Read Online The Flatey Enigma by Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson - Free Book Online Page B

way of emphasis.
    “Have many of your dreams come true?” Kjartan asked.
    “Yes, my friend. Some of them have even been recorded in annals. The most famous were the Sigrídur dream, the sail dream, and the ram’s testicles dream. Then there are others that have remained unsolved, even though many have tried. Those are the dreams I had about Stagley, and the calves and Ash Wednesday dreams, for example. Do you want to have a crack at them?”
    Kjartan shrugged.
    “The calves dream goes like this. I sense I’m up by the church, and then I see three eagles flying over Múlanes. They form a circle over the graveyard, and one of them perches on a tombstone while the others fly back to the mainland the way they came. The eagle that is perching flaps its wings wildly, and I see that it is covered in blood and the blood is splattering off the feathers of his wings all around him. Finally, he rests his wings and looks toward the harbor. Then I see that there is a big sailing ship with two masts moored there, but a hoard of bullocks are being led up the road and people are walking behind them wearing crowns and majestic robes. That’s when I wake up. What do you think it means?”
    “I don’t know. I’m no good at solving riddles,” Kjartan answered.
    “Dreams are no riddles. You just have to be able to read the signs right. The calf dream is about some major event, that’s for sure. Three eagles always precede an event, but the blood is a bad omen.”
    Kjartan smiled. “Are there other signs you can interpret?” he asked.
    “Oh yes, many: a swan stands for wealth, a bishop is a bad omen, a flower stands for happiness in the summer but sorrow in the winter, a king mean success and prestige. But it can all be turned on its head.”
    “Do people around here believe in all this stuff?” Kjartan asked.
    “Of course—anyone who takes the trouble to think about it, that is. Do you think the Creator just created dreams for the fun of it? No, sir. These are messages that evolved minds gradually learn to decipher. Everything serves its purpose. Even the hidden people and elves in the hills are there to fulfill a function.”
    “The elves?” Kjartan asked skeptically.
    “Yes. Have you never seen an elf?”
    “No.”
    “You’ll see an elf someday, my friend. But there’s no certainty that you’ll be able to recognize him when you see him.”
    “How can I recognize one?”
    “Keep a pure heart and don’t doubt unnecessarily. People doubt too much. One should believe the things that are in the Icelandic sagas and the Bible and the things that old people say. Then our dreams and wishes can come true.”
    Thormódur Krákur had ended his speech and continued sieving the down. He seemed to have had enough of the conversation, so Kjartan said good-bye and left the shed. The fresh air was welcome.
    A young man was painting a window mullion on the next house green. He had a long, bright forehead that stretched down to his eyes, and Kjartan wondered whether this was an elf. Probably not, he thought, as the young man put down his paintbrush and lit a cigarette. Then he remembered seeing this same guy nail a sealskin to the gable of the outhouse. The house was clad in white painted corrugated iron and the roof was green. Over the door was a sign that read Radagerdi and below it the year of its construction—1927.
    “Are you a cop?” the boy called out to Kjartan.
    “No, I’m no policeman,” Kjartan answered, drawing closer.
    “Oh no? I was told you were a cop from Patreksfjördur.”
    “No, I’m just an assistant to the district magistrate.”
    “Yeah, isn’t that some kind of cop?”
    “Not really.”
    “Aren’t you investigating the murder of that guy on the island?”
    “Well, no, I’m trying to find out who he is. I doubt whether he was murdered.”
    “I thought you were a real cop,” said the boy, disappointed. He tried to turn on a red transistor that stood on a windowsill inside an open window.
    “Have