devised the enigma vanished from the ship without anyone noticing. Naturally, there was a great deal of commotion on board, and all interest in the riddle faded. There was one student, however, who held onto the papers and wrote about how the riddle was created, and then thought of taking it home to Flatey, as the poet had said. But that got delayed for some reason. The student died in Copenhagen that winter, and the sheets somehow found their way to the Royal Library. There they were placed in an archive with other material about the Flatey Book and were lost for many decades. The story of the Flatey enigma was well known, though, and was recounted in Copenhagen’s student circles from one generation to the next. In the winter of 1935, a keen Icelandic scholar was looking through some material at the Royal Library when he stumbled on the sheets. The Icelander was pushy and insisted that the author’s wishes be respected and the sheets sent to the Flatey library. It took several months to discuss this issue which, to be honest, was made in jest. Now it just so happened that they heard the Flatey library was celebrating its hundredth anniversary in 1936 and that the Munksgaard publishers were going to donate a facsimile copy of the Flatey Book, which had been published in 1930. The librarians at the Royal Library saw this as an opportunity to free themselves of the unwelcome document they considered the Flatey enigma to be, and were allowed to stick the sheets into the Munksgaard edition that was on its way to Flatey. The Icelandic scholar was then entrusted with the task of ensuring that this was all done. That smart aleck happened to be me, so I am considered to know more about this enigma than most. I can also be blamed or thanked for the fact that the sheets are now on the island. Someone at some stage wrote Aenigma Flateyensis on the sheet of riddles, which, of course, is Latin for the Flatey enigma. That was to harmonize it with the Latin title of the Munksgaard edition of the Flatey Book, which is Codex Flateyensis. The same person also had a stab at writing the last two lines of the poem, but no one has been able to verify it. So that’s the story of the enigma.”
Arni Sakarias shoved the last piece of Danish pastry into his mouth and poured himself some more coffee.
“So the enigma hasn’t been solved yet?” Dagbjartur asked.
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“Wouldn’t it be possible to solve it without going to Flatey?”
“No, impossible. The key is there and nowhere else. The questions can be found in many places, but the key, which is the rows of letters, is only to be found on the sheet that lies in the Munksgaard edition in the Flatey library. That’s where people have to go if they want to test their solutions.”
“Why hasn’t anyone just copied it?”
“It’s a matter of simple decency. The librarians in the Flatey library have taken good care of the sheets, and those who want to test their answers have to swear they won’t write the key down. There’s also a belief that anyone who breaks the rules will be cursed by a mishap. The fates of the poet and the young student in Copenhagen helped to propagate that myth. It is said that a powerful curse rests on the key to the enigma but that it won’t be unleashed so long as the sheets remain within the four walls of the library.”
“Have many people tried this?”
“No, I don’t think so. Students who are completing their studies in Icelandic philology have been known to go on pilgrimages to Flatey to have a go at it. You have to be pretty well up on the subject to be able to hazard any guesses at the answers. This isn’t a challenge for amateurs.”
“Haven’t you tried to solve the enigma yourself?”
“I just tried it once. The enigma is basically two riddles. I realized that you’ve got to solve the key to the fortieth question first. Without that, there’s no way of verifying the answers to the other thirty-nine questions. I studied that for a while but found no solution.”
“What happens if someone solves the enigma?”
“What happens? Well, nothing really. The winner savors the moment and gets to enjoy some recognition, as well as the admiration and envy of other scholars. I hope it doesn’t happen anytime soon because many people secretly enjoy the failures of these whippersnappers in trying to find the key. Perhaps the enigma is unsolvable. Who knows?”
Question ten: The ice was slippery with…Third letter. The Birkibeins drove the fleet along the ice and killed many because most of them wore studded shoes, whereas the fugitives were on bare soles, and the ice was slippery with blood. The king rode close to them, and his task was to give one spear thrust to every man he attacked, and the Birkibeins then did whatever was necessary to finish them off and kill them. The answer is “blood,” and the third letter is o.
CHAPTER 27
It was late in the day, and the mail boat from Brjansl?kur was soon expected to reappear on its way back to Stykkisholmur. Thormodur Krakur arrived towing his handcart up to the doors of the church, where the three men- Grimur, Kjartan, and Hogni-were waiting. The moment had come to transport the body down to the pier. Reverend Hannes arrived a short moment later, dressed in his robes. This time he was going to accompany his guest all the way to the ship. Grimur and Hogni collected the casket in the church and placed it on the cart. There was also a sealed mail bag on the cart that looked virtually empty. Stina, the postmistress, wanted to take advantage of the trip down to the pier to get the mail onto the ship.
They set off. As had happened the last time the body was transported across the island, the village suddenly seemed deserted again. The inhabitants had all vanished. Kjartan wondered how it was possible for them all to be so synchronized. It was as if an invisible hand had swept over the village, ushering all the locals into their houses at the same time.
But there were two men standing on the embankment by the pass, and they were observing the procession. Kjartan recognized one of them, Benny from Radagerdi, although he couldn’t make out who the second person was because of the considerable distance.
“Who’s that walking with the boy?” Kjartan nudged Grimur, throwing his head back.
Grimur looked back. “That’s some reporter from Reykjavik. He was well oiled when he arrived on the boat today, and he hasn’t sobered up. He seems to have found a drinking buddy.”
“Do you think he’s going to write something about Professor Lund in the papers?” Kjartan asked.
“He’ll probably have to sleep it off first. I think Sigurbjorn in Svalbardi is going to be putting him up during his stay here.”
The mail boat could be seen approaching from the north of the island, and the pallbearers quickened their pace. There was no point in keeping the boat waiting.
The Ystakot clan-Valdi, old Jon Ferdinand, and little Nonni-were alone on the pier when Thormodur Krakur drew the cart around the corner of the fish factory. The boat was pulling in, and now only one hawser came over the gunwale. The islanders had swift hands. The mail bag was thrown on board, and Reverend Hannes read some text while the other four men lifted the casket off the cart and started lowering it onto the boat. Two crew members then took it, while the heavy-browed skipper observed the proceedings through the bridge window with a pipe in his mouth.
“Who’s paying for the freight then?” one of the sailors, who had grabbed the casket, called out.
All eyes were on Kjartan. “The district magistrate in Patreksfjordur will pay the bill,” he answered after a moment’s hesitation.
Then the boat slipped away from the pier, and Valdi loosened the moorings.
“May the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you,” Reverend Hannes intoned, winding up his speech and blessing the mail boat with the sign of the cross.
It was as if a weight had lifted from the men’s shoulders as they watched the boat sail south.
Benny and his drinking buddy had observed it all from the corner of the fish factory, but he swiftly turned around and vanished when the funeral cortege returned with an empty cart.
Grimur, the district officer, was in a more cheerful mood and suddenly talkative. Life on the island could get back to normal now. The reasons why Gaston Lund had ended up on Ketilsey were still shrouded in mystery, but that was still a triviality compared to the ordeal of having the corpse of a stranger lying in the church. “Right, lads,” he said, wrapping his arms around Hogni and Kjartan, “we’re going to take the evening off now and play whist with
