Shadows of the Short Days

stirred a raw egg into skyr and read a book while she ate. The book had come free from a nearby café; many of the coffee houses in Starholt had various kinds of free shops and trade markets. Many of the local residents were artists and it aided them in their never-ending pursuit of inspiration and materials. Almost a century had passed since the book was written, long before the occupation by the Crown. The novel was about a huldukona who wanted to become a poet, but her poems were rejected by the Hrímlanders because of who she was. Because of what she was. All her life was one long struggle. The book was a handmade reprint some decades old. It was singed and burned and many pages had been ripped out of it. There still remained some readable parts and Garún devoured them. She’d never found a novel about huldufólk before.

When she finished eating she wrapped the towel around herself, sat out on the balcony and rolled a cigarette. Just a bit too tight, so she had to work her lungs to inhale the livid smoke. Winter had begun smothering autumn and the evening dark was sharp and deep. The apartment buildings surrounded a playground where a few children played in an old wooden play castle that had once been multicoloured, but the paint had peeled off long ago. No one was monitoring them. Late as it was, this was a common sight. She looked over to the other balconies. Clean laundry hung out to dry on taut clothes lines everywhere, among the junk that artists and collectors had gathered: old fishing nets, rusted iron and driftwood, sheets of corrugated iron and other garbage that was a gleaming treasure in some eyes.

Garún threw the butt over the balcony and went inside. She had to get more delýsíð spray paint. Viður would hook her up. She put on a pair of old jeans and a plain black top, grabbed a moss green coat on the way out. She took her time walking to the central area of Starholt, the epicentre where the artistic types and other ideological outcasts, self-declared or not, met each night with the common goal of gossip, flattery, drink and dope in various degrees. As she got closer to the heart of it all, the neighbourhood came to life. Massive cement towers gave way to lower, friendlier houses. Electric lamps with stained glass lit up the streets, twisted modern sculptures that were a welcome change from the Crown’s uniform standard issue lamps everywhere else in the city.

Gangs of náskárar sat on eaves over dark alleyways, selling drugs. They were adorned with markings of their tribe, all of them warriors with iron claws or beaks. Bright laughter moved through the crowd like an infectious cough and occasionally glasses of beer shattered. Huldufólk and humans hung together in separate groups outside bars and clubs.

The huldufólk’s attitude towards her was reserved when she walked past them, all of them reflexively reaching out to see who was there. Garún barely noticed, having grown used to shutting it out long ago. Not that humans considered her an equal either – on the contrary – but some huldufólk had a vicious way of upholding what they considered the old ways, and she served as an offensive reminder to them of how far they had fallen.

She shook off these thoughts and lit another cigarette to clear her head. Those strangers didn’t matter. She had found her own people. And above all, she had herself.

Tvö

Sæmundur reached out on the floor and fumbled around for the carved wooden pipe. He tapped last night’s ashes out of it and stuffed it with moss, finishing the rest of what he had. Started the day with a smoke, as usual.

Sometimes he woke up and thought for a moment that she was lying next to him. Between waking and sleeping his mind and body reached out for her. The sting of waking up alone didn’t seem to be fading. If anything, it had grown to reach deeper with time.

Mæja climbed on top of him and purred loudly. He petted her and somehow she managed to purr even louder. His mind wandered to Garún and he thought about what she was doing now. She had left the cat behind and it only reminded him of her. He pushed the cat off his torso.

He stretched out in the bed and smoked, scratched his balls. It was time. A big task to do today. He couldn’t reschedule the hearing again.

When he finished the pipe he sat up, sniffed his clothes and found those that stank the least. It took him a long while to get dressed properly. The moss was starting to work and rippled the waters of his mind. Next to the mattress was a bass amplifier that served as a nightstand, desk and dining table. Half-empty beer bottles, an ashtray, notebooks and dirty plates were stacked on top of the amplifier. Sæmundur turned it on and lit a badly rolled cigarette. He picked up the bass from the floor and tuned it, started playing.

The room vibrated with music. He felt the way each object echoed the sound and warped it through itself, how his body fell in tune. He stretched the note, drew it deeper and the world sank into the deep with him. He sang along, preparing the galdur incantation in his mind.

He started chanting. Each syllable had its tone, which was amplified in the pounding bass line. The light faded, becoming grey and pale as it retreated slowly. The incantation grew stronger and clearer, the notes of the bass heavier, and the room appeared to bend under the pressure of sound. Dirty clothes, which lay scattered about on the floor, trembled like a wild growth and began moving in a convulsive dance around the mattress. Sæmundur sang louder and louder. He warped and stretched each sound that came from him, rode the chaos of galdur and