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.”
She fell quiet for a moment and glanced nervously at Garún, who nodded encouragingly to her. They’d talked about this so many times. There were many humans in the crowd. They needed to hear this.
“Garún hasn’t been able to visit her mother and grandmother in Huldufjörður since she came to Reykjavík six years ago. She’s being held prisoner in her own city. Being caught smuggling means you’re fined,
