The bar was completely packed. Up in the corner an electronic musician stood on a minuscule stage consisting of a couple of pallets, jamming cassette reels into a massive home-made synthesiser precariously stacked on top of a stack of speakers. She was constantly switching out reels, running them through the clunky device. With a simple keyboard she produced pounding electronic music. The music was loud and the tempo rapid. People danced in a ceaseless throng, writhing like a pile of worms. She danced along with them, song after song seamlessly blending together. She felt alive and free. Something came loose inside her and she loved to feel like a part of the crowd, felt as if she connected with everyone else in there through the music.
Suddenly someone pushed her. A few young huldukonur were shouting something at her she couldn’t make out. She tried to reach out and find any common ground, but they rejected her attempt with disdain. People were looking at her, suspicious. Garún suddenly felt sick. She was squashed between humans and huldufólk who pushed her back and forth in waves, trapping her so she felt as if the crowd was threatening to swallow her up, that she’d sink to the floor and be trampled to death. The music sounded like a relentless drone. The huldukonur were still yelling something aggressively at her. The only thought in her mind was to get out.
She saw a hint of daylight through an open door. The back alley. She tried to move towards it, squeeze herself through the crowd, but for every step she took she was pulled back by two.
She got hit in the back and lost her footing. The rest of her beer spilled on the floor and she was about to follow it when someone grabbed her hand and pulled her up.
He was tall and hefty, not fat and not muscular, just big. Even inside in the heat and the crowd he wore a thick coat; still, she didn’t see a hint of sweat on his brow.
“I’m sorry! Are you okay?’ he yelled over the noise.
“I’m going out!’
She turned away and kept moving towards the exit.
The light cut into her eyes and nothing made sense. The world was a collection of shards that by themselves had no meaning and that she couldn’t put together. She managed to find a chair and sit down at a table. Everything spun around her. The man who had bumped into her suddenly sat next to her. He had two beers and put one on the table and pushed it towards her.
“Here. I’m sorry about being so clumsy before.”
“Ew,” she managed to say. She felt nauseous just looking at the beer. “I’m too drunk. You’ll have to drink it.” She leaned forwards on to the table. “Eugh, I’m going to be so hung-over tomorrow!’
He laughed and started to roll himself a cigarette.
“I’ll still take a cigarette if you can spare one,” she said.
“Of course. Do you smoke moss?’
“What.”
Her mind felt slow and groggy. Everything was crashing down around her. She felt like throwing up.
“Yeah, highland moss.”
She’d tried it once and didn’t care for it. She didn’t like those thaumaturgical drugs, like sorti and delýsíð.
“No, nothing like that, just tobacco. Lowland tobacco,” she said, drawing out the last words.
He laughed and handed her the cigarette.
“All right then. You should still have that beer. I’m not about to drink two at a time. If you want I can help with the hangover, sober you up a little.”
She lit her cigarette, but had a hard time doing it. She realised she was trying to light it in the middle. She adjusted her hand and lit it.
“What the hell are you talking about?’
He leaned in. “I happen to know a thing or two. I’m a galdramaður.” He started to roll another cigarette for himself. “I know a short incantation, a common household cantrip that I picked up out in the countryside. Carried me through all my student years. It’s more like a kind of seiður, really, but there’s some elements of galdur in it that technically …’ He caught himself and shook his head. “I’m sorry, never mind. That doesn’t matter. It makes you sober up quickly, no hangover.”
“Aha. You don’t say. Galdramaður.”
She mulled the word over, pronounced it slowly. She’d never met anyone who practised such a thing before. Not seriously, although lots of people knew simple chants or rituals. Herself included. Kukl had been a regular part of working life in Huldufjörður.
“So you’re in Svartiskóli?’
He nodded.
“All right, then!’ she said, throwing all caution to the wind. “I don’t want to be hung-over as shit tomorrow, I don’t want to vomit, and I’d like that beer. So sing me one magic solution, please.”
He finished rolling the cigarette and lit it. The smell of moss was potent. He inhaled the smoke deeply. For a moment, she felt a distant sense of panic. Fear that she was doing something way too dangerous and reckless. Then he looked into her eyes and she saw nothing but kindness.
He started to talk. His voice sounded all around her. She closed her eyes and felt like a child in a cradle, in the arms of a mother who sang to her a comforting, incomprehensible poem.
Then she came back to herself. Her mouth was parched and the feeling of nausea was still as strong as before. She felt a pain gather behind her forehead.
“Aah!’ She grabbed her head. “You said there would be no hangover!’
“Yes, I’m sorry! That wasn’t really accurate. It should only last for a moment.”
He was right. Suddenly the pain vanished and she felt as if she hadn’t tasted a drop all night. She felt as if she had cheated in a test. She caught herself smiling.
