The Flatey Enigma (14 page)

T
he couple in Rádagerdi sat playing chess in the kitchen when they heard Benny coming in late at night. It was warm and cozy by the stove, and the scent of coffee wafted in the air.

“Is there anything to eat?” he asked.

“There are boiled puffin breasts in the larder,” his mother Hildur answered.

“Were you hanging out with that guy from Reykjavik?” Gudjón, the farmer, asked when Benny reappeared with the puffin breast, which he had sliced and was feeding to himself with a penknife.

“Yeah, I’d had enough. He wouldn’t share any of his rum. He drank it all himself.”

“You’re too young to be boozing with a grown-up man, Benny dear,” said his mother.

“I’m not too young just to have a taste. There’s never any fun around here,” Benny said before disappearing from the kitchen. They heard him going up to the loft and turning on his transistor radio.

“I think that boy’s going to move away from us if we continue living here,” said Hildur. “He would have left ages ago if he didn’t have that crush on little Hafdís in Svalbardi.”

Gudjón nodded and moved the bishop two squares on the chessboard.

They were silent a moment as they focused on the game. Finally Gudjón said, “Högni, the teacher, mentioned that he’s interested in buying the house if we move. He’s tired of living in the school.”

Hildur answered him, after giving it some thought: “If we sell the house, we could settle our debt with the co-op and maybe cover our trip to Stykkishólmur, but not a lot more than that. Check!”

“Check? Hmm, we’d also get something for our land. Sigurbjörn could do with more grassland. He has some money in the savings bank to pay for that. If we could rent land on the mainland, we could take the cattle and sheep with us. Otherwise, we could slaughter the livestock to pay off the co-op debt.”

Gudjón hid his king behind his rook.

“But what if we don’t get any land?” said Hildur.

Gudjón smiled reassuringly. “You’re pretty good at filleting fish, and I can do some manual labor. And I can always take the boat out to sea and fish if I can fix the engine.”

“It won’t be easy to go away and leave all our friends behind,” said Hildur, moving her knight.

“We can come here in the spring and work for the other farmers. But we can’t hang around here in the winter without a bigger farm.”

“Do you really think Högni can buy the house?”

“Yes, yes. He can also take out a loan,” said Gudjón, moving his bishop.

“We can think about it over the summer and decide in the fall,” said the housewife, and then she concentrated on the game.

“Yes, but I think we should go for it,” said Gudjón. He found it difficult to focus on the chess and conduct a conversation at the same time. He looked at the board in confusion and finally played his knight.

Hildur promptly slid her rook down the board: “Checkmate!”

Question fourteen: They chose the spots to fall on. Seventh letter. The Baglar were being besieged by King Sverrir at the rock of Túnsberg. The Baglar saw banners from two armies. One came from Frod’s Ridge, the other from the town. They fought when they met; some fell and others fled. The Baglar then urged Hreidar to abandon the rock and assist their men. Hreidar answered, “Let’s see what they do first and if the Birkibeins are chased to the trench.” And then he added, “There is something odd about the way they are fleeing. It seems to me that they’re playing a trick on us. Do you notice how they choose dry spots to fall on or else fall on their shields? And do you see any sign of blood on their weapons or garments? No! Neither do I,” he said. “This must be one of Sverrir’s ruses.” The answer is “Birkibeins,” and the seventh letter is
e.

T
he state radio made sure all Icelanders realized Whitsunday was on its way. Psalms bellowed out of Ingibjörg’s radio, filling the district officer’s home. The radio choir was singing Icelandic Whitsunday psalms.

It was still bright and slightly cloudy over Breidafjördur, and the wind had subsided and seemed to be turning. The farmers scrutinized the sky above and forecast good weather for the day and then rain in the evening. That wasn’t such a bad thing, since the fields needed a sprinkle. The wells were also running low. But it would be good if the dry weather could hold up during the day while the church guests were walking about.

A festive atmosphere had spread across the village by the time Kjartan descended from the loft at around ten and peered outside. Grímur had put on his dark Sunday best, and he looked washed and shaven. His mop of hair was combed back, and he had brushed his bushy beard. Ingibjörg was wearing a pretty bodice and had sprayed herself with perfume. Pastries were served with the morning coffee.

The national flag had been hoisted on the high flagpole in front of the church and flapped gently in the warm breeze. Here and there people could be seen strolling about, but no one was working. Days of rest were sacred, especially Whitsundays.

Through the kitchen window, Grímur watched motorboats loaded with church guests from the inner isles approaching the strait between Hafnarey and Flatey.

“It used to be a more impressive sight back in the days when the island boats came to mass under lily-white sails. I think the good Lord probably preferred that,” he said wistfully in between the names of the boats he was rattling off, as well as the names of those who were probably on board. Every now and then he lifted an old pair of binoculars to his eyes to confirm the identity of a person he had already guessed.

“Yes, yes, I knew it, that’s the Skáley boat,” he said smugly.

The travelers made the crossings in the boats in their everyday clothes, but carried church clothes with them in suitcases, as well as picnics in chests and flasks of coffee. People stepped ashore on Eyjólfur’s pier and vanished into the houses of friends and relatives only to reappear in the village again a short time later, dressed in their festive clothes. Some knocked stealthily on Ásmundur the storekeeper’s window, and he ushered them into the store through the back door on the eastern side of the building. The store was naturally closed on holy mass days, but he could always make an exception for people in dire need. The co-op, on the other hand, was firmly locked since it was next door to the vicarage and the priest himself was a member of the company’s board.

Högni, the organist, rounded up all the choir members once all the boats had arrived and walked ahead of the group up to the church. They were supposed to rehearse before the mass.

At one thirty, the deacon, Thormódur Krákur, left his home in his Sunday best and crossed the village towing his cart with his wife, Gudrídur, sitting flat out on top of it. When they reached the vicarage, the priest and his wife appeared ready for the mass, and the four of them went to the church.

Ingibjörg was a member of the church choir and had vanished with the organist as soon as she had finished washing up after lunch. Grímur and Kjartan sat in the living room, drinking coffee in silence. Grímur was perusing through the weekly supply of newspapers that had arrived on the mail boat the day before, while Kjartan tackled a puzzle in a Danish weekly and thought of Gaston Lund. He was trying to form a picture of him from the few fragments of information they had gathered.

“Tell me something,” he said to attract Grímur’s attention. “Does anyone know who the father of Gudrún in Innstibaer’s child was?”

Grímur was taken aback. “No. The boy was grown up and had gone off to sea by the time Gudrún moved here to live with Hallbjörg. I’ve never heard the father mentioned.”

“Valdi in Ystakot wrote in his diary that Gudrún’s son came on a boat the day before Gaston Lund went missing.”

Grímur cleared his throat and shook his head. “You’re taking this a bit too far now, pal,” he said.

“And then there’s that word—
lucky
,” Kjartan said, growing more excited. “That’s the word we think Lund tried to write with the pebbles in Ketilsey, and it also happens to be the name of Sigurbjörn of Svalbardi’s boat. Isn’t he related to Gudrún somehow?”

Grímur seemed apprehensive. “I hadn’t really made that connection, but we should tread very carefully with this and not go blabbing about it to the Reykjavik police.”

“Why not?” Kjartan asked.

“It’s all so far-fetched, and it would go down very badly with the locals here if that kind of gossip were to get around. False accusations can do so much damage.”

Kjartan suddenly shut up. The district officer’s words hit him hard. He should have known.

A second round of church bells prompted the district officer to put down his papers and stand. Clearing his throat again, he said it was time to go. Kjartan followed him. The assumption had been that he would attend the mass like everyone else, and he saw no reason to fuel any controversy by declining to go, although he wasn’t too keen on the idea. He hadn’t been to any masses since his confirmation, apart from some funerals. Maybe this would give him a good opportunity to observe the islanders without being the center of attention.

He walked toward the church with Grímur in a slow and dignified stride, in unison with other groups that were heading the same way. People then huddled around the church entrance and greeted each other on both sides with handshakes and kisses.

Immaculately dressed children were playing on the slope below the church when the Ystakot clan came strolling over. They showed no signs of having dressed up for the occasion. Two boys broke out of the scrum and yelled out, “Nonni dung boy! Nonni dung boy!”

Their fun came to an abrupt end, though, because Högni, who had just stepped out of the church to catch a breath of fresh air after the choir practice and was standing a short distance away, angrily snapped at them and they fell into a shamed silence.

“What was that they called the boy?” Kjartan asked.

“Dung boy,” Grímur answered.

“What do they mean?”

“Cow dung is an excellent fuel that used to be used as tinder for fires with dry bird skin. Nowadays most houses use paraffin oil, but not so long ago dung was the most common local tinder. They still use the old method in Ystakot, and little Nonni’s job in the spring is to go around the sheds collecting cow dung to make tinder. He leaves it out in the fields in small cakes and allows it to dry. Everyone of my generation did the same as kids, and it was regarded as a perfectly respectable task. But now they’ve nicknamed him ‘dung boy.’ Hardly what you’d call progress.”

The church bells rang again, and people squeezed through the narrow doors. Kjartan felt this was a completely different building to the one that he and Jóhanna had stepped into to examine the body in the casket just a few days ago. He hadn’t taken the time to look around it back then. There were many candles glowing here now, and the altarpiece had come to life—a beautiful fresco of Jesus and two of his disciples painted in the same style as the picture cards he used to get at Sunday school when he was a kid. Grímur ushered him onto a pew where he sat beside Sigurbjörn the farmer. Gudjón had obviously finished cutting his hair after Kjartan had left them, but it was still a bit uneven over his cheeks. Kjartan involuntarily started to study the necks of the people sitting in front of him. A gallery of heads extended before him. Different stages of baldness and hairdos had been executed with varying degrees of success, and most of the women had plaits. Everyone was spic-and-span, and a strong scent of soap fused with the faintly stale air of the church. Sigurbjörn gave off a faint odor of alcohol and seemed to be half hungover.

The organ now sounded from the balcony, and the choir launched into the psalm. Kjartan listened and found the music strangely soothing. This might not have been the best choir in the land, but there was a pleasant harmony between the singing and the organ.

Reverend Hannes emerged from the sacristy and turned to the congregation. He coughed twice and said, “Dear parishioners, brothers and sisters, I would like to start this holy ceremony by giving you the sad news that Björn Snorri Thorvald, the father of our good doctor, Jóhanna, passed away in his sleep last night. As you all know, the old man had been very ill for some time, and now the good Lord has called him back to Himself and put an end to his suffering. His loving daughter was sitting by his side when the call came, and I went there this morning to commend his spirit to God. The removal will be on Tuesday and the funeral on Wednesday. Let us join our hands in prayer.”

The congregation bowed their heads, and the priest led the prayer. Kjartan wondered whether the doctor was at the mass. The entire population of the islands seemed to have crammed into the church. He swiftly scanned the congregation but could see no sign of Jóhanna anywhere. At the very back of the church, however, he saw little Nonni of Ystakot standing up and sneaking out through the open church door. Yes, he probably would have done the same himself if he’d been given half a chance. It was swiftly getting hot and stuffy in there.

The organ erupted, and another psalm was sung.

Question fifteen: Cut in two by the prow of a ship. First letter. Sorli’s Tale narrates how Hedin, the king’s son, was slain by a spell. Blinded by magic, he allowed King Högni’s queen, Hervor, to be taken and placed in front of the prow of his ship, so that she was cut in two when the ship was launched. Hedin and Högni then fought in a duel. It is said that there was so much evil attached to this curse that even when they had sliced each other in two from the shoulder down, they were able to stand up again and fight as before. A hundred and forty years were to pass before one of King Ólaf’s courtiers broke this pitiful spell. The answer is “Hervor,” and the first letter is
h.