“1485 Malleus,” the date apparently underlined by Harald several times and the phrase itself double-underlined. Below that, “J. A. 1550??,” crossed out. Then came what seemed to be two interlaced ls followed by “Loricatus Lupus.” Beneath that was some German which Thóra read as: “Where? Where? The ancient cross??” Half of the sheet was a kind of flowchart with arrows linking points marked by dates and place-names. The arrangement of the points suggested this was a rough map. One point was marked “Innsbruck—1485,” above it “Kiel—1486,” and above that “Roskilde.” That name was marked with two dates: “1486—dead” and “1505—pardoned.” There were two more points above these three. The upper one was marked “Hólar—1535,” but this had been crossed out, as had its link with the other point, marked “Skálholt.” Two dates accompanied that label, “1505” and “1675.” A welter of arrows spread out from the latter date, all ending in question marks. To one side of them the question “The ancient cross??” was repeated. In a different pen, the word “Gastbuch” had been added, immediately followed by either a drawing of a small cross or the letter t. Thóra pondered the meaning of this. A visitors’ book? The visitors’ book of the cross? Beneath it was “chimney—stove—3rd symbol!” if her German was to be trusted. In the end Thóra gave up trying to decipher the chart and turned to reading the book itself.
Malleus Maleficarum turned out to be anything but pleasant. Its sheer gruesomeness held Thóra’s attention. She did not read it from cover to cover; the first and second chapters were too bizarre for her to take in fully. The book was structured with questions or claims about witchcraft at the beginning of each chapter or paragraph, which were then answered or explained using outrageously flawed theological sophistry.
The stories and descriptions of the witches’ deeds and rituals were incredible. Their powers seemed to know no bounds—they could conjure up storms at will, fly, transform men into cattle and other animals, cause impotence and make a man’s penis appear to detach from his body. A considerable amount of space was devoted to debating whether the dismemberment was an illusion or a physical detachment. After reading it, Thóra was still not sure what the authors had concluded. Witches had to go to extraordinary lengths to acquire such powers, including cooking and/or eating babies and having sex with the devil himself. Although she was no psychologist, Thóra guessed that the authors were sorely afflicted by the vows of chastity they had sworn as Black Friar monks. This was obvious from their unpleasantly bitter depictions of women. Disgust oozed from every account and it was almost more than Thóra could take. The explanations for women’s tainted, demonic character were outlandish, including the claim that the rib taken from Adam to create the first woman was curved inward—which naturally had fateful consequences. Women would have been perfect if God had used a thighbone. All this evidence was then used to convince the reader that women were easy prey for the devil, which was why most witches were female. The poor took their share of the blame as well—they were more likely than the rich to tell lies and lack character. Thóra could hardly imagine what it was like to be a poor woman in those days.
What intrigued her most was the third and final chapter she read, which dealt with legal aspects of the Inquisition and the prosecution of witches. As a lawyer she abhorred the idea of persuading the accused that a confession would spare their lives and then offering three different ways to break that promise without acknowledging having done so. The proper procedure for arresting witches was described and it was stressed that their feet should not be allowed to touch the ground on the way to prison—they were to be carried on stretchers. Touching the ground could possibly allow the devil to endow them with the power to deny the charges until death. They were to be searched on arrival at prison, because under their clothes witches often wore magic objects made from the limbs of babies. It was also recommended to shave them, since they could conceal such objects in their hair, but there were divided views as to whether the shaving should include pubic hair.
Ways to obstruct the defense were described, for example, presenting defendants with witnesses’ testimonies on two pieces of paper—one containing the testimonies and the other the names, making it impossible to know who was claiming what. This applied only when the testimonies were shown to the accused, which was not always allowed; a lengthy passage discussed when this was appropriate and when not. Anyone could give evidence at witches’ trials, whereas only the testimony of people of upright character was admitted elsewhere.
The book explained how to practice torture, the interval between sessions, and regular inspections to see whether the victim could weep on the rack in the presence of the judge—which could point to innocence. In fact the tears were not to be trusted, because women would often use their saliva to give the impression of weeping. Presumably, incessant torture would not leave those poor people with many tears to spare when the judge arrived and ordered them to cry; Thóra doubted they could be in their right minds. Crying in the absence of a judge—in cells, on the rack, and the like—did not count. The ultimate goal of all this was to extract false confessions to the acts described in the first two chapters, thereby demonstrating the demonic nature of women. Any normal reader could see that such confessions would have been meaningless, extracted by torture and reeled off to please the executioners and bring the victims’ own suffering to an end.
With an effort, Thóra sat up in bed. She glanced at the evil book on her bedside table. She tried to perk herself up by concentrating on the one positive conclusion she had drawn from reading it—humankind has definitely made some progress since 1500. She got up and took a shower. On her way she knocked on her son’s door to wake him up. Breakfast, as usual, was a makeshift arrangement and the only one of them with time to sit down and eat was Sóley. On their way out to the car Thóra reminded them that they would be going to stay with their father that evening. They never got excited about going but afterward they were always pleased to have spent time with him. If they could wiggle their way out of horseback riding.
After she dropped off the kids Thóra hurried to the office. She took along the handwritten sheet of paper from inside the book to show to Matthew. No one was there, since there was more than half an hour to go before it opened at nine. There was plenty of time to make coffee and check her mail—to keep up with what was going on outside this bizarre case that now occupied all her time.
Bríet had arrived for her class that began at a quarter past eight but Gunnar had stopped her on her way into the room. A few words from him, and it was out of the question to attend the lesson. Instead of going into the classroom, she rushed out for a smoke on the steps. She had to calm her nerves—and also phone the others to tell them the news. She took a long, deep drag on her slim menthol cigarette—a brand Marta Mist found so weak she said Bríet could claim to be a nonsmoker with a perfectly clear conscience. Marta Mist smoked Marlboros, and while Bríet was finding her number she hoped her friend had plenty of cigarettes—they would need them.
“Hello,” said Bríet, flustered, when Marta answered. “It’s Bríet.”
“Fucking early to call.” Marta Mist’s voice was hoarse and Bríet had clearly woken her up.
“You’ve got to get down to the university—Gunnar’s gone nuts and says he’ll make sure we’re all expelled if we don’t do what he says.”
“That’s bull.” Marta Mist sounded properly awake now.
“We’ve got to phone the others and tell them to come here. I’m not going to get expelled. My dad will go ballistic and I won’t get my student loan.”
Marta Mist interrupted her. “Chill for a minute. How does Gunnar plan to get us expelled? I don’t know about you, but my grades are fine.”
“He says he’s going to complain to the department board about drug-taking—he says he’s got things up his sleeve. So he could get Brjánn and me expelled and then make sure the same happened to you and Andri and Dóri. We have to do what he says. I’m not risking it, anyway.” Bríet was agita
ted. What was wrong with Marta Mist—couldn’t she ever do what she was told?
“What does he want us to do?” Bríet’s agitation had infected Marta Mist.
“He wants us to talk to that lawyer, Thóra. She wants to meet us and Gunnar insists that we cooperate. Actually he said he wasn’t stupid enough to believe we always told the truth, but he doesn’t care—just wants us to talk to her.” She took a drag and exhaled fast. She heard someone at Marta Mist’s end, asking what was going on.
“Okay, okay,” said Marta Mist. “What about the others—have you phoned them?”
“No, you’ve got to help me. I want to get it over—let’s all meet at ten and finish it. I have classes today.”
“I’ll talk to Dóri. You call Andri and Brjánn. Let’s meet at the bookshop.” Marta Mist hung up without another word.
Bríet scowled at her mobile. Of course it was Dóri who was with Marta. So she wasn’t planning to phone anyone—just leave all the dirty work to Bríet as usual. If she had just offered to call Andri or Brjánn it would have been fair. Bríet stubbed out her cigarette against the steps. She walked toward the bookshop, searching for Brjánn’s number in her address book.
From his office window, Gunnar watched Bríet walk away. Fine, he thought—I’ve got them panicking. When he had met the girl earlier it had been a huge effort to keep on talking. He had nothing on them—except the certainty that they were deeply involved in drugs and God knows what else. His offer to arrange a meeting between them and the lawyer was a shot in the dark—until then they had never done a thing he asked and he did not really expect them to begin now. So he had resorted to threats—the sort of language they might understand—and he seemed to have guessed correctly.
That crowd had always annoyed him. Harald was clearly the worst, but the others were really little better. The only difference was that they had not deformed their outward appearances to match what was inside. In his desperation to rid the university of the abomination they called a history society, he had checked their files and discovered to his astonishment that some of them were outstanding students.
Lowering the blinds again, he picked up the telephone. On the table in front of him was the lawyer’s card—he had to stay in her good graces and the German’s, too, if he wanted to locate the manuscript that Harald had stolen. STOLEN. It was unbearable to pretend he had liked that repulsive young man and to talk about him respectfully. He was a common thief and a disgrace to himself and everyone who knew him. Gunnar put the telephone down. He had to calm himself—he couldn’t phone the lawyer in this mood. Take a deep breath and think about something completely different. The Erasmus program grant, for example. The application had gone in, and there was a good chance it would be approved. Gunnar managed to pull himself together. He picked up the telephone and dialed the number on the card.
“Thóra, hello. Gunnar here,” he said in the politest voice he could manage. “It’s about Harald’s friends—you wanted to meet them?”
CHAPTER 21
Thóra had not seen so much bad posture in one place since her son celebrated his sixteenth birthday. Yet the young people in front of her and Matthew were almost ten years older. They were all sitting as if they had dropped into the sofa out of the sky—apart from the tall red-haired girl—and staring at their toes. After Gunnar called that morning, Thóra had contacted Bríet and arranged for the group to meet her and Matthew. Bríet did not sound very pleased but reluctantly agreed to round them up and meet at eleven o’clock—at a place where they could smoke. Strapped for choices, Thóra had suggested Harald’s apartment. Her proposal was greeted as grumpily as the idea of meeting in the first place, but judging from the curt exchange that preceded it, Thóra realized that she could have invited them to Paris and earned the same response. Matthew was delighted with the venue, which he thought might throw them off balance and make them more likely to tell the truth.
While they were waiting for the students, Thóra showed Matthew the handwritten sheet of paper that had been inside The Witches’ Hammer. They pored over it for some time without reaching a solid conclusion except that “Innsbruck—1485” was clearly connected with Kramer’s arrival there and, presumably, with the old letters Harald was so enchanted with. Thóra was fairly certain that “J.A.” stood for Bishop Jón Arason, because 1550 was the year of his execution. On the other hand, she could not figure out why Harald had crossed it out. As far as they could see, this was how Harald imagined the precious object’s travels. Matthew had never heard of the visitors’ book of the cross—there was no visitors’ book in the apartment, nor did he recall the police taking it away during their search. The doorbell disturbed any further speculation.
The students arranged themselves in Harald’s living room, sitting close together on the two sofas with Thóra and Matthew facing them on chairs. Thóra had found a few ashtrays and the air was already thick with smoke.
“What do you want from us anyway?” asked the red-haired girl, Marta Mist. Her friends turned to look at her, relieved that a leader had emerged to divert attention from them. They all smoked nonstop.
“We just wanted to talk to you about Harald,” said Thóra. “As you know, we’ve repeatedly tried to meet you but have always received a less than warm response.”
Marta Mist was unruffled. “We’ve been busy at school and we’ve got better things to do than talk to people we don’t know from Adam. Actually, we’re under no obligation to talk to you. We’ve all made statements to the police.”
“Yes, quite right,” Thóra said, trying to conceal how much the girl got on her nerves, as in fact they all did. “We’re very grateful to you for taking the time to come and we promise we won’t keep you for long. As you know, we’re looking into Harald’s murder on behalf of his family in Germany and we understand you were his closest circle of friends.”
“Well, I don’t know; we went around with him quite a bit but we have no idea what he did on his own, naturally,” said Marta Mist, and Bríet nodded solemnly in agreement. The others just stared into their laps.
“You talk like you’re one person, not five,” said Matthew. “We’ve spoken to Hugi Thórisson, whom you all know, of course, and according to him it was you, Halldór, who went around with Harald the most—helped him with translations and other things.” He addressed his words to Dóri, who sat squashed up against Marta Mist. “Am I correct?”
Dóri looked up. “Er, yeah, we hung around together quite a bit. Harald had trouble with Icelandic documents and stuff that I helped him with. We were good mates.” He shrugged to emphasize that their friendship had been fairly ordinary.
“You’re a good mate of Hugi’s too, aren’t you?” Thóra asked.
“Yes. We’re childhood friends,” Dóri said, and looked down. With a deft jerk of his head he let his hair fall down to avoid further eye contact.
“It must matter to you that we have a clear picture of what happened. One of your friends was murdered and another friend is suspected of killing him. I’d expect you to be eager to help us. Right?” Matthew smiled at Dóri but it failed to penetrate his hair and reach his eyes. He turned to the others. “And the rest of you—the same applies to you, of course?”
They all indicated their agreement by muttering “yes” down into their chests or nodding.
“Good.” Matthew slapped his thigh. “So we’re all set. Apart from where to start.” He looked over at Thóra. “Thóra, would you like to do the honors?”
Thóra smiled at the students. “How about you tell us where you met Harald and explain the nature of this magic society of yours? We find it all very peculiar.”
Everyone looked at Marta Mist, hoping that she would take the task on. But she passed the question on to Dóri with a nudge of her elbow, which looked unnecessarily forceful to Thóra. Dóri grimaced, but answered. “How we met? I first met Harald with Hugi last year. They’d met at a bar in town. I thought he was a laugh and we started hanging around together, like you do. We went out
to restaurants and bars and concerts and stuff. Then Harald asked if we were interested in joining a society he was thinking about setting up and we just said yes. That’s how we met the others.”
Marta Mist took over. “I joined the society through Bríet. She’d met Harald in class and wanted me to see what they were up to.” Bríet nodded fervently in agreement.
“What about you?” Thóra directed her words at Andri and Brjánn who sat side by side, smoking.
“Us?” Andri coughed, choking on the smoke he had forgotten to exhale.
“Yes,” Thóra replied. “You two.” She pointed at them to dispel all doubt.
Brjánn went first. “I’m doing history and I heard about the society the same way as Bríet—I’d chatted to Harald a bit before and he invited me to join. I took Andri along for a laugh.” Andri smiled sheepishly.
“And what was the point of this society, if I may ask? We understood from Hugi that it mainly involved orgies—disguised as meetings of people who were interested in sorcery in the historical sense.”
The three boys grinned while Marta Mist turned down the corners of her mouth and said in tones of outraged innocence: “Orgies? There were no orgies. We were learning about sorcery and witchcraft culture in ancient times. The old stories really aren’t so dull after all, they’re really interesting. The fact that we had a bit of fun after the meetings is irrelevant, and Hugi’s got the wrong end of the stick as usual. He never had a clue what that society was about.” She leaned back and folded her arms. Her frown stayed put. She glared at Matthew and Thóra. “Of course you have no idea what it was about either—I bet you think we were decapitating chickens and sticking pins in homemade dolls.”
Last Rituals Page 19