The Flatey Enigma

by Ingolfsson, Viktor Arnar

  “Doctor Jóhanna? Not Jóhanna Thorvald, surely?”

  “Yeah, exactly. Do you know everyone?”

  “It’s uncanny. My adversaries seem to be swelling around here,” said Bryngeir pensively, seemingly oblivious to Benny’s question. “No, we won’t look for any accommodation here. On we go, my dear friend Benny Ben.”

  Bryngeir walked away from the doctor’s house with long strides, while Benny traipsed behind him with the case.

  “Hey,” said Bryngeir. “Didn’t he stay with the priest, the late Gaston Lund?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shouldn’t I try to stay there then?”

  Benny looked at the case he was holding. “That could be a problem. They’re both teetotalers and they can’t stand boozing.”

  “Good point, pal. Let’s avoid any hassles. So what does that leave us with then, young man? Isn’t there anyone around here who’s partial to a drop of rum, is hospitable, has a free bed, and knows something about the old Flatey Book?”

  Benny broke into a smile. “Yeah. Sigurbjörn in Svalbardi.”

  Question seven: What made it possible to ride around the coastline? First letter. That winter there was so much ice in Iceland than the sea froze all around the coastline so that it was possible to ride between the promontories of every fjord. The answer is “ice,” and the first letter is i.

  CHAPTER 24

  A creaking sound penetrated the doctor’s house from the road as the handcarts were dragged past the building on their way down to the village. Jóhanna peeped out the kitchen window and watched them moving away and eventually disappearing down the slope behind the graveyard. The mail would therefore soon be reaching the telephone exchange, and she would be able to collect her newspapers. It was best to wait a bit, though. Stína, the postmistress, was pretty quick at sorting out the mail, but some of the islanders were bound to show up early to collect their mail and just have a chat. Jóhanna, on the other hand, was in no mood for socializing that afternoon. She heard more footsteps passing the house, and then silence descended on the neighborhood again. The redshank that nested on the edge of the road grew calmer and stopped twittering in alarm. Strange that it should have chosen to build itself a nest in such an inconvenient place when there was no shortage of undisturbed nesting ground nearby. And it had laid its eggs in the same place the spring before.

  Half an hour later, Jóhanna looked up from the book that she was leafing through when she heard a faint moan from the next room. She stood up and walked in to her father.

  “Are you in pain, Dad?” she asked.

  “Not too much, but it would be good to get the afternoon dose now,” her father answered. He lay under a white quilt in a high medical bed, looking shriveled and emaciated.

  She glanced at her watch and fetched the dose from the pharmacy, which was a little room off the infirmary. He flinched slightly as she injected the dose into the intravenous drip connected to his arm, but he swiftly felt the effect of the opiate and closed his eyes again.

  “Would you like me to read for you for a while?” she asked.

  “No, I’m going to rest a bit.”

  “The mail boat has arrived. I’ll go get the papers soon. We can read them when I come back. I won’t be long.”

  He braved a smile and said, “I somehow feel I’ve read enough. I think I’ll soon be meeting my namesake, the late Snorri Sturluson and the mysterious author of Njál’s saga.”

  He closed his eyes and dozed off. She adjusted his quilt and gently kissed him on the cheek.

  Question eight: Greatest skiing champion. First letter. They ended up on a big mountain. It was a steep, narrow slope, which ended abruptly in a precipice dropping to the sea. King Harald Sigurdsson said to Hemingur, “Entertain us now with your skiing.”

  Hemingur answered, “This isn’t a good place for skiing because there is little snow now and it’s stony and there is hard ice on the mountain.”

  The king answered that he would not really be putting his skills to the test if conditions were perfect. So Hemingur put on his skis and zigzagged down the slope. Everyone agreed that they had never seen anyone ski so well. He skied down the slope at such speed that it was a wonder he did not fall. The answer is “Hemingur,” and the first letter is h.

  CHAPTER 25

  Bryngeir and Benny continued on their walk down the road toward the village. Benny was curious and asked the visitor what had brought him to Flatey, but Bryngeir was slow to answer and seemed to be more interested in taking in the surroundings. “Benny Ben, my friend,” he finally replied, “the Reykjavik gutter press isn’t in the habit of sending its best hacks out on long trips just because a heap of bones has been found on a deserted island. But as soon as it transpired that they were the bones of that Danish manuscript speculator who’d spent the winter in the remoteness of the fjord and forgotten to ask someone to pick him up, people started to sniff a story. And when I heard that the deceased was Gaston Lund and that this whole mystery was somehow connected to my old pet love, the Flatey Book, I immediately asked to be sent out here to solve the crime.”

  “What did you think was so significant about the Flatey Book?” Benny asked.

  Bryngeir looked at his companion. “Have you read the book, young man?”

  “No, it’s too long. I started once, but I found it boring. And some of the words are written in a weird way.”

  Bryngeir shook his head. “Then I can’t explain the magic of the Flatey Book to you, boy. No more than I could describe a Rembrandt painting to a blind old bag or a great Wagner opera to a deaf loan shark or a sexy young whore from Morocco to a eunuch. But I don’t see why that jewel should be named after this pathetic dump of an island just because it was kept here under some lousy mattress for a few decades. It would have been more appropriate to call it the Húnvetninga Book, Tunga Book, or Vídidalur Book in honor of the men in Vídidalstunga who actually put the manuscript together and wrote it. They were geniuses, my boy, absolute geniuses. Let’s drink to them, Mister Benny Ben!” Bryngeir took a swig from the bottle of rum.

  Benny had no interest in the subject. “I don’t give a damn about what they call the book. Maybe I’ll just read it later sometime,” he said, staring at the bottle with thirsty eyes.

  They paused on the ridge overlooking the village, and Bryngeir scanned the houses below. He asked Benny about the crofts and the people who lived in them. Benny answered with some reluctance, since he found it a pretty unexciting topic for discussion.

  Bryngeir was particularly interested in the district administrative officer.

  “He’s an OK guy, good at hunting seal and puffin but lazy when it comes to making hay,” said Benny. “Högni, the teacher, normally cuts his share, and Grímur rakes. And then he reads the papers and argues about politics.”

  “Do you reckon he could have taken that dead man out to the island?” Bryngeir asked.

  “No, definitely not, even though he has the best boat. The engine is brand-new. He normally doesn’t take the boat out of the water in the autumn, unless the sailing route is completely frozen. But do you really think that someone from here would have deliberately left that Danish guy on the island?”

  “In my experience as a reporter, everyone is guilty until proven innocent, lad. I’ve got to dig up some story because the only expenses my editor gave me on this trip were a bus ticket and a stingy traveling allowance that ran out at the beginning of the journey for some reason.”

  Bryngeir took another swig from the bottle and finally offered Benny some as well.

  “Do you reckon I can get something decent to eat from any of these fine hosts?” he asked.

  Benny seemed to think that was quite likely. They walked on down the pass and across the village to the house in Svalbardi.

  The croft was a stately wooden house with a concrete basement, one story, and a loft. Close by were a storehouse, sheepcote, and barn. Sigurbjörn, the farmer, sat at a grindstone outside the barn, which he spun with a pedal, sh
arpening a big knife.

  “I see you know how to make some sharp weapons around here,” Bryngeir said to the farmer.

  “This is just the missus’s kitchen knife, but good to have close at hand if the farm needs protecting,” Sigurbjörn said ironically.

  “I come in peace,” Bryngeir grinned. “I hear that the locals here will never turn away a traveler who needs a roof for the night.”

  Sigurbjörn put down his knife and eyed the man a moment. “A bed can normally be found for a decent guest,” he said. Bryngeir took out his bottle of rum, took a sip, and then handed it to the farmer.

  “And maybe even some food then if the guest makes a contribution?” he asked. Sigurbjörn took the bottle, sniffed its contents, and then downed it in a single gulp.

  “Was that the sum total of the contribution?” he asked, handing the emptied bottle back to him. Bryngeir signaled Benny to approach with the case. “Here’s a little extra.” He took a full bottle out of the case and unscrewed the lid. Sigurbjörn stood up from the grindstone. “Let’s go inside and look into the larder, lads.”

  Question nine: Small heart. First letter. Thorgeir Hávarsson went to Hvassafell and there were some men standing outside. The shepherd had come home from his sheep and stood there in the field, leaning forward on his staff. He was slightly hunched and had a long neck. When Thorgeir saw this, he drew his axe and let it fall on the man’s neck. The axe cut very nicely, and the head came flying off, landing a short distance away. Thorgeir later said, “He never did anything wrong against me, but to be honest, he was so well positioned for the blow that I couldn’t resist the temptation.” When Thorgeir died some people say that they cut into his heart because they wanted to see what the heart of such an audacious man was like. People say that his heart was rather small; and some people believe that it is true that the heart of a courageous man is smaller than that of a coward. The answer is “Thorgeir,” and the first letter is t.

  CHAPTER 26

  Author Árni Sakarías was not listed in the phonebook, so the only way Dagbjartur could meet the man was by going to his house and seeing if he was home. He lived in a small block of apartments, and the main entrance was unlocked. Dagbjartur found his place on the second floor, but the doorbell was broken. As he was knocking on the writer’s door for the fourth time, a neighbor stuck his head out in the corridor and asked the policeman to cut out the racket. He said the author had gone up to the municipal pool for a swim, as he always did at this time of the day.

  Dagbjartur found Árni Sakarías in the shallow pool where he was lethargically floating on his back with an inflated black cushion under his head, in the middle of a bunch of kids who were playing in the water. The policeman knew the author by sight; Árni Sakarías was a recognizable figure around the town, tall and chubby, with a shock of hair and a bushy beard.

  It took Dagbjartur a few moments to attract the swimmer’s attention. Once he had, he introduced himself and asked, “Are you familiar with some old riddle that’s supposed to be connected to the Book of Flatey?”

  The shortsighted Árni Sakarías peered at him through the thick and wet lenses of his glasses.

  “The Flatey enigma, Aenigma Flateyensis. Yes, young man. I know the story quite well.”

  Dagbjartur wasn’t used to being addressed like this anymore, not now that he was well into his forties, even though he looked older, but Árni Sakarías presumably didn’t see too well, even with his glasses. But as it happened, Dagbjartur could still consider himself to be young when he compared himself to this author, who was well into his seventies.

  “Mind if I ask you a few questions on the subject?”

  The author took one stroke and allowed himself to float on his back again before answering. “Yes, you could certainly do that, but let me get out of the pool first, dry myself, and get dressed. I’m presuming the police will be happy to offer me a cup of coffee at the Austurbaer diner in gratitude for the information I’ll be providing? Might help to trigger off my memory, you see. Useful thing at my age, young man.”

  Dagbjartur nodded, and half an hour later there were sitting at a table in the café on Laugavegur. They were the only customers, and Árni Sakarías asked the waitress to bring him the usual. She knew what that was and brought him a pot of coffee, a bread roll, and a Danish pastry. Dagbjartur asked for the same and the bill, which he paid.

  As Árni Sakarías relished his pastry, he told Dagbjartur about the Flatey enigma.

  “In the late summer of 1871, a group of Icelandic students were on a ship to Copenhagen where they were going to study over the winter. This was on the steamboat Diana, which operated as a mail boat to Iceland during those years. An excellent seafaring vessel, I’ve read, with first-and second-class cabins. This was a few years after the Flatey Book had come out in print for the first time at the expense of the Norwegian state. Gudbrandur Vigfússon and Unger took care of the publishing, although the book was printed in Oslo, and the last volume was dated 1868. This edition became popular reading material among students in Copenhagen, and there was a copy in the possession of an Icelandic scholar who was a passenger on the mail boat. The students did a lot of things to entertain themselves on the Diana during the crossing, including quizzing each other about the stories contained in the Flatey Book. There’s a whole gallery of characters that crop up in these stories, of course, and the students varied in their knowledge of them. This was their favorite pastime, though, and they decided to hold a formal quiz the following evening. A young man from the West Fjords, a budding poet and writer who also happened to be on board, was enlisted to set the quiz because he was known for his sound knowledge of ancient literature. He pored over the Oslo edition and by the following evening had completed his task. He hadn’t slept a wink all night and kept himself awake with a bottle of schnapps. He produced a list of forty questions, the last of which depended on you getting the previous thirty-nine questions right. The solution was linked to an incomplete poem, and the right answer was supposed to complete the poem. One letter contained in the answers to each question formed the solution, and the last question revealed how the letters were supposed to be arranged to form it. The writer then proposed that if a solution could not be found to the riddle on this journey, the riddle had to be kept in the Flatey Book and could not be removed from it until the solution had been found. A peculiar picture was drawn on the first page, and the legend that developed around it was that it was a magical rune that protected the writer’s instructions. The people of the West Fjords have a reputation for knowing a thing or two about magic. The students brooded over the enigma that evening and tried to piece a solution together. The questions were considered rather odd, and many of them were open to a variety of possible answers that seemed to be based more on taste than logic. But although some of the boys managed to solve some of the questions and to produce thirty-nine letters, none could solve the key to the last question that was meant to complete the poem.”

  Once more Árni Sakarías became silent and for a moment stared out the window at the pedestrians on Laugavegur. Dagbjartur waited in a patient silence.

  Finally, he resumed his narrative: “A tragic incident then occurred on the boat that night: the writer who had devised the enigma vanished from the ship without anyone noticing. Naturally, there was a great deal of commotion on board, and all interest in the riddle faded. There was one student, however, who held onto the papers and wrote about how the riddle was created, and then thought of taking it home to Flatey, as the poet had said. But that got delayed for some reason. The student died in Copenhagen that winter, and the sheets somehow found their way to the Royal Library. There they were placed in an archive with other material about the Flatey Book and were lost for many decades. The story of the Flatey enigma was well known, though, and was recounted in Copenhagen’s student circles from one generation to the next. In the winter of 1935, a keen Icelandic scholar was looking through some material at the Royal Library when he stumbled on the sheets. Th
e Icelander was pushy and insisted that the author’s wishes be respected and the sheets sent to the Flatey library. It took several months to discuss this issue which, to be honest, was made in jest. Now it just so happened that they heard the Flatey library was celebrating its hundredth anniversary in 1936 and that the Munksgaard publishers were going to donate a facsimile copy of the Flatey Book, which had been published in 1930. The librarians at the Royal Library saw this as an opportunity to free themselves of the unwelcome document they considered the Flatey enigma to be, and were allowed to stick the sheets into the Munksgaard edition that was on its way to Flatey. The Icelandic scholar was then entrusted with the task of ensuring that this was all done. That smart aleck happened to be me, so I am considered to know more about this enigma than most. I can also be blamed or thanked for the fact that the sheets are now on the island. Someone at some stage wrote Aenigma Flateyensis on the sheet of riddles, which, of course, is Latin for the Flatey enigma. That was to harmonize it with the Latin title of the Munksgaard edition of the Flatey Book, which is Codex Flateyensis. The same person also had a stab at writing the last two lines of the poem, but no one has been able to verify it. So that’s the story of the enigma.”

  Árni Sakarías shoved the last piece of Danish pastry into his mouth and poured himself some more coffee.

  “So the enigma hasn’t been solved yet?” Dagbjartur asked.

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Wouldn’t it be possible to solve it without going to Flatey?”

  “No, impossible. The key is there and nowhere else. The questions can be found in many places, but the key, which is the rows of letters, is only to be found on the sheet that lies in the Munksgaard edition in the Flatey library. That’s where people have to go if they want to test their solutions.”