The Flatey Enigma

by Ingolfsson, Viktor Arnar

  “Why hasn’t anyone just copied it?”

  “It’s a matter of simple decency. The librarians in the Flatey library have taken good care of the sheets, and those who want to test their answers have to swear they won’t write the key down. There’s also a belief that anyone who breaks the rules will be cursed by a mishap. The fates of the poet and the young student in Copenhagen helped to propagate that myth. It is said that a powerful curse rests on the key to the enigma but that it won’t be unleashed so long as the sheets remain within the four walls of the library.”

  “Have many people tried this?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Students who are completing their studies in Icelandic philology have been known to go on pilgrimages to Flatey to have a go at it. You have to be pretty well up on the subject to be able to hazard any guesses at the answers. This isn’t a challenge for amateurs.”

  “Haven’t you tried to solve the enigma yourself?”

  “I just tried it once. The enigma is basically two riddles. I realized that you’ve got to solve the key to the fortieth question first. Without that, there’s no way of verifying the answers to the other thirty-nine questions. I studied that for a while but found no solution.”

  “What happens if someone solves the enigma?”

  “What happens? Well, nothing really. The winner savors the moment and gets to enjoy some recognition, as well as the admiration and envy of other scholars. I hope it doesn’t happen anytime soon because many people secretly enjoy the failures of these whippersnappers in trying to find the key. Perhaps the enigma is unsolvable. Who knows?”

  Question ten: The ice was slippery with…Third letter. The Birkibeins drove the fleet along the ice and killed many because most of them wore studded shoes, whereas the fugitives were on bare soles, and the ice was slippery with blood. The king rode close to them, and his task was to give one spear thrust to every man he attacked, and the Birkibeins then did whatever was necessary to finish them off and kill them. The answer is “blood,” and the third letter is o.

  CHAPTER 27

  It was late in the day, and the mail boat from Brjánslækur was soon expected to reappear on its way back to Stykkishólmur. Thormódur Krákur arrived towing his handcart up to the doors of the church, where the three men—Grímur, Kjartan, and Högni—were waiting. The moment had come to transport the body down to the pier. Reverend Hannes arrived a short moment later, dressed in his robes. This time he was going to accompany his guest all the way to the ship. Grímur and Högni collected the casket in the church and placed it on the cart. There was also a sealed mail bag on the cart that looked virtually empty. Stína, the postmistress, wanted to take advantage of the trip down to the pier to get the mail onto the ship.

  They set off. As had happened the last time the body was transported across the island, the village suddenly seemed deserted again. The inhabitants had all vanished. Kjartan wondered how it was possible for them all to be so synchronized. It was as if an invisible hand had swept over the village, ushering all the locals into their houses at the same time.

  But there were two men standing on the embankment by the pass, and they were observing the procession. Kjartan recognized one of them, Benny from Rádagerdi, although he couldn’t make out who the second person was because of the considerable distance.

  “Who’s that walking with the boy?” Kjartan nudged Grímur, throwing his head back.

  Grímur looked back. “That’s some reporter from Reykjavik. He was well oiled when he arrived on the boat today, and he hasn’t sobered up. He seems to have found a drinking buddy.”

  “Do you think he’s going to write something about Professor Lund in the papers?” Kjartan asked.

  “He’ll probably have to sleep it off first. I think Sigurbjörn in Svalbardi is going to be putting him up during his stay here.”

  The mail boat could be seen approaching from the north of the island, and the pallbearers quickened their pace. There was no point in keeping the boat waiting.

  The Ystakot clan—Valdi, old Jón Ferdinand, and little Nonni—were alone on the pier when Thormódur Krákur drew the cart around the corner of the fish factory. The boat was pulling in, and now only one hawser came over the gunwale. The islanders had swift hands. The mail bag was thrown on board, and Reverend Hannes read some text while the other four men lifted the casket off the cart and started lowering it onto the boat. Two crew members then took it, while the heavy-browed skipper observed the proceedings through the bridge window with a pipe in his mouth.

  “Who’s paying for the freight then?” one of the sailors, who had grabbed the casket, called out.

  All eyes were on Kjartan. “The district magistrate in Patreksfjördur will pay the bill,” he answered after a moment’s hesitation.

  Then the boat slipped away from the pier, and Valdi loosened the moorings.

  “May the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you,” Reverend Hannes intoned, winding up his speech and blessing the mail boat with the sign of the cross.

  It was as if a weight had lifted from the men’s shoulders as they watched the boat sail south.

  Benny and his drinking buddy had observed it all from the corner of the fish factory, but he swiftly turned around and vanished when the funeral cortege returned with an empty cart.

  Grímur, the district officer, was in a more cheerful mood and suddenly talkative. Life on the island could get back to normal now. The reasons why Gaston Lund had ended up on Ketilsey were still shrouded in mystery, but that was still a triviality compared to the ordeal of having the corpse of a stranger lying in the church. “Right, lads,” he said, wrapping his arms around Högni and Kjartan, “we’re going to take the evening off now and play whist with my wife, and tomorrow we’ll go to Reverend Hannes’s Whitsunday mass.”

  He looked at Kjartan. “I hope you play whist?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I suppose I do,” Kjartan answered, smiling for the first time in many days.

  A long telegram from the detective force in Reykjavik awaited the district officer when he got back to his house. It provided a detailed rundown of the day’s investigation and contained nothing new, apart from the fact that Gaston Lund probably had a love child in Iceland in 1927, which he had been unwilling to acknowledge. The child’s mother probably bore a grudge against him. Nothing else was known about this family, but the investigation was set to continue. The district officer was asked to look into it.

  Question eleven: The severed head that killed a man. Second letter. A meeting was set up between a Scottish earl, Melbrigd Buck-tooth, and Earl Sigurdur to reach a settlement between them. Each earl was to be attended by a retinue of forty men, but Sigurdur got two men to mount each of the forty horses. When Earl Melbrigd saw this, he said to his men, “Earl Sigurdur has dealt us a treacherous hand, for I see two feet on each horse’s side.” A fierce battle ensued, and Earl Melbrigd and all his men were slain. Earl Sigurdur and his men fastened the heads of the dead to their saddle straps as they rode home rejoicing in their triumph. On the homeward ride, Sigurdur was spurring his horse when he hit his leg against a tooth protruding from the fallen Melbrigd’s head, which made a slight incision that soon became swollen and painful, eventually resulting in his death. The answer is “Melbrigd,” and the second letter is e.

  CHAPTER 28

  Bryngeir and Benny had watched the casket being lowered onto the mail boat. Bryngeir didn’t want to draw any closer, but he got Benny to identify the men on the pier for him.

  “The district officer, the teacher, the deacon, and the priest,” said Benny. “The youngest guy is the magistrate’s assistant,” he added.

  “Who owns these boats?” Bryngeir asked, pointing at the small boats moored at the pier.

  “Some fishermen from other villages who were going to fish for the factory. But they haven’t been able to catch anything, so they’re moving to another village closer to better fishing grounds. Valdi from Ystakot owns the black one. He was the guy who found the
dead man in Ketilsey,” Benny answered.

  “What boats were here last fall when the Dane came here?”

  “Here by the pier, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There were no fishing boats here last fall.”

  “Were there no boats at all then?”

  “Maybe Valdi’s boat, at the most. He stores it away in the heart of winter. I can’t remember when he did that last year.”

  “Aren’t there more boats on the island?”

  “Yeah, but they’re all stored in the cove in the fall. It’s easier to keep an eye on them from the village that way, if the weather worsens.”

  The mail boat was now backing out of the pier, and the funeral cortege was dispersing. Bryngeir dragged Benny around the corner, and they rushed back to the eastern side of the fish factory. There were a few wooden barrels, which they hid behind as the others walked by. Benny was puzzled by this odd behavior but got a bit of a kick from hanging out with such a worldly-wise guy and actually found this touch of spying pretty exciting.

  From their hiding place, they watched the five men walking on up the road past the doctor’s house. Thormódur Krákur walked in front, towing the handcart, followed by the priest and finally Grímur, Kjartan, and Högni.

  “What would you do if you needed to get to Stykkishólmur but couldn’t wait for the mail boat?” Bryngeir asked Benny.

  “I’d ask Dad to lend me his boat,” Benny answered, omitting to say there was no way he would be lent the boat to take it to Stykkishólmur. It was too long a crossing, and he didn’t know the sailing route on the southern side of the fjord.

  “What about outsiders? How would they get to the mainland? What would I do if I needed to get to the mainland this evening?”

  Benny thought a moment. He found it difficult to imagine why anyone would be in such a hurry.

  “Well, of course, you could always get Dad to take you over to Brjánslækur. Or Sigurbjörn in Svalbardi, or maybe Ásmundur, the storekeeper. From there you can walk up to the road where the Ísafjördur bus passes. You can also sail to the mainland in Vatnsfjördur if the tide is high. That’s a shorter walk.”

  Bryngeir grew impatient. “But south to Stykkishólmur, lad?”

  “Yeah, maybe you could get someone to take you there if the weather isn’t too bad. It’s just a bit far to go on an open boat in the dark.”

  Bryngeir walked past the fish factory and onto the deserted pier. He stared at the boats that were moored there.

  “But the guy who owns the black boat?” he asked. “Could he take me to Stykkishólmur?”

  “No, not very likely,” said Benny. “Valdi never has money to buy enough fuel. He also gets to travel free on the mail boat because he always grabs the rope when they’re pulling into the pier.”

  “Let’s pay him a visit in his croft. Show me the way.”

  Benny walked ahead of him off the pier and up the path toward Ystakot. They spotted little Nonni on the shore, and he spotted them.

  “Dad, Dad,” Nonni yelled back toward Ystakot. “Two big men are coming, Benny from Rádagerdi and the boozer.”

  Valdi had stepped out into the yard by the time Bryngeir and Benny arrived. Bryngeir eyed Valdi in silence. Benny kept his distance.

  “What do you want?” Valdi finally asked.

  “Can you take me to Stykkishólmur this evening?” Bryngeir asked.

  “Why didn’t you take the mail boat?” Valdi asked.

  “I was too late and missed it.”

  Jón Ferdinand stepped into the yard as Valdi was thinking.

  “I can’t see anything, I can’t see anything!” the old man shrieked.

  “Open your eyes and then you’ll see, you fool!” said Valdi.

  “Yeah, now I see the light, Valdi dear. You’re so good to me,” said Jón Ferdinand joyfully.

  “You’re so full of crap, Dad. You’re a disgrace to us,” Valdi snapped angrily, and turned to Bryngeir. “You can get a farmer from one of the inner isles to take you over to the mainland after mass tomorrow. They’re all bound to come over for Whitsunday,” he said.

  “But I need to get to Stykkishólmur tonight. How much do I have to pay you?”

  Valdi shook his head. “I can’t leave the house. I’ve got to take care of my boy and my dad. He’s completely lost it.”

  “What if I pay you three thousand krónur?”

  “Three thousand krónur?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s a lot of money.” Valdi calculated in his head. “That’s almost five finished seal pup furs.”

  “Yes, that’s quite a sum, but I’m in a hurry.” Bryngeir pulled a wallet out of the pocket of his trousers.

  Valdi stuffed his pipe and lit it. “Then I’ll have to take my dad with us,” he finally said, “and I’ve also got to buy fuel first. You’ve got to pay up front.”

  Bryngeir turned to Benny with a grin. “You see, it’s just a question of the right price.” Then, addressing Valdi, he said, “Hey listen, I think Stykkishólmur can wait.”

  Valdi winced. “Were you just bluffing with me?”

  Bryngeir laughed. “I was just trying to establish the price of a ticket, my friend.”

  “Get the hell out of here,” Valdi barked in a rage and stepped menacingly toward Bryngeir, who grinningly backed off but then tripped on a tussock and fell on his ass.

  Benny stepped between them. “I’ll take him with me,” he said to Valdi, “and make sure he doesn’t come back again.” He then helped Bryngeir to his feet and led him away. When they had walked a few yards away from the croft, Benny said, “You better not make Valdi angry. He gets totally out of control. Once in the olden days he almost strangled a stranger in a fight. The man only saved himself by sticking a finger in Valdi’s eye. That’s why he’s blind in one eye.”

  Bryngeir didn’t seem to be too happy about his awkward retreat. “Then he can lose his other eye if he has to,” he said, vexed.

  Question twelve: Who cut King Sverrir’s ear? Third letter. A man lay seriously wounded close by. His name was Brynjólfur, the son of Kalf of the Faroes. He hoisted himself to his knees and struck the king with his sword, aiming at his neck. The king deflected the blow with the rim of his steel helmet, which the edge of the sword struck, but his ear was grazed, and his neck was seriously wounded. In the same instant, swords and halberds fell so heavily on Brynjólfur that he could barely sink to the ground. The answer is “Brynjólfur,” and the third letter is y.

  CHAPTER 29

  After dinner and the radio news, Grímur fetched a deck of cards and dealt them on the dining table where Högni and Kjartan were seated with cups of coffee. He then called Ingibjörg, who was clearing up in the kitchen, and the game of whist began. Kjartan enjoyed watching the islanders, who mostly played in silence, apart from their bidding and moderate exclamations according to how the game was going. There were all kinds of facial expressions and glances. Grímur was a zealous player and a poor loser. Ingibjörg, on the other hand, was cunning and knew how to handle her husband.

  “Do people play a lot in Flatey?” Kjartan asked.

  “Not in the summer,” said Grímur, peering at his cards. “But a lot in the winter. Passes the time.”

  When there was a break in the game, Kjartan told them about the discovery he had made in the library earlier that day. Professor Lund had cheated in his struggle with the Flatey enigma and had written the clue down on a piece of paper and took it out of the building. And then Kjartan remembered the library key, which he still had in his pocket.

  “I’ll pass it on to Hallbjörg,” said Ingibjörg. “I’ll be going to Innstibaer later on to give the ladies some cookies to have with their coffee on Whitsunday.”

  “Do they live alone?” Kjartan asked.

  “Neither of them ever married,” Grímur answered, “but Gudrún has a son out of wedlock. The boy is a sailor now in Akranes and occasionally comes over on visits. Gudrún is slightly mentally unstable and not always the fu
ll shilling. Hallbjörg took her in out of kinship and takes good care of her. And the islanders are fond of those good-hearted women and slip them little treats every now and then. They knit nonstop, and that helps them to get by. Hallbjörg also takes good care of our library and gets a fee from the municipal fund for that. I think it was the price of two lambs this year. On top of that they’ve got Hallbjörg’s pension. Gudrún and Sigurbjörn in Svalbardi are closely related. He also keeps a good eye on them.”

  After two hours of playing, Grímur and Kjartan walked across the island to fetch the cows. Temperatures would drop during the night, and it was therefore best to bring them into the cowshed. But that wouldn’t be for long now. The nights were bright and the summer would soon be here to stay. Then the milking could be done in the pastures and the cows would be kept outside.

  On their way to the pastures, Grímur lectured Kjartan on cattle breeding in Flatey, both now and in the future. The problem today was the shortage of good breeding bulls. No bullocks had been bred on Flatey for quite some years now, and bulls had to be brought in from the inner isles. Transporting them in little boats could be a tricky business, although they generally managed to do it without any mishaps. The bull just needed a bit of time to recover after the sea journey before he could be of any service to the cows.

  “The farmers are thinking of pooling together to buy some good bullocks on the mainland this summer. No harm in improving the stock a bit,” said Grímur.

  The cows expected to be rounded up and waited mooing by the gate to the pastures. Thormódur Krákur had already collected his two, although Gudjón of Rádagerdi’s cows were still grazing.

  “We’ll take them all with us,” said Grímur. “We take it in turns to collect them, my brother-in-law Gudjón and I.”

  On the way home, they crossed the Ystakot clan on the road. Valdi was pushing an old wheelbarrow, and as they drew closer, they saw that it contained a dead sheep. Its angular head dangled over the rim of the wheelbarrow, and its gray wool was completely drenched and smudged in sand and seaweed. Valdi gave way to the cows that filed down the road and then put the wheelbarrow down when the men met.