They headed upriver from the waterfall until they came to the pier. Kryik’traak was waiting for them, seemingly alone. The charm he had given to Diljá had apparently worked. She had broken the pendant of the shell necklace when Garún had barged in, carrying Katrín over her shoulders. Garún had been unaware she’d planned for this last resort and was secretly impressed with Diljá’s resourcefulness. But it also made her consider what else she might be hiding.
Garún always found it strange to be around marbendlar, despite having worked alongside them when she first came to Reykjavík. Their faces, reminiscent of wolf-fish, looked cold and emotionless to her. She couldn’t stand her own inability to look past their appearance and what seemed to her like peculiar manners. She hated that about herself. She should be better than that. She told herself that she just had to spend more time around them, but marbendlar, like náskárar, did not much care for the company of humans and huldufólk. Still, she wanted Reykjavík to belong to them just as much as herself. Despite that, a stupid, ugly part of her thought they looked alien. The worst part is that the marbendlar never cared that she was a blendingur. It could be that they were the group of people most tolerant towards her in Reykjavík, and this is how she repaid them.
“I’ve been waiting,” said Kryik’traak.
His scales were grey and coarse, covered in black and white spots down his sides. Fins jutted out down his back, arms and tail, decorated with rings of green-tinted copper and silver. He was a bit over Garún’s height, tall for a marbendill.
“What happened?’
“The Crown raided Rökkurvík,” said Diljá, and gently put Katrín down with Hrólfur. “We need to hide.”
Kryik’traak nodded, mimicking the human motion in an exaggerated manner.
“The Coral Spires stand with you. Riots recently by the river gates. Shooting.” He stared at Katrín. “Shot? Injured?’
“We’re not sure,” said Garún when the others hesitated to reply. “She’s sick from something.”
“We have remedies. Come.”
He led them down the pier, where a barge was waiting for them. It was loaded with barrels of herring and reeking seafood, along with a few crates and sacks. Thick ropes tied to the helmsman’s seat in the prow went down into the dark water, the bridle of the nykur below the surface. Kryik’traak led them to a couple of open barrels.
“Here. Until we reach Elliðaárdalur.”
“You are kidding,” said Hrólfur. “I’m not going to fit in there.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Garún said harshly, and climbed into a barrel.
Kryik’traak and Hrólfur gently lifted Katrín into a barrel. Diljá and Hrólfur followed suit.
“Only two nails. Can break out if you need to. All right?’
They each nodded in agreement. The barrel reeked, but was otherwise clean enough. Garún sat on the bottom with her knees up to her chest. She already felt the blood draining from her legs. She didn’t look forward to the trip. Kryik’traak placed the lid on the barrel and everything went black. The barrel shook from the impact as he hammered two nails into the lid. She listened as he did the same to the others. Then, heavy thuds as he moved cargo around them, hiding them. She felt the rhythm of the water, how the river moved around the barge. A sudden movement. They were on their way.
The barge moved effortlessly against the current at a steady pace. She shut her eyes and leaned her head forwards on her knees. Imagined she had vanished, was lost. That there was nothing outside but darkness and bottomless waters. That she would wake up in a new place. Somewhere safe and warm, where the sun shone throughout the year. She imagined that she had jumped through the broken church windows in Hamar.
She woke up when Kryik’traak knocked on her barrel just before he jammed a crowbar in to tear it open. The sky had turned faintly pale, hinting at a far-off late morning sunrise. She took his hands and he helped her get out. She could hardly stand for the painful needles jabbing her numb limbs, but Kryik’traak handed her the crowbar and told her to help her partners out. Time was of the essence.
Garún tore open the rest of the barrels and helped the others get out. Katrín was semi-conscious, so weak and out of it that Hrólfur still had to support her. They were by the rivers of Elliðaár, just south of the Elliðabær neighbourhood. The river was deep here, its currents strong. Kryik’traak had tethered the barge to one of the many poles sticking out of the river. Pale buildings made of coral lined the riverbank, coarse tangles of buildings and twisted spires that reached deep down to the bottom. Marbendlar used seiður to grow and shape this unique type of coral, which thrived in salt water and fresh water alike. In a matter of days an entire city could be grown, given enough access to seiðmagn in the area. The noise from the hydroelectric plant could be heard in the distance upriver. The sun wasn’t visible, but the skies were getting lighter. Soon enough the river would be filled with barges heading to Sæmannahöfn or up against the stream towards the locks of the old hydroelectric dam, the river gates and Elliðavatn.
Kryik’traak had been busy fishing something out of a vat and turned to them, holding a jellyfish in his hands. It was upside down, transparent mouth-tendrils dangling limply from its colourful core like a grotesque flower. From the middle a long, tube-shaped stalk stuck out.
“Put them on.”
He
