Shadows of the Short Days

by Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

  The being turned and looked up at Sæmundur. Countless rows of tiny, sharp teeth shone in its predatory smile. The creature took a deep and ceremonial bow, speaking in a low voice.

  “Master, what is your command?’

  Tólf

  Her apartment was a mess. Drawers hung open, cabinets had been raided, clothes were scattered on the floor. Garún had managed to stuff everything she needed into her backpack. It was astonishing how few of her possessions were truly necessary and how easily she could leave them behind. She only had a hard time deciding to leave her painting supplies, not because they were valuable, but because she wanted to paint. But taking anything would mean leaving behind something she could possibly need. She told herself she was coming back. But she wasn’t sure.

  The secret compartment had been emptied out and securely hidden. There was only one thing left to do. She went into the bathroom, shut the door, knocked twice and went back out. Without looking behind her, she closed the door shut behind her back. She stepped back into the bathroom, while simultaneously opening the door again behind her back. An uncomfortable shiver passed through her. She’d entered the strongroom.

  At first she’d kept the delýsíð paints there, but she used them too much and didn’t like entering the room too often. It might not have been a smart move, but it made her feel safer. This place was unnatural. The shelves were empty and laden with dust. The only item in the storage room was a blue-tinted jawbone, sitting on one of the shelves. Garún lifted it up, touching it only with her fingertips. She stuck it in the back of her waistband. It radiated an unnatural chill.

  She headed down from Starholt, kept to side streets and roads with less traffic. The audioskull emitted soothing electronic tones. It was a long walk all the way downtown, but it was way too risky to take the train. The cold night wind kept the streets mostly empty. Winter was in the air.

  Occasionally the music flared and Garún hid herself as automobiles passed her, most likely unmarked police autos, or police officers walking their evening route. She wanted to fetch Mæja, but knew it was foolish. There was no time. She headed down by Elliðaár, smelled the scent of salt and seaweed from the marbendlar’s dwellings in the river. She avoided Hverfisgata, but moved alongside it by Skútuvogur and Vatnagarðar, then by the shoreline. She stopped by the sea wall and looked over the city. The brooding, obsidian towers of Skuggahverfið loomed over the low clusters of buildings. The protected dwellings of the rich and powerful, the only ones who could afford a view over the walls. Above it all, Haraldskirkja towered in the distance, with the buildings of the háborg around it like fortifications. The electric lamps were faint and scattered. The city pretended to sleep.

  An exaggerated laugh echoed through the downtown streets. She heard yelling occasionally, no way to tell if they were celebrating or enraged. Fárday night was about to turn to dawn and those who remained downtown had become seriously intoxicated. A drunken couple clumsily groped each other by a crumbling concrete wall. A group of teenagers lounged under the gigantic high seat pillars on Ingólfstorg Square. Nobody paid Garún any mind.

  Garún was let in before she could knock on the door to Hrólfur’s apartment. They were waiting for her inside. Once they were certain Garún wasn’t followed, they let themselves breathe easy for a moment.

  Diljá was standing by the window, her blond hair framing a deadly serious look on her face. She didn’t reach out, which told Garún everything she needed to know about the seemingly calm situation. Things were in uproar. Katrín sat on a worn chair by her side and smoked. Her hands were too calm, her prim posture too straight, the ivory cigarette holder between her fingers held like a weapon. It was clear as day that she didn’t want to be there. It seemed as if they had been arguing just before Garún entered. Hrólfur was sitting by a dining table, along with Styrhildur and Hraki, the three of them looking defeated. She exchanged cursory feelings with them, validating her reading of the room. She felt their support. Next to the skinny, middle-aged man the siblings looked as if they were just kids. And Garún supposed that they still were, to some extent. They all looked exhausted.

  “What did you do, Garún?’ said Katrín, before any of them had a chance to greet each other.

  “Well, aren’t you being direct? For once in your life.” Garún dropped her backpack on the floor, taking a seat next to Styrhildur. “It doesn’t suit a lady to ignore pleasantries.”

  “Don’t …’

  Katrín was about to follow up with something more, something Garún suspected would actually be honest.

  “Cut the shit, Garún,” she continued in a strained voice. “What the fuck did you do? Did you really put delýsíð on the signs and banners?’

  Garún glanced over to Diljá. She shrugged in response. Garún tried to read her. What had she said, exactly?

  “It’s your fault those people are dead,” said Katrín quietly.

  In the silence that followed, her words could just as well have been shouted in rage.

  “I didn’t see you at the protest, Katrín,” Garún said through gritted teeth. “Big words for someone who didn’t have the guts to actually fight for change.”

  “You know I couldn’t be there.”

  Her voice betrayed a hurt Garún found exhilarating to hear.

  “Garún’, said Hrólfur, “is she right? Did you lace the signs with delýsíð?’

  She sat silent for a moment.

  “Yeah,” she said finally, “I did.”

  “Why?’

  He sounded as if he was asking with sincerity. As if he was trying to understand. So she dignified him with a sincere response.

  “Because people need solidarity. A unified front will make us stronger.”

  “Why couldn’t you trust them to do that of their own accord?’ Katrín asked. “These people showed up because they cared. Because they wanted to make a change. Why wasn’t that enough?’

  “You said you would cut back on the delýsíð tagging in the city,” said Hrólfur. “But now I’m hearing that you’ve been at it so much you had to go and get more. And that the police almost caught you. Do you think they’re stupid, Garún? Do you think they can’t put two and two together? You’re the reason they had that seiðskratti on standby. You’re the reason they brought in soldiers with skorrifles. They shot them because of you. Because of what you did.”

  “I’ve seen what happens to people when they face the Crown,” Garún said, forcing herself to remain calm. “They get scared. They think they can’t win. They’ve got weapons. They’ve got numbers. Their officers and soldiers are fucked up with all kinds of seiður, heightening their senses. We have use everything at our disposal to create an advantage.”

  He shook his head. “This isn’t the way. You might as well have been drugging them.”

  “She was not!’ Styrhildur said. “It’s not a drug, not when it’s used like this. It made us stronger!’

  Hraki nodded his agreement. “I felt it. It made us united.”

  “They would have run away sooner,” said Diljá.

  She had known and approved of Garún’s plan. Garún tried not to show how hurt she was at Diljá turning on her now. She wasn’t sure she was managing it.

  “Delýsíð isn’t mind control,” Garún said. “All I did was give them an extra ounce of courage.”

  “And that got them killed,” interjected Katrín. “That’s on you.”

  Garún jumped to her feet, pushing Styrhildur as she moved to hold her back, so the girl fell on the floor. She rushed up to Katrín, smacked the cigarette holder out of her dainty hand, grabbed her collar and pushed her against the wall, pushing her face up to hers.

  “Listen up, you privileged, condescending bitch, I wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger! I wasn’t the one who shot them in the fucking head! They were my friends, too!’

  She dropped her hold on Katrín, suddenly feeling the overwhelming tension and judgement in the room. Styrhildur and Hraki were on edge like wildcats about to
kick into fight or flight.

  “Don’t you ever put that on me,” Garún continued. “Do you hear me? They pulled the triggers. They killed them. The people you invite to your home with a smile, the people who put fucking bread in the mouths of your family. That fancy wine you drink at society events is watered down with their blood, do you hear me?’

  It started to rain outside. For a while the only sound in the room was of raindrops spattering on windowpanes. Katrín took a seat and lit herself another cigarette.

  It was Diljá who broke the silence.

  “You told me you were leaving.”

  Garún took a deep breath. “Yeah. Listen – what’s done is done. The seiðskratti noticed me. It was staring at me, intently. The officer who caught me the other day might have briefed them on the delýsíð. I don’t know. But I’m not going to wait around for them to break down my apartment door and claim me. They saw my face. They’ll find out who I am. So I’ll be staying in Rökkurvík for now.”

  “Garún, no, please, the Forgotten Downtown is …’ Styrhildur bit her lip, thought better of finishing her thought. “People don’t move there. They disappear.”

  “What portal will you be using?’ asked Diljá.

  “The same as before. I just have to take the chance. It will only be temporary.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Styrhildur. “How many people do you think have told themselves that before?’

  Garún shook her head. “I know. But I still advise you to do the same. Things aren’t safe right now.”

  “We can’t,” said Hrólfur. “At least not me. We’re about to go to print with news of the protest. I don’t think the newspapers will cover this in a beneficial light. We have to retain some control over the discussion. If we let them paint this as some unruly riot we might as well give up.”

  “You could go to Huldufjörður,” said Hraki. “We know people who smuggle. It’s tough, but possible.”

  “I’m not risking going through the city gates. Not after that. Besides, I want to stay in the city. I want to keep fighting.”

  Katrín stared at her in disbelief. “You can’t be serious? You’re going to keep on using the delýsíð? After all that?’

  Garún stared her down. “I’ll do whatever it takes to fight the Crown. For some of us the belief in the cause goes beyond writing articles.”

  “It’s not only up to you, Garún!’ said Katrín. “We decided in unison not to take drastic action, but you – you chose to completely ignore it by painting delýsíð all around town! And then this, with the signs.” She shook her head, looking dismissively away as she took a drag of her cigarette. “You might not give a fuck about yourself, but you’re risking our lives by doing this.”

  Garún was gathering her thoughts when Katrín visibly calmed herself and continued, her voice quiet and firm.

  “But the harm is done. We’ve got no choice, I guess. Might as well go all in now.” She flashed Garún a meaningful look. “We’ll stay on high alert.”

  Garún got up to leave. Styrhildur and Hraki got up with her, but she gestured for them to sit down. In a quick flurry they felt out for each other’s feelings. They quickly reached a conclusion of unity and resilience.

  “We’ll visit you in a few days,” Styrhildur said, and Garún nodded.

  Hrólfur walked Garún to the door and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “You’re not the only one who wants change.” He gestured towards the others. “We all do. But we have to be patient and wait. The timing has to be right.”

  He gave her a crooked smile.

  Garún wanted to believe him. It would be a comforting thought, to imagine that all she had to do was wait.

  “The time for revolution won’t come by itself, Hrólfur. We have to create it.”

  Then she went out into the rain.

  * * *

  The sound of rainfall was deafening. The air inside was humid and heavy. Sæmundur wanted nothing more than to open the window and let the fresh air in, to feel the cold spray of rain on his face. Bury his fingers in the wet earth.

  For a long time they stared each other down, Sæmundur and the demon. It never stopped smiling and never blinked.

  “Master,” the creature repeated, “what is your command?’

  Sæmundur kept looking at the imp and Mæja’s shredded skin, discarded on the floor. It surprised him how devoid of feeling he was. About Mæja’s fate, about the spore-induced killing. No lump in his throat, no regret. Nothing.

  “What is your name?’ he said, after a long silence.

  “I have countless names, master. Which one would you choose?’

  “Your own.”

  The demon laughed. “Your knowledge of my kin is lacking. Pseudonyms and falsehoods are all I have, none of them of my own making, all of them given to me.”

  “And by what name did Gottskálk call you?’

  “That one called me Kölski.” The imp took a deep bow. “And what should I call the master?’

  Sæmundur was not about to fall for that. He’d rather die than give a demon his true name.

  “You shall never hear my name when anyone speaks it. Grákufl you shall call me and never remember any other name.”

  “As you wish.”

  One of the tallow candles crackled. Grákufl – grey robe. Not the best name, but it would have to do.

  “What is your command?’ the demon repeated.

  “Step outside of this circle.”

  Kölski’s smile wavered for a split second.

  “Master, you know that very well to be impossible for me.”

  “Do as I command,” said Sæmundur with a heavy air of authority.

  The demon immediately walked towards the edge of the circle on the floor. As its foot was about to cross the boundary it was as if Sæmundur’s eye twitched. Kölski flickered, his vision vibrated, and suddenly the demon was again in the middle of the circle.

  Sæmundur nodded, satisfied. The ritual had succeeded, to some extent at least, but the outcome was vastly different from what he had expected. This tiny imp, this gremlin, was not the noble and all-powerful transmundane being he had envisioned would be summoned from the forbidden pages of Rauðskinna.

  “I assure you, master, that I am the one you seek,” Kölski said suddenly, as if Sæmundur had just voiced his concerns. “The one who can give you the answers you so deeply desire. All your life you have been met only by locked doors, crawling in the dark in search of truth. Only for a fleeting moment you have seen shadowy figures on the cavern wall, distorted falsehoods and illusions. Others will be satisfied with that, but you want more. You want to cast away your chains, you want to witness the one, true source. You walk the narrow but straight path, but you have reached a hindrance on the road. An insurmountable hindrance.” The demon’s smile widened. “Until now. I assure you, I am the one you seek. I am the gate on your path, I am the key to the lock of your mind, I am the road upon which you walk.”

  Sæmundur’s heartbeat buzzed in his ears. The demon had read him like an open book, whispered to him all that he most deeply wanted to be true. He knew better than to trust the imp. But he had come this far. He had to try.

  “Very well, Kölski. Show me what lies beyond the threshold.”

  “As the master commands.”

  Kölski melted down into the floor, slid down into a shadowy form that stretched the ink-black void, casting itself upon the wall. Unnatural lights came from beyond the heavy curtains. Outside, thunder could be heard, so rare in Hrímland, and even stranger sounds merged with the cacophony of the storm.

  Þrettán

  The world was different now. Sæmundur felt like a mountain-top overlooking a village, its denizens small, fragile and uniform. If he cleared his throat, they’d be killed by a rockslide; if he shivered, an avalanche would wipe them out. He saw the strings that held people upright and he understood that with only a few vowels he could pluck them and make each person dance to a tune he chose. What had once been h
idden behind a closed door in his mind, something only hinted at when he used galdur, was now everywhere around him. Behind buildings, windows, his own flesh, the sky itself, was something else, something that was simultaneously everywhere and nowhere, always remaining just beyond sight. Something he could almost see in the corner of his eye, but not comprehend. Not yet.

  He spent his days with Kölski. He sat opposite the demon on the floor, his eyes shut, reaching out into the abyss. He practised new incantations Kölski had taught him, and with the demon’s close instruction he tried altering them and distorting their sounds. The results were remarkable. With a small amount of practice he managed to make the cloth-golem, which had before been a barely sentient pile of clothes, unravel and weave itself into a new being that spoke, thought and was capable of making independent decisions. He made branches grow out of the floorboards and bear fruit. When he ate these yellow-blue appleberries an overwhelming high infused with seiður hit him. The world lay open before him.

  Despite these small miracles, which would have caused his colleagues and professors to gasp in terror and admiration, he wasn’t satisfied. Too often he hit some kind of wall, some restriction, that kept him from progressing further. He better understood the connection between sound and galdur, how these two could be fused into one, but that understanding was not complete. What he sensed all around him was still unseen, beyond his senses. It wasn’t enough. He tried to demand answers from Kölski.

  “You – are,” it replied. “This world – is. We are not. We have always been, and never will be.”

  “So you come from beyond, like the huldufólk?’