* * *
Gandreið can be cast in several different ways. Sæmundur knew the major theories about the phenomenon and its various manifestations. No method was as exact and precise as this one, but it was considered the vilest svartigaldur, despicable even by the measures of those who practised such heinous acts. No amount of reading could have prepared Sæmundur for the paralysing horror that crippled him as his consciousness was split in twain. He gagged, threw up into his mouth and forced himself to swallow it back, which just made him want to throw up all the more. He couldn’t lose the shroom broth from his body. Everything would fall apart if he did. Almía sat limply on her knees and mimicked Sæmundur perfectly, hands clasped over her mouth. The sight made him despise himself afresh.
When Sæmundur was sure he wouldn’t throw up, he sat down with his head in his hands. Almía did the same, her face numb, her eyes like glass marbles. He moaned hopelessly and jumped when she moaned as well.
The gandreið fungi was one of the most lethal organisms found in Hrímland. It lived wild on the highlands, spreading either by growing clusters of toadstools in nature or inside a host. The fungus killed the host and controlled it, drove it mercilessly in order to spread spores as much as possible until the body broke down and couldn’t move any further. The corpse would then become fertile grounds for a new colony of toadstools.
Reining in control and trying to comprehend what he was seeing was more difficult than he had ever expected. The visions that assailed him were not meant for human comprehension, or for any other sentient creature on this earth. The simultaneous perception of his conscious reality alongside the conscious reality of Almía’s corpse was an experience of a completely alien nature. Everything was wrong. Himself most of all. He had been assimilated into the grotesque nightmare world of the mushroom.
* * *
He stood up, almost collapsed with dizziness, sat back down. Almía did the same in an almost mocking mimicry. There wasn’t much time. He had to get this under control.
Sæmundur stood up and stared straight into Almía’s face. Almía mimicked him, her facial features slack. She mirrored Sæmundur’s movements, but not in an accurate manner. There was something unnatural about her movements. They were sluggish and rough. Delayed. Almía looked unnatural even when standing still. She wasn’t breathing. When Sæmundur raised his right hand, she raised her right hand. It was like standing in front of an enchanted mirror. Little by little he managed to get Almía to move somewhat convincingly, but he couldn’t get the hang of moving only her body, not his own as well. Finally Sæmundur got down on the floor while forcing her to keep standing upright and tried to control her like that. It felt incredibly odd to walk while lying on the floor, but with a little bit of practice Almía’s movements became approximately normal.
Getting a human look on her face proved to be even harder. The hallucinations were coming in strongly now, crashing over him, and Sæmundur felt as if her nose and mouth were melting off and that her eyes kept shifting in colour – which, for all he knew, was as likely as anything else. Recorded knowledge of practical gandreið using the fungus was very limited. In the end Almía seemed normal enough, at least by Sæmundur’s reckoning, but he knew well that in this state he had no right to be the judge of that.
Opening the door was more difficult than he’d expected. Almía handled like a stiff wooden puppet. Sæmundur finally realised that by closing his eyes he could ignore his own self and almost feel that he was only controlling one body. Eventually Almía grabbed the door handle with an odd, stiff gesture. Sæmundur made her reach into the folds of her robes and pull out her pocket watch. It was a golden antique, and had no doubt been in her family’s possession for generations. This whole endeavour had only taken him around twenty minutes. Kári would be out for a while. There was still time. Sæmundur took great care in putting the watch back in its pocket. The gesture could have almost seemed natural from a distance.
Sæmundur walked Almía through the halls towards the library. Everything was quiet; he didn’t meet anyone on his way. Finally, he came to the only door that was different from the others, a double door made from a heavy and dark wood, a miniature version of the door at the main entrance. He hesitated and gathered his courage for a moment before he made Almía open it, sticking his own hand up into the empty air as if to open the void.
It took him a while to get used to the gloom in the library’s reception, after having been in the unrelenting fluorescent lighting. The room was a short corridor, at the end of which was a wide service desk that went from wall to wall. Behind the desk was a quite ordinary office door with a matt glass window. Stacks of books and manuscripts covered the desk so the librarian behind it was hardly noticeable.
The service desk was the toll gate between the library and the outer world. The librarian of Svartiskóli alone decided who went in and for what reason. Her rule over her domain was absolute in every regard. Most students found it very uncomfortable to meet her for the first time. Compared to the dreary surroundings and Svartiskóli’s reputation, most expected a wizened hag, a gaunt ghoulish person, or even a limping hunchback. A freakish outcast that was in accordance with the oppressing sense of foreboding that dominated everything, that came with the stories of every library visit told to freshmen and outsiders. Sæmundur, walking as Almía up to the desk, was greeted by a warm, elderly lady with half-moon spectacles and her hair in a tidy knot. The glasses
