“He doesn’t want any impure spirits to follow him home to his cottage tonight,” Hogni said with a smile.
“He’s a bit special and holds some unconventional beliefs,” Grimur explained to Kjartan.
“He’s also a bit of a psychic,” Hogni added.
“In what way psychic?” Kjartan asked.
Grimur answered: “Krakur can catch glimpses of the supernatural, although he’s useless when he’s really needed.” He smiled.
“A normal medium wouldn’t have any problems communicating with that dead man in the box in there,” Hogni added. “For example, there was a man from a farm in Kjalkafjordur who could never shut up at funerals. He was always talking to ghosts.”
Kjartan forced an awkward smile. “I don’t expect the case to be solved that way,” he said. And then, just to change subject, he asked, “Does Thormodur Krakur live off his eiderdown work?”
“Yes,” Grimur answered, “and the odd little job here and there. He has two cows and makes hay for them in the patch of field behind my land. He can sell the milk. He also works in the slaughterhouse in the autumn and has rights to collect eiderdown and eggs on some of the islets up here to the north. But he farms out those rights to others and gets eiderdown in return. He had a shock when he was young, and he’s been terrified of the sea ever since.” Grimur gazed at the church door. “Plus he’s incredibly superstitious,” he added.
“What kind of shock?” Kjartan asked.
“Krakur was reared by a farmer on the island,” Grimur answered, “and was considered to be a bit of a wild one and a boozer, so the farmer decided to teach him a lesson one day when they were out at sea and sent him up a crag to knock out a seal pup. But they didn’t wait for the boy while he was doing it and went off to check on some nets. When they came back, the crag was submerged in water and the sea came right up to the boy’s chin where he was standing on the rock.”
“And ever since that day,” Hogni interjected, “Krakur prefers to stand on his toes.”
“The boy was extremely well behaved after that,” Grimur continued, “but hasn’t had the guts to go back to sea ever since. Although he still doesn’t say no to a drop of schnapps, if he’s offered it.”
“Does that mean he never leaves the island?” Kjartan asked.
The men exchanged pensive glances.
“Yes, I don’t remember Krakur ever going anywhere,” Grimur answered. “His wife Gudridur was the one who traveled. She used to go to Reykjavik to visit her daughter before she developed her leg problem.”
Kjartan turned the conversation to another subject: “So what do we do now? There’s nothing to give us any indication of who the dead man is. We don’t know of anyone being reported missing.”
Grimur stroked the beard on his cheek. “We can write a description of the man. Describe how he was dressed. Then we can hang up a notice at the co-op. Maybe someone will come forward. We can also talk to the people on the other islands over the radio and find out if any of the farmers remember this tourist.”
“Where can I get to a typewriter to write a description?” Kjartan asked.
“I have a typewriter at home. Let’s go back to the house. I think I’m getting hungry.”
As they walked down the slope, Kjartan was still pondering what lay ahead.
“The district magistrate spoke about dispatching the body down south on the mail boat on Saturday. But how will it be transported from Stykkisholmur to Reykjavik? Does someone need to follow it maybe?” he asked.
“I guess so. The casket will go on the bus if there is room. Otherwise, there’s the co-op van. The police officer in Stykkisholmur will take care of that for us somehow,” Grimur answered.
Kjartan nodded. “That’s probably the best thing. I’ll also talk to the magistrate tomorrow about any further arrangements,” he said.
Ingibjorg received them with a ready dinner: boiled puffin breast with potatoes and a knob of butter. Once again the table had been set for three in the dining room and the woman did not sit with them any more than she did at lunchtime. This time the meal was silent. It was eight o’clock and the radio was turned on. The evening news was being broadcast. The newsreader was giving an update of Soviet leader Khrushchev’s latest disarmament proposals. Then there was a piece about an all-night session in the Icelandic parliament before the imminent summer recess.
Kjartan had gotten his appetite back and ate well. In fact, he’d never eaten puffin before and preferred it to the taste of the seal meat he’d had earlier that day. The news ended and Grimur turned off the radio.
“That’s politics for you,” he said. “You’re better off being neutral when those superpowers are at each other’s throats. But here in Iceland it’s the Progressive Party you should be voting for,” he said to Kjartan. “Young people tend to turn to socialism if someone doesn’t set them straight. And the Conservatives are even worse.”
Hogni responded with an indulgent smile and gave Kjartan a furtive wink.
“I think Khrushchev is just a Progressist,” said Hogni. “There aren’t any real communists left anymore, not since Comrade Stalin died.”
“He’s only kidding,” Grimur said to Kjartan. “Hogni is the biggest Progressive I know. He just hasn’t realized it himself yet. It’s the same story with a lot of people who waste their time trying to vote for other parties. Don’t let it sway you, lad.”
That was the end of the political debate, and the men walked out of the house with coffee in their glasses.
The sun was setting in the sky in the west, and there was a chill in the air.
“How many days do you reckon that man survived on that island?” Kjartan asked.
“Difficult to say,” Grimur answered. “Maybe a few.”
Hogni sipped on his coffee and said, “There was once a woman who tended to her animals in the winter on a remote island out there in Skardsstrond. There were two laborers with her, a man and a woman. The man had run out of tobacco after the long period of isolation, and the girl had some boyfriend on the mainland. So they wanted the old woman to allow them to go home, but she wouldn’t let them until they tricked her by extinguishing the fire in the hut. That way she had to send them to the mainland to fetch more fire. But when they left her, there was a cold northern wind one night, and the sea froze over so that the old bag couldn’t be reached for the next eight weeks. She had something to eat on the island, even though it was raw, and she got a tiny bit of warmth from the animals, but she was always considered a bit weird after that.”
Hogni gave Kjartan a meaningful look.
“But the man in Ketilsey had neither food nor heat,” said Kjartan.
“You’re right there, lad,” Grimur answered with a grave air. “I just hope the poor wretch didn’t have to suffer long.”
They walked inside, and the district officer showed Kjartan the old typewriter on the small standing writing table in the living room. It seemed to be in reasonable condition, and Kjartan placed two sheets in it with a carbon sheet in between and rolled it into place. He recalled the doctor’s words from memory and then started to type. He was accustomed to using a typewriter and wrote texts with relative ease. The opening read as follows: “Notice to the inhabitants of the district of Flatey. The remains of a man’s body were found on Ketilsey.”
Once the description of the man’s clothes had been written, he added the words of Jon Finnsson that had been found in the deceased’s cardigan pocket. Finally, he wrote: “If anyone can provide any information on the man’s journey to Ketilsey or knows of a missing person, they are asked to contact Grimur Einarsson, the district administrative officer of Flatey.”
“…the characters in the sagas contained in the Flatey Book are not my favorite people. If its accounts are accurate, these were some of the worst rogues, and few of them were honorable leaders. Olaf Tryggvason’s and Olaf Haraldsson’s relentless endeavors to convert the Norse to Christianity are of little credit to their religion. It can also be argued that the Viking raids delayed the advance of civilization in northern Europe for centuries. It is, however, the Icelandic record keepers that I admire. The people who passed the sagas down from one generation to the next, first orally and then from one vellum sheet to another. There are countless phrases in the Flatey Book that have now become sayings that are quoted over and over again, without anyone being remotely aware of their origin. Sayings such as ‘No one can stand against great odds,’ ‘Ale is another man,’ and ‘The one who yields is generally the wisest.’ These are all sayings that Icelanders have become accustomed to using without thinking particularly about their origin. Few contemporary authors exhibit this kind of insight…”
