Viktor Ingolfsson - The Flatey Enigma

“We’ve recovered the body,” Kjartan answered, “but we still haven’t identified it yet. It seems likely that he was alive when he reached the island but then died of fatigue. He seems to have been lying there for several months after he died.”

There was a brief silence, after which the magistrate said, “That’s odd. Doesn’t anyone know who he is?”

“No. The body is unrecognizable.”

There was another brief silence while the magistrate evaluated the situation.

“Right then, so you’ll have to send the body to Reykjavik,” he then said.

“Yes. The casket will be traveling on the mail boat tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“Should I come home today?”

“Today? No, hang on there for a bit and talk to some of the islanders. There must be some way of finding out who took that man to the island.”

Kjartan wasn’t happy. “I’m not used to this kind of investigative work,” he said.

“No, but you’ll have to do for now. I’m not going to call in the police from Reykjavik if we can solve this in the district ourselves. District Officer Grimur will help you with your inquiries.”

“Right then, but what about the notarizations I was supposed to work on?”

“They can wait another two or three days. Don’t you worry about them; just concentrate on this. Be in touch tomorrow. Good-bye and best of luck.”

The phone call ended, and Stina let Stykkisholmur know that was enough for now.

Kjartan handed her a copy of the notice and asked her to read it out over the radio to the other islands.

“Skaleyjar, Svefneyjar, Latur,” she called into the mouthpiece. “Flatey radio calling.”

She repeated this three times until the islands answered, each in turn. She had started to read out the notice as they were walking outside.

“Grimur will be back at lunchtime and you can talk to him about how to proceed,” Ingibjorg said when they were standing outside the telephone exchange. Then she added: “Maybe you should take a walk while you’re waiting for Grimur. Take a look around the island. Visitors normally like to go up to Lundaberg to look at the birds.” She gave him directions.

Kjartan nodded approvingly, and Ingibjorg said good-bye and walked toward her house at an even slower pace than before. Kjartan started his tour by taking a look around the village. The doors of the co-op were open, but there were no customers to be seen inside. A handcart loaded with several bags of cement was parked in front of the warehouse. The muffled murmur of the generator resounded from the basement, and the sound of a radio voice could be heard coming from the house next door. These sounds blended with the screeches of the birds on the rocks of Hafnarey.

An elderly woman in a canvas apron was spreading eiderdown on a concrete step above the pier, and an old man was painting a small boat that lay upturned on the edge of the cove. A face was watching him through the priest’s house’s window.

Kjartan sauntered off, following a narrow gravel path that meandered between the houses. There was a strong smell of chicken shit in the air that fused with the scent of the vegetation that had started to flourish nicely in the sunshine, sheltered by the walls of the houses. Garden dock, angelica, and long grass thrived on the fertilizer the hens dropped behind them wherever they went.

Thormodur Krakur stood in front of an open shed dressed in his work clothes, and some eiderdown had been left out to dry on a white piece of sailcloth at his feet. When he saw Kjartan, he greeted him heartily: “Good morning, Assistant Magistrate. Where are you off to today?”

Kjartan considered telling him not to call him Assistant Magistrate but then decided not to bother.

“I’m just taking a look around,” he answered.

“Good idea,” said Thormodur Krakur. “Can I offer you some fermented shark?”

“No thanks.”

“How about some freshly laid arctic tern eggs then?”

“No thank you, I’m not hungry.”

“As you wish then. Any news about that Ketilsey fellow?”

“No, nothing new.”

“No, huh? Ah well. This doesn’t bode well. I’ve had some bad dreams lately.”

“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?”