He was excited. The more he thought about it, the clearer he understood his role in the plans of the ring. Sadly, he was not to be the one through which the ring would unleash its power on the world. But he had been chosen as the catalyst by which the ring would escape from a thousand years in the Icelandic wilderness and make its way back into the centre of the world of men.
An important role indeed.
The murder of Agnar, the arrest of Tomas, these were not everyday events. The police were getting closer, but now that did not worry the pastor unduly. It was preordained.
He listened to the haunting mandolin: ‘Waiting for the angels of Avalon’. His thoughts returned to who it was who would be chosen to bear the ring after him. Tomas perhaps? Unlikely, the more he thought of it. Ingileif? No. Although she had always been a strong-willed girl, she was the last person he could imagine being corrupted. The big red-haired detective? Possible. He had an American accent and he exuded an aura of power and capability.
For a moment Hakon wondered whether he should just give the detective the ring. But no, he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
The phone rang. The pastor turned down the music and answered. The conversation didn’t take long.
When he had finished, he glanced again at the ring. Should he replace it in the altar, or should he take it with him?
Events were picking up pace.
He turned off the stereo, grabbed his coat and went out to the garage, the ring still firmly on his finger.
A few kilometres south of Fludir, Magnus and Ingileif came to the mighty Thjorsa. This was the longest river in Iceland, carrying cold green-white water in a torrent from the glaciers in the centre of the country south towards the Atlantic Ocean. They turned left, following the road up the valley towards Gaukur’s old farm of Stong.
The river glistened in the sunlight. On the left, scattered farms and the occasional church nestled in the lee of the crags, many of them still covered in snow. Ahead, to the right, loomed Hekla. That morning the summit was draped with cloud, darker than the white puffs which smattered the rest of the pale sky.
At Ingileif’s direction, Magnus turned off the road and along a dirt track, winding up through the hills and into a small valley. His police-issued Skoda strained to maintain traction: the road was in poor condition and in places very steep. After a bone-rattling eight kilometres they finally came across a small white farm with a red roof nestling in the hillside at the head of its own little valley. Beneath the farm the obligatory lush green home meadow stretched down to a fast-flowing stream. The rest of the grass in the valley lurked brown and lacklustre, where it wasn’t still covered in snow.
Alfabrekka.
‘“How fair the slopes are”,’ Ingileif said.
Magnus smiled as he recognized the quotation from Njals Saga. He finished it: ‘“Fairer than they have ever seemed to me before”.’
As they pulled into the farmyard, a thin, sprightly man in his mid-fifties marched towards them, wearing blue overalls.
‘Good morning!’ he said, smiling broadly, his body almost quivering with the excitement of receiving visitors. ‘How can I help you?’
Bright blue eyes shone out of a pale and wrinkled face. Tufts of grey hair peaked out of his woolly cap.
Ingileif took the lead, introducing herself and Magnus. ‘My father was Dr Asgrimur Hognason. You may remember him. He fell to his death near here in 1992.’
‘Oh, yes, I do remember that, very clearly,’ the farmer said. ‘You have my sympathy, even so many years later. But let’s not stand around out here. Come inside and have some coffee!’
Inside, the farmer’s father and mother greeted them. The father, an impossibly wizened man, stirred himself from a comfortable armchair, while the mother busied herself with coffee and cakes. A stove warmed the living room, which was chock full of Icelandic knick-knacks, including at least four miniature Icelandic flags.
And a giant high-definition television screen. Just to remind them that they were truly in Iceland.
The younger farmer who had greeted them did most of the talking. His name was Adalsteinn. And before they could ask him any questions he told them about his parents, the fact that he himself was single, the fact that the farm had been in the family for generations, and particularly the fact that farming these days was tough, very tough indeed.
The coffee was delicious, as were the cakes.
‘Adalsteinn, perhaps you could tell me what happened the day you found my father?’ Ingileif interrupted.
Adalsteinn launched into a long description of how a frozen pastor had come to the door, and how he and his father had followed the pastor back to the place where Asgrimur had fallen. The doctor was definitely dead and very cold. There were no signs of a struggle or foul play, it was quite clear where he had fallen. The police hadn’t asked any particular questions suggesting they suspected anything other than an accident.
During all this, the farmer’s mother added certain helpful embellishments and corrected the odd detail, but the old man sat in his chair, silent, watching and listening.
Magnus and Ingileif stood up, and were taking their leave when he spoke for the first time. ‘Tell them about the hidden man, Steini.’
‘The hidden man?’ Magnus looked sharply at the old man and then at the younger farmer.
‘I will, Father. I’ll tell them outside.’
Adalsteinn ushered Magnus and Ingileif out into the yard.
‘What hidden man?’ said Magnus.
‘Father has seen the huldufolk all his life,’ Adalsteinn said. ‘There are a few who live around here, according to him. Have done for generations. You know how it is?’ His friendly face examined Magnus, looking for signs of disdain.
‘I know how it is,’ said Magnus. Alfabrekka meant ‘Elf Slope’ after all. There was some discussion in Iceland as to the precise differences between elves and hidden people, but this place was probably teeming with both races. What should he expect? ‘Go on.’
‘Well, he says he saw a young hidden man scurry by on the far side of the valley an hour before the pastor arrived.’
‘A hidden man? How does he know it wasn’t a human?’
‘Well, he and my mother decided it was a hidden man, because the pastor was wearing an old gold ring.’
‘A ring?’
‘Yes. I didn’t see it, but they took off his gloves to get his hands warm, and he was wearing it.’
‘And what has that to do with hidden people?’
Adalsteinn took a deep breath. ‘There is an old local legend about a wedding ring. Thorgerd, the farmer’s daughter of Alfa-brekka, was tending her sheep on the high pastures when she was approached by a handsome young hidden man. He took her away and married her. The farmer was angry, searched for Thorgerd and killed her. Then he chased after the hidden man. The hidden man concealed the wedding ring in a cave guarded by the hound of a troll. The farmer went to look for the ring but the troll killed him and ate him. Then there was a great eruption from Hekla and the farm was buried in ash.’
Magnus was impressed by how far Gaukur’s Saga had been mangled over the generations. The basic elements were still there, though: the ring, the cave, the troll’s hound. ‘So your father thinks that the hidden man was looking for the pastor?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And what do you think?’
The farmer shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He told the police, who didn’t take any notice. No one else had seen a young man on the hills. There was no reason for a young man to go out in a snow-storm. I don’t know.’
‘Do you mind if we go back and ask your father about the hidden man?’
‘Be my guest,’ said the farmer.
The old man was still in his armchair while his wife was tidying up the coffee cups.
‘Your son tells me that the pastor was wearing a ring?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the old man’s wife.
‘What kind of ring?’
‘It was dark, dirty but you could see it was gold under the dirt. It must have been very old.’