Sunday, June 5, 1960
The state radio made sure all Icelanders realized Whitsunday was on its way. Psalms bellowed out of Ingibjorg’s radio, filling the district officer’s home. The radio choir was singing Icelandic Whitsunday psalms.
It was still bright and slightly cloudy over Breidafjordur, and the wind had subsided and seemed to be turning. The farmers scrutinized the sky above and forecast good weather for the day and then rain in the evening. That wasn’t such a bad thing, since the fields needed a sprinkle. The wells were also running low. But it would be good if the dry weather could hold up during the day while the church guests were walking about.
A festive atmosphere had spread across the village by the time Kjartan descended from the loft at around ten and peered outside. Grimur had put on his dark Sunday best, and he looked washed and shaven. His mop of hair was combed back, and he had brushed his bushy beard. Ingibjorg was wearing a pretty bodice and had sprayed herself with perfume. Pastries were served with the morning coffee.
The national flag had been hoisted on the high flagpole in front of the church and flapped gently in the warm breeze. Here and there people could be seen strolling about, but no one was working. Days of rest were sacred, especially Whitsundays.
Through the kitchen window, Grimur watched motorboats loaded with church guests from the inner isles approaching the strait between Hafnarey and Flatey.
“It used to be a more impressive sight back in the days when the island boats came to mass under lily-white sails. I think the good Lord probably preferred that,” he said wistfully in between the names of the boats he was rattling off, as well as the names of those who were probably on board. Every now and then he lifted an old pair of binoculars to his eyes to confirm the identity of a person he had already guessed.
“Yes, yes, I knew it, that’s the Skaley boat,” he said smugly.
The travelers made the crossings in the boats in their everyday clothes, but carried church clothes with them in suitcases, as well as picnics in chests and flasks of coffee. People stepped ashore on Eyjolfur’s pier and vanished into the houses of friends and relatives only to reappear in the village again a short time later, dressed in their festive clothes. Some knocked stealthily on Asmundur the storekeeper’s window, and he ushered them into the store through the back door on the eastern side of the building. The store was naturally closed on holy mass days, but he could always make an exception for people in dire need. The co-op, on the other hand, was firmly locked since it was next door to the vicarage and the priest himself was a member of the company’s board.
Hogni, the organist, rounded up all the choir members once all the boats had arrived and walked ahead of the group up to the church. They were supposed to rehearse before the mass.
At one thirty, the deacon, Thormodur Krakur, left his home in his Sunday best and crossed the village towing his cart with his wife, Gudridur, sitting flat out on top of it. When they reached the vicarage, the priest and his wife appeared ready for the mass, and the four of them went to the church.
Ingibjorg was a member of the church choir and had vanished with the organist as soon as she had finished washing up after lunch. Grimur and Kjartan sat in the living room, drinking coffee in silence. Grimur was perusing through the weekly supply of newspapers that had arrived on the mail boat the day before, while Kjartan tackled a puzzle in a Danish weekly and thought of Gaston Lund. He was trying to form a picture of him from the few fragments of information they had gathered.
“Tell me something,” he said to attract Grimur’s attention. “Does anyone know who the father of Gudrun in Innstibaer’s child was?”
Grimur was taken aback. “No. The boy was grown up and had gone off to sea by the time Gudrun moved here to live with Hallbjorg. I’ve never heard the father mentioned.”
“Valdi in Ystakot wrote in his diary that Gudrun’s son came on a boat the day before Gaston Lund went missing.”
Grimur cleared his throat and shook his head. “You’re taking this a bit too far now, pal,” he said.
“And then there’s that word- lucky,” Kjartan said, growing more excited. “That’s the word we think Lund tried to write with the pebbles in Ketilsey, and it also happens to be the name of Sigurbjorn of Svalbardi’s boat. Isn’t he related to Gudrun somehow?”
Grimur seemed apprehensive. “I hadn’t really made that connection, but we should tread very carefully with this and not go blabbing about it to the Reykjavik police.”
“Why not?” Kjartan asked.
“It’s all so far-fetched, and it would go down very badly with the locals here if that kind of gossip were to get around. False accusations can do so much damage.”
Kjartan suddenly shut up. The district officer’s words hit him hard. He should have known.
A second round of church bells prompted the district officer to put down his papers and stand. Clearing his throat again, he said it was time to go. Kjartan followed him. The assumption had been that he would attend the mass like everyone else, and he saw no reason to fuel any controversy by declining to go, although he wasn’t too keen on the idea. He hadn’t been to any masses since his confirmation, apart from some funerals. Maybe this would give him a good opportunity to observe the islanders without being the center of attention.
He walked toward the church with Grimur in a slow and dignified stride, in unison with other groups that were heading the same way. People then huddled around the church entrance and greeted each other on both sides with handshakes and kisses.
Immaculately dressed children were playing on the slope below the church when the Ystakot clan came strolling over. They showed no signs of having dressed up for the occasion. Two boys broke out of the scrum and yelled out, “Nonni dung boy! Nonni dung boy!”
Their fun came to an abrupt end, though, because Hogni, who had just stepped out of the church to catch a breath of fresh air after the choir practice and was standing a short distance away, angrily snapped at them and they fell into a shamed silence.
“What was that they called the boy?” Kjartan asked.
“Dung boy,” Grimur answered.
“What do they mean?”
“Cow dung is an excellent fuel that used to be used as tinder for fires with dry bird skin. Nowadays most houses use paraffin oil, but not so long ago dung was the most common local tinder. They still use the old method in Ystakot, and little Nonni’s job in the spring is to go around the sheds collecting cow dung to make tinder. He leaves it out in the fields in small cakes and allows it to dry. Everyone of my generation did the same as kids, and it was regarded as a perfectly respectable task. But now they’ve nicknamed him ‘dung boy.’ Hardly what you’d call progress.”
The church bells rang again, and people squeezed through the narrow doors. Kjartan felt this was a completely different building to the one that he and Johanna had stepped into to examine the body in the casket just a few days ago. He hadn’t taken the time to look around it back then. There were many candles glowing here now, and the altarpiece had come to life-a beautiful fresco of Jesus and two of his disciples painted in the same style as the picture cards he used to get at Sunday school when he was a kid. Grimur ushered him onto a pew where he sat beside Sigurbjorn the farmer. Gudjon had obviously finished cutting his hair after Kjartan had left them, but it was still a bit uneven over his cheeks. Kjartan involuntarily started to study the necks of the people sitting in front of him. A gallery of heads extended before him. Different stages of baldness and hairdos had been executed with varying degrees of success, and most of the women had plaits. Everyone was spic-and-span, and a strong scent of soap fused with the faintly stale air of the church. Sigurbjorn gave off a faint odor of alcohol and seemed to be half hungover.
The organ now sounded from the balcony, and the choir launched into the psalm. Kjartan listened and found the music strangely soothing. This might not have been the best choir in the land, but there was a pleasant harmony between the singing and the organ.
Reverend Hannes emerged from the sacristy and turned to the congregation. He coughed twice and said, “Dear parishioners, brothers and sisters, I would like to start this holy ceremony by giving you the sad news that Bjorn Snorri Thorvald, the father of our good doctor, Johanna, passed away in his sleep last night. As you all know, the old man had been very ill for some time, and now the good Lord has called him back to Himself and put an end to his suffering. His loving daughter was sitting by his side when the call came, and I went there this morning to commend his spirit to God. The removal will be on Tuesday and the funeral on Wednesday. Let us join our hands in prayer.”
The congregation bowed their heads, and the priest led the prayer. Kjartan wondered whether the doctor was at the mass. The entire population of the islands seemed to have crammed into the church. He swiftly scanned the congregation but could see no sign of Johanna anywhere. At the very back of the church, however, he saw little Nonni of Ystakot standing up and sneaking out through the open church door. Yes, he probably would have done the same himself if he’d been given half a chance. It was swiftly getting hot and stuffy in there.
The organ erupted, and another psalm was sung.
Question fifteen: Cut in two by the prow of a ship. First letter. Sorli’s Tale narrates how Hedin, the king’s son, was slain by a spell. Blinded by magic, he allowed King Hogni’s queen, Hervor, to be taken and placed in front of the prow of his ship, so that she was cut in two when the ship was launched. Hedin and Hogni then fought in a duel. It is said that there was so much evil attached to this curse that even when they had sliced each other in two from the shoulder down, they were able to stand up again and fight as before. A hundred and forty years were to pass before one of King Olaf’s courtiers broke this pitiful spell. The answer is “Hervor,” and the first letter is h.