The Flatey Enigma

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  “Dreams?”

  “Yes, I’m considered to be a bit of a visionary dreamer, my friend. Not that I’m particularly apt at deciphering what they mean, but there are some old women around here who can decipher them if the descriptions are clear enough.”

  Thormodur Krakur broke into a broad smile that exposed his crooked teeth.

  “Sometimes the signs are so obscure that no one recognizes the context until afterwards,” he added.

  “What were the dreams about?” Kjartan asked.

  Thormodur Krakur blew his nose into his red snuff handkerchief and walked into the shed. “They were bad dreams, my friend, bad dreams. Many of them would have been better off left undreamt,” he said, beckoning Kjartan to follow him through the door. Kjartan had to stoop to get through the entrance, but as soon as he smelled the stench inside, he almost felt like turning around again. A variety of seasoned foods were stored there, some of it hanging from the turf ceiling or immersed in barrels in salt or sour whey. A number of hens dwelt at the other end of the shed, which was partitioned off with wire netting.

  Thormodur Krakur sat on a box, reached out for a large wooden frame, and placed it on his knees. It was a harp-like contraption that was stringed lengthwise through perforations in the wood, with one-centimeter gaps between each string. There were two wooden barrels on either side of him.

  “I dreamt I was making hay out in Langey and spending the night in a tent,” said the deacon. “It was incredibly cold and shivery on the island, and I couldn’t find any way to warm up, no matter how hard I swung the scythe.”

  Thormodur Krakur grabbed a pile of rough, uncleaned eiderdown from one of the barrels and placed it on the frame. Then he started shaking the down and stroking the strings, loosening the dirt, which fell to the floor.

  “Then I saw a raven,” he continued, “that came flying and perched right over my tent, which was just a few yards away. I was going to shoo him away, but then I couldn’t walk because my legs were as heavy as lead. Then another raven appeared and sat beside the other one, and they were both sitting on the top of the tent when I woke up. I dreamed that every night for the whole of Eastertide. I call that the Langey dream.”

  Thormodur Krakur grew quiet, threw the roughly cleaned down into the empty barrel, and picked up a new bundle to clean.

  “How was this dream interpreted?” Kjartan asked.

  “Everyone could solve that one. Those are deaths, my friends, two deaths, the same number as the ravens. It couldn’t be more obvious. A raven on a tent always means death, whether you see them when you’re awake or in your sleep.”

  “Is someone else going to die then?” Kjartan asked.

  “Not necessarily; a very old lady from the inner isles died on Ascension Thursday. Maybe it was her. Maybe not. We’ll soon find out.”

  Thormodur Krakur lifted his index finger by way of emphasis.

  “Have many of your dreams come true?” Kjartan asked.

  “Yes, my friend. Some of them have even been recorded in annals. The most famous were the Sigridur dream, the sail dream, and the ram’s testicles dream. Then there are others that have remained unsolved, even though many have tried. Those are the dreams I had about Stagley, and the calves and Ash Wednesday dreams, for example. Do you want to have a crack at them?”

  Kjartan shrugged.

  “The calves dream goes like this. I sense I’m up by the church, and then I see three eagles flying over Mulanes. They form a circle over the graveyard, and one of them perches on a tombstone while the others fly back to the mainland the way they came. The eagle that is perching flaps its wings wildly, and I see that it is covered in blood and the blood is splattering off the feathers of his wings all around him. Finally, he rests his wings and looks toward the harbor. Then I see that there is a big sailing ship with two masts moored there, but a hoard of bullocks are being led up the road and people are walking behind them wearing crowns and majestic robes. That’s when I wake up. What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know. I’m no good at solving riddles,” Kjartan answered.

  “Dreams are no riddles. You just have to be able to read the signs right. The calf dream is about some major event, that’s for sure. Three eagles always precede an event, but the blood is a bad omen.”

  Kjartan smiled. “Are there other signs you can interpret?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, many: a swan stands for wealth, a bishop is a bad omen, a flower stands for happiness in the summer but sorrow in the winter, a king mean success and prestige. But it can all be turned on its head.”

  “Do people around here believe in all this stuff?” Kjartan asked.

  “Of course-anyone who takes the trouble to think about it, that is. Do you think the Creator just created dreams for the fun of it? No, sir. These are messages that evolved minds gradually learn to decipher. Everything serves its purpose. Even the hidden people and elves in the hills are there to fulfill a function.”

  “The elves?” Kjartan asked skeptically.

  “Yes. Have you never seen an elf?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll see an elf someday, my friend. But there’s no certainty that you’ll be able to recognize him when you see him.”

  “How can I recognize one?”

  “Keep a pure heart and don’t doubt unnecessarily. People doubt too much. One should believe the things that are in the Icelandic sagas and the Bible and the things that old people say. Then our dreams and wishes can come true.”

  Thormodur Krakur had ended his speech and continued sieving the down. He seemed to have had enough of the conversation, so Kjartan said good-bye and left the shed. The fresh air was welcome.

  A young man was painting a window mullion on the next house green. He had a long, bright forehead that stretched down to his eyes, and Kjartan wondered whether this was an elf. Probably not, he thought, as the young man put down his paintbrush and lit a cigarette. Then he remembered seeing this same guy nail a sealskin to the gable of the outhouse. The house was clad in white painted corrugated iron and the roof was green. Over the door was a sign that read Radagerdi and below it the year of its construction-1927.

  “Are you a cop?” the boy called out to Kjartan.

  “No, I’m no policeman,” Kjartan answered, drawing closer.

  “Oh no? I was told you were a cop from Patreksfjordur.”

  “No, I’m just an assistant to the district magistrate.”

  “Yeah, isn’t that some kind of cop?”

  “Not really.”

  “Aren’t you investigating the murder of that guy on the island?”

  “Well, no, I’m trying to find out who he is. I doubt whether he was murdered.”

  “I thought you were a real cop,” said the boy, disappointed. He tried to turn on a red transistor that stood on a windowsill inside an open window.

  “Have you ever heard Elvis Presley?” he asked.

  “No, I can’t say that I have,” Kjartan answered.

  “Actually, they never play him on Icelandic radio. Sometimes I can hear him on foreign channels at night when the airways are clear. They play a lot of Elvis. I’ve put up an aerial.” The boy pointed at some copper wire that dangled between the gable of the house and the shed. It was fastened to some glass insulation, but a wire traveled from the aerial in through the open window.

  “There was also an article about Elvis in the Falcon magazine,” the boy added.

  He turned to the transistor again, which emitted no sound despite his attempts to shake it vigorously.

  “Battery’s finished,” he explained. “I might buy myself a record player this autumn and some records.”

  “Do you live here?” Kjartan asked.

  “Yeah, but I’m thinking of moving to Reykjavik…or to Stykkisholmur.”

  “Right.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to learn how to use a tractor and maybe get a driving license.”

  “Is there a tractor on the island?”

  “No, not yet, but
the district officer might be buying one for all of us to share. Then they’ll need someone who can drive it.”

  It dawned on Kjartan to try out some investigative work, so he asked, “Do you remember seeing a tourist here in a green parka and leather hiking shoes anytime over the past months?”

  “Is that the dead man?” the boy asked.

  “Yes. He was an elderly man with gray hair. Probably traveling alone.”

  The boy scratched his head and seemed deep in thought. “He didn’t come here in the winter or spring. I would have seen him then if he had. But maybe last summer. There were quite a few tourists around that time. Some of them foreign.”

  “Foreign?”

  “Yeah, they like to gawk at the puffins all day long. Sometimes I sell them sea urchins and skulls.”

  “Skulls?”

  “Yeah, seal skulls. My gran sometimes sears seal pups’ heads and then boils them to make broth. So I just let them rot and dry them for a few weeks.”

  “Do they sell well?”

  “No, not unless the men are drunk; then they sometimes buy something.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you from your work,” Kjartan said. “What’s your name anyway?”

  “Benjamin Gudjonsson. They call me Benny, but I prefer Ben, like Ben Hur.”

  “OK…Ben.”

  Kjartan turned and walked back. When he reached the village, he saw Grimur’s boat pulling in at the pier.

  “…Jon, the farmer in Vididalstunga, got two priests to work as scribes on the royal book, Jon Thordarson and Magnus Thorhallsson. Nothing is known of these men apart from their names, but it can be assumed that they were educated and experienced scribes. The entire execution of the manuscript shows great skill. The calligraphy is firm and elegant. Capital letters are generally colored and decorated with pictures of men, animals, roses, or flourishes. It seems to have been Magnus who drew these adornments or illuminations, as we call them. This involved a great deal of work, since it can be estimated that each page represented a day’s work. Perhaps it was thanks to these decorations that the Flatey Book was so well preserved. It was from the beginning regarded as a treasure because of its appearance and craftsmanship. Readers clearly browsed through the pages of the manuscript with caution and respect. There was no danger that the book would be used to make shoe soles or articles of clothing, which was sometimes the fate suffered by other manuscripts that had been executed with less skill when they were written. Thus it was the craftsman’s work that preserved the author’s narrative…”

  CHAPTER 10

  Kjartan followed Grimur and Hogni’s approach, and then he walked down to the cove and along the embankment to them as they pulled into a small landing and dragged the boat onto a sandy beach where they tied it to an old mooring stone.

  The two men were carrying a seal pup between them off the boat and up the ridge of the shore when Kjartan walked over to them. Then they carried two more pups. They were heavy carcasses, and the men had trouble standing on the wet, slippery seaweed that covered the rocks.

  “They sure weigh a ton,” said Hogni as they dumped the last one on the gravel.

  “They’re still smaller than I expected,” said Kjartan.

  “These pups are just a few weeks old,” Grimur answered.

  “But they’re in good shape, fat and beautiful.”

  Grimur snorted some snuff and lifted one of the pups onto a wooden rack.

  “The magistrate wants me to find out if anyone knows who the dead man was,” said Kjartan. “He expects you to help me.”

  “We can pay a few visits after work today,” said Grimur, sharpening a small knife. “But there’s no point in us starting until the locals have read our notice.”

  He brandished his knife and pierced the skin around the pup’s head, exposing the fiery red ruff of its collar beneath the black fur.

  “I think there’ll be some news this evening,” Grimur said before he cut around the front flippers and then over the hind flippers and scut. These cuts didn’t bleed, but exposed the white fat and blood-red meat.

  “What makes you think that?” Kjartan asked.

  “Two porpoises followed us for most of the way from the seal skerries. It’s often turned out to be an omen when whales follow in our wake like that.”

  Grimur drew the knife and in one movement sliced the length of the abdomen from the throat down to the tail. He then started to skin the seal so that it included a thick layer of fat.

  “Do you believe in that stuff?” Kjartan asked.

  Grimur looked up from his work and grinned. “There are other signs, too,” he said, pointing his bloody knife at the village. “Do you see the vicarage on the other side of the cove? I saw little Svenni running out of there and sprinting up the road. Then he vanished for a while, but I can see him dashing down the embankment now as if the devil were on his heels.” Grimur pointed at a little boy who came running toward them. “Reverend Hannes has sent him down with a message for me and told him to hurry.”

  Grimur carried on flaying the seal and didn’t look up when the boy stood beside them. “Officer Grimur, Officer Grimur,” he exclaimed breathlessly and wheezily. “Reverend Hannes really needs to talk to you.”

  “Did he give you some candy to come and fetch me?” Grimur asked.

  “Yeah.” The boy dug his hand into a pocket to produce the candy and stuck some into his mouth.

  “How many pieces?”

  “Three big ones.”

  “Oh, it must be important then. OK, I’ll pop up to him as soon as I’ve finished skinning the seals.”

  “Shouldn’t we go straightaway?” Kjartan asked. Grimur looked at Kjartan and pondered a moment.

  “You go ahead,” he then said. “I’ll be up after you. I imagine he needs to talk to you just as much as he does to me. And you can deliver something to him from me.”

  “…It is not known how ink was made in Iceland in the Middle Ages. Early sources describe ink made out of bearberry, soil pigments, and willow. It may well be that these methods were known and used in the making of manuscripts. It is also possible that the ink may have been imported or made out of foreign raw materials that were not available in Iceland. Swan feathers were probably used as quills. They were considered better if they were from the left wing because the feathers curve out to the right, away from the hand holding the pen. Before the writing started, the columns and lines were marked on the vellum with a sharp edge…”

  CHAPTER 11

  Reverend Hannes stood by the living room window of the vicarage observing the movement of people beyond the cove. The boy he had sent down with the message had vanished from sight some time ago, and there was no sign of his request having been met.

  “Maybe I should just go down and talk to Grimur myself,” the priest said uneasily to his wife, Frida, who sat in a comfortable armchair behind him, embroidering a white tablecloth. She looked up from her sewing, peering over her glasses, and sternly shook her head.

  Reverend Hannes shuffled on his feet. “I think the authorities should know about this as soon as possible,” he said anxiously.

  “No, you’re not going anywhere,” the priest’s wife snapped sullenly. “There’s no way you’re going down to Grimur’s filthy landing,” she added.

  “It’s not so bad on the shore when it’s not raining. I can go in my old galoshes,” said the priest.

  “Don’t you remember when you slipped on that whale oil and ruined your pants?”

  Reverend Hannes remembered and gave up. He could also now see that the man from the district magistrate’s office was heading up the embankment beyond the cove with a heavy bucket in his hand and little Svenni following him at a short distance behind.

  “Here comes that fellow from the magistrate’s office. I just hope he’s coming here, but I can’t see the district officer anywhere. He must have been busy.”

  Frida shook her head again and muttered, “I think you’re better off telling the magistrate’s man about this
. He’s of a higher rank. Besides, you can’t let Grimur into this house in his filthy working clothes. It’s indecent for an official like the district administrative officer to be walking around looking like that.”

  Reverend Hannes decided not to comment. The woman was born and bred in Reykjavik and seemed to refuse to come to terms with the fact that on these islands men had to be jacks of all trades, and that they didn’t wash until the end of the day when they’d produced enough food for their families. Personally, he happened to like Grimur and Hogni, the teacher, and he tried to meet up with them as often as possible. There was always the hope of a good story or some fun conversation. Of course, the men sometimes gave off a bit of a smell after a day’s work, but that was just the way things were out on the islands. Reverend Hannes had been brought up in the Dalir district but had never had the guts to tell his wife that he actually quite liked that cowshed smell.

  “Yes, you’re probably right,” he finally said. “The magistrate’s representative seems to be a responsible and well-educated man. He’ll probably know what the best thing to do is. This is a deadly serious matter.”

  The priest stepped outside and waited for Kjartan to arrive under the gable of his house.

  “I hope you’re here to see me,” said Reverend Hannes.

  “Yes, the district officer sent me up and asked me to bring some fresh bits of seal to your wife while I was at it,” said Kjartan, handing him an old white iron bucket full of raw meat.

  “Bless you for that, and God be praised for the food that He and the sea provide to man,” said Reverend Hannes, taking the bucket. He then invited Kjartan to step into the small room he reserved for receiving parishioners, but he deposited the bucket in a little pantry off the hall.

  “I’ve just had quite a shock, yes, quite a shock.” Reverend Hannes poured coffee out of a thermos into two ready cups on the desk.

  “Oh?” said Kjartan, picking up one of the cups.

  “Yes, I walked down to the co-op earlier and saw the notice from your office when I was checking to make sure my mass notice was in its right place.”