She slipped and fell flat on her stomach. She was looking right into a mummified face, petrified in a look of absolute terror. She pushed the body away from her in dismay, kicking herself to her feet and sprinting back into the opposite side of the crowd, slamming into the wall of people so fast she managed to force her way through.
Suddenly something gave way and the crowd started to move. The military had opened a gap in their ranks, letting people through. They ran from Austurvöllur like a stampeding herd. Outliers were caught by rifle fire or seizure-bludgeons; people were tackled and handcuffed, black bags thrown over their heads. The marbendlar proved slow in their escape, and she feared none of them would make it out. She wanted to help them. But she didn’t know how. She ran from the merciless slaughter without looking back.
She ran until she couldn’t take another step. The buildings were constricting, hostile. She felt as if Reykjavík wanted her dead. The streets were empty and quiet. Numb and exhausted, she started towards the only nearby place she thought could resemble a safe haven. Maybe it was a foolish thing to do, but she had to rest and find some semblance of comfort.
Sæmundur’s apartment was unlocked. She walked in on trembling legs, flicking the light switches back and forth. None of them worked. The living room was a wreck – upturned furniture, broken items all over the floor. Except for a circle in the middle, white chalk in a sickening geometric shape, surrounded by birch branches. And in the middle of it, something she at first refused to recognise, refused to process – the dried blood and torn fur of what used to be her darling Mæja.
She fell to her knees, defeated. And she finally gave herself permission to break down and cry.
Tuttugu og sex
BEFORE
“Here, put this somewhere,” said Lilja.
She handed Garún a convex stone, ocean-polished and soft. On one side an esoteric symbol had been carved into it.
“What is it?’
They purposely lagged behind the group, which sauntered onwards, cheerfully laughing, spilling beer.
“Huliðshjálmur. Or so I was told. Quick, put it in your pocket or something.”
“You have got to be kidding. Why? So I’ll be invisible?’
She laughed. “Come on, you won’t turn invisible, you can’t do that!’
She fell quiet for a moment and took a sip from the bottle of wine she was carrying. Almost as if she regretted Garún couldn’t vanish completely.
“It will just make you blend in, so there won’t be any trouble.”
A familiar, heavy weight settled over Garún’s chest.
“Fuck. You.”
She threw the stone at the nearest house and shattered a window. The group looked back, shouting in shock and amusement.
Garún! Are you kidding me?
Did you break the window, are you insane?
You are so fucking crazy!
Someone shouted angrily into the street, presumably the window’s owner. They ran away laughing, like naughty children. Lilja seethed, even though she tried to pretend that nothing had happened, but Garún didn’t give a shit. Lilja was just like the rest of them, deceitful and false. She regretted not throwing the stone in her face. Garún went regularly enough to Karnivalið and even though they didn’t know each other that well, Lilja knew as much. It was one of the few places that let blendingar in without much trouble. Most of the time. It still didn’t mean that trouble wouldn’t find her indoors, but she didn’t intend to lie low and slink along the walls. She would not hide who she was.
Jón made himself fall behind the group and walked alongside Garún.
“Are you all right?’ he asked in a quiet voice.
“Yeah. Just Lilja being a bitch.”
“There’s no use in getting upset over that. You might as well get angry at the sun for setting.”
Garún looked up into the bright sky.
“The sun doesn’t set. It’s the summer solstice, you idiot. Shouldn’t you, of all people, know that?’
He took a contemplative sip of his beer.
“What? Why?’
“It’s Jónsmessa. The first priest of the first king apparently was born today and his name was Jón. Just like you. Don’t they teach you anything at school here in Reykjavík?’
The question was laced with more than a hint of resentment. So much of what she knew of the world, how it worked and its history, she’d had to unearth herself. Nothing had been freely handed to her.
“Nothing and nothing. Nothing but bullshit.”
“Tonight all foul spirits are supposed to become unchained,” she said. “And here we are. A fun coincidence, huh?’
“Poetic! he exclaimed. “You should get into poetry, I’m telling you.”
“Ha – ha.” She pushed him jokingly. “Paint me a picture and I’ll write you a poem. Then we can compete in which was more dreadful.”
“I’ll win, with no contest. The vættir have seen fit to bless me with consistently awful artistic talent.”
Outside the bar people stood smoking and talking, finishing their beers before they went inside. Some people had brought along entire six-packs and were trying their best to pound them down before the bouncers had enough and ran them off. It was bright out and relatively warm, as good as it got on a summertime northern island. It was just past midnight, but the place was absolutely packed. Gísli, whom Garún was on familiar enough terms with, was working the doors and he let her through without accepting the crumpled bill she tried to slide to him. That made her feel good. Even though no one else had to bribe the bouncers.
She made her way through the crowd towards the bar. Jón and the others were already there and called out to her.
“Garún! Brennivín shots!’
It was dark and humid inside, smoke mixed with stale beer and sweat. They ordered a line of shots, then another. Garún got a beer and the third shot along with it. She’d had some liquor earlier that night, home-brew that she’d made
