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 truth, 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
