Viktor Ingolfsson - The Flatey Enigma

Bryngeir refilled the tap of the bottle.

“Would you be partial to a drop of rum, young man?” he asked Benny.

Benny looked up at the pier where the islanders could be seen making their way to the interior. There was no one left but Valdi, who was loosening the moorings of the mail boat. It wouldn’t do his reputation among the islanders any good to be seen boozing in the middle of the day, but he couldn’t say no to some slight refreshment. Besides, it was Saturday, after all.

“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip and coughing.

Bryngeir fished a half-smoked cigar out of his coat pocket and managed to light it after several attempts. “Is there any news about that dead man, the one they found here out on one of the islands?” he asked.

“He was Danish. They’ll be taking him south when the boat sails back this evening,” Benny answered, lighting himself a cigarette to keep Bryngeir company.

Bryngeir sipped on his bottle of rum and then said, “Yeah, I heard he was a Danish professor, the one and only Gaston Lund. Who was it that left him out there on the skerry?”

“No one knows. The guy from Patreksfjordur is investigating that.”

“The guy from Patreksfjordur?”

“Yeah, he works for the district magistrate. His name is Kjartan.”

“Kjartan? A lawyer?”

“Yeah. He’s just started working for the magistrate.”

Bryngeir puffed musingly on his cigar. “Tell me this, does this spy have a big scar on his forehead? From his left eyebrow up to his hairline?” Bryngeir pressed a finger against his forehead by way of illustration and drew an invisible line.

“Yeah, he has a scar like that.”

“Well what do you know? I think I heard that in Reykjavik. That Kjartan was working in Patreksfjordur.” Bryngeir took off his cap, shook it, and scratched his head before putting it back on again.

“Do you know him?” Benny asked, intrigued.

“Nah, not that much, but more than enough.”

“How do you mean?”

Bryngeir declined to answer. “Where can a man find accommodation around here?” he asked.

“Accommodation?” said Benny. “Just need to find someone with a free bed.”

Bryngeir broke into a grin. “Yes, of course. Guesthouses shouldn’t even exist in a Christian country, some godly man who liked to travel cheap once said. OK, let’s start walking and looking at the options. You can carry my case for me while I recover from the crossing.” He took another sip from the bottle and shoved it into his trench coat pocket.

Valdi of Ystakot watched them walking up the pier and jotted something into his notebook. Little Nonni sat on the bollard and stared at the mail boat, which had by now reached the west of the island and was heading north.

Benny stared furtively at the newcomer’s face as they walked. Finally, he just couldn’t hold it in anymore and came straight out with it: “What happened to your eye? Why is your eyebrow so white?”

“It was a woman, young man,” he answered without looking at Benny. “A woman did this to me after I seduced her one midsummer’s night. She said that from now on I would be marked out from other men and that this would serve as a warning to all women. The next time I looked into the mirror that’s what I saw. You better be wary of the female species, young man-you never know when you’ll meet a witch.”

The pair walked past the fish factory, and the doctor’s house soon came into view.

“This looks like a nice home,” said Bryngeir. “Reckon I might be able to crash here?”

Benny had his doubts. “I don’t think so, not unless you’re sick. The doctor lives here.”

Bryngeir halted. “And what’s his name? The doctor’s?” he asked.

“The doctor’s a woman. Her name is Johanna,” Benny answered.

“Doctor Johanna? Not Johanna Thorvald, surely?”

“Yeah, exactly. Do you know everyone?”

“It’s uncanny. My adversaries seem to be swelling around here,” said Bryngeir pensively, seemingly oblivious to Benny’s question. “No, we won’t look for any accommodation here. On we go, my dear friend Benny Ben.”

Bryngeir walked away from the doctor’s house with long strides, while Benny traipsed behind him with the case.

“Hey,” said Bryngeir. “Didn’t he stay with the priest, the late Gaston Lund?”

“Yeah.”

“Shouldn’t I try to stay there then?”

Benny looked at the case he was holding. “That could be a problem. They’re both teetotalers and they can’t stand boozing.”

“Good point, pal. Let’s avoid any hassles. So what does that leave us with then, young man? Isn’t there anyone around here who’s partial to a drop of rum, is hospitable, has a free bed, and knows something about the old Flatey Book?”

Benny broke into a smile. “Yeah. Sigurbjorn in Svalbardi.”

Question seven: What made it possible to ride around the coastline? First letter. That winter there was so much ice in Iceland than the sea froze all around the coastline so that it was possible to ride between the promontories of every fjord. The answer is “ice,” and the first letter is i.

A creaking sound penetrated the doctor’s house from the road as the handcarts were dragged past the building on their way down to the village. Johanna peeped out the kitchen window and watched them moving away and eventually disappearing down the slope behind the graveyard. The mail would therefore soon be reaching the telephone exchange, and she would be able to collect her newspapers. It was best to wait a bit, though. Stina, the postmistress, was pretty quick at sorting out the mail, but some of the islanders were bound to show up early to collect their mail and just have a chat. Johanna, on the other hand, was in no mood for socializing that afternoon. She heard more footsteps passing the house, and then silence descended on the neighborhood again. The redshank that nested on the edge of the road grew calmer and stopped twittering in alarm. Strange that it should have chosen to build itself a nest in such an inconvenient place when there was no shortage of undisturbed nesting ground nearby. And it had laid its eggs in the same place the spring before.

Half an hour later, Johanna looked up from the book that she was leafing through when she heard a faint moan from the next room. She stood up and walked in to her father.

“Are you in pain, Dad?” she asked.

“Not too much, but it would be good to get the afternoon dose now,” her father answered. He lay under a white quilt in a high medical bed, looking shriveled and emaciated.

She glanced at her watch and fetched the dose from the pharmacy, which was a little room off the infirmary. He flinched slightly as she injected the dose into the intravenous drip connected to his arm, but he swiftly felt the effect of the opiate and closed his eyes again.

“Would you like me to read for you for a while?” she asked.

“No, I’m going to rest a bit.”

“The mail boat has arrived. I’ll go get the papers soon. We can read them when I come back. I won’t be long.”

He braved a smile and said, “I somehow feel I’ve read enough. I think I’ll soon be meeting my namesake, the late Snorri Sturluson and the mysterious author of Njal’s saga.”

He closed his eyes and dozed off. She adjusted his quilt and gently kissed him on the cheek.

Question eight: Greatest skiing champion. First letter. They ended up on a big mountain. It was a steep, narrow slope, which ended abruptly in a precipice dropping to the sea. King Harald Sigurdsson said to Hemingur, “Entertain us now with your skiing.”

Hemingur answered, “This isn’t a good place for skiing because there is little snow now and it’s stony and there is hard ice on the mountain.”