The Flatey Enigma (6 page)

“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.”

Thormódur Krákur 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 Sigrídur 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 Múlanes. 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?”

“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.”

Thormódur Krákur 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 Patreksfjördur.”

“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 Stykkishólmur.”

“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?”

“Benjamín Gudjónsson. 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 Grímur’s boat pulling in at the pier.

“…Jón, the farmer in Vídidalstunga, got two priests to work as scribes on the royal book, Jón Thórdarson and Magnús Thórhallsson. 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 Magnús 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…”

K
jartan followed Grímur and Högni’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 Högni 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,” Grímur answered.

“But they’re in good shape, fat and beautiful.”

Grímur 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 Grímur, 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.

“I think there’ll be some news this evening,” Grímur 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.”

Grímur 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.

Grímur 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.” Grímur 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.”

Grímur carried on flaying the seal and didn’t look up when the boy stood beside them. “Officer Grímur, Officer Grímur,” he exclaimed breathlessly and wheezily. “Reverend Hannes really needs to talk to you.”

“Did he give you some candy to come and fetch me?” Grímur 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. Grímur 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…”

R
everend 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 Grímur myself,” the priest said uneasily to his wife, Frída, 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 Grímur’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.”

Frída 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 Grímur 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 Grímur and Högni, 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 Reykhólar 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 Reykhólar’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 Ólaf Haraldsson and the saga of Ólaf 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 Skálholt, where Brynjólfur served as bishop. Then he traveled north to Vídidalstunga, where the manuscript was put together and written. After that he traveled west to Reykhólar, 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.”

“But how did he end up in Ketilsey then?” Kjartan asked.

“It’s totally incomprehensible to me. He said good-bye to me when the mail boat was about to come in and set off for the pier with plenty of time to spare.”

“So how do you know it was him then?”

“I should have recognized him from the description of the clothes, but since I just assumed that he was in Copenhagen, it never occurred to me. But it was the note with the quotation from the Flatey Book that convinced me. It’s probably written in my handwriting.”

“Oh?” Kjartan pulled out the note that he had stuck into his wallet the night before and handed it to the priest.

Reverend Hannes took the note and nodded after glancing at it. “I’ve sometimes had to receive foreign visitors who come here on the
Flatey Book
trail,” he said. “I’ve tried to acquaint myself with the history of the manuscript as well as I can and, in the process, formed my own ideas about its history. The theory has been advanced that Jón Finnsson of Flatey inscribed the manuscript with those words that are quoted on the note to dispel any ambiguities regarding heirship. I, on the other hand, believe that he wrote this in the manuscript when he once lent it in Skálholt, quite some time before it was finally handed over to Bishop Brynjólfur. And I’m also sure that Jón Finnsson only intended to lend Brynjólfur the manuscript when he came for a visit in the belief that it would return to him once it had been transcribed and researched. Otherwise, he would have forfeited his ownership by his own hand with some declaration of ownership in the manuscript. A man doesn’t give away an inscribed book without transferring the ownership in writing first. That’s how it worked back then, and that’s how it works now. I explained all this to the professor and copied the text down on that note for him. We actually disagreed on whether the Danes should return the manuscript to Iceland or not. He was very opposed to the idea and was collecting material for a thesis to support his opinion. But I think I managed to get him to listen to my point of view. I believe that Jón Finnsson’s descendants or the Icelandic nation own the
Flatey Book
by right.”

Kjartan listened to the lecture but was still gnawed by doubt. “But the man must have been missed in Copenhagen. Why wasn’t there a search for him?” he asked.

“That’s what I simply don’t get. He led me to understand that he wanted very little attention on this trip and avoided meeting up with Icelandic colleagues or anyone he knew. These manuscript issues are so sensitive that he wanted to avoid any public debates here. Professor Lund was obviously one of the most prominent opponents on this issue. It’s also possible that no one in Copenhagen knew he was coming out here. He was a bachelor and didn’t contact anyone back in Denmark during his trip here.”

“Did he speak Icelandic?” Kjartan asked.

“Yes, yes. He could understand it quite well, and could read and write OK. But, as with most Danes, his spoken Icelandic was a bit ropey, of course, although he got by just fine.”

“What’s that thing he wanted to solve you just mentioned?” Kjartan asked.

“The Aenigma Flateyensis. It’s a semi kind of crossword. It came with the facsimile version of the
Flatey Book
that was given to the library on the centenary in 1936. The pages are loose inside the book, and no one is allowed to take them out of the library building or to copy the key that solves it. Every now and then visitors come here and take the test. But no one has succeeded so far. Some of the clues are, of course, very unclear, and the key is incomprehensible.”

“Why was this man trying to solve the enigma?”

Reverend Hannes smiled faintly. “The professor is—or
was
, should I say—a member of Copenhagen’s Academy of Scholars. They meet once a week at a famous restaurant called Det lille Apotek. The group is divided into two sections. Those who’ve distinguished themselves in the field of humanities and received recognition for it get to sit on the bench by the wall that offers the best view. The others have to sit opposite the wall by the passageway and sometimes get splashed with beer. The professor was going to win himself a better seat by solving the enigma.”

“Did he succeed?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t want to say, and he was very reticent on the subject. Although I suspect he intended to disclose it when he got back to Copenhagen. Who knows? He gave me a copy of his answers, but I don’t know if they fit the key.”

Reverend Hannes opened a drawer in his standing desk, took out a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to Kjartan. “There you go. I think you should keep this.”

Kjartan took the sheet and examined it carefully. The sentences were in Danish and Icelandic, although the handwriting was barely legible.

“I need to call Reykjavik,” Kjartan said, “to find out if the body could be the professor’s. Then you’ll need to look into the casket to confirm that the clothes are the same you saw him in the last time. The body itself is, of course, unrecognizable.”

Reverend Hannes sipped his coffee with trembling hands. “Yes, I suppose I better do that,” he said.

Kjartan continued: “But could it be that he fell overboard off the mail boat and swam to Ketilsey?”

“I would think that highly unlikely. The island is miles from the sailing route.”

“Are there strong currents there?”

“Yes, I’m sure, although I’m no expert on the subject. You need to talk to the seamen about that.”

“When was it he left you again?”

“It was on September fourth. I’ve checked it in my diary. I remember there was some news about the manuscript issue on the radio the same evening he left.”

“Didn’t he have any luggage?”

“He had a small traveling bag, enough for a few days, with a toiletries bag, change of underwear, and that kind of thing. A camera and small binoculars. I seem to remember him saying that his case was in storage in Reykjavik.”

Kjartan picked up the note that lay on the table between them.

“What does this mean on the note: folio 1005?”

“That’s the
Flatey Book
’s registration number in the Royal Library in Copenhagen. I remember Lund wrote that on the note I gave him and then stuck it in his pocket.”

Kjartan turned the note around.

“Do you know what these letters on the back of the note stand for?” he asked.

The priest examined the note. “No. He must have written that on the note after he left here. That’s not unlike the series of letters that are supposed to be the key to the Flatey enigma, but he knew he wasn’t allowed to copy the key. And he didn’t go back to the library after I gave him the note.”

Kjartan wrote down:
Gaston Lund of Copenhagen, 4 September
. “I’m going to the telephone exchange to call the Danish Embassy,” he said and stood up.

Reverend Hannes escorted him to the door, said good-bye, and walked back to his wife in the living room.

“The case is in good hands,” he said. “What I’m dreading the most is having to look at that body in the casket. I always find these things so uncomfortable.”

He looked out the window and gazed into the distance for a long time before saying, “I remember the day Lund left us as if it were yesterday. I walked him to the door and shook his hand. He promised to write to me. Was I suppose to guess that something was up when I never got a letter from him?”

The woman put down her handwork. “Did you ever write to him?” she asked.

“No, I didn’t, in fact. I was more expecting the letter to come from him.”

She reflected a moment. “Maybe he was on his way here on another visit when the Lord took him away?”

The priest shook his head. “I don’t know, but I can still picture him walking down the road with that little case in his hand. He left for the boat with plenty of time to spare because he was going to drop by Doctor Jóhanna’s to get some seasickness tablets. He was worried about a rough crossing because the weather was getting worse.”

He stared through the window in silence and then muttered to himself: “But how on earth did he end up on Ketilsey?”

“…The medieval lettering used was Latin Carolingian script, which reached Iceland from Norway and England, albeit with a few additions to fulfill the needs of the Norse language. Accents were placed over long vowels, and new letters appeared. The
Þ
and
ð
came from English, from which they later disappeared but survived in Icelandic. The writing of the
Flatey Book
also bears the personal traits of its scribes, Jón and Magnús. Jón wrote most of the first part and Magnús the latter half. And the workmanship reveals more. An unknown person with rather poor handwriting seems to have gripped the pen in four places in the first half of the manuscript, probably when Jón was sharpening his quill, because his handwriting is generally slightly thinner after the unknown handwriting that precedes it. This was no cowshed boy in Vídidalstunga who had sneaked in to try his hand at writing. The priest would not have allowed that to happen. It is more likely to have been someone who had some authority over the priest, perhaps even Jón Hákon himself. I think that is quite possible.