Viktor Ingolfsson - The Flatey Enigma

“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…”

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.