The Flatey Enigma

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  “Yes, that’s a short walk,” Grimur said. “But what did the man do when he realized Doctor Johanna wasn’t in her house?”

  Hogni thought about it. “Krakur says he was trying to get someone to take him to Stykkisholmur.”

  “But none of the boat owners could remember him asking to be taken over that night.”

  Hogni thought again. “Maybe he went out to Ystakot and asked Valdi. He’d done it once before,” he said.

  Grimur started walking. “But don’t forget the poor man drowned before he was carved,” he said. “In unsalted water. There isn’t a single drop of water in the rocks around Ystakot.”

  “No, except in the barrel in Valdi’s yard.”

  “Do you think Valdi might have dragged the rascal by the scruff of the neck and drowned him in the barrel of water like a kitten?”

  “Nah.” Hogni was baffled. “But Valdi can be hot tempered.”

  “And why should he have dragged the body to the churchyard?”

  “I don’t know,” Hogni answered, feeling uneasy about taking on the role of the accuser in this reasoning.

  “Let’s walk across the island and see what the Ystakot clan have to say for themselves this evening,” said Grimur. They walked down the road below the church in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. No lights shone in the doctor’s house, but when they reached the pier they saw the coast guard ship was lit up.

  “Those Reykjavik people obviously don’t go to bed early,” said Grimur, but then he suddenly halted when he saw that the Ystakot boat wasn’t anchored in its place at the pier.

  “Damn, they’re out at sea,” he said. “We can’t talk to them then.”

  Hogni looked at the coast guard ship. “Should we step on board and talk to the police about Valdi?” he asked hesitantly.

  Grimur thought it over. “No. It’s just pure conjecture on our part, and we have no proof. I want to talk to Valdi myself when he gets back.”

  Hogni seemed relieved. “Then we should just go to bed,” he said.

  They walked the same way back and fell into an even deeper silence. At the crossroads, Hogni said good night and walked on home to the school.

  Question thirty-eight: How did Erlingur Hakonarson die? Sixth letter. Erlingur was a promising seven-year-old boy when his father Earl Hakon was fighting off an invasion from the Jomsvikings in Norway. The earl was faring very badly in the battle and eventually invoked Thorgerd Hordabrud, vowing to make a human sacrifice, offering Erlingur for this purpose. This brought about a great transformation because clouds erupted and the Jomsvikings had to struggle against a violent hailstorm that broke out over the ships. The hailstones weighed two ounces each and pelted the Jomsvikings’ faces so fiercely that they almost blinded them. They had pulled off some of their clothes during the day because of the heat, but now it grew much colder. They then realized that Thorgerd was on the earl’s side, and arrows shot out from all her fingers. Every single arrow killed someone. The answer is “sacrifice.” The sixth letter is f.

  CHAPTER 55

  Wednesday, June 8, 1960

  It was past midnight by the time Grimur started to undress in the small bedroom of his house. Ingibjorg seemed to be asleep, but she stirred as he slipped under the quilt.

  “Did you remember to give water to the cows, Grimur dear?” she asked sleepily.

  Grimur sat up on the edge of the bed again. “No, of course not. I’ve been so preoccupied, or maybe I’m just going senile,” he said, stretching out for his clothes.

  “These are bad times. I haven’t been myself these days, goddamn it,” he said as he walked to the cowshed. He fetched some buckets from the shed and lowered them into the well. The water level was reasonably high after the rainfall, so it was easy to fill them. He took two trips, but as he was passing the shed door, he noticed that Thormodur Krakur was also fetching water in the well by his shed.

  Grimur walked across the field to him. “Are you still up, Krakur?”

  “Yeah, got to take care of the animals,” he answered heavily.

  Grimur was silent a moment. Finally, he said, “These are bad times for us on the island.”

  Thormodur Krakur silently nodded.

  Grimur continued: “The inspectors think that Kjartan, the magistrate’s assistant, and Doctor Johanna killed the reporter and dragged him up to the churchyard.”

  Again, Thormodur Krakur silently shook his head.

  “Then they got news from Reykjavik that the reporter drowned,” Grimur added, “not at sea, but in freshwater.”

  “Oh, in that case the police must realize they’re innocent,” said Thormodur Krakur eagerly.

  “No, they say that Kjartan and Johanna drowned the man in the bathtub in the doctor’s house,” said Grimur.

  Thormodur Krakur shook his head again. “Bullshit. They haven’t harmed anyone,” he said.

  “I happen to agree with you, but who did it then?” Grimur asked.

  Thormodur Krakur didn’t answer.

  “Hogni and I were wondering if Valdi in Ystakot might have lost control of himself. Do you think that’s possible?”

  Thormodur Krakur looked at Grimur and suddenly started to cry, the silent, tearless weeping of an old man.

  Grimur stared at the broken man in astonishment.

  “It’s all my fault,” the old man yelled into the night in a cracking voice, as if he wanted the whole island to hear his confession.

  Grimur struggled to understand. “Your fault?” he asked.

  “Yes, it was me, it was me,” Thormodur Krakur uttered through his heavy sobs.

  “How do you mean, Krakur?”

  “It was me, and now everyone else is being blamed for it.”

  “Did you murder that man, Krakur?”

  “Murder? No, not at all. He drowned helplessly, but then it was me who did those things to him.”

  “Did you place him in the churchyard?”

  “Yes. I had to do it because of the dream.”

  Grimur patted Thormodur Krakur on the shoulder. “Come on, pal. Tell me the whole story.”

  Thormodur Krakur got a hold of himself, wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and then started to talk: “The reporter came up to me in the shed on Sunday evening and asked me for some milk to drink. Then he offered me a sip of rum and we started chatting.”

  Thormodur Krakur pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose before continuing: “The man wanted to hear some good stories, so I told him stories, old dreams, deciphered and undeciphered, as I usually do. Then I told him about the calf dream, which is about the three eagles over the church and the eagle that sits in the churchyard and has blood on its wings and the distinguished-looking men leading the calves up the pass. D’you remember?”

  Grimur nodded. He had often heard Thormodur Krakur describe that dream.

  “The man said he could decipher the dream. He said that when a blood eagle perches in the Flatey churchyard, it would be a sign that the Flatey Book was on its way back home out of its exile.”

  “Huh?” Grimur wasn’t quite following.

  “Yes, the distinguished figures are the ancient Norwegian kings and the calves symbolize the 113 vellum sheets of the manuscript. Then the reporter said these exact words to me: ‘If you ever have to kill anyone or stumble on anyone who’s already dead, take him up to the churchyard, place him on a grave there, and carve a blood eagle on his back. Then see what happens.’ That’s what he said, and that’s what I did. Obviously the bird with the bloody feathers meant a man cut into a blood eagle, as described in the Flatey Book. Bryngeir could see that, but I was so blind that I never made the connection, even though I’d read about blood eagles many times. It was the most ingenious decoding of a dream I’d ever heard. Then, after we’d been chatting for a while, I had to take the milk to the priest, and the reporter was going to visit Doctor Johanna.”

  “Yes, I know.” Grimur nodded.

  “From the vicarage I went home for dinner and then up to the shed again in the eveni
ng to give water to the cows for the night. But as I was fetching the water, I saw the man there at the bottom of the well. He was lying on his back at the bottom with his legs sticking out of the water.”

  “How the hell did he end up in there?” Grimur was aghast.

  Thormodur Krakur shook his head. “I don’t know. The old lid was smashed, and pieces of wood were floating around the man in the water.”

  Grimur looked at the path that led from the shed to the well. It pointed to the southwest of the island in a direct line to the doctor’s house. “Maybe he intended to take the shortcut across the island from the shed,” said Grimur, “and the path just led him across the field to the well. Then he stepped on the old lid of the well and broke it.”

  Thormodur Krakur nodded and shook his head alternately. “The man was stone dead when I finally managed to hoist up him with my long hook. My first thought was to go and get you, Grimur, but then I remembered what he’d said. ‘If you ever have to kill anyone or stumble on someone who who’s already dead, take him up to the churchyard, place him on a grave there, and carve a blood eagle on his back.’ That was his final wish, and I couldn’t deny him that. The man had said it to me in all seriousness, and I didn’t dare to disobey. He could have started to haunt the shed here, and the Flatey Book was at stake. I grabbed my slaughtering knife in the shed and took the man up to the churchyard on the cart. I placed him on a grave there as I’d been instructed to do and carved his back. Then I dug my hands into the wounds and pulled his lungs out and all this blood came out. Then I just left him there and went home to sleep. The man didn’t mention how long he’d have to stand there like that for the prediction to come true.”

  “Didn’t anyone see you doing this?” Grimur asked.

  “No, no. It was so late.”

  Grimur peered into Thormodur Krakur’s eyes. “You’re not just saying this to save Johanna and Kjartan and get them out of this mess they’re in, are you?”

  “No, no. God forbid. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Very well,” Grimur gasped. “I remember you were making a new lid for your well on Monday. So the old lid was destroyed by the reporter?”

  “Yeah, it was smashed to pieces.”

  Grimur shook his head. “I’m not sure you did the right thing in all of this, even if the man did say those things to you.”

  Thormodur stood dejectedly, fiddling with some wool between his fingers. “I guess I better tell the police about this. I just can’t bear stepping on that pier,” he added.

  Question thirty-nine: A smaller steak than the king. First letter. Ali Hallvardsson was dressed just like the king. He rode into the woods with just a few men. The yeomen swiftly came to him and killed him. They stripped off his armor and loudly exclaimed that the king was dead. But when the king heard of this, he ordered a battle horn to be blown and defiantly rode on, and the yeomen realized that they had a smaller steak on their spit than they had imagined. The answer is “Ali,” and the first letter is a.

  CHAPTER 56

  It was almost five in the morning when Grimur and Kjartan clambered down the debarkation bridge on the side of the coast guard ship. Thormodur Krakur had come on board with Grimur after midnight and told the policemen his story. First orally, twice, and then he was asked to describe the events in writing and to sign his statement in the presence of witnesses. The policemen were very suspicious. They couldn’t imagine how anyone could commit such an atrocity on the mere basis of a dream. Finally, Thormodur Krakur was allowed to go home for the night. Inspector Lukas went with him to confiscate the slaughtering knife. The matter was then to be investigated in greater detail in the morning, when the well and broken lid would be examined. Thorolfur reluctantly agreed to release Kjartan from custody since he was lying awake in his cabin. Johanna, on the other hand, was to remain in custody. The case of the Danish professor still loomed over her.

  The district officer and the magistrate’s envoy both walked off the pier in silence. The morning sun had risen in the east and was beginning to draw long shadows. An icy nocturnal breeze played on their cheeks, and ice crystals glistened on the pier. Temperatures had dropped to freezing point in the heart of the night.

  Some seagulls that had spent the night on the edge of the jetty silently scattered into the sky, disturbed by the men’s approach. An ewe with two lambs lay by the corner of the fish factory and obstinately stood up when they almost stepped on them. Kjartan gazed at the lambs running up the slope toward Ystakot. There were two huts at the end of the shore, and he thought he could make out someone peeping at him from behind one of them. He halted and tapped Grimur’s arm without saying anything. The little head popped out again and now realized it had been spotted and decided to recoil. The small human figure swiftly headed up the slope toward Ystakot.

  “Isn’t that little Nonni?” Grimur said. “What’s he doing up so early?”

  “Or late,” said Kjartan.

  Grimur glanced back at the boats anchored at the pier. “His father’s boat isn’t back yet. Could they still be out at sea and the boy alone at home?”

  “Maybe it’s not all as it seems,” Kjartan said softly.

  They walked up the slope after the boy. When they reached the croft, they saw the boy in the doorway but then vanishing inside.

  Grimur called through the door: “Nonni, come out and talk to us, my friend. We want to help you if there’s something wrong.”

  There was no answer, so Grimur stooped to step into the dark cottage. Kjartan followed. They first came into a small, smelly, dirty kitchen. Beyond that there was a small bedroom with four beds, two on either side. Daylight filtered through a small window at the top of the gable, and a half-full potty lay on the floor. Kjartan felt nauseous, turned around, and rushed outside to deeply inhale the clear morning air several times.

  “Nonni, my friend,” Grimur called inside. “We only want to ask you about your dad and your grandpa. Have they been away for long?”

  Some noise was heard from within, and soon the district officer reappeared with the boy by his side.

  “The boy was all alone in there,” Grimur said to Kjartan.

  The boy stood beside them, downcast.

  “Are your dad and grandpa at sea?” Grimur asked.

  “Yeah, but they’ve been gone such a long time,” the boy answered. “They left really early this morning.”

  “You mean yesterday morning. Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “No, I was waiting for them all day.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Out to Ketilsey to pull in the seal net and check on the eiderdown. They weren’t going to be gone this long.”

  “Maybe the engine broke down. I’ll go out looking for them. I’m sure they’re in no danger. The weather’s so good. Why didn’t you go with them?”

  “I wasn’t allowed to. Dad was punishing me for taking a crap on the island last time, and then I sneaked out of church during the mass on Sunday and he saw me.”

  Kjartan had an idea and gently asked him, “Do you have a camera, Nonni?”

  The boy looked at him in surprise but didn’t answer.

  Kjartan repeated his question: “Don’t you have a camera, my friend?”

  Nonni was about to say something, but the words got stuck in his throat.

  “I think you have a camera and maybe also some nice binoculars,” said Kjartan.

  “How do you know?” said the boy.

  “Can I see them?” Kjartan asked.

  The boy looked at them with trepidation but then walked away from the croft. Grimur and Kjartan followed him. Nonni walked past the potato patch toward a shed built into the earth of the slope. He entered it through a low doorway and swiftly returned, holding a small bag.

  “The foreigner left this bag in the boat when Granddad took him to Stykkisholmur,” he said. “I found it myself and kept it.”

  Kjartan took the bag and examined it. Inside it he found a camera, pair of binoculars, a toiletrie
s bag, and underwear that had grown musty from damp storage.

  “The camera’s broken,” said the boy. “I’ve tried everything you’re supposed to do, but there’s no picture in the box.”

  “Tell us about when your grandpa took the foreigner out,” said Kjartan.

  The boy looked up and said, “Dad went to the mainland with the mail boat to get Mom. Me and Grandpa went down when the boat was coming back to grab the ropes. We were then going to go out in the strait to fish some small cod for dinner.”

  He grew silent and stared at his treasures. He was trembling from the cold and fatigue.

  “What happened then?” Grimur asked.

  “We were still on the pier when everyone else had left, and we were going to go out on our boat, Raven. Then the foreigner came running over and calling. He was far too late because the mail boat had left ages ago. Then he ordered Grandpa to take him to Stykkisholmur, but it was really difficult to understand him.”

  “Did your grandpa agree to sail with him?” Grimur asked.

  “Yeah, the man showed us the loads of money he was going to give us when they got to Stykkisholmur.”

  “So they went then?”

  “Yeah, but the foreigner didn’t want me to come along.”

  “Was your grandpa away for long?”

  “Yeah, he didn’t come back until the next day. The motor was completely out of fuel, so he came in using the sail when the southern winds started blowing. Grandpa then went to sleep, but I found the bag in the boat and hid it. I would’ve given it back to the foreigner, but he never came back to ask for it.”

  “Didn’t your dad know about this?”

  “No. He was so angry when he got back from the mainland because Mom wouldn’t come back with him from her roadworks job. He complained about everything and got really mad when he saw the boat was out of fuel. Grandpa couldn’t remember anything about his trip with the foreigner, and I didn’t dare to tell Dad about it. Grandpa has started to forget so many things. I think the foreigner also forgot to pay him the way he’d promised because Grandpa didn’t have any money on him when he got home. I peeped into his pockets when he was asleep.”