Sæmundur tossed away the cigarette and crushed it underneath his heel. He blew thick smoke and stepped out of the darkness.
Garún had been shocked when she last saw him in the Forgotten Downtown. She hadn’t been prepared for the changes that had taken place. He had been skinny and pale, his eyes empty. But she’d told herself that it was temporary, that he was under pressure.
But now there was no question about it. He was like a walking corpse, a shade that was neither alive or dead. His skin was waxy and stretched, his hair like dead weeds. But his eyes were the worst. He was like a thing out of a nightmare. His clothes were filthy, caked with dried blood and mud. His presence itself was uncomfortable, as if someone else was present with him, constantly whispering something just beyond hearing, so that it was driving her mad. It was as clear as day that he was walking a road to damnation, an irreversible path that he’d chosen for himself long before she had realised it.
“Sæmundur …’
She couldn’t say anything else. She’d taken an involuntary step back, her hand brought up to her face in shock and revulsion. He looked at her, broken, but in some depraved way stronger than she had ever seen him before.
“What did you do to yourself?’
“I’m close, Garún, so close,” he said in a trembling voice. “All my theories have been accurate, about frequency, syllables, about sound, but I’ve learned so much more, and I’ve still got so much to learn.”
As he spoke his voice became more intense and the whispering Garún felt she could almost hear became more agitated, still in this surreal place between hearing and imagining. For every step he took forwards, she took one back, until she was close to the end of the pier. She cursed herself for not bringing the goggles with her.
“You’re sick, Sæmundur,” she said calmly. “You’re very sick. What would I see if I looked at you with thaumaturgical goggles?’
Sæmundur hesitated, looking shamefaced.
“I saw something, when you found me in the alley,” Garún continued, “and I saw you through the goggles. The darkness around you was glowing with … some kind of force. But you seemed untouched. Would I still see that? Or is the darkness now a part of you, every bone in your body tinted blue, glowing with fiends and demons?’
“You know nothing!’ he spat. “Nothing! You are as small-minded as the sheep in Svartiskóli! How can you say that, after the concert, after seeing that vision? You cannot begin to realise what sort of phases of existence have opened themselves to me, the thresholds I have crossed!’ He ran his thin hand through his grimy hair and slowly breathed out, forcing himself to calm down. “Don’t give me this fake concern now, Garún,” he said in a defeated tone. “Cut the bullshit. I’m about to raise a níðstöng for you, for your cause.” He snorted. “Please. You’re the same, you’d sacrifice anything to further your own goals. Hypocrisy doesn’t suit you.”
“I am also risking my life, and everyone else around me.”
It took everything she had to say these words with calm conviction. She felt as if she owed it to herself, to nail these points in his head with cold precision.
“But there’s the difference between us, Sæmundur. I do what I do because I hope that something will change for the better. But you only want things to change for yourself. You’re walking down a path that only ends in despair and darkness.”
“Darkness to you,” he said quietly, with zealous fervour. “Enlightenment to me.”
She shook her head, filled with both disgust and an incredible rage against this idiotic stubbornness, this insufferable arrogance. He was worse than a child playing with fire.
“I don’t know why I tried reasoning with you,” she said through clenched teeth. “I do not give a fuck. Do what you will, Sæmundur, but for fuck’s sake, don’t mess this up. Try not to let others down for once in your life.”
She walked to the end of the dock, throwing her sack over her shoulders.
“There’s another thing. After this is done I don’t want to hear from you again – do you understand me?’
He had the nerve to look hurt.
“What? Why?’
“I went to your place. To hide, after the protest. I found Mæja. I buried her in your yard. Or what was left of her.”
He said nothing. Which was just as well. Reasoning, justifications, apologies, would have sent her over the edge. She was burning with anger, with resentment, hurt and betrayal. It felt good. It gave her something to hold on to.
She dived into the river. She didn’t say goodbye.
* * *
“You’ve lost your fucking mind!’
Hrólfur was yelling, pacing back and forth in the plant-lit cave. Styrhildur and Hraki had joined the group, having safely made it to Elliðaár after the protest. They had called Kryik’traak in for the meeting as well. It was cramped down there, but that wouldn’t matter much longer. Some of them would be moving locations soon.
“Kidnap Trampe? For what purpose? Parliament has already negotiated with Kalmar! We won!’
“Oh, cut the shit, Hrólfur!’ Katrín spat out viciously. She’d recovered her strength now, and regained much of her fervour after seeing the news develop these last few days. “You know that’s a bullshit excuse of a settlement.”
“It’s a start! They’ve cleared the gates for traffic,” Hrólfur continued, “and they’re limiting the roadblocks.”
“Roadblocks that shouldn’t be there in the first place!’
“And there are still hundreds of huldufólk and huldumanneskjur inside the city, without any civil rights. Do you think that’s fair?’
Hrólfur furrowed his brow and looked at Diljá. She shrugged.
“Huldumanneskjur?’
Garún was glad he’d caught that.
“I’m sick of this
