Eitt

Garún removed her mask and stepped away from the wet graffiti to see clearly the whole of the hex sigil she’d painted. It was difficult breathing through the filters on the leather mask and it felt good to taste the fresh air. It was dark, the only light came from the pale moon that sat low in the sky. She relied on insight and feeling when she painted, so the dark didn’t bother her. She didn’t need to see to know if the graffiti was good or when it was ready. She simply felt it, but it was a raw feeling. She wanted to be sure, so she slipped the goggles over her eyes in order to see the sorcerous seiðmagn bleeding from the paint.

Sharp geometries jutted out unexpectedly from the red and obscure graffiti, and even though the paint wasn’t dry yet the seiðmagn already radiated powerfully into the environment. Exhausted from the work, Garún felt dried up after using so much delýsíð paint in such a short time. While she painted, the emotions expressed within her art were amplified by the delýsíð in the paint and cast back to her in a vicious psychedelic cycle: she was the snake that fed on itself. Now, it was complete. Garún turned down the volume of the electronic music booming in her ears and focused on letting the painting speak to her.

The graffiti was in a good location atop the store Krambúðin and with luck it would be weeks until it was discovered. All the while it would continue to bleed seiðmagn into the environment, where it would infiltrate the subconscious of those nearby. It would slowly infect their minds and sow the seeds of discord. If left undisturbed, the painting would become as a death mask over the building and its neighbourhood.

Krambúðin was a store owned by Sigurður Thorvaldsen, a merchant who ran several enterprises in the greater Reykjavík area. The one below Garún’s feet had become one of the most popular colonial stores in the city since Sigurður had moved to Reykjavík and set up shop almost the same day as the occupation of the Crown began. Not for the soldiers, but for all the people from the countryside flooding to the city to work for the army. The Crown needed a large working force, especially to build the forts in Viðey and the barracks on Seltjarnarnes. Sigurður had pushed those out who threatened his business, threatening, blackmailing and maiming – but, above all, profiting. By the time occupation became colonisation and the forts of the colonial masters were built, Sigurður Thorvaldsen had become a wealthy man and Reykjavík a fully grown city.

The graffiti Garún had sprayed on the roof was an anti-prosperity hex. It was intended to drive away the establishment’s elite customers who prized Krambúðin’s imported luxury products. Exotic spices, delicate fabrics, handmade soaps, candies and perfumes were only a small fraction of the merchandise available. Those who did not subconsciously avoid the store would become victims to the hex. Pushy customers would argue with the staff, who in turn would be unhelpful and patronising. With luck the influence would spread over the whole street as the graffiti fed on the people’s negative emotions and spewed them back out. She hoped that it would be able to remain unharassed for longer than her other work, which had all been found within a few days.

She took the spray cans and the painting mask and stuffed them into her backpack along with the goggles. Before climbing down from the roof she double-checked that she’d left no empty cans behind. She slid down the fire escape ladder in the back and turned up the volume again. It was calm and slow, the bass steady and comforting, telling her that nobody was around, nobody was watching. She ran silently through empty yards, vaulted over the fences in her path. The beat became faster the closer she got to the Hverfisgata Road and the stressed rhythm hinted that the police might not be far down the street. She weaved through alleys and backyards alongside Hverfisgata’s busy road. The evening traffic had barely started to trickle downtown. Sudden breaks and booming bass lines told her if someone was about to cross her path or about to look out of their window, and she reacted instinctively, ducking into cover and waiting for the threat to pass. She could never be absolutely sure that she had not been seen, and often it was hard to read the music, but after endless practice it had become almost second nature, a part of her natural reflex. She let go and let the music speak to her subconscious.

The closer she got to Hlemmur the more uneasy the music grew. Patrol automobiles were lined up in front of the police station, which was fused with the central station like a tumour grown outside a body. The beat was thick and murky, the music absolutely deafening. She turned down the volume so it was barely audible, pulled her hoodie up and tried not to think about what would happen if she was stopped for a random search.

The central station was home for those who had nowhere else to go. Hobos, junkies, a few blendingar. She made sure not to glance towards them as she felt them notice her walking past. As if they resented her for not sitting with them in the gutter. Policemen stood by the ticket booth and gates, docile but formidable. She tried to keep a low profile, but without it being suspicious. Just as would be expected from a blendingur like her.

She took the train to Starholt. Most working people had got home by now and the nightlife didn’t pick up until after midnight, so the train was relatively empty. The city lights took on a blurred halo in the grimy windows.

*   *   *

No one greeted her when she came home. She missed Mæja. What was she thinking, leaving the cat with Sæmundur? He could barely take care of himself, let alone a cat. She was unsure what her intention had been, exactly. She’d wanted him to feel guilt or remorse, or anything at all, there at the end. But he had been simply too numb and now her little cat was probably starved to death underneath worm-eaten manuscripts and dirty socks. One more thing she tried not to think about.

Her studio flat was a bedroom, kitchen, working area and living room simultaneously. The sink was filled with paintbrushes and squeezed paint tubes were found on almost every surface. Half-completed paintings were scattered around in stacks leaning against the walls. The air smelled of paint, oil, acrylics and spray mixed in with a faint, sour reek of delýsíð. It was probably good that she was rid of Mæja. The cat would have been long dead from all the toxic chemicals in the air.

Garún took off her large headphones and removed the audioskull from the backpack. Sæmundur had summoned the noisefiend himself and bound it into the skull when she’d started to tag small, powerful delýsíð staves here and there. Wires stuck out of the bare headphones, an old operator’s headset she had converted. She had always meant to make a casing from wood or brass, but had never got around to it. The headphones were plugged into the forehead of the audioskull. The skull had a blue shade to it, covered in runes and esoteric symbols coloured a dark red. It was both illegal and dangerous to summon demons, but Sæmundur never cared about risks. She’d got a used portable transistor radio cheap and had been listening to it on the go, carrying it around in her backpack. That’s what had given him the idea. Transmundane beings were incredibly dangerous even when bound in bone, and Garún had absolutely lost it when he gave her the skull. Still, she had used it.

She took off the black clothes and emptied her backpack. She hid the clothes, along with the backpack and audioskull, under a loose board in the closet. Inside there was a hidden compartment where she put the nearly empty delýsíð spray cans. She was practically out, and she needed more. She’d gone tagging a bit too frequently these last weeks, excited for the upcoming protest they had planned. She would have to get more. The bright and unnatural colours had stained her fingers. She turned on the shower and washed her hands with strong and coarse soap before stepping in. The water smelled faintly of sulphur, a familiar and soothing feeling.

After the shower she dried off with a towel and wrapped it around her head to dry her shoulder-length hair. She 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 gave it form, reined it in.

He drew these sounds inside himself, into his voice and the bass, then transmuted them and locked them into the incantation, bound them with rhythm and words of power. Everything sounded with transformation. Drenched with galdur, the rags on the floor crawled into small piles that slid together into a single mass of clothing in front of him. The melody grew stronger, the beat faster, and the dirty laundry rose up and shaped itself. Shirtsleeves and dirty socks became jutting limbs that grew erratically from the central body. Sæmundur stopped playing, handed the creature a wad of crumpled bills and commanded with a strong voice:

Go to Rotsvelgur. Buy moss. Return.

Immediately the thing collapsed and rolled out towards the window. Underwear, shirts, jackets and jeans, stretched up to the window ledge and pulled themselves up. Woollen socks and hoodie sleeves grabbed the ledge and the creature rolled itself out of the window.

Sæmundur threw himself back on to the mattress. He felt as if he was coming undone from the reverberation of the world’s composition.

*   *   *

Sæmundur slept while the highland moss wore off. He dozed on his mattress in a fugue and didn’t come around until noon had passed and the cloth-golem returned. Rotsvelgur had put a rat’s tail in the bag with the moss, a sign that this was his last chance – it was time he paid his dues. A problem for another day. Sæmundur commanded the filthy pile of clothes to go and wash themselves in the laundry room. He really should have done that yesterday, he thought. The hearing was today, after all.

He moved to the kitchen and prepared a simple breakfast. Oatmeal and a few slices of liver sausage. While he ate he scanned through a yellowed manuscript, one of the countless documents that lay scattered around the apartment. Bruise-coloured patterns and symbols decorated the page and even though Sæmundur could read the ancient scribble well his mind couldn’t stick to it.

No one could use galdur like he did. The cloth-golem made that obvious. It never occurred to anyone to make a golem any way other than with the traditional methods, which Sæmundur found preposterous. Cowards. All he had done was combine the foreign tradition of golem-making with a Hrímlandic svartigaldur – the thieving tilberi. To properly fuse them together one needed not only the exact esoteric language, but a new cadence, a new rhythm, which belonged to both incantations equally. He had looked outside academia to find the methodology to combine these two incantations: music. It was very risky, yet he’d made incredible progress.

Still – it wasn’t enough. Not for Sæmundur. He still couldn’t comprehend the source of galdur’s power or how it worked. But he was closer. He just had to risk pushing the limits a little bit further.

But he’d get nowhere without Svartiskóli.

After Sæmundur’s expulsion from the university he had discovered a remarkable wellspring of ambition within himself. He’d dived head first into his independent studies, inspired by a sense of liberation from the dogma and distractions of the university’s overbearing bureaucracy. He’d used all his available resources to get the manuscripts he needed for his research, or at least copies of them.

Then he’d reached a dead end and with no favours left to call in, nor allies to lean on, he’d made no progress for weeks. Admittedly, he had learned something before getting stuck, but it wasn’t nearly enough. He had to get back into Svartiskóli.

Sæmundur had studied galdur at the Royal University of Reykjavík. The School of Supernatural Sciences was housed in a special building, called Svartiskóli after the Hrímlandic school of old. Svartiskóli was split into two faculties: seiður and galdur. To the public these two were basically interchangeable; sorcery was sorcery, no matter what you called it. But that was not the case within the walls of Svartiskóli.

It was once believed that seiður transcended human understanding; that it was an unpredictable and esoteric force, which did not abide by the rules of the natural sciences. This force was found in certain places of power, where seiðskrattar drew seiðmagn from the land like water from a well and used it for supernatural works. Few such places remained in the world. And where seiðmagn could be found in sufficient quantities, the energy source was violent and primal. Hrímland, mostly the highlands, was such a source for seiðmagn, but had been considered too dangerous and unworkable up until a few decades earlier, when Vésteinn Alrúnarson stepped forward with his theories on seiður and built the first sorcerous power plant on the forested hill of Öskjuhlíð. The esoteric rituals of seiður became supernatural science. Seiður became a force of supernature that could be understood, controlled and harnessed.

Galdur was fundamentally different; it could not be drawn from nature like seiður. Unlike its supernatural cousin, the force that powered galdur was unmeasurable and unknowable. It did not belong to this world. All you needed to use galdur was the right incantation and words of power, an uncomfortably low threshold for the dabbling kuklari – the slightest error could result in terrible consequences. If a slight warping in pronunciation or the smallest syntax error crept into the incantation then the effects were unpredictable. Many galdramenn had doomed themselves because of a simple mistake or a lack of precision. When rituals of galdur took a turn for the worse, demons tainted the bones of the unsuspecting galdramaður, sometimes resulting in their becoming possessed. The threat of the demonic was always there, even in the most innocent galdur. This fact resulted in a strict ban on experimentation and research in galdur at the university. Only studying tried and true rituals and maintaining an age-old tradition was permitted. That was the only way to be safe from the devouring outer dimensions.

Naturally, this core edict was what Sæmundur had set his sights on bringing down.

From the beginning, his questionable theories turned the whole of academia against him. He had dangerous theories on the true nature of galdur and wanted desperately to find out what really made it work through the use of the ultimate taboo – experimentation. He wanted to unspool the thread of words and incantations and get into direct contact with their primal, chaotic source.

In Svartiskóli this was considered borderline heresy by any stretch of the imagination. It bordered on treason to bring up such blatantly dangerous ideas. His fellow students nicknamed him Sæmundur óði – Sæmundur the Mad – and soon he heard even his lecturers use it. They flunked every critical essay, every thesis he put forward. Even the most menial assignments were scrutinised and rejected if he drifted ever so slightly from the established canon. They made it clear he was a deranged outcast who had no business in an institution of higher learning.

It had been several months since his expulsion. The first thing he did was demand a hearing, but when the assigned date drew closer he kept on postponing it. As much as he resented himself for it, Sæmundur couldn’t help but be afraid. Afraid of rejection, afraid of feeling powerless and helpless at the mercy of the institution he both despised and loved for being the only venue for his academic ambition. But now he couldn’t run away from it.

He’d finished eating and realised that he was reading through an entirely wrong manuscript. It didn’t matter, it was all there. All the knowledge he’d gathered was clear and organised in his mind, all neatly lined up to back up the false, dishonest argument to reassure the committee and allow him to be readmitted.

Today Sæmundur would disown his previous theories entirely and pay lip service to the stagnant dogma the university had set itself to preaching. He’d play the well-behaved, disciplined student for them, at least for now. Begrudgingly he’d admitted it to himself: he needed them. He needed their facilities, their faculty, their library, for his research to progress further. He had to play the long game here. Convince them now to live to learn another day.

*   *   *

Sæmundur’s tie was askew and his jacket was stretched tight over his broad shoulders. It turned out that the dress trousers from his Learned School graduation five years ago didn’t fit him. But that didn’t matter. He looked presentable enough. It was about the work, after all. The shirt was relatively unwrinkled, at least. He’d glanced in the mirror before he went out and thought he looked mostly fine. Respectable enough.

The sour glances of the hearing committee immediately smothered any meagre sense of self-worth he’d accrued from wearing his suit as soon as he walked in. The disapproving stares of all eight people in attendance told him in no uncertain terms that yes, he probably should have sent his clothes to be cleaned yesterday. The thought of the cloth-golem invoked a fierce sense of pride in him. No, to hell with them. To hell with what he wore. He was the best galdramaður to be found on Hrímland, and they knew it. No one could chant galdur like he did. This hearing would be over soon enough and he’d be able to continue his work in peace.

They didn’t invite him to sit, even though there was a desk, a chair and a small cabinet nearby, apparently intended for his use. He was surprised at this – it seemed a practical test of some sort was in order. Each of them noted something down. Sæmundur took his place in front of them, trying to look serious.

This appeal hearing is now in session with the plaintiff, Sæmundur Sigfússon, the plaintiff’s head of department, Professor Almía Dröfn Thorlacius, and the appeal committee in attendance.

The chairman of the hearing committee was Doctor Laufey Þórhallsdóttir. Sæmundur didn’t know her personally, but he was glad to see her there. Laufey had a reputation of fair-mindedness and avoiding most of the politicking and power plays of academia. Next to her sat a sour-faced older woman, her jacket decorated with the golden esoteric sigils of high mastery. Professor Almía Dröfn Thorlacius. Sæmundur had butted heads with both her and her department’s faculty dozens of time during his studies. She was the lecturer of galdur at Svartiskóli and was considered the supreme authority on the craft. And, he suspected, the prime reason for his expulsion. The other members were unfamiliar to him, except for Doctor Vésteinn Alrúnarson. Almost everyone in the country knew who Doctor Vésteinn was.

Sæmundur Sigfússon, you were expelled at the end of last semester from Svartiskóli’s Department of Galdur for the use of illegal thaumaturgical narcotics, disorderly conduct when attending classes, failing to meet the academic standards for your thesis after having received two semesters to rework your thesis statement, as the university’s code dictates, and last but not least, inciting canonical dissent. You filed a request for an appeal on the grounds that your expulsion was not in line with the university’s rules. Please elaborate on the matter and submit any evidence you might have to further your case.

Yes, ah, I do have some documents …

He opened up his suitcase and started rummaging around in it. Even though he was no longer a student himself, he still sold moss to a couple of the students working at the university press. They’d sneaked in a quick print run of a dozen copies for a few grams of moss. He handed each committee member a copy.

Here you have my expulsion defence and a new dissertation outline, rectifying the misconceptions – he paused to emphasise the word even further – of the outline I initially submitted.

He glanced at Professor Almía. She was leafing through the papers and slightly smirking to herself.

Good.

We will get to your dissertation should your expulsion be reviewed, Doctor Laufey said in a flat tone. What have you submitted in order to back up the appeal against your expulsion?

Yes, well. Sæmundur cleared his throat, straightened his posture a bit. In my report I’ve gathered a few points which I believe render the expulsion invalid. To begin with, the use of the highland moss was an infraction, I’ll admit, but not worthy of an expulsion in and of itself. It’s worthy of a stern reprimand and a log on my record, yes, but that’s as far as that should go. Every year students are apprehended with thaumaturgical materials charged with either seiðmagn or galdur of various degrees of illegality, and they are not expelled until repeat offences have come to light. I’ve noted which segments of the university’s code of conduct apply to this situation and provided excerpts in the appendix.

His voice felt raspy and dry. He was starting to sweat. The committee leafed through his papers, uninterested, barely paying attention to him. Except for Professor Almía. She stared him down with unwavering attention.

As regarding my supposed disorderly conduct, I argue that it has a direct correlation with the third reason for expulsion. My … The words caught in his throat like barbed wire. My misconceptions about galdur in theory and praxis are what led to most of the more heated confrontations in the classroom. I regret my previous behaviour. I was arrogant in my misplaced theories and overreacted to criticism. I sincerely apologise for my behaviour and believe that my new, refined dissertation will show that my mind has changed completely.

Professor Thorlacius had been leafing through Sæmundur’s dissertation outline while he was talking, and the smirk on her face had now reached insufferable levels of smugness.

Sæmundur, in all seriousness – your theories on galdur verged on being blatantly heretical. And now you submit before us a mind-numbingly simple thesis about the grammatical nuances of the Seven Opening Incantations. You expect us to take this seriously?

Doctor Laufey leaned over and glared at Almía.

Professor Thorlacius, I will thank you to speak to the student in a respectful manner, as he has seen fit to himself, and to allow his new dissertation the benefit of the doubt.

Almía hand-waved the reprimand, squinting at Sæmundur.

For crying out loud, Sæmundur thought to himself, she really wants to see me grovel.

He nodded, swallowed back a snide remark.

Well, professor, you are correct. It is a drastic change. But my theories were dangerous and …’ He struggled to finish the sentence. Unethical. I now fully realise that."

And what exactly, Doctor Vésteinn Alrúnarson suddenly interjected, were those theories?

He arched his eyebrows at Sæmundur, who found himself at a loss for words. Part of his inspiration had come from what Vésteinn had done for the modernisation of harnessing seiðmagn and using seiður. Vésteinn was over sixty years old, although he barely looked fifty, and most of his ground-breaking work had been accomplished when he was a university student himself, a few years younger than Sæmundur.

Professor Almía jumped in before Sæmundur could possibly risk defending himself.

"Sæmundur has theorised that by deconstructing a series of magister-level incantations, he could start practical –" she spat out the word to a chorus of gasps around the table – "and experimental research on the very nature of galdur itself. A canonical truth which requires no further scientific testing! By unravelling the very essence of the grammatical and acoustic elements, he thought he would gain some insight into the underlying forces that dictate galdur and achieve some imagined mastery over it."

I see. Vésteinn nodded slowly. So, in short, a disastrous invitation to transmundane possession.

Exactly, Almía added. "As if a mere postgraduate could conduct this series of experiments, which would elude the highest master of galdur in the modern world. And when faced with valid and – dare I say, sane – critisism of this mad endeavour, he quickly burst into a rage, spouting obscenities!’

Sæmundur winced. She was exaggerating, but she wasn’t that far off. He’d lost his temper several times in class, once resulting in his being dismissed from the lecture. It wasn’t his fault, he reminded himself. It’s hard to hold one’s temper in check when people refuse to listen to sound logic.

Sæmundur here believed that he could revolutionise the way we think about galdur. That he could reach some imaginary heart of its power and return unscathed, bearing bountiful and profound wisdom for the rest of us mere humans. Almía scoffed. I’ve spent hours arguing with you, Sæmundur. You are an insurgent and a heretic – you offer nothing but discourse where there is none to be had. Without the canon we lose control. Without control there is nothing but unchecked chaos and ruin. Do you seriously think you are the first young, arrogant galdramaður we’ve had who wants to revolutionise the craft? That other misguided galdramenn before you have not tried to achieve the same lofty results you are hoping for?’ She shook her head and stared him right in the eye. His gaze did not waver. He did not even blink. This is a charade. A farce. I know your kind. Talented, intelligent, yes – but reckless. Misguided. You will not know when to stop when the forces beyond tempt you with more power. And it will turn your bones blue and bring disastrous ruin upon us all."

The room turned cramped from the oppressive silence that followed. After a short while, which felt like an eternity of time, Sæmundur spoke.

Thank you for the critique, Professor Thorlacius. I do empathise with your feelings on the matter, but I reiterate my point – I am completely serious in my change of mind. My current dissertation is something I stand by one hundred per cent. I have abandoned my previous … Mad theory. He bit his tongue. Unorthodox theory of the origin and nature of galdur as a thaumaturgical force. I only wish to continue studying the craft and gain a deeper understanding and mastery of it, within the limits of the established and proven canon. It is as you say, Professor Thorlacius – it is what keeps us safe from demonic possession.

The board considered this for a while.

Thank you, Sæmundur, Doctor Laufey said. We will review your documents and call on you within the next hour. Please wait outside the meeting room.

*   *   *

Sæmundur waited outside for less than half an hour before he was summoned again. The board’s expressions were inscrutable – stone-faced and serious academics, the lot of them. Even Almía’s face was unreadable. In the middle of the room someone had placed a pile of irregularly shaped rocks. On the desk a thigh bone had been set out, along with a ball of rough wool yarn and an instruction sheet. Sæmundur already knew what was in store.

The board has decided to consider your request, Doctor Laufey said, but feels that additional verification is in order. As such we’ve set up a practical test for you.

She pointed towards the desk and shelf Sæmundur had noticed when initially entering the room, which now had a variety of components in place.

A simple enough task for any postgrad student. Please.

Sæmundur shuffled over to the desk and picked up the instruction sheet which had been placed there for him. The galdur’s description, instructions and invocations had been clearly written out by hand, accompanied with a few galdrastafir. Those magical symbols were believed to ground the galdur and provide it with more structure, helping the galdramaður to keep his focus and control the incantation. Sæmundur had quickly found them to be a crutch – and a bad one at that.

The galdur was intended to summon a tilberi, a mindless demon created for a single task. Traditionally it was used to steal milk from cows and sheep belonging to unsuspecting neighbours, writhing around like a bloated worm, the size of a newborn. It spat out the milk after having returned to its master, who fed the abomination on their own blood. It was a complex spell – for uneducated peasants – albeit with some practical applications. Sæmundur had used it as a basis when constructing the galdur for the cloth-golem, but it was a needlessly convoluted galdur. This made the incantation as a whole that much riskier.

It was a trite, convoluted mess of a ritual. The incantation was full of needless gibberish. The sigils, the hand movements, the burning of certain alchemical mixtures – all nonsense. He’d figured that out long before. It was an insult to the craft.

He took the end of the woollen thread and tied it around the femur. He fished out a knife from within his coat and ran it across his palm. He started reciting the incantation as he wound the thread around the femur while smearing blood into both.

The words flowed through him. Language. Sound. Vibrations of his own voice, moving through him. The bone started to change shape. The blood-matted wool grew together, starting to throb and ebb as though the bone was breathing. The end of the femur twisted and deformed into a mockery of a face.

He was doing it before he realised it. The traditional incantation was ugly, uncivilised, bafflingly idiotic in its coarseness. It was almost all superstition, there was no reason behind it. Reciting it like a mindless drone, without thought or intent, felt wrong. He knew better. He was better than this. And he would show them. He would prove to them how far he had come and how far he could go.

He wove the elements of the cloth-golem’s incantation into the galdur. The bone started to elongate and took on a pale shade of blue. Ridges rose in waves, a spine growing underneath the grey wool. The wool thickened and spun itself into a myriad of limbs, making the tilberi rise from the table on thin, spindly legs. At the end of the femur the head grew bloated and lengthened, a sharp crack divided into a mouth. Thin and razor-sharp teeth glistened in the newly formed maw. It had no eyes, but it looked around, tendrils feeling the air around it. He’d never made a tilberi such as this one. This was no single-tasked automaton. This was a complex summoning, capable of complex tasks. A ritual worthy of a master. It was the culmination of his work so far, the promise of what could be in store. He stretched out the last vowel and started to weave the galdur into a different incantation. With more sense and intelligence the tilberi could be a promising servant, if he only utilised the—

Sæmundur did not get any further. The words stopped in his throat. Professor Almía Dröfn Thorlacius was standing along with the rest of the committee, their clothes billowing in a wind unheard and unfelt. They were all speaking in unison, although he could not hear the words. He could not hear anything. Almía’s face was twisted in righteous anger. Sæmundur tried to combat their efforts, but he did not stand a chance against their unified efforts. His vision faded out and back in, rhythmically. They were unmaking his galdur. All of them, in unison. They had been prepared for this. Perhaps even wanted this. The tilberi shivered and fell as its weak limbs gave under its weight, its thin back cracked and shrunk in quick spasms. It threw back its misshapen head and roared with a cacophony of voices that sounded almost human. Its chest rose and fell with its breath. Then it burst. And the screaming stopped.

Sæmundur could hear again. He listened to the committee finish off the undoing galdur. When Professor Almía finished the incantation and started her outraged tirade he wished he was again trapped in that world of silence.

*   *   *

The committee exited the room, leaving Sæmundur by himself, bearing the weight of his failure on his shoulders. Only one of them lingered: Doctor Vésteinn. The man looked deep in thought.

It was … interesting, what you were attempting, Vésteinn said after a while.

Sæmundur leaned against the desk, forcing his hands to remain still. Trying to calm himself down.

Crude, unfinished, but – inspired. Vésteinn took out a handkerchief and polished his glasses, giving himself a moment to gather his thoughts. You have some potential. Don’t give up on your work yet, Sæmundur, he added quietly. It could lead you to some very interesting conclusions.

Doctor Vésteinn put on his glasses and headed out, his footsteps the only sound in the room. As the door clicked shut behind him Sæmundur slammed his fists on the desk, stifling a roar of frustration.

Þrjú

Karnivalið was one of the few places of entertainment in Reykjavík where humans and huldufólk drank together. Garún was familiar with the bouncers working the doors and slipped them a few krónur as they let her in. She’d had the cash ready in case someone unfamiliar was on shift, but decided to still slide them the money. The bouncers wouldn’t hesitate in deciding who to evict the next time she throat-punched some asshole, probably human, for groping her. Hopefully.

The bar was filled with smoke and loud, drunk people, located in an antiquated house that was in no way built to house a bar of this scope. Every night Karnivalið filled up with people who called themselves artists, writers, poets, kuklarar, revolutionaries, and so on. Everyone was busy being seen and seeing others.

Garún felt as if she vaguely knew everybody in there, as if the same night was on repeat weekend after weekend and everyone knew their designated role and lines beforehand. They identified as artists, but Garún felt they were more into saying they were instead of actually working at it. They talked ten times more than they worked; every sketch was an accomplishment, every idea pure brilliance. Some of them lived together in communes, usually as squatters. It was a source of pride to live on the margins of society, of not belonging. But for them it was a self-imposed exile, a choice. Many proudly identified as part of some grass-roots organisation, as radical revolutionaries, but when the call came to take real, dangerous action, there was always a sudden change of tone.

Her friends were gathered in the same corner as usual. Or, she hoped that they were her friends. Most of them, at least. She did not know what they said about her behind her back and while she tried not to care, she sometimes couldn’t help it.

Not all of them were like that, of course. But some. They were like most of the people in this bar, in Reykjavík. When it came to fighting for real change, to take action that truly meant something, they hesitated. They became afraid.

Garún glanced at the group and tried to spot if Diljá, Jón or even Hrólfur were there. Didn’t look like it. She’d been avoiding most of them all summer. She really could have used Jón’s presence there to get into the conversation. Garún thought it was largely due to