“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…”
CHAPTER 10
Kjartan followed Grimur and Hogni’s approach, and then he walked down to the cove and along the embankment to them as they pulled into a small landing and dragged the boat onto a sandy beach where they tied it to an old mooring stone.
The two men were carrying a seal pup between them off the boat and up the ridge of the shore when Kjartan walked over to them. Then they carried two more pups. They were heavy carcasses, and the men had trouble standing on the wet, slippery seaweed that covered the rocks.
“They sure weigh a ton,” said Hogni as they dumped the last one on the gravel.
“They’re still smaller than I expected,” said Kjartan.
“These pups are just a few weeks old,” Grimur answered.
“But they’re in good shape, fat and beautiful.”
Grimur snorted some snuff and lifted one of the pups onto a wooden rack.
“The magistrate wants me to find out if anyone knows who the dead man was,” said Kjartan. “He expects you to help me.”
“We can pay a few visits after work today,” said Grimur, sharpening a small knife. “But there’s no point in us starting until the locals have read our notice.”
He brandished his knife and pierced the skin around the pup’s head, exposing the fiery red ruff of its collar beneath the black fur.
“I think there’ll be some news this evening,” Grimur said before he cut around the front flippers and then over the hind flippers and scut. These cuts didn’t bleed, but exposed the white fat and blood-red meat.
“What makes you think that?” Kjartan asked.
“Two porpoises followed us for most of the way from the seal skerries. It’s often turned out to be an omen when whales follow in our wake like that.”
Grimur drew the knife and in one movement sliced the length of the abdomen from the throat down to the tail. He then started to skin the seal so that it included a thick layer of fat.
“Do you believe in that stuff?” Kjartan asked.
Grimur looked up from his work and grinned. “There are other signs, too,” he said, pointing his bloody knife at the village. “Do you see the vicarage on the other side of the cove? I saw little Svenni running out of there and sprinting up the road. Then he vanished for a while, but I can see him dashing down the embankment now as if the devil were on his heels.” Grimur pointed at a little boy who came running toward them. “Reverend Hannes has sent him down with a message for me and told him to hurry.”
Grimur carried on flaying the seal and didn’t look up when the boy stood beside them. “Officer Grimur, Officer Grimur,” he exclaimed breathlessly and wheezily. “Reverend Hannes really needs to talk to you.”
“Did he give you some candy to come and fetch me?” Grimur asked.
“Yeah.” The boy dug his hand into a pocket to produce the candy and stuck some into his mouth.
“How many pieces?”
“Three big ones.”
“Oh, it must be important then. OK, I’ll pop up to him as soon as I’ve finished skinning the seals.”
“Shouldn’t we go straightaway?” Kjartan asked. Grimur looked at Kjartan and pondered a moment.
“You go ahead,” he then said. “I’ll be up after you. I imagine he needs to talk to you just as much as he does to me. And you can deliver something to him from me.”
“…It is not known how ink was made in Iceland in the Middle Ages. Early sources describe ink made out of bearberry, soil pigments, and willow. It may well be that these methods were known and used in the making of manuscripts. It is also possible that the ink may have been imported or made out of foreign raw materials that were not available in Iceland. Swan feathers were probably used as quills. They were considered better if they were from the left wing because the feathers curve out to the right, away from the hand holding the pen. Before the writing started, the columns and lines were marked on the vellum with a sharp edge…”
