Read Online The Flatey Enigma by Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson
Ads: Link
the scent of the vegetation that had started to flourish nicely in the sunshine, sheltered by the walls of the houses. Garden dock, angelica, and long grass thrived on the fertilizer the hens dropped behind them wherever they went.
Thormódur Krákur stood in front of an open shed dressed in his work clothes, and some eiderdown had been left out to dry on a white piece of sailcloth at his feet. When he saw Kjartan, he greeted him heartily: “Good morning, Assistant Magistrate. Where are you off to today?”
Kjartan considered telling him not to call him Assistant Magistrate but then decided not to bother.
“I’m just taking a look around,” he answered.
“Good idea,” said Thormódur Krákur. “Can I offer you some fermented shark?”
“No thanks.”
“How about some freshly laid arctic tern eggs then?”
“No thank you, I’m not hungry.”
“As you wish then. Any news about that Ketilsey fellow?”
“No, nothing new.”
“No, huh? Ah well. This doesn’t bode well. I’ve had some bad dreams lately.”
“Dreams?”
“Yes, I’m considered to be a bit of a visionary dreamer, my friend. Not that I’m particularly apt at deciphering what they mean, but there are some old women around here who can decipher them if the descriptions are clear enough.”
Thormódur Krákur broke into a broad smile that exposed his crooked teeth.
“Sometimes the signs are so obscure that no one recognizes the context until afterwards,” he added.
“What were the dreams about?” Kjartan asked.
Thormódur Krákur blew his nose into his red snuff handkerchief and walked into the shed. “They were bad dreams, my friend, bad dreams. Many of them would have been better off left undreamt,” he said, beckoning Kjartan to follow him through the door. Kjartan had to stoop to get through the entrance, but as soon as he smelled the stench inside, he almost felt like turning around again. A variety of seasoned foods were stored there, some of it hanging from the turf ceiling or immersed in barrels in salt or sour whey. A number of hens dwelt at the other end of the shed, which was partitioned off with wire netting.
Thormódur Krákur sat on a box, reached out for a large wooden frame, and placed it on his knees. It was a harp-like contraption that was stringed lengthwise through perforations in the wood, with one-centimeter gaps between each string. There were two wooden barrels on either side of him.
“I dreamt I was making hay out in Langey and spending the night in a tent,” said the deacon. “It was incredibly cold and shivery on the island, and I couldn’t find any way to warm up, no matter how hard I swung the scythe.”
Thormódur Krákur grabbed a pile of rough, uncleaned eiderdown from one of the barrels and placed it on the frame. Then he started shaking the down and stroking the strings, loosening the dirt, which fell to the floor.
“Then I saw a raven,” he continued, “that came flying and perched right over my tent, which was just a few yards away. I was going to shoo him away, but then I couldn’t walk because my legs were as heavy as lead. Then another raven appeared and sat beside the other one, and they were both sitting on the top of the tent when I woke up. I dreamed that every night for the whole of Eastertide. I call that the Langey dream.”
Thormódur Krákur grew quiet, threw the roughly cleaned down into the empty barrel, and picked up a new bundle to clean.
“How was this dream interpreted?” Kjartan asked.
“Everyone could solve that one. Those are deaths, my friends, two deaths, the same number as the ravens. It couldn’t be more obvious. A raven on a tent always means death, whether you see them when you’re awake or in your sleep.”
“Is someone else going to die then?” Kjartan asked.
“Not necessarily; a very old lady from the inner isles died on Ascension Thursday. Maybe it was her. Maybe not. We’ll soon find out.”
Thormódur Krákur lifted his index finger by
Thormódur Krákur stood in front of an open shed dressed in his work clothes, and some eiderdown had been left out to dry on a white piece of sailcloth at his feet. When he saw Kjartan, he greeted him heartily: “Good morning, Assistant Magistrate. Where are you off to today?”
Kjartan considered telling him not to call him Assistant Magistrate but then decided not to bother.
“I’m just taking a look around,” he answered.
“Good idea,” said Thormódur Krákur. “Can I offer you some fermented shark?”
“No thanks.”
“How about some freshly laid arctic tern eggs then?”
“No thank you, I’m not hungry.”
“As you wish then. Any news about that Ketilsey fellow?”
“No, nothing new.”
“No, huh? Ah well. This doesn’t bode well. I’ve had some bad dreams lately.”
“Dreams?”
“Yes, I’m considered to be a bit of a visionary dreamer, my friend. Not that I’m particularly apt at deciphering what they mean, but there are some old women around here who can decipher them if the descriptions are clear enough.”
Thormódur Krákur broke into a broad smile that exposed his crooked teeth.
“Sometimes the signs are so obscure that no one recognizes the context until afterwards,” he added.
“What were the dreams about?” Kjartan asked.
Thormódur Krákur blew his nose into his red snuff handkerchief and walked into the shed. “They were bad dreams, my friend, bad dreams. Many of them would have been better off left undreamt,” he said, beckoning Kjartan to follow him through the door. Kjartan had to stoop to get through the entrance, but as soon as he smelled the stench inside, he almost felt like turning around again. A variety of seasoned foods were stored there, some of it hanging from the turf ceiling or immersed in barrels in salt or sour whey. A number of hens dwelt at the other end of the shed, which was partitioned off with wire netting.
Thormódur Krákur sat on a box, reached out for a large wooden frame, and placed it on his knees. It was a harp-like contraption that was stringed lengthwise through perforations in the wood, with one-centimeter gaps between each string. There were two wooden barrels on either side of him.
“I dreamt I was making hay out in Langey and spending the night in a tent,” said the deacon. “It was incredibly cold and shivery on the island, and I couldn’t find any way to warm up, no matter how hard I swung the scythe.”
Thormódur Krákur grabbed a pile of rough, uncleaned eiderdown from one of the barrels and placed it on the frame. Then he started shaking the down and stroking the strings, loosening the dirt, which fell to the floor.
“Then I saw a raven,” he continued, “that came flying and perched right over my tent, which was just a few yards away. I was going to shoo him away, but then I couldn’t walk because my legs were as heavy as lead. Then another raven appeared and sat beside the other one, and they were both sitting on the top of the tent when I woke up. I dreamed that every night for the whole of Eastertide. I call that the Langey dream.”
Thormódur Krákur grew quiet, threw the roughly cleaned down into the empty barrel, and picked up a new bundle to clean.
“How was this dream interpreted?” Kjartan asked.
“Everyone could solve that one. Those are deaths, my friends, two deaths, the same number as the ravens. It couldn’t be more obvious. A raven on a tent always means death, whether you see them when you’re awake or in your sleep.”
“Is someone else going to die then?” Kjartan asked.
“Not necessarily; a very old lady from the inner isles died on Ascension Thursday. Maybe it was her. Maybe not. We’ll soon find out.”
Thormódur Krákur lifted his index finger by
Similar Books
