built into the side of the slope. A chimney protruded from the gable, heaving black smoke. There was potato patch to the north of the building and beyond that a small hut, presumably a storeroom. In the yard there were a number of wooden frames, seed potatoes, an overturned wheelbarrow, and a large barrel of water with a lid on top.
Valdi appeared in the low doorway and had to stoop to come out to them.
“Hello there,” Grímur greeted him.
Valdi nodded in silence, stuffed tobacco into his pipe, and stared at Kjartan with one inquisitory eye. Grímur got straight to the point. Could he have by any chance written down who was on the mail boat on Saturday September 4 last year?
Valdi pondered this a moment.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked.
“Reverend Hannes thinks he knows the man you found in Ketilsey but said that he was supposed to be traveling on the mail boat to Stykkishólmur that day.”
Valdi went back into the croft and soon reappeared with a blue copybook in his hands. He skimmed through it, reading it in silence.
“No, Officer. I didn’t write anything about who traveled south that day.”
“Why not, Valdi?” Grímur asked, surprised.
“I can’t remember offhand.”
“Was it maybe because no one traveled on the boat?” Kjartan asked.
Valdi looked at him. “Could be.”
“Could we maybe see that page?” Grímur asked.
Valdi looked at them alternately and then handed them the copybook and showed them the page. It was crammed with words written in pencil, and the entry beside the date September 4 read: “Drizzle, moderate breeze, temperature 4 degrees. Passengers from Stykkishólmur, Hákon, and Filippía. Was in Akranes getting new teeth. Gudrún’s son in Innstibaer on visit.” Then there was a small blank space.
They heard a screech from inside the house. Jón Ferdinand came limping outside clutching his mouth. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” he wailed. “I burned my mouth.”
“What the hell happened?” Valdi gruffly snapped.
“I was just sipping the broth of the black-backed gull,” said the crestfallen old man.
“Have you gone mad, tasting the broth when it’s still boiling in the pot?” said Valdi, taking the lid off the barrel of water. He stuck a ladle inside and handed it to the old man.
“Here, drink something cold.”
Jón Ferdinand sipped the water, and Valdi looked at the guests.
“I have to watch over this man like a little child,” he said.
Grímur examined old Jón’s lips. “He’ll get some burn blisters,” said Grímur. “Maybe you should take him to the doctor.”
“I’d be doing little else if I had to take that old man to the doctor every time he burned his gob,” Valdi grumbled.
“Mind if I take a little look at your book?” Kjartan asked.
Valdi looked at Kjartan. “Why?”
“The priest said the guest came over from Reykhólar on the second of September. Do you keep a record of the boats that come from over there in your book?”
“No, no. There’s no way you can keep track of everyone who comes and goes from the village. Boats anchor all over the place, and there are so many things to do. I only follow the mail boat when it comes on Saturdays. I grab the ropes for them because it’s such a short distance for me to go out to the pier. Then I write down who was on the boat, just for the information and fun of it. No one’s ever asked to look at this before.”
Grímur heaved a sigh. “Right then, Valdi. We’ll take this no further then. Maybe you could try to remember why you didn’t write about it in your book on that day and just let me know.”
The three men said good-bye.
“…Vellum manuscripts in the Middle Ages were not all preserved with the same care. In the thirteenth century and the first half of the fourteenth century, many manuscripts were probably exported to Norway as merchandise. Their value diminished, however, when the language rapidly changed at the end of the fourteenth century. People no longer
Valdi appeared in the low doorway and had to stoop to come out to them.
“Hello there,” Grímur greeted him.
Valdi nodded in silence, stuffed tobacco into his pipe, and stared at Kjartan with one inquisitory eye. Grímur got straight to the point. Could he have by any chance written down who was on the mail boat on Saturday September 4 last year?
Valdi pondered this a moment.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked.
“Reverend Hannes thinks he knows the man you found in Ketilsey but said that he was supposed to be traveling on the mail boat to Stykkishólmur that day.”
Valdi went back into the croft and soon reappeared with a blue copybook in his hands. He skimmed through it, reading it in silence.
“No, Officer. I didn’t write anything about who traveled south that day.”
“Why not, Valdi?” Grímur asked, surprised.
“I can’t remember offhand.”
“Was it maybe because no one traveled on the boat?” Kjartan asked.
Valdi looked at him. “Could be.”
“Could we maybe see that page?” Grímur asked.
Valdi looked at them alternately and then handed them the copybook and showed them the page. It was crammed with words written in pencil, and the entry beside the date September 4 read: “Drizzle, moderate breeze, temperature 4 degrees. Passengers from Stykkishólmur, Hákon, and Filippía. Was in Akranes getting new teeth. Gudrún’s son in Innstibaer on visit.” Then there was a small blank space.
They heard a screech from inside the house. Jón Ferdinand came limping outside clutching his mouth. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” he wailed. “I burned my mouth.”
“What the hell happened?” Valdi gruffly snapped.
“I was just sipping the broth of the black-backed gull,” said the crestfallen old man.
“Have you gone mad, tasting the broth when it’s still boiling in the pot?” said Valdi, taking the lid off the barrel of water. He stuck a ladle inside and handed it to the old man.
“Here, drink something cold.”
Jón Ferdinand sipped the water, and Valdi looked at the guests.
“I have to watch over this man like a little child,” he said.
Grímur examined old Jón’s lips. “He’ll get some burn blisters,” said Grímur. “Maybe you should take him to the doctor.”
“I’d be doing little else if I had to take that old man to the doctor every time he burned his gob,” Valdi grumbled.
“Mind if I take a little look at your book?” Kjartan asked.
Valdi looked at Kjartan. “Why?”
“The priest said the guest came over from Reykhólar on the second of September. Do you keep a record of the boats that come from over there in your book?”
“No, no. There’s no way you can keep track of everyone who comes and goes from the village. Boats anchor all over the place, and there are so many things to do. I only follow the mail boat when it comes on Saturdays. I grab the ropes for them because it’s such a short distance for me to go out to the pier. Then I write down who was on the boat, just for the information and fun of it. No one’s ever asked to look at this before.”
Grímur heaved a sigh. “Right then, Valdi. We’ll take this no further then. Maybe you could try to remember why you didn’t write about it in your book on that day and just let me know.”
The three men said good-bye.
“…Vellum manuscripts in the Middle Ages were not all preserved with the same care. In the thirteenth century and the first half of the fourteenth century, many manuscripts were probably exported to Norway as merchandise. Their value diminished, however, when the language rapidly changed at the end of the fourteenth century. People no longer
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