Shadows of the Short Days

by Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

  It was early summer. The sun was shining, not all through the night but still close. The days were long. Before she went out, almost running from all the excitement, her grandmother gripped her arm, hard.

  “Promise me, Garún,” she said in a grave tone. “Do not play outside the village. Do not play in the lava fields – do you hear me?’

  Garún nodded. Her grandmother squinted her eyes and quickly reached out for her feelings. This got her a light tap on the head.

  “I said, do you hear me?’

  “Yes, Amma,” she said meekly.

  They reached out to one another. Found an understanding. She felt her grandmother’s worry. It felt as if it had a hundred sources, too many roots to be able to tell them apart.

  “Good.”

  She went outside. For the first time by herself. The first thing she did was to run towards the shore. On the bay small fishing boats were being rowed out on the glittering sea. She played in the rocky shoreline and found new, weird creatures she’d never seen before. A starfish, countless shells, limp, ugly flowers that smelled and piles of seaweed like the hair of a vættur, or maybe a marbendill. She had heard about them but never seen them. She watched over the sea, looking for movements from unfamiliar creatures, but saw none. The waves were mesmeric. They made the most wonderful, calming sound as they dragged the countless pebbles down with each small crash.

  “Hæ!’

  Voices behind her. Giggling and shouting. A group of children were approaching her. For a moment, she was afraid that it would be the kids who threw stones at her house. But it was another group of kids. The blendingar from church and some of the other kids from the town. She didn’t know that the huldufólk children could play with the blendingar.

  “Hæ.”

  Garún approached the girl who had called out. She was older than Garún, almost a head taller. She was a blendingur like Garún. She smiled.

  “My name is Fæðey,” she said and beamed. “What’s your name?’

  “Garún.”

  The gaggle of children caught up with her and they started playing in the sand, running around, asking her questions. Where do you live? Why don’t you ever go outside? Can you read? Do you have any brothers or sisters? Garún was overwhelmed by the sudden attention. She didn’t know where to begin.

  Fæðey grabbed hold of two younger children, only toddlers, really.

  “These are my siblings.” The two children looked up to Garún with snotty noses and big, questioning eyes. “Styrhildur, my sister, and Hraki, my brother. He’s the youngest.”

  “Am not!’ he shouted, and he raised his fist as if he was about to hit Fæðey.

  “No!’ Styrhildur interposed herself between him and their sister. “No hitting!’

  “Sorry, they are a handful.” Fæðey said, smirking at Garún. As if she knew how this was. How it was to have younger siblings. Garún felt so jealous of them. How easy and natural their bond was. “Go out and find the biggest starfish you can find!’

  The kids immediately ran off, each claiming they would be the one to find the biggest ever starfish. She turned back to Garún.

  “Have you ever played Fallen Stick?’

  * * *

  Garún was hiding behind a cluster of rusted barrels, half-sunken into the grassy earth. In the distance she saw Harmdís standing by the stick, leaning up against the wall of one of the abandoned houses, scanning the surrounding landscape in search of the other children in hiding.

  Suddenly, Fjalar, one of the other kids, jumped up from the mounds of tussocks where he had been hiding and sprinted towards the stick.

  But Harmdís was faster. She immediately saw him and started towards the stick, reaching it way before he was even close.

  “Fallen Stick for Fjalar, one-two-three!’

  Fjalar stopped running and threw his hands up in frustration. He joined the group of other children who had also been spotted and struck out by Harmdís. They were sitting idly in the grass, waiting to see if someone could outwit her. There couldn’t be that many left. Maybe only herself and a couple of others.

  Suddenly she saw Fæðey on her left, in the shack behind where Harmdís was standing. She couldn’t spot Fæðey from that angle, but Fæðey could see Garún where she was crouching. She stared at her meaningfully – had probably been trying to catch her attention for a while. She mouthed something that Garún couldn’t figure out. She pointed to Garún, then towards where Harmdís, then nodded affirmatively. Garún thought she understood. She nodded back.

  Fæðey ran behind the house and started banging on the corrugated iron. Making it sound as if she was trying to climb on it or something similar. Harmdís heard the sound and ran towards it – she had to see who it was before she could run back to the stick, touch it, and strike the player out.

  Garún didn’t think – she ran. She didn’t bother keeping low or sneaking around; this was a matter of speed. Harmdís didn’t notice that she was making a run for it until Garún was very close, but still, Harmdís was taller and stronger. Garún ran faster than she had ever done in her life. Her heart was beating so fast it felt as if it wasn’t beating at all. She was like the wind.

  “Fallen Stick for everyone!’ Garún shouted with the last breath of air in her lungs.

  Her hand reached the stick just before Harmdís got to her. She threw the stick in the air, sending it flying off into the heath. All the captured kids jumped up from where they had been sitting, cheering and shouting cries of victory. Fæðey came around the corner of the shack and beamed at her. The plan had worked – they had done it. Together. They had won.

  She had set them all free.

  Sjö

  Sæmundur didn’t like where this was going. A messenger had arrived for him the very next day, a tall, scarred blóðgagl that had landed in his goddamn yard for all to see.

  “Skeifan. Dusk,” it said, and took off before Sæmundur could get a question in.

  He still didn’t know what exactly Rotsvelgur wanted from him. But it had to be svartigaldur. Some really bad shit, if it was something he or his tribe couldn’t or wouldn’t do. Sæmundur honestly had a hard time piecing together just what that might be. The náskárar were outlaws by choice, the laws and structure of the ground-dwelling species were of no concern to them. An eagle did not follow the rules of the field mouse.

  With a distracted mind he started gathering up a few helpful things: some scrolls; a few small, tattered journals; bones. He could really use a smoke, but he had to conserve it. He had been feeling down ever since he and Garún went their own ways last night. They’d walked back to the train station together, and he had waited for her to ask about the mushrooms. She hadn’t. Instead she had told him that he’d better be careful, whatever the hell he was doing. Then she’d asked him if he would go to the protest they were planning.

  “I don’t think so,” he’d said, shuffling his feet. “I don’t know if I can make it.”

  “Right.”

  Garún’s face had not betrayed any kind of emotion she was feeling. Or he was too stupid and self-absorbed to notice what that might be. Yeah, probably the latter, he thought to himself.

  Her train arrived first. She had started walking away, but had then turned around. His heart leaped. Maybe she was going to suggest that they should meet for a drink. Or something. That they could be friends. That she wanted to forgive him. Anything.

  “What is a skrumnir?’ she had said.

  “What?’

  “Rotsvelgur mentioned it. A skrumnir – familiar with it?’

  “Uhh … I think it’s kind of like a seiðskratti. But a náskári. They’re born different, somehow, can do seiður intuitively. I’m not sure. Why?’

  She thought about this for a second.

  “No matter. Thanks.”

  And that was that.

  He’d spent considerable time feeling sorry for himself after she had dumped him. He’d been a selfish coward and promised himself that he would do better. But, in tru
th, what disturbed him more than his letting her down was the fact that the social event in Svartiskóli hadn’t really resulted in anything beneficial for him. He had made no allies. He had still been an outcast. And then they had kicked him out. He’d let Garún down with nothing to show for it. That, he felt, was what had been truly unforgivable of him.

  Fucking halfwits.

  Whatever was about to happen to Svartiskóli would be on them. They drove him to this. They left him no choice, and he would not back away from his right, his destiny. He would wield galdur like an unparalleled master. They would be forced to acknowledge him as their superior. And then he would make things right with Garún again.

  Rotsvelgur was waiting for him in the store yard. He was alone.

  “Sæmundrr. The day of reckoning has come,” the náskári said in skramsl.

  “Yeah. I would have appreciated some information beforehand on what kind of galdur you want. I can’t just show up and do whatever, you know. I have to prepare.”

  “No excuses,” Rotsvelgur continued in a low voice. “You will do as I request – or pay.”

  “All right, relax. What do you want me to do?’ He felt sick asking this question. “And do you have the fungus?’

  The náskári shambled up against him, leaning in close.

  “Do not make demands before you have upheld your end of the bargain. My demand is simple: weave a galdur of fear and awe the like of which has never before been seen. A galdur of protection and dominance. Make them fear me.” He spoke with malicious hunger. “Make them cower. Make my soaring shadow blot out the sun.”

  * * *

  The meetings were held in the stockroom of a grocer’s in Starholt. Diljá’s uncle owned the place and sometimes attended their meetings. He was the one who distributed their periodical, Black Wings, outside Reykjavík. He wasn’t in tonight. This meeting had been planned for weeks now, with endless debate and discussion leading up to this point.

  They were gathered in between stacks of crates, sitting on top of barrels and boxes. There was better attendance than usual, which was a good thing, Garún tried to tell herself. It meant people were interested, that they wanted to actively change something. But it also made her worry that they were going to derail the discussion or hijack the protest somehow. Jónas Theium was there with his usual gang of followers. Lilja was with them. Garún wondered if she remembered anything from their last encounter, when she had painted over her memories. If Lilja did, then she made sure to hide it.

  Diljá greeted Garún with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. They reached out to each other and Garún felt Diljá’s nerves and hope all piled up together in a bittersweet feeling that probably mimicked her own. Hrólfur came up and nodded in greeting to her, which she returned. The two of them had been talking by themselves when Garún had come in, in the corner by the coffee pot and mugs. Garún often wondered if there was something between them. Hrólfur seemed a bit too stuck-up for Diljá. He wore cheap but smart suits and sharp-looking glasses that complemented his features. He worked as a secretary or something for the city, a cogwheel in its bureaucracy. It was through him that they got most of their intel on how the city government worked with the Crown and how they came into occasional conflict.

  “More people than the last few meetings,” Hrólfur said. “Looks like it’ll be a proper demonstration at least.”

  “Yeah. I hope so. It’s important we stay on track.”

  “It will be great, Garún.” Diljá placed a supportive hand on her upper arm. “We’re all here because we believe it’s the right thing to do. We’re going to make a difference.”

  “Not if we don’t get this meeting started,” said Hrólfur, and he checked his watch. “Where are Katrín and Jón?’

  “Katrín couldn’t make it,” said Diljá with an apologetic smile.

  Garún was annoyed to hear this, but not surprised. She would have put money on Katrín bailing at the last minute. Why would a rich human girl like that risk everything? Writing articles would always be good enough for those people. That way they felt better and never actually had to get their hands dirty.

  It had been almost two years since Katrín joined their group. Until then it had been the three of them: Hrólfur, Diljá and Garún. They had founded Black Wings. Hrólfur and Diljá had done the layout; Garún mostly put up protest posters, stencilling words and symbols of resistance around the city. She also worked on the printing press when a new issue was due – they all did. Except Katrín, that is. She claimed to have a busy schedule and couldn’t let herself go missing for hours at a time. Understandable enough, but still Garún was frustrated at her even though she always pulled her weight. Her monetary contributions covered a huge part of the paper and ink they needed.

  It was hard to get good articles for the magazine. People were scared of being caught and didn’t want to risk drawing the Commonwealth’s attention. The journalists who had insisted on continuing to write damning pieces in the newspapers had quickly found themselves out of a job, their credit rating shot, any prospects of finding proper work basically turned to ash in their hands.

  The periodical was printed in secret in a small space above a metalworkers’ workshop in the industrial district in Höfði. Hrólfur was responsible for renting out the space, and the craftsmen working the floor below had made it their business to not know exactly what the tenants above were up to. It was easier for everyone that way.

  Initially, Garún had written a few articles for the magazine, some of which were well received. She mostly focused on the racism in Hrímland, which was stoked and reinforced by Kalmar’s xenophobic policies of segregation and human-first regulations. At first, she had felt good seeing her words in print, knowing they would get all around the city and beyond. She felt as if they were accomplishing something. She wrote under a pseudonym, like everyone else, but word spread around their tight-knit inner circle. People respected her. They listened. They became aware of the adversity she faced and agreed that rooting it out was a huge part of why they had to rise up against the Crown.

  This feeling of well-being soon faded. Months turned into years and nothing changed. It was as if they did nothing except print repeats of the same old articles, the same phrases, just with new writers penning them. People could talk and talk, but it didn’t matter if no one with any real power was listening. It didn’t matter if no real action was taken. Garún knew well that people had to be forced to listen to uncomfortable or undesirable things. The knee must follow the abdomen, as the saying went. You had to follow through, no half measures. Hrímlanders had been writing about the Crown for decades, first in public, then in secret, and it never came to anything except giving people some temporary outlet so they could keep on accepting the status quo. That was good enough for most people – too many people. They had to be shown that things could change.

  It had been a while since Garún had made her way to the printing press at Höfði. She didn’t bother much with the magazine any more.

  Jón came in like a storm, carrying a bundle of papers, trailing coat and scarf. A cliché of the Reykjavík poet if there ever was one, with a beard impeccably trimmed in an unkempt style and hair made up as if he had overslept. Although he derived his poetical last name from the fjords, Garún suspected he had been born and raised in the city. Perhaps his family came from the countryside. Or not. He was a poet, after all. There was no harm in a little exaggeration.

  “Jón! You’re late!’ said Garún in a mock-outraged tone.

  “No! You’re early!’ He pointed to his watch, then moved it away before Garún could read it. “How is that, can’t artists tell the time?’

  “Just as well as you poets can rhyme,” she replied in turn.

  Jón’s laughter was sincere and loud and infected her with its warmth. She found herself smiling.

  “All right, everyone, sorry I’m late!’ Jón waved to the crowd and started shuffling through his papers. “You could have started without me, but I guess I’m now …
uh … leading this meeting or something. I don’t know. Why don’t we get right to it?’ He found the paper he was looking for, folded it, and flashed a smile to the gathering. “Same rules as before. One person has the floor at a time, raise your hand if you want to speak, raise your fists in support with the speaker – no cheering or shouts of hear, hear. All right? All right.”

  He cleared his throat. In a few words he’d gathered the unwavering attention of everyone there. They’d gone over this again and again in previous meetings, but there were some faces in the crowd that hadn’t shown up for a while. This was their last meet-up before the protest. They had to be on the same page.

  “The Kalmar Commonwealth has been here for more than five decades. They’ve built army bases, fortresses – that flying monstrosity – and the Reykjavík city walls. We were all brought up to believe that Kalmar’s work is to the benefit of all its citizens. But that’s just it. Non-humans are second-class citizens, at best.”

  People silently raised their fists in agreement.

  “The city walls are said to be to protect us from both an invading army and the creatures roaming the wild highlands. Creatures corrupted with seiðmagn, the wandering tröll and malicious vættir. But since they’ve gone up no wars have never reached our shores except briefly, fifty years ago, and no creatures have ever wandered towards the city. That is because the walls are not to keep us safe – but to control us and eliminate non-humans from the city.”

  Jón looked over to Diljá, who had raised her hand. He pointed to her and sat down as Diljá got up and spoke.

  “Count Trampe founded the Directorate of Immigration along with the Hrímlandic authorities. As a stiftamtmaður he didn’t technically need to involve local government, but Trampe knew that the institution would be that much stronger with Hrímlandic interests partially involved. The person who first led the institution and made most of its policies is currently the police commissioner in Reykjavík, one Ragnar Kofoed-Hansen. Trampe sent that son of a bitch to Kalmar in his younger days, where he was trained by their secret police in ruthless, fascist tactics they’ve long since perfected. Ragnar returned home an expert on police brutality, racial segregation and spying. He’s done a fucking good job of implementing it with the city walls in the last few decades. The Directorate’s people guard the gates and hinder free passage, escorted by armed police officers. Every single non-human must carry a variety of documents of identification and intent of travel. If they are found lacking, they are kicked outside the gates, or jailed. It doesn’t matter if you’re travelling from inside the city, they still arrest you. Huldufólk and marbendlar are constantly harassed going in and out. Blendingar hardly ever receive proper documents of identification, even when born in the city, which traps them on either side. People with authentic documents have even had them confiscated – that includes humans. Especially if they are known to have inconvenient political opinions. Remember, it’s no rumour that Kofoed-Hansen founded an intelligence agency within the Directorate. It’s fact, just not one that’s ever been reported by the so-called free press.”