“Kneel down beside me here and place your head under my armpit. Let’s see what happens.”
Kjartan seemed hesitant.
“Yes, come on then, it won’t last long,” said Thormodur Krakur hastily.
“Well, no harm in trying, I guess,” said Kjartan, kneeling down beside Thormodur Krakur, who took his head under his arm and held him tightly. Kjartan inhaled the smell of the wool of Krakur’s jacket mixed with pungent body odors and was on the point of pulling his head away because he had difficulties breathing. But then, all of a sudden, it was if he had entered another dimension. The air that he was breathing was suddenly sweet and refreshing, and he no longer felt Thormodur Krakur’s arm. On the slope below by the shore he saw little flashes of light that fleetingly took on small human shapes. It perhaps lasted for just a few seconds, but he felt it had been for much longer. Then Thormodur Krakur finally released his grip, breathless and gasping, as if he had been holding his breath while it lasted. The visions dissipated and the oxygen seemed to vanish again. Kjartan sank languidly to the ground.
Thormodur Krakur didn’t ask him if the experiment had yielded any results. He seemed to know that it had. Kjartan sat dazed on the grass and tried to get his head around the experience.
“You will find happiness, my friend,” said Thormodur Krakur at last. “Life has been difficult for you, but that’s all behind you now. I dreamed last night that I discovered a nest of beautiful eggs. That’s always turned out to be a couple close to me. You shall take my Johanna as your own, and it will bring you good luck, my friend.”
“She might have something to say about that,” Kjartan answered.
“Sometimes it’s all determined by fate, my friend, and we shouldn’t fight it. I’ve already asked my Johanna to take care of you, and she took it quite well. Now you just need to treat her like a gentleman and it’ll all happen of its own accord in a few months. I feel a strong connection there between you. I’ve been known to ask young people to open their hearts in a certain way, and it’s always turned out to be for the best.”
Thormodur Krakur turned around and looked down at the village. Hogni, the teacher, was walking up the pass and holding a small case.
“Well then,” said Thormodur Krakur, “time to get on that ship then. They’re sailing out at two. Grimur asked Hogni to accompany me and Jon Ferdinand on this trip. Hogni knows his way around Reykjavik, and he’ll be there to lend us a hand on this trip. I really appreciate that.”
They walked down the slope and met Hogni.
“Won’t you be sailing south with us, Kjartan?” Hogni asked.
“No, now I need to rest for one night. Grimur will be taking me over to Brjansl?kur tomorrow morning. They’ll be sending me a car from Patreksfjordur. Hopefully, I’ll be able get back to notarizing property deals again.”
“Reckon you’ll find any more bodies in the district?” Hogni asked teasingly.
Kjartan shook his head. He couldn’t even bring himself to smile at the remark.
Hogni looked at Thormodur Krakur. “Right then, sir. Let’s get going. Can’t keep the ship waiting.”
Morning had broken by the time Johanna and Kjartan’s conversation finally ended. They spoke about the event that had transformed both their lives so much for the worse many years earlier. They cried together and forgave. They were still young and no longer intended to live in the past.
Before they left the library, they put the Munksgaard edition of the Flatey Book back into its place, having decided that the Aenigma Flateyensis should revert back to being an unsolved riddle. The story they now knew about how the enigma had been solved was a harrowing one, and they didn’t want any of it to be associated with this ancient puzzle. They both wanted these old events to peacefully fade now. Neither Gaston Lund nor Bjorn Snorri Thorvald had lived to savor the moment when the solution was fully revealed, and it was therefore preferable to allow it to be rediscovered by someone else, under happier circumstances.
A fog hovered over Flatey, and it was raining as they walked down the path from the church. In the distance one could hear the faint beat of a hammer from Thormodur Krakur, who was making a new lid for his well.
AUTHOR’S POSTSCRIPT
The Flatey Book was returned to Iceland on April 21, 1971, and is now exhibited in the Culture House in Reykjavik. Many sources were tapped in the making of this story. The text of the Flatey Book was, of course, the most precious mine, but countless other books were also delved into. I would like to thank these authors for the loan of their work.
My grandfather, Viktor Gu?nason, was the manager of the post and telephone exchange in Flatey, as well as the church organist. My grandmother, Jonina Olafsdottir, was a goodwife in Solbakki in Flatey and baked cakes that acquired great fame. I got to spend several summers with them, the last of which was in 1964. In the summer of 1960, I was a five-year-old boy staying with them in Flatey, so this period is firmly embedded in my mind. Among other things, I have a vivid memory of the moment when my grandfather showed me the Munksgaard edition of the Flatey Book in the library. The Munksgaard edition can now be viewed there under a glass case, as it is described in this book.
The poet Adalsteinn Asberg Sigurdsson wrote the poem that appears in this book. He is bound by destiny to write poems in every book I write.
Thora Steffensen, a coroner at National Hospital of Iceland, was very kind to assist me in the technical detail of the postmortems, and I thank her for all her help.
I also thank my wife, Vala, and daughters, Emilia Bjort and Margret Arna, for their patience and forbearance.
