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 what 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
