The Flatey Enigma

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  Grimur grinned and then added: “The people of Breidafjordur weren’t bothered by trivialities.”

  Kjartan nodded and attempted a smile.

  Grimur carried on pointing at the islands as they sailed, naming them and recounting their histories. To the west there was the skerry of Oddbjarnarsker, which had important fishing grounds that the poor traveled to in the days of the famine to survive. Then there were the isles of Skeley, Langey, Feigsey, and Syrey. Each place name had its own story.

  Hogni woke up from his nap, moved over to them, and contributed his own anecdotes. As Flatey appeared on the horizon, he said, “One Christmastime, just before the turn of the century, a ship was sailing from the mainland with wood cuttings they were supposed to sell in Flatey as firewood. There were six men on board, but they ran into bad weather and got lost on the way. They finally reached the island of Feigsey, but the boat was wrecked.”

  Hogni pointed Feigsey out to Kjartan and then continued: “The men were there for days on end, cold and without any food, but they could see people walking between the houses in Flatey when there was light during the day. Finally, their shouts were heard and they were rescued. They all survived the ordeal, which was quite a feat, because they’d had no food apart from a small ration of butter. A few decades ago a foreign freighter sank in the fjord here. It was carrying a cargo of telephone poles and barrels of thick motor lubricant. A rescue was launched, and some of the goods floated to shore. The men didn’t really like the taste of what they took to be foreign butter, but it seemed to last forever.”

  Grimur laughed loudly at the story, even though he had definitely heard it often before and, in fact, had been one of the men who had tasted the motor grease.

  Their chatter made time pass quickly, and they soon neared their destination.

  As they drew closer, Kjartan was surprised to see how many houses there were on Flatey. First the church appeared, shimmering in a haze, since it stood at the top of the island, painted in white with a red roof. Then the village gradually started to take shape. The sun glared on the multicolored gables of the houses, and in many places laundry flapped on clotheslines.

  Grimur slowed down the engine as they passed a small isle with high bird cliffs covered in white shells on its northern side but a well-sheltered bay that faced Flatey on its southern side. The strait between the island was no more than a hundred meters wide.

  “We call that islet Hafnarey,” Grimur announced. “Scientists say it’s an ancient volcanic crater.” He still needed to raise his voice because the screeching of the birds had now taken over from the noise produced by the boat’s engine.

  They sailed slowly into the strait and approached a small, dilapidated concrete pier below the village. Some kids were watching them with natural interest.

  “This is called Eyjolfur’s pier. The new pier is over by the fish factory at the southern end of the island,” said Grimur. He steered the boat toward the mooring buoy floating in the strait and grabbed it with a short hook as they passed it. Hogni tied the boat’s stern to the anchored buoy and then moved to the bow to be ready for when they reached the pier. Kjartan sat on the thwart beside the casket and felt an urge to help them, but the crew seemed to be doing a good job and he would have undoubtedly just been in their way. Hogni hopped onto the step below the pier with the rope and held the boat while Kjartan and Grimur clambered out after him. Hogni then released the hawser and allowed the anchored buoy to drag the boat away from the pier again.

  He scolded the children as he tightened the knot: “I strictly forbid you to go on that boat.” Then, to drive the point home, he added, “District Officer Grimur will stick you in that casket if you disobey!”

  The kids recoiled slightly at the sound of this threat and stuck their heads together. A short and stocky man, dressed in dark Sunday clothes with a black hat and silver walking stick poised in his hand, elbowed his way through the throng of children and greeted Kjartan.

  “Thormodur Krakur, I’m the deacon and the island’s eiderdown tradesman,” he introduced himself in a loud voice, tilting on his toes and rocking to and fro.

  “I’m Kjartan…the district magistrate’s assistant,” the new arrival said, hesitantly.

  Thormodur Krakur bowed deeply. “Welcome to the district of Flatey, my good sir and officer. This is hardly the most felicitous of occasions, of course, but we islanders always welcome visitors from our most distinguished magistrature.”

  “Thank you,” said Kjartan, transfixed by the medal that dangled from a threadbare ribbon on the deacon’s lapel.

  Thormodur Krakur continued with his speech but lowered his voice now: “The church will, of course, be open for you when you return with the deceased. I’ll come down with a handcart to transport the casket when you arrive. Our pastor will find some appropriate words.”

  “Yes…thank you,” said Kjartan. He hadn’t really thought about that aspect of the job. The district magistrate had only instructed him to collect the body from the island and to send it on the mail boat to Reykjavik, which was expected in two days’ time, and then write a report. After that his job was supposed to be done.

  “But wouldn’t it be possible to get a car for the casket?” Kjartan asked.

  “The only possibility then would be to use the van from the fish factory, but it hasn’t been started yet this spring. Krakur’s cart is perfectly adequate,” Grimur answered.

  The deacon tilted on his toes again and said, “Yes, my cart is always used by the church for funerals here on Flatey.”

  “Very well,” said Kjartan. “Thank you for taking care of that.”

  Grimur wavered impatiently. “My wife, Imba, is ready with the lunch,” he said. “Let’s not keep her waiting.”

  They walked across the village with Thormodur Krakur leading the way. Shouldering his walking stick like a rifle, he swung his other arm to the beat of a military march. Women were tending to their clotheslines in front of several houses and curiously observed the men as they walked by. Thormodur Krakur outlined the lay of the land for Kjartan in a lofty voice and pointed with his free hand: “That’s the warehouse over there, and there’s the telephone exchange, and there’s the co-operative store,” he announced, “and this is where our blessed priest lives, Reverend Hannes, and that’s Gudjon’s boy there tentering the seal fur.”

  They walked past three furs that had been stretched on the gable with the furry side facing the wall, and a young man was nailing up the fourth.

  “And this is the cove and sea wall that was built and paid for in silver.” Thormodur Krakur pointed at a long wall of piled stones that enclosed a narrow cove. They were being followed by a coil-tailed black dog, and a pack of cackling multicolored hens stepped out of their way on the road.

  “And that up there is our church and graveyard, and behind the church there’s the oldest library building in Iceland. It’s not very big, but it contains various gems if you take a look. Even a perfect replica of the Book of Flatey, the most famous manuscript in Nordic history, the Codex Flateyensis, printed and bound by Munksgaard in Copenhagen and bequeathed to the library of Flatey as a gift to celebrate its hundredth anniversary.”

  The district officer’s house was painted in white with a green roof and stood on the edge of the slope overlooking the village. The name of the house, BAKKI, was painted in big black letters on a sign over the door. Thormodur Krakur escorted the men to the entrance and then took off his hat to say good-bye with a handshake.

  “I’ll be at your disposal then when you come back,” he said finally, tilting on his toes again. He then swirled on his heels and solemnly walked down to the village.

  “Does the deacon always dress like that?” Kjartan asked Grimur as he watched the man walk away.

  “No. Only on mass days and when he’s receiving dignitaries,” the district officer answered.

  “He considers me to be a dignitary then, since this is hardly a mass day,” said Kjartan awkwardly.

  Grimur la
ughed. “Yes, my friend. Krakur has a deep reverence for authority figures, especially if they happen to be from the magistrate’s office.”

  “What’s that medal on his chest for?”

  “That’s the medal of honor from the parliamentary celebrations of 1930. Krakur received it for making a down quilt for the Danish king,” Grimur answered.

  “You’ve got to give it to him, though,” Hogni added, “he handles eiderdown better than most.”

  The mistress of the household welcomed them and ushered them into the living room where a small table had been laid for three.

  “I’m Ingibjorg. I hope you’ll be comfortable with us,” she said when Kjartan greeted her and introduced himself. She was a thickset woman with a conspicuous birthmark on her right cheek, and she was dressed in traditional Icelandic clothes and a striped apron.

  “I take it the magistrate’s assistant will eat fresh seal meat, will he not?” Grimur asked as soon as he sat down.

  Full of trepidation, Kjartan eyed several pieces of fat black meat steaming on a platter.

  “Yes, maybe a little,” he finally answered.

  Hogni also took a seat, since the woman of the house didn’t seem to be expected to sit with them. She placed glasses on the table and a jug of water.

  “We eat a lot of seal pup during the hunting season,” said Grimur, stabbing a large piece. “And potatoes, too, if they’re available.”

  Kjartan carved a tiny slice off one of the pieces and placed it on his plate. Then he stretched out for a potato.

  The lady of the house reentered with a small simmering pot.

  “Here’s the melted sheep’s fat. It’s nice on top,” said Grimur.

  Kjartan could only bring himself to taste a morsel of the meat and then finished the potato.

  Hogni eyed him inquisitively and then said with a full mouth, “I once knew a man who wouldn’t eat seal or sea raven either, but the funny thing was that he ate poultry and liked that.”

  Hogni turned back to his plate and skillfully shoveled food into his mouth without soiling his distinguished moustache.

  The lady of the house followed what was going on at the table from the kitchen doorway.

  “Don’t you like it, lad?” she asked when it was clear that Kjartan wasn’t going to be having any seconds.

  “I don’t have much appetite after the crossing,” he answered, taking a sip of water, although he felt that it, too, had a bizarre taste.

  “You poor thing, what was I thinking? Let me see if I can find something gentler on the stomach after your sea journey.” She vanished into the kitchen.

  Grimur pointed through the west window of the living room.

  “That’s the doctor’s house out there. We have a woman doctor now, and her name is Johanna. She lives there with her father, an old man, bedridden but very learned. He’s far gone with cancer, poor man. Some people say he came here to die. Not the worst place to do that. It’s a shorter distance to heaven from here, I mean. Our Johanna likes to keep to herself a bit, but she’s a fine doctor. Behind the doctor’s house there’s our new fish factory. You can’t see it from here. And beyond that there’s the croft of Ystakot. It was the last croft to be built with turf walls on this island. That’s where the clan who found the body live. There’s no farming for them there, apart from their potato patch, but they go to Ketilsey and the skerries around there. They just about scrape by; it’s a long way to go, and there aren’t many eggs to be found. But they catch some seal and puffin there, too. They also do some line fishing and work at the fish factory when it’s in operation.”

  For a brief moment the men focused on their meal until Ingibjorg reentered to place a bowl of soup in front of Kjartan.

  “Here’s some leftovers from yesterday’s meat soup. I hope your stomach will find that more agreeable.”

  Kjartan tasted the soup and preferred it to the seal meat.

  Grimur spoke again: “There are about sixty of us on the island right now. But people are leaving. It’s mostly old folks that are left now. How many kids were there in the school this winter, Hogni?”

  Kjartan realized that the district officer knew exactly how many kids there were in the school and all their names, and that he undoubtedly knew more about their families than the kids did. The question had just been a ploy to draw the teacher into the conversation.

  “There were fifteen, but many of them were from the inner islands,” Hogni answered punctiliously.

  “Then they’ll leave as soon as they can,” Grimur continued. “There isn’t much for youngsters to do around here the way things are right now. The catch is so meager, and the fish factory has never worked properly. Seventeen islands have been abandoned in this fjord over the past eighteen years, and now only eight of them are inhabited.”

  “How come?” Kjartan asked.

  “The reason is simply that we don’t have a sufficient workforce to be able to make full use of the resources this place has to offer. And young people are no longer content to be paid in food for their labor on the bigger farms. They want their wages in cash and to own their own houses. But Icelanders have yet to learn to appreciate these islands. With new farming equipment and good boats, there are many plots of land that could start yielding quite nicely here in the Western Isles, and that’s something that’ll happen with the coming generations. An area that can yield up to seventy pup seal furs every summer will always be considered to be a big asset in this country. The nation can’t afford to allow resources like this go to waste, my friend.”

  Grimur looked at his plate and frowned. “The worst thing about this seal meat is that the fat cools off and hardens if you get carried away in conversation,” he said and stood up. “But all you have to do is stick the plate on the stove to liven it up a bit again.” He vanished into the kitchen with the plate in his hand.

  Hogni was full and stared inquisitively at Kjartan.

  “Where are you from exactly?” he asked.

  “I’m just from Reykjavik, from the east side,” Kjartan answered politely.

  “On both sides of the family?”

  “Yes, Reykjavik on both sides.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “So you started studying law a bit late then?”

  “Yes.”

  “What delayed you? Lack of money, maybe?”

  “You could say that.”

  “So I guess you must have worked to finance your studies before you started then?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Where did you work?”

  Kjartan hesitated before answering but was interrupted by Grimur, who returned with his plate and the melted fat simmering on the meat. “This is delicious,” he said, smacking his lips. “Doesn’t that soup go down nicely?” he asked Kjartan.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “That’s good. You’re welcome to stay in our loft until you’ve finished your business here. My sweet Imba will make sure you don’t die of hunger.”

  “…This miscellany of episodes and sagas was characteristic of Icelandic literature in the fourteenth century. The objective was to collect related material from various sources in one book, and to compile and join stories about the same kings with the aim of forming a precise narrative, which was, broadly speaking, chronological, even though the style could vary somewhat. The intention was more on collecting as much narrative material as possible than creating a structured whole. One could therefore say that the Flatey Book is slightly chaotic when compared to Snorri Sturluson’s Chronicle of the Kings of Norway, which deals with similar material. But thanks to this mania for collecting material, the Flatey Book contains many elements that cannot be found on vellum elsewhere, with countless episodes and verses. Olaf Tryggvason’s saga is followed by Helgi’s saga, Sverrir Sigurdsson’s saga, Hakon the Elderly’s saga, and other tales. At the end of the book there is a set of annals that stretch from the origins of creation to the times in which the book was written…�
��

  CHAPTER 4

  Lunch was now over in Flatey’s district officer’s home, and his wife placed a pot of coffee on the table. The men poured the boiling coffee into their empty glasses of water and snorted snuff. Kjartan also poured some coffee into his glass but declined Ingibjorg’s offer of sugar and milk. The men sipped the hot coffee, sighed, and burped.

  “I met a guy once who told me that coffee was God’s gift to man to compensate for a long day’s work,” said Hogni. “But I’ve always felt that there’s no need for the good Lord to compensate man for the privilege of being able to work for his livelihood. But a drop of coffee is invigorating, and thank God for that.”

  Kjartan nodded approvingly.

  “Now we’re ready for anything,” said Grimur, patting his potbelly and finishing the coffee in his glass. “Ghosts and specters won’t bother you if you’re on a full stomach,” he added.

  Hogni laughed and said, “We call this the district officer’s wisdom, and it’s completely unproven.”

  Then they wandered outside, and the men grabbed two shovels from Grimur’s barn. Kjartan asked why.

  “You don’t pick up a winter-old corpse with your bare hands. Not straight after lunch,” Grimur answered, wiping a film of manure off the blade of the shovel with a tuft of grass he pulled up by the barn wall.

  Kjartan followed the men, who walked off with the shovels on their shoulders, down to the village and across to the pier. Hogni pulled the boat to the ledge, and they stepped on board. Grimur untied the moorings, turned on the engine, and headed off to the west of the island.

  The district officer pointed out the Flatey lighthouse to Kjartan on a skerry a short distance away, and the croft of Ystakot soon appeared to the west of the tip of the island, half buried in the slope, just above sea level. A small, fenced-off patch of garden had newly been dug, and several neat-looking beds of dark brown soil could be seen. A young boy sat watching them on a rock on the shore.

  “That’s little Nonni,” said Grimur. “He’s just as peculiar as his dad and grandpa. He was in your school this winter, Hogni, wasn’t he?”