. She’d not let them see they had got to her. Those fucking pigs.
Sigurður turned to the painting and took it in.
“Just think of having it in the dining room for the next dinner party.”
Shadows of the Short Days Page 5