kinds of things during their two-week stay in Iceland. They followed the Njal saga’s trail in the south, and the upshot of it all was a pretty young country girl from Rangarthing ended up pregnant, and Gaston, who was still just a student at the time, was the father. A boy was born, and the mother moved with him to Hafnarfjordur. The child was registered as ‘Gestsson,’ or guest’s son, which wasn’t an unusual name in those days for children whose fathers hadn’t stuck around with their mothers for long. But there was more behind this name, because the professor’s Christian name, Gaston, was also the German word for guest: ‘gast.’ This young boy grew up with his mother, without any reproaches to his father. His mother told him his father was a cultured man from a respectable family and highly regarded by the Danish king. The boy was proud of him and became a big fan of all things Danish and anything connected to the king. Then, in the summer of 1936, Professor Lund came to Iceland again, as part of the delegation that accompanied King Christian X, and his name appeared in the Icelandic press. The mother took the boy to go and meet Gaston Lund where he was staying at Hotel Borg with the intention of introducing them to each other. That was the sole purpose of her visit and nothing more. But Lund took it very badly, claimed the woman was mentally unstable, and categorically denied any knowledge of the boy. He had the mother and son forcibly and shamefully thrown out of the hotel. It was a terrible shock for a young and impressionable soul, and it marked the boy for life. He had always been brought up with the myth of a father who mixed with kings and queens abroad and held far too important a post to be able to spend time with him and his mother. The boy’s self-esteem had been shattered in an instant, and the mother changed from being a proud, independent, driven woman to a grumpy bundle of nerves who had been deprived of the only recognition she needed in life. Ten years later she died of TB. Her son’s name was Bryngeir Gestsson. We lived together as a couple for a while, and I know he also had a vast impact on your life, too. But Lund didn’t dare to come back to Iceland until last summer, and he tried to avoid any further encounters with the mother of his child and the boy by concealing his identity.”
CHAPTER 58
Kjartan tried to lie down after his return from Ketilsey, but he was unable to sleep. He tossed and turned until he eventually gave up and decided to take a walk to calm his mind. As he walked up the steps toward the church, he saw Thormodur Krakur standing by the flagpole, propping himself up with his walking stick. He was wearing his Sunday suit, which after its repeated use over the past few days was by now beginning to look pretty crumpled and smudgy. An old sea bag lay at his feet.
“Good day to you, Assistant Magistrate,” said Thormodur Krakur when he noticed Kjartan.
“Hello, Krakur,” Kjartan answered. “The weather is clearing up.”
“Yes, good weather for traveling now,” said Thormodur Krakur, and they both fell silent a moment.
“Are you going on a journey then?” Kjartan asked.
“Yes, they want to take me south on the coast guard ship to have more of a chat about my nocturnal escapade with the reporter’s body. They want the doctors at the mental asylum to check out my brain to make sure I’m not mad or something.”
“That’s understandable, I suppose,” said Kjartan.
Thormodur Krakur frowned and then winced. “No, that’s true, I guess it might seem weird to an outsider, but I still believe that everything serves a purpose. We’ll see. Old Jon Ferdinand has to travel south as well. They’re going to be examining him, too.”
Kjartan nodded. “They need to find someplace where they can take good care of him. His son Valdi won’t be able to look after him if he gets any worse.”
Thormodur Krakur grabbed Kjartan’s arm and said, “The worst part of it all is that I got you and my Johanna into all that trouble. I was totally devastated by it all.”
“We’ll get over it,” said Kjartan.
They were quiet for a brief moment.
“I hear you’re not too keen on traveling,” Kjartan said finally.
“That is correct,” Thormodur Krakur answered.
“But I guess there’s no choice now?”
“No, they insist I go.”
“When was the last time you left the island?”
“It’s been a good while now.”
“How long?”
Thormodur Krakur thought a moment before answering: “When I was a youngster, I took several trips out, transporting sheep, and I did some fishing on the islands around here, but that’s about as far as I went. Then, when I was nineteen, they played a nasty trick on me, and I developed a kind of loathing for the sea after that. And from then on, I never went out to sea again. Besides, there was never any shortage of things for me to do at home on the island, so I didn’t need to really. I’m almost seventy now, so it’s been fifty years.”
“So you’ve actually been stuck on Flatey for fifty whole years?”
“Yes, and I can’t complain. I feel good here, and there’s nothing that draws me to the mainland. Besides, where would I go? To Stykkisholmur maybe or Reykjavik and spend money? No, my friend. Life has been good to me.”
Kjartan grew pensive. Fifty years on an island that is about 1.2 miles long and a third of a mile wide. Was that a lot better than being locked up in jail? Maybe, if one didn’t make too many demands.
It was as if Thormodur Krakur could read his thoughts. “I hear you spent a few years inside?”
Kjartan gave a start. Of course, this story was bound to have traveled around the island, but no one had mentioned it until now.
“Yes, that’s right,” he answered.
“That must have been very trying,” said Thormodur Krakur. “Even though I’ve never traveled, I’ve always been my own boss. I’ve worked when I wanted to, eaten and slept whenever I wanted to, drank some schnapps whenever I felt inclined to. I imagine prison life must be pure misery and boredom.”
Kjartan nodded.
“And I’ve been able to enjoy nature and all it has to offer,” Thormodur Krakur continued.
“To me, the environment here reminds me slightly of the prison,” Kjartan answered. “It also happened to be by the sea, so it was the same birds that I hear here that used to wake me up. I’ve yet to recover from that experience.”
Thormodur Krakur was silent, so Kjartan continued: “But have you never longed to see other places than this little island and what you can see from this hillock?”
“No, my boy, and I’ve probably seen more with my sight than many other people who spend their whole lives wandering across the globe. I’ve seen worlds and countries that others can’t even imagine. And that is perhaps precisely because I have planted firmer roots in the earth than the puffs of cotton that drift with the slightest breeze. An oak tree never complains that it can’t leave its land.”
“Are you going to tell the doctors in Reykjavik that you see elves and hidden people?” Kjartan asked.
“Not unless they ask me. Although it remains to be seen whether I’ll spot any down south,” Thormodur Krakur answered.
“Do you see elves now?”
“Yes. I’m kind of saying good-bye to them, my friends.”
“Where are they?”
“They’re south of the hillock and below the rock on the shore. And they pop up here every now and then.”
Kjartan tried to conjure up the vision.
“It must be fun to observe them,” he said.
“Yes. It’s like watching newborn lambs playing in the spring,” said Thormodur Krakur. “Do you long to see them?” he then asked.
“Yes, I can’t deny I do,” Kjartan answered.
Thormodur Krakur lowered his voice: “I’ve sometimes helped people to see if that is their sincere wish.”
Kjartan looked at him skeptically. “How then?”
