The Flatey Enigma

by Ingolfsson, Viktor Arnar

  Kjartan said nothing but nodded. This was also how he had imagined the course of events.

  The rocks of Ketilsey glistened in the morning sun as they approached. Then they saw a black boat drifting about a kilometer west of the island. As they drew closer to it, they saw Jón Ferdinand standing by the engine bay, staring vacantly at the sea and shivering in the cold. A dark stain ran from the crotch of his trousers down his thigh.

  “He’s soiled himself,” Grímur uttered in a low voice. The old man sat down on the thwart as they arrived and seemed to be totally oblivious to their presence. Grímur stretched out to grab the hawser on the other boat and tied it to the back of his own. Then he continued to sail on to Ketilsey at full speed. They spotted Valdi long before they reached the island. He was standing on its highest point, waving his sweater. Then he came running down to the slip. He was crying with rage.

  “What the fuck were you doing, Dad, leaving me like that?” he yelled as soon as they were within earshot.

  “Take it easy, Valdi. Your father is incapable of answering that question,” said Grímur as he let his boat drift toward the slip. “Just hop on board and tell us what happened.”

  Valdi clambered on board, and Grímur carefully backed the boat away from the shore. As soon as they had reached a short distance from the island, he turned on the motor again and dragged the Ystakot boat up by their side. Grímur held a hand out to Jón Ferdinand and helped him to step between boats. He sat the old man on the thwart and draped his jacket over his shoulders. Grímur then headed toward home at full speed, towing the Raven behind them. Jón Ferdinand sat transfixed on the thwart, staring blankly at the backwash. Every now and then he called out in his raucous old voice: “Where are the nets, lads?”

  Valdi struggled to recover and said in a tremulous voice, “The stupid old fool just abandoned me on the island.”

  Grímur silently nodded, as Valdi continued in his quivering tone: “We were checking out the eider duck’s nests and collecting down, and then I suddenly noticed that he was back on the boat. I thought he was just putting down some eggs or a bag of down so I wasn’t really watching him, but then I heard him turn on the motor. I ran down then, but he’d already untied the moorings and gone off by the time I got to the slip. He didn’t even look back. No matter how loudly I cried out, he just stared into empty space, as if he were the only person in the world. Then I heard the motor die, and since then the boat’s been drifting back and forth here for almost twenty-four hours. No matter how much I yelled, he didn’t seem to hear me.”

  Grímur took out the picnic box and gave the father and son something to eat, and little else was said on their journey back to Flatey.

  As they approached the island toward noon, they saw a flag flying at half-mast in front of the church and people on their way to the cemetery.

  “They’re burying the late Björn Snorri,” said Grímur. “It was supposed to be a quiet affair before the coast guard ship sailed south with the inspectors and the prisoners, but that’s all changed now, thank God.”

  The district officer steered his boat past the coast guard ship and over to the end of the pier. Little Nonni was standing on it all alone, and every now and then he ran back and forth a few steps. They tied the boat to the pier and climbed the steps.

  “Take your father home, Valdi,” said Grímur, “and try to all have a bit of a rest.”

  Grímur and Kjartan watched the three generations of men walking up the slope without glancing back, and then Grímur turned his gaze to the coast guard ship.

  “I need to talk to the inspectors,” he said wearily.

  “Gaston Lund’s visit to Iceland last fall was not his first visit to this country. He came here in the summer of 1926 with a few of his buddies from the University of Copenhagen. They were young and lively men and got up to all kinds of things during their two-week stay in Iceland. They followed the Njál saga’s trail in the south, and the upshot of it all was a pretty young country girl from Rangárthing ended up pregnant, and Gaston, who was still just a student at the time, was the father. A boy was born, and the mother moved with him to Hafnarfjördur. The child was registered as ‘Gestsson,’ or guest’s son, which wasn’t an unusual name in those days for children whose fathers hadn’t stuck around with their mothers for long. But there was more behind this name, because the professor’s Christian name, Gaston, was also the German word for guest: ‘gast.’ This young boy grew up with his mother, without any reproaches to his father. His mother told him his father was a cultured man from a respectable family and highly regarded by the Danish king. The boy was proud of him and became a big fan of all things Danish and anything connected to the king. Then, in the summer of 1936, Professor Lund came to Iceland again, as part of the delegation that accompanied King Christian X, and his name appeared in the Icelandic press. The mother took the boy to go and meet Gaston Lund where he was staying at Hotel Borg with the intention of introducing them to each other. That was the sole purpose of her visit and nothing more. But Lund took it very badly, claimed the woman was mentally unstable, and categorically denied any knowledge of the boy. He had the mother and son forcibly and shamefully thrown out of the hotel. It was a terrible shock for a young and impressionable soul, and it marked the boy for life. He had always been brought up with the myth of a father who mixed with kings and queens abroad and held far too important a post to be able to spend time with him and his mother. The boy’s self-esteem had been shattered in an instant, and the mother changed from being a proud, independent, driven woman to a grumpy bundle of nerves who had been deprived of the only recognition she needed in life. Ten years later she died of TB. Her son’s name was Bryngeir Gestsson. We lived together as a couple for a while, and I know he also had a vast impact on your life, too. But Lund didn’t dare to come back to Iceland until last summer, and he tried to avoid any further encounters with the mother of his child and the boy by concealing his identity.”

  CHAPTER 58

  Kjartan tried to lie down after his return from Ketilsey, but he was unable to sleep. He tossed and turned until he eventually gave up and decided to take a walk to calm his mind. As he walked up the steps toward the church, he saw Thormódur Krákur standing by the flagpole, propping himself up with his walking stick. He was wearing his Sunday suit, which after its repeated use over the past few days was by now beginning to look pretty crumpled and smudgy. An old sea bag lay at his feet.

  “Good day to you, Assistant Magistrate,” said Thormódur Krákur when he noticed Kjartan.

  “Hello, Krákur,” Kjartan answered. “The weather is clearing up.”

  “Yes, good weather for traveling now,” said Thormódur Krákur, and they both fell silent a moment.

  “Are you going on a journey then?” Kjartan asked.

  “Yes, they want to take me south on the coast guard ship to have more of a chat about my nocturnal escapade with the reporter’s body. They want the doctors at the mental asylum to check out my brain to make sure I’m not mad or something.”

  “That’s understandable, I suppose,” said Kjartan.

  Thormódur Krákur frowned and then winced. “No, that’s true, I guess it might seem weird to an outsider, but I still believe that everything serves a purpose. We’ll see. Old Jón Ferdinand has to travel south as well. They’re going to be examining him, too.”

  Kjartan nodded. “They need to find someplace where they can take good care of him. His son Valdi won’t be able to look after him if he gets any worse.”

  Thormódur Krákur grabbed Kjartan’s arm and said, “The worst part of it all is that I got you and my Jóhanna into all that trouble. I was totally devastated by it all.”

  “We’ll get over it,” said Kjartan.

  They were quiet for a brief moment.

  “I hear you’re not too keen on traveling,” Kjartan said finally.

  “That is correct,” Thormódur Krákur answered.

  “But I guess there’s no choice now?”

  “No,
they insist I go.”

  “When was the last time you left the island?”

  “It’s been a good while now.”

  “How long?”

  Thormódur Krákur thought a moment before answering: “When I was a youngster, I took several trips out, transporting sheep, and I did some fishing on the islands around here, but that’s about as far as I went. Then, when I was nineteen, they played a nasty trick on me, and I developed a kind of loathing for the sea after that. And from then on, I never went out to sea again. Besides, there was never any shortage of things for me to do at home on the island, so I didn’t need to really. I’m almost seventy now, so it’s been fifty years.”

  “So you’ve actually been stuck on Flatey for fifty whole years?”

  “Yes, and I can’t complain. I feel good here, and there’s nothing that draws me to the mainland. Besides, where would I go? To Stykkishólmur maybe or Reykjavik and spend money? No, my friend. Life has been good to me.”

  Kjartan grew pensive. Fifty years on an island that is about 1.2 miles long and a third of a mile wide. Was that a lot better than being locked up in jail? Maybe, if one didn’t make too many demands.

  It was as if Thormódur Krákur could read his thoughts. “I hear you spent a few years inside?”

  Kjartan gave a start. Of course, this story was bound to have traveled around the island, but no one had mentioned it until now.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he answered.

  “That must have been very trying,” said Thormódur Krákur. “Even though I’ve never traveled, I’ve always been my own boss. I’ve worked when I wanted to, eaten and slept whenever I wanted to, drank some schnapps whenever I felt inclined to. I imagine prison life must be pure misery and boredom.”

  Kjartan nodded.

  “And I’ve been able to enjoy nature and all it has to offer,” Thormódur Krákur continued.

  “To me, the environment here reminds me slightly of the prison,” Kjartan answered. “It also happened to be by the sea, so it was the same birds that I hear here that used to wake me up. I’ve yet to recover from that experience.”

  Thormódur Krákur was silent, so Kjartan continued: “But have you never longed to see other places than this little island and what you can see from this hillock?”

  “No, my boy, and I’ve probably seen more with my sight than many other people who spend their whole lives wandering across the globe. I’ve seen worlds and countries that others can’t even imagine. And that is perhaps precisely because I have planted firmer roots in the earth than the puffs of cotton that drift with the slightest breeze. An oak tree never complains that it can’t leave its land.”

  “Are you going to tell the doctors in Reykjavik that you see elves and hidden people?” Kjartan asked.

  “Not unless they ask me. Although it remains to be seen whether I’ll spot any down south,” Thormódur Krákur answered.

  “Do you see elves now?”

  “Yes. I’m kind of saying good-bye to them, my friends.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They’re south of the hillock and below the rock on the shore. And they pop up here every now and then.”

  Kjartan tried to conjure up the vision.

  “It must be fun to observe them,” he said.

  “Yes. It’s like watching newborn lambs playing in the spring,” said Thormódur Krákur. “Do you long to see them?” he then asked.

  “Yes, I can’t deny I do,” Kjartan answered.

  Thormódur Krákur lowered his voice: “I’ve sometimes helped people to see if that is their sincere wish.”

  Kjartan looked at him skeptically. “How then?”

  “Kneel down beside me here and place your head under my armpit. Let’s see what happens.”

  Kjartan seemed hesitant.

  “Yes, come on then, it won’t last long,” said Thormódur Krákur hastily.

  “Well, no harm in trying, I guess,” said Kjartan, kneeling down beside Thormódur Krákur, who took his head under his arm and held him tightly. Kjartan inhaled the smell of the wool of Krákur’s jacket mixed with pungent body odors and was on the point of pulling his head away because he had difficulties breathing. But then, all of a sudden, it was if he had entered another dimension. The air that he was breathing was suddenly sweet and refreshing, and he no longer felt Thormódur Krákur’s arm. On the slope below by the shore he saw little flashes of light that fleetingly took on small human shapes. It perhaps lasted for just a few seconds, but he felt it had been for much longer. Then Thormódur Krákur finally released his grip, breathless and gasping, as if he had been holding his breath while it lasted. The visions dissipated and the oxygen seemed to vanish again. Kjartan sank languidly to the ground.

  Thormódur Krákur didn’t ask him if the experiment had yielded any results. He seemed to know that it had. Kjartan sat dazed on the grass and tried to get his head around the experience.

  “You will find happiness, my friend,” said Thormódur Krákur at last. “Life has been difficult for you, but that’s all behind you now. I dreamed last night that I discovered a nest of beautiful eggs. That’s always turned out to be a couple close to me. You shall take my Jóhanna as your own, and it will bring you good luck, my friend.”

  “She might have something to say about that,” Kjartan answered.

  “Sometimes it’s all determined by fate, my friend, and we shouldn’t fight it. I’ve already asked my Jóhanna to take care of you, and she took it quite well. Now you just need to treat her like a gentleman and it’ll all happen of its own accord in a few months. I feel a strong connection there between you. I’ve been known to ask young people to open their hearts in a certain way, and it’s always turned out to be for the best.”

  Thormódur Krákur turned around and looked down at the village. Högni, the teacher, was walking up the pass and holding a small case.

  “Well then,” said Thormódur Krákur, “time to get on that ship then. They’re sailing out at two. Grímur asked Högni to accompany me and Jón Ferdinand on this trip. Högni knows his way around Reykjavik, and he’ll be there to lend us a hand on this trip. I really appreciate that.”

  They walked down the slope and met Högni.

  “Won’t you be sailing south with us, Kjartan?” Högni asked.

  “No, now I need to rest for one night. Grímur will be taking me over to Brjánslækur tomorrow morning. They’ll be sending me a car from Patreksfjördur. Hopefully, I’ll be able get back to notarizing property deals again.”

  “Reckon you’ll find any more bodies in the district?” Högni asked teasingly.

  Kjartan shook his head. He couldn’t even bring himself to smile at the remark.

  Högni looked at Thormódur Krákur. “Right then, sir. Let’s get going. Can’t keep the ship waiting.”

  Morning had broken by the time Jóhanna and Kjartan’s conversation finally ended. They spoke about the event that had transformed both their lives so much for the worse many years earlier. They cried together and forgave. They were still young and no longer intended to live in the past.

  Before they left the library, they put the Munksgaard edition of the Flatey Book back into its place, having decided that the Aenigma Flateyensis should revert back to being an unsolved riddle. The story they now knew about how the enigma had been solved was a harrowing one, and they didn’t want any of it to be associated with this ancient puzzle. They both wanted these old events to peacefully fade now. Neither Gaston Lund nor Björn Snorri Thorvald had lived to savor the moment when the solution was fully revealed, and it was therefore preferable to allow it to be rediscovered by someone else, under happier circumstances.

  A fog hovered over Flatey, and it was raining as they walked down the path from the church. In the distance one could hear the faint beat of a hammer from Thormódur Krákur, who was making a new lid for his well.

  AUTHOR’S POSTSCRIPT

  The Flatey Book was returned to Iceland on April 21, 1971, and is now exhibited in the
Culture House in Reykjavik. Many sources were tapped in the making of this story. The text of the Flatey Book was, of course, the most precious mine, but countless other books were also delved into. I would like to thank these authors for the loan of their work.

  My grandfather, Viktor Guðnason, was the manager of the post and telephone exchange in Flatey, as well as the church organist. My grandmother, Jónína Ólafsdóttir, was a goodwife in Sólbakki in Flatey and baked cakes that acquired great fame. I got to spend several summers with them, the last of which was in 1964. In the summer of 1960, I was a five-year-old boy staying with them in Flatey, so this period is firmly embedded in my mind. Among other things, I have a vivid memory of the moment when my grandfather showed me the Munksgaard edition of the Flatey Book in the library. The Munksgaard edition can now be viewed there under a glass case, as it is described in this book.