Friday, June 3, 1960
Kjartan woke up to repeated cockcrows from the village below. It took him some time to remember where he was and identify the sound. The bed lay under a sloping ceiling, and opposite the headrest a color photograph had been blue-tacked to the wall. The picture was probably of a Norwegian fjord with a big modern ferry set against a backdrop of forested hills and cliffs.
He heard the cockcrow again and knew it was time to get up, but he was paralyzed by a heavy sense of dread. It was a familiar feeling that sometimes hit him at the beginning of a day, particularly when he was forced to venture into the unknown. But he tried to bite the bullet and shake it off. His shyness and social phobias were the two things that plagued him the most in life. He therefore did his utmost to avoid situations that brought him into too much contact with strangers. But now that he’d been saddled with this assignment that took him from one stranger to another, he had no say in the matter.
Three fat bluebottles buzzed against the windowpane by the top of his bed. He stood up and gazed through the glass. Two kids were rounding up a black sheep and a lamb in a field on the western side of the island. They were within earshot, and their voices could be heard calling when the ewe turned against them and refused to be led. The sky was slightly overcast but sunny.
Kjartan got dressed and climbed down the almost vertical staircase from the loft. A strong fragrance of coffee wafted through the kitchen, and the mistress of the household was hanging up washing on the line in the level yard in front of the house. She was dressed in the same woolen clothes she’d worn the day before and was wearing her striped apron. A girl of about eight years of age stood by her side and handed her pegs, which she fished out of an old can of paint.
Kjartan grabbed the pot of coffee on the stove and poured himself a cup. He then walked outside and looked down at the village. The tide was coming in, and the cluster of houses were reflected in the sea that was filling the cove below the embankment. A number of inhabitants could be seen wandering between the houses, and no one seemed to be in a hurry. Those whose paths crossed paused to chat, both young and old. It was more the hens that seemed to be in a hurry as they darted between the gardens of the houses. Despite the sunshine, there was a breeze and it was quite chilly.
“Good morning, young man,” Ingibjorg said when she noticed Kjartan had come out.
“Good morning.”
“We still have dry weather.”
“Hmm, yeah.”
Ingibjorg finished hanging up the last garment.
“We’re still far from the haymaking season, of course, but it would be good to be able to dry the eiderdown in the sunshine,” she said.
“Hmm, really? Where is Grimur anyway?” Kjartan asked.
“They went out at the crack of dawn to check on the seal nets. They should be back by noon.”
“Right.”
“Grimur put up your notice before he left.”
“Good.”
“And the telephone exchange will open at ten so you can ring your boss, the district magistrate.”
She turned to the girl. “Thanks for your help, Rosa darling. Run along and play now.”
The girl put the can down and skipped away.
Ingibjorg disappeared into the house with the empty washing basket in her hands.
Kjartan sat on an old whale bone that lay by the gable of the house and sipped on his coffee. Visibility was good in the clear weather, and he felt he could see a white painted house on the mainland to the north, although it could also have been the remains of some snow.
The screeching of cliff birds reached him from Hafnarey and fused with the surrounding bleating of sheep. The salted scent of the sea lingered in the breeze.
Ingibjorg came out again and had removed her apron now, put on a tasseled cap, and draped a knitted shawl over her shoulders.
“I’ll walk you down to the telephone exchange now,” she said cheerfully.
They followed the path to the road and headed down toward the village. Ingibjorg walked a lot slower than what he was used to and occasionally halted completely to look at something or chat with the people they bumped into. He waited patiently and responded to the greetings of the people Ingibjorg introduced him to. But he was slightly unnerved by the way people brazenly stared at him as soon as they started nattering with the district officer’s wife.
Finally they reached the co-operative building. There was a space on one of the store’s doors that was obviously regularly used as a notice board. Some rusty old drawing pins were stuck to it, and a notice advertising the Whitsunday mass next week had recently been put up. Beside it was the notice that Kjartan had typed and stuck up with four new drawing pins. Ingibjorg paused to read it and nodded with a smile, as if to confirm it was all in good order.
The telephone exchange was in a one-story building above a stone basement, directly opposite the co-op.
White letters on a blue sign over the door read Post amp; Telegraph Office, and inside there was a small hall, with coat hangers and a small bench, that led into a small reception room. A few gray radio receivers hung on one wall, while on the other there was a cabinet full of compartments for the sorting of mail. A bulky safe stood on a plinth in one corner.
A small, delicate woman welcomed them with a smile. She was wearing trousers and a sweater, with long hair woven into a thick braid.
“This is Stina; she’s the head of the telephone exchange and the post office,” Ingibjorg said to Kjartan. Then she explained the reason for their visit: “The assistant magistrate needs to phone his superiors. Are you open yet, Stina?”
Ingibjorg sat in front of the desk and signaled Kjartan to join her.
“I’m just opening now. I just have to turn on the generator and switch on the exchange,” Stina answered, slipping on some old work gloves and disappearing behind the door.
“That’s the only electricity we have here,” Ingibjorg explained a bit further, “the energy this generator produces. There’s actually another generator in the fish factory for the fish processing, but it’s rarely used.”
Within a few moments they heard the muffled murmur of an engine and the smiling lady reappeared. She slipped on a bulky set of black headphones with an attached microphone and turned on the contraption by flicking a few switches. She waited a moment for the lamps to warm up and then said loudly and clearly: “Stykkisholmur, Stykkisholmur, Flatey radio calling.” She repeated this several times.
She then put down the headphones and said, “Stykkisholmur will answer in a moment. He sometimes likes to keep you waiting, just to give people the impression that he’s really busy.”
She turned out to be right. A blast of static soon erupted, and a male voice answered through the speaker on the wall: “Flatey radio, Stykkisholmur answering.”
“Good morning, Stykkisholmur. We have a call for the district magistrate in Patreksfjordur.”
“One moment,” the voice answered, followed by a silence. Stina and Ingibjorg solemnly waited without saying a word.
Kjartan looked out the window facing the village and saw two men standing by the notice in the co-op store. They seemed to be reading it with great interest and then stuck their heads together and looked in the direction of the telephone exchange.
“Flatey radio, Stykkisholmur. We have the district magistrate of Patreksfjordur on the line.”
“Go ahead,” Stina said, pointing at a black receiver on the desk in front of Kjartan.
He picked up the phone. “Hello, hello. Kjartan in Flatey here.”
The voice at the other end of the line was faint. “Yes, hello, how’s the investigation going?”
“We’ve recovered the body,” Kjartan answered, “but we still haven’t identified it yet. It seems likely that he was alive when he reached the island but then died of fatigue. He seems to have been lying there for several months after he died.”
There was a brief silence, after which the magistrate said, “That’s odd. Doesn’t anyone know who he is?”
“No. The body is unrecognizable.”
There was another brief silence while the magistrate evaluated the situation.
“Right then, so you’ll have to send the body to Reykjavik,” he then said.
“Yes. The casket will be traveling on the mail boat tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“Should I come home today?”
“Today? No, hang on there for a bit and talk to some of the islanders. There must be some way of finding out who took that man to the island.”
Kjartan wasn’t happy. “I’m not used to this kind of investigative work,” he said.
“No, but you’ll have to do for now. I’m not going to call in the police from Reykjavik if we can solve this in the district ourselves. District Officer Grimur will help you with your inquiries.”
“Right then, but what about the notarizations I was supposed to work on?”
“They can wait another two or three days. Don’t you worry about them; just concentrate on this. Be in touch tomorrow. Good-bye and best of luck.”
The phone call ended, and Stina let Stykkisholmur know that was enough for now.
Kjartan handed her a copy of the notice and asked her to read it out over the radio to the other islands.
“Skaleyjar, Svefneyjar, Latur,” she called into the mouthpiece. “Flatey radio calling.”
She repeated this three times until the islands answered, each in turn. She had started to read out the notice as they were walking outside.
“Grimur will be back at lunchtime and you can talk to him about how to proceed,” Ingibjorg said when they were standing outside the telephone exchange. Then she added: “Maybe you should take a walk while you’re waiting for Grimur. Take a look around the island. Visitors normally like to go up to Lundaberg to look at the birds.” She gave him directions.
Kjartan nodded approvingly, and Ingibjorg said good-bye and walked toward her house at an even slower pace than before. Kjartan started his tour by taking a look around the village. The doors of the co-op were open, but there were no customers to be seen inside. A handcart loaded with several bags of cement was parked in front of the warehouse. The muffled murmur of the generator resounded from the basement, and the sound of a radio voice could be heard coming from the house next door. These sounds blended with the screeches of the birds on the rocks of Hafnarey.
An elderly woman in a canvas apron was spreading eiderdown on a concrete step above the pier, and an old man was painting a small boat that lay upturned on the edge of the cove. A face was watching him through the priest’s house’s window.
Kjartan sauntered off, following a narrow gravel path that meandered between the houses. There was a strong smell of chicken shit in the air that fused with the scent of the vegetation that had started to flourish nicely in the sunshine, sheltered by the walls of the houses. Garden dock, angelica, and long grass thrived on the fertilizer the hens dropped behind them wherever they went.
Thormodur Krakur stood in front of an open shed dressed in his work clothes, and some eiderdown had been left out to dry on a white piece of sailcloth at his feet. When he saw Kjartan, he greeted him heartily: “Good morning, Assistant Magistrate. Where are you off to today?”
Kjartan considered telling him not to call him Assistant Magistrate but then decided not to bother.
“I’m just taking a look around,” he answered.
“Good idea,” said Thormodur Krakur. “Can I offer you some fermented shark?”
“No thanks.”
“How about some freshly laid arctic tern eggs then?”
“No thank you, I’m not hungry.”
“As you wish then. Any news about that Ketilsey fellow?”
“No, nothing new.”
“No, huh? Ah well. This doesn’t bode well. I’ve had some bad dreams lately.”
“Dreams?”
“Yes, I’m considered to be a bit of a visionary dreamer, my friend. Not that I’m particularly apt at deciphering what they mean, but there are some old women around here who can decipher them if the descriptions are clear enough.”
Thormodur Krakur broke into a broad smile that exposed his crooked teeth.
“Sometimes the signs are so obscure that no one recognizes the context until afterwards,” he added.
“What were the dreams about?” Kjartan asked.
Thormodur Krakur blew his nose into his red snuff handkerchief and walked into the shed. “They were bad dreams, my friend, bad dreams. Many of them would have been better off left undreamt,” he said, beckoning Kjartan to follow him through the door. Kjartan had to stoop to get through the entrance, but as soon as he smelled the stench inside, he almost felt like turning around again. A variety of seasoned foods were stored there, some of it hanging from the turf ceiling or immersed in barrels in salt or sour whey. A number of hens dwelt at the other end of the shed, which was partitioned off with wire netting.
Thormodur Krakur sat on a box, reached out for a large wooden frame, and placed it on his knees. It was a harp-like contraption that was stringed lengthwise through perforations in the wood, with one-centimeter gaps between each string. There were two wooden barrels on either side of him.
“I dreamt I was making hay out in Langey and spending the night in a tent,” said the deacon. “It was incredibly cold and shivery on the island, and I couldn’t find any way to warm up, no matter how hard I swung the scythe.”
Thormodur Krakur grabbed a pile of rough, uncleaned eiderdown from one of the barrels and placed it on the frame. Then he started shaking the down and stroking the strings, loosening the dirt, which fell to the floor.
“Then I saw a raven,” he continued, “that came flying and perched right over my tent, which was just a few yards away. I was going to shoo him away, but then I couldn’t walk because my legs were as heavy as lead. Then another raven appeared and sat beside the other one, and they were both sitting on the top of the tent when I woke up. I dreamed that every night for the whole of Eastertide. I call that the Langey dream.”
Thormodur Krakur grew quiet, threw the roughly cleaned down into the empty barrel, and picked up a new bundle to clean.
“How was this dream interpreted?” Kjartan asked.
“Everyone could solve that one. Those are deaths, my friends, two deaths, the same number as the ravens. It couldn’t be more obvious. A raven on a tent always means death, whether you see them when you’re awake or in your sleep.”
“Is someone else going to die then?” Kjartan asked.
“Not necessarily; a very old lady from the inner isles died on Ascension Thursday. Maybe it was her. Maybe not. We’ll soon find out.”
Thormodur Krakur lifted his index finger by way of emphasis.
“Have many of your dreams come true?” Kjartan asked.
“Yes, my friend. Some of them have even been recorded in annals. The most famous were the Sigridur dream, the sail dream, and the ram’s testicles dream. Then there are others that have remained unsolved, even though many have tried. Those are the dreams I had about Stagley, and the calves and Ash Wednesday dreams, for example. Do you want to have a crack at them?”
Kjartan shrugged.
“The calves dream goes like this. I sense I’m up by the church, and then I see three eagles flying over Mulanes. They form a circle over the graveyard, and one of them perches on a tombstone while the others fly back to the mainland the way they came. The eagle that is perching flaps its wings wildly, and I see that it is covered in blood and the blood is splattering off the feathers of his wings all around him. Finally, he rests his wings and looks toward the harbor. Then I see that there is a big sailing ship with two masts moored there, but a hoard of bullocks are being led up the road and people are walking behind them wearing crowns and majestic robes. That’s when I wake up. What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. I’m no good at solving riddles,” Kjartan answered.
“Dreams are no riddles. You just have to be able to read the signs right. The calf dream is about some major event, that’s for sure. Three eagles always precede an event, but the blood is a bad omen.”
Kjartan smiled. “Are there other signs you can interpret?” he asked.
“Oh yes, many: a swan stands for wealth, a bishop is a bad omen, a flower stands for happiness in the summer but sorrow in the winter, a king mean success and prestige. But it can all be turned on its head.”
“Do people around here believe in all this stuff?” Kjartan asked.
“Of course-anyone who takes the trouble to think about it, that is. Do you think the Creator just created dreams for the fun of it? No, sir. These are messages that evolved minds gradually learn to decipher. Everything serves its purpose. Even the hidden people and elves in the hills are there to fulfill a function.”
“The elves?” Kjartan asked skeptically.
“Yes. Have you never seen an elf?”
“No.”
“You’ll see an elf someday, my friend. But there’s no certainty that you’ll be able to recognize him when you see him.”
“How can I recognize one?”
“Keep a pure heart and don’t doubt unnecessarily. People doubt too much. One should believe the things that are in the Icelandic sagas and the Bible and the things that old people say. Then our dreams and wishes can come true.”
Thormodur Krakur had ended his speech and continued sieving the down. He seemed to have had enough of the conversation, so Kjartan said good-bye and left the shed. The fresh air was welcome.
A young man was painting a window mullion on the next house green. He had a long, bright forehead that stretched down to his eyes, and Kjartan wondered whether this was an elf. Probably not, he thought, as the young man put down his paintbrush and lit a cigarette. Then he remembered seeing this same guy nail a sealskin to the gable of the outhouse. The house was clad in white painted corrugated iron and the roof was green. Over the door was a sign that read Radagerdi and below it the year of its construction-1927.
“Are you a cop?” the boy called out to Kjartan.
“No, I’m no policeman,” Kjartan answered, drawing closer.
“Oh no? I was told you were a cop from Patreksfjordur.”
“No, I’m just an assistant to the district magistrate.”
“Yeah, isn’t that some kind of cop?”
“Not really.”
“Aren’t you investigating the murder of that guy on the island?”
“Well, no, I’m trying to find out who he is. I doubt whether he was murdered.”
“I thought you were a real cop,” said the boy, disappointed. He tried to turn on a red transistor that stood on a windowsill inside an open window.
“Have you ever heard Elvis Presley?” he asked.
“No, I can’t say that I have,” Kjartan answered.
“Actually, they never play him on Icelandic radio. Sometimes I can hear him on foreign channels at night when the airways are clear. They play a lot of Elvis. I’ve put up an aerial.” The boy pointed at some copper wire that dangled between the gable of the house and the shed. It was fastened to some glass insulation, but a wire traveled from the aerial in through the open window.
“There was also an article about Elvis in the Falcon magazine,” the boy added.
He turned to the transistor again, which emitted no sound despite his attempts to shake it vigorously.
“Battery’s finished,” he explained. “I might buy myself a record player this autumn and some records.”
“Do you live here?” Kjartan asked.
“Yeah, but I’m thinking of moving to Reykjavik…or to Stykkisholmur.”
“Right.”
“Yeah, I’m going to learn how to use a tractor and maybe get a driving license.”
“Is there a tractor on the island?”
“No, not yet, but the district officer might be buying one for all of us to share. Then they’ll need someone who can drive it.”
It dawned on Kjartan to try out some investigative work, so he asked, “Do you remember seeing a tourist here in a green parka and leather hiking shoes anytime over the past months?”
“Is that the dead man?” the boy asked.
“Yes. He was an elderly man with gray hair. Probably traveling alone.”
The boy scratched his head and seemed deep in thought. “He didn’t come here in the winter or spring. I would have seen him then if he had. But maybe last summer. There were quite a few tourists around that time. Some of them foreign.”
“Foreign?”
“Yeah, they like to gawk at the puffins all day long. Sometimes I sell them sea urchins and skulls.”
“Skulls?”
“Yeah, seal skulls. My gran sometimes sears seal pups’ heads and then boils them to make broth. So I just let them rot and dry them for a few weeks.”
“Do they sell well?”
“No, not unless the men are drunk; then they sometimes buy something.”
“Well, I won’t keep you from your work,” Kjartan said. “What’s your name anyway?”
“Benjamin Gudjonsson. They call me Benny, but I prefer Ben, like Ben Hur.”
“OK…Ben.”
Kjartan turned and walked back. When he reached the village, he saw Grimur’s boat pulling in at the pier.
“…Jon, the farmer in Vididalstunga, got two priests to work as scribes on the royal book, Jon Thordarson and Magnus Thorhallsson. Nothing is known of these men apart from their names, but it can be assumed that they were educated and experienced scribes. The entire execution of the manuscript shows great skill. The calligraphy is firm and elegant. Capital letters are generally colored and decorated with pictures of men, animals, roses, or flourishes. It seems to have been Magnus who drew these adornments or illuminations, as we call them. This involved a great deal of work, since it can be estimated that each page represented a day’s work. Perhaps it was thanks to these decorations that the Flatey Book was so well preserved. It was from the beginning regarded as a treasure because of its appearance and craftsmanship. Readers clearly browsed through the pages of the manuscript with caution and respect. There was no danger that the book would be used to make shoe soles or articles of clothing, which was sometimes the fate suffered by other manuscripts that had been executed with less skill when they were written. Thus it was the craftsman’s work that preserved the author’s narrative…”