Viktor Ingolfsson - The Flatey Enigma

“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…”

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.”

“Yes?” said Kjartan.

“Yes and ahem…I think I know who the deceased is.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it just has to be Professor Gaston Lund from Copenhagen.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s a bit of a long story. The professor came here from Reykholar at the beginning of September of last year with some of the women who had been to the mainland to pick berries. He sent me Reverend Veigar in Reykholar’s regards and asked me if we could put him up for two nights, which, of course, was fine. He was obviously quite a distinguished man.”

The priest took the lid off a cake dish and handed it to Kjartan.

“Here, have a pancake with sugar.”

“He was Danish, you were saying?” Kjartan asked, taking a pancake.

“Oh yes. He was a professor from the University of Copenhagen. He’d spent the summer following the saga trails in the Flatey Book, i.e., the saga of Olaf Haraldsson and the saga of Olaf Tryggvason, in Norway, of course, and then he came out here to Iceland on a short trip, as I understand it. First he went east to Skalholt, where Brynjolfur served as bishop. Then he traveled north to Vididalstunga, where the manuscript was put together and written. After that he traveled west to Reykholar, where the manuscript was preserved for some time, and then over here to Flatey. He realized, of course, that no one could call themselves experts on the Flatey Book without first visiting the place the manuscript derived its name from. He also wanted to try to solve the old Aenigma Flateyensis, which I only realized later. From here he traveled directly to Reykjavik to catch a flight to Copenhagen. He was due to attend a very important manuscript symposium in Copenhagen, and then, of course, he had to start lecturing at the university straight after that.”