* * *
An intensely focused eye measured her through the crack in the doorway. They both stood completely still, measuring each other up. Garún didn’t like the sound of the music buzzing in her headphones and slid them off her ears.
“Feigur?’
No response. The eye didn’t even blink.
“Viður sent me. I need … Well, I need delýsíð.”
The crack widened, the person inside moved away. Garún hesitated, gathering courage before she went in. The door clicked shut behind her.
The foyer was shut off from the rest of the house by black sheets hanging in the doorway. Feigur went through them without speaking to her. She followed him into the living room.
Windows were boarded up, curtained or simply painted black. There was hardly any furniture in the living room. The yellowed walls were bare and on the floor was a filthy mattress, the rest of it covered with empty bottles and junk. Torn rags and piles of garbage were in the corners of the room. A low coffee table sat in the middle, covered with full ashtrays, dirty plates and scratched vinyl records. There was no record player in sight. A pungent stench of decomposed food permeated the air. Feigur sat on the mattress by the table and stared at Garún. She pushed a few bottles out of the way with her foot and sat on the floor opposite him.
The huldumaður was gaunt and withered, his pale skin stretched over his skull like canvas. His long hair was thin and the beard unkempt and wispy, as if it was glued on. He was wearing a torn leather coat that barely hung on his frame. They remained silent for a while. He stared and said nothing. Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer.
“Viður said you were selling delýsíð.” He didn’t respond. “I need some. Liquid, not powder.”
Feigur sat still for a long while before he replied.
“Are you Garún?’
“Uh. Yes, that’s right.”
She was a bit taken aback by his knowing her name. Viður must have contacted him somehow.
“I’ve got delýsíð. Liquid. Unmixed. Pure. But it doesn’t come cheap.”
His voice was brittle and cracked like branches snapping underfoot.
Pure delýsíð. She’d never got close to anything like it before. Usually it was weak and thinned out. This meant she would have to approach the chemical in a completely different manner. She could mix it into the paint as usual, or use it instead of linseed oil on a painting, or spray a clear finish over a graffiti after it was done. She might as well skip using colours altogether and paint with a clear finish. The effects could be completely different. Maybe stronger, maybe more subversive. Her heart raced.
“All right.” She forced her voice to keep calm. “How much?’
“Ten millilitres go for five thousand. Fifty you can get for twenty, seventy-five would be—”
She stopped him, holding up her hand. These were preposterous amounts.
“You’ve got nothing mixed, nothing cheaper?’
“No.”
“Why not? You could just mix it, right?’
No response. Right.
“Do you accept any trades?’ she ventured.
“That depends on what you have to offer.”
She started listing paintings, jewellery, but he shook his head.
“No, not objects. Memories.”
A shiver ran down her back. He was one of them. She should have been able to tell: the noisefiend screaming at her through the audioskull that this was not safe in the slightest.
The huldumaður sitting opposite her collected memories. Or rather, he fed upon them. Consumed them like little morsels. The experience was said to be an unfiltered ecstasy, incredibly clear and sensual. He was obviously an addict. It was probably the only thing keeping his body going. Without memories to feed on, he would soon become nothing but dust and a worn leather coat.
The delýsíð was integral to their plans. Without it the protest could fall short. She had to come through.
“What kind of memories?’
She immediately regretted asking. She was not sure if this was something she really wanted to know.
“Childhood memories. Sweet. Painful. Rare.”
“In turn for what?’
“If it’s good – one hundred millilitres. Otherwise … perhaps a minimum of fifty.”
“How do I know if you will like it?’
“There’s no way of knowing until after the fact.”
He tilted his head and she felt him reaching out, feeling for her emotions. It felt disgusting, invasive. She endured it for a while, then blocked him off.
“Hmm. Seventy-five minimum. Hundred max. Deal?’
She felt nauseous.
“Deal.”
Stealing memories was something that huldufólk had done in great excess, centuries ago when the gateways into hulduheimar still existed. When they were a shining empire, wealthy and powerful. They arrived like beautiful demons and robbed people of who they were. Garún felt sick at the thought of playing a part in that dark inheritance. This was deeply wrong. But she didn’t have a choice.
Feigur stood up and went for a moment into a back room. After a while he came back with two small soda bottles made from glass, sealed with ceramic stoppers. In them was a clear liquid. One was just above half-empty, the other had only a bottom fill. He put the bottles on the table. Garún flicked the ceramic plug off one of them and smelled the contents carefully from a distance, making sure not to breathe too heavily. She felt dizzy. It was without a doubt delýsíð. Very pure. She’d never seen anything like it.
Without saying another word she lay down on the mattress. Garún had heard enough horror stories to know how this happened.
“Can you choose what memory you take?’
“Sort of. Sometimes.”
Feigur sat next to her, almost as rigid and tense from excitement as she was from dread. He leaned in and she felt an odd, sour odour emitting from him.
“Will I know what you take?’ she asked with his grim face looming over her.
“No,” he responded.
“Good,” she managed to mutter before everything went dark.
* * *
Feigur slammed the door behind her. Garún stood shivering outside the cellar door. The lock clicked. She stared uncomprehendingly at the bottle of delýsíð in her hand. It was
