Last Rituals (25 page)

 

 

Dóri groaned. "No, don't twist my words. Just get it over with."

 

 

"It's just not the same as it was at Harald's place," Brjánn chipped in. He had made little contribution until then. He scanned their faces. "Harald's gone. I'm not sure it will work without him."

 

 

Andri ignored the remark about his apartment. "We can't do much about Harald not being here." He reached for an ashtray. "What was that old cow's name again?"

 

 

"Thóra Gudmundsdóttir," answered Bríet. "The lawyer."

 

 

"Okay," said Andri. "Let's start. Agreed?" He looked at the others who either nodded or shrugged. "Who wants to start?"

 

 

Bríet looked at Marta Mist. "You start," she said, trying to butter up her friend. "You're the best at this by far, and it's important to do it properly."

 

 

Marta Mist ignored her attempt at flattery. She looked round the circle. "You know this woman could get us into a hell of a lot of trouble if she starts sticking her nose in the wrong places. It was pure luck that the cops went offtrack."

 

 

"We're all aware of that," Brjánn said on their behalf. "One hundred percent."

 

 

"Good," said Marta Mist. She placed her hands on her thighs. "Absolute silence, please." No one spoke a word. She picked up the thick pile of papers that was in the middle of the circle and a small bowl of red liquid. She put the papers down in front of her and positioned the bowl by her side. Bríet solemnly handed her a chopstick. Marta Mist dipped it into the viscous liquid and drew a symbol onto the paper with slow strokes. She closed her eyes and began to chant in a low, eerie voice: "If you wish your enemies to fear you…"

 

 

 

CHAPTER 20
DECEMBER 9, 2005

Thóra had read well into the night and she woke up feeling heavy-headed and tired. She had spent a long time examining the page that fell out of the book, which turned out to contain an assortment of handwritten words and dates. Thóra assumed that the handwriting was Harald's—his name was on the flyleaf of the book. Also, some of the text was in German. He had not written it particularly neatly and Thóra was by no means certain she had read all the words correctly. What she could decipher of the writing said:

 

 

"1485 Malleus," the date apparently underlined by Harald several times and the phrase itself double-underlined. Below that, "J. A. 1550??," crossed out. Then came what seemed to be two interlaced
l
s followed by "Loricatus Lupus." Beneath that was some German which Thóra read as: "Where? Where? The ancient cross??" Half of the sheet was a kind of flowchart with arrows linking points marked by dates and place-names. The arrangement of the points suggested this was a rough map. One point was marked "Innsbruck—1485," above it "Kiel—1486," and above that "Roskilde." That name was marked with two dates: "1486—dead" and "1505—pardoned." There were two more points above these three. The upper one was marked "Hólar—1535," but this had been crossed out, as had its link with the other point, marked "Skálholt." Two dates accompanied that label, "1505" and "1675." A welter of arrows spread out from the latter date, all ending in question marks. To one side of them the question "The ancient cross??" was repeated. In a different pen, the word
"Gastbuch"
had been added, immediately followed by either a drawing of a small cross or the letter
t
. Thóra pondered the meaning of this. A visitors' book? The visitors' book of the cross? Beneath it was "chimney—stove—3rd symbol!" if her German was to be trusted. In the end Thóra gave up trying to decipher the chart and turned to reading the book itself.

 

 

Malleus Maleficarum
turned out to be anything but pleasant. Its sheer gruesomeness held Thóra's attention. She did not read it from cover to cover; the first and second chapters were too bizarre for her to take in fully. The book was structured with questions or claims about witchcraft at the beginning of each chapter or paragraph, which were then answered or explained using outrageously flawed theological sophistry.

 

 

The stories and descriptions of the witches' deeds and rituals were incredible. Their powers seemed to know no bounds—they could conjure up storms at will, fly, transform men into cattle and other animals, cause impotence and make a man's penis appear to detach from his body. A considerable amount of space was devoted to debating whether the dismemberment was an illusion or a physical detachment. After reading it, Thóra was still not sure what the authors had concluded. Witches had to go to extraordinary lengths to acquire such powers, including cooking and/or eating babies and having sex with the devil himself. Although she was no psychologist, Thóra guessed that the authors were sorely afflicted by the vows of chastity they had sworn as Black Friar monks. This was obvious from their unpleasantly bitter depictions of women. Disgust oozed from every account and it was almost more than Thóra could take. The explanations for women's tainted, demonic character were outlandish, including the claim that the rib taken from Adam to create the first woman was curved inward—which naturally had fateful consequences. Women would have been perfect if God had used a thighbone. All this evidence was then used to convince the reader that women were easy prey for the devil, which was why most witches were female. The poor took their share of the blame as well—they were more likely than the rich to tell lies and lack character. Thóra could hardly imagine what it was like to be a poor woman in those days.

 

 

What intrigued her most was the third and final chapter she read, which dealt with legal aspects of the Inquisition and the prosecution of witches. As a lawyer she abhorred the idea of persuading the accused that a confession would spare their lives and then offering three different ways to break that promise without acknowledging having done so. The proper procedure for arresting witches was described and it was stressed that their feet should not be allowed to touch the ground on the way to prison—they were to be carried on stretchers. Touching the ground could possibly allow the devil to endow them with the power to deny the charges until death. They were to be searched on arrival at prison, because under their clothes witches often wore magic objects made from the limbs of babies. It was also recommended to shave them, since they could conceal such objects in their hair, but there were divided views as to whether the shaving should include pubic hair.

 

 

Ways to obstruct the defense were described, for example, presenting defendants with witnesses' testimonies on two pieces of paper—one containing the testimonies and the other the names, making it impossible to know who was claiming what. This applied only when the testimonies were shown to the accused, which was not always allowed; a lengthy passage discussed when this was appropriate and when not. Anyone could give evidence at witches' trials, whereas only the testimony of people of upright character was admitted elsewhere.

 

 

The book explained how to practice torture, the interval between sessions, and regular inspections to see whether the victim could weep on the rack in the presence of the judge—which could point to innocence. In fact the tears were not to be trusted, because women would often use their saliva to give the impression of weeping. Presumably, incessant torture would not leave those poor people with many tears to spare when the judge arrived and ordered them to cry; Thóra doubted they could be in their right minds. Crying in the absence of a judge—in cells, on the rack, and the like—did not count. The ultimate goal of all this was to extract false confessions to the acts described in the first two chapters, thereby demonstrating the demonic nature of women. Any normal reader could see that such confessions would have been meaningless, extracted by torture and reeled off to please the executioners and bring the victims' own suffering to an end.

 

 

With an effort, Thóra sat up in bed. She glanced at the evil book on her bedside table. She tried to perk herself up by concentrating on the one positive conclusion she had drawn from reading it—humankind has definitely made some progress since 1500. She got up and took a shower. On her way she knocked on her son's door to wake him up. Breakfast, as usual, was a makeshift arrangement and the only one of them with time to sit down and eat was Sóley. On their way out to the car Thóra reminded them that they would be going to stay with their father that evening. They never got excited about going but afterward they were always pleased to have spent time with him. If they could wiggle their way out of horseback riding.

 

 

After she dropped off the kids Thóra hurried to the office. She took along the handwritten sheet of paper from inside the book to show to Matthew. No one was there, since there was more than half an hour to go before it opened at nine. There was plenty of time to make coffee and check her mail—to keep up with what was going on outside this bizarre case that now occupied all her time.

 

 

* * *

Bríet had arrived for her class that began at a quarter past eight but Gunnar had stopped her on her way into the room. A few words from him, and it was out of the question to attend the lesson. Instead of going into the classroom, she rushed out for a smoke on the steps. She had to calm her nerves—and also phone the others to tell them the news. She took a long, deep drag on her slim menthol cigarette—a brand Marta Mist found so weak she said Bríet could claim to be a nonsmoker with a perfectly clear conscience. Marta Mist smoked Marlboros, and while Bríet was finding her number she hoped her friend had plenty of cigarettes—they would need them.

 

 

"Hello," said Bríet, flustered, when Marta answered. "It's Bríet."

 

 

"Fucking early to call." Marta Mist's voice was hoarse and Bríet had clearly woken her up.

 

 

"You've got to get down to the university—Gunnar's gone nuts and says he'll make sure we're all expelled if we don't do what he says."

 

 

"That's bull." Marta Mist sounded properly awake now.

 

 

"We've got to phone the others and tell them to come here. I'm not going to get expelled. My dad will go ballistic and I won't get my student loan."

 

 

Marta Mist interrupted her. "Chill for a minute. How does Gunnar plan to get us expelled? I don't know about you, but my grades are fine."

 

 

"He says he's going to complain to the department board about drug-taking—he says he's got things up his sleeve. So he could get Brjánn and me expelled and then make sure the same happened to you and Andri and Dóri. We have to do what he says. I'm not risking it, anyway." Bríet was agitated. What was wrong with Marta Mist—couldn't she ever do what she was told?

 

 

"What does he want us to do?" Bríet's agitation had infected Marta Mist.

 

 

"He wants us to talk to that lawyer, Thóra. She wants to meet us and Gunnar insists that we cooperate. Actually he said he wasn't stupid enough to believe we always told the truth, but he doesn't care—just wants us to talk to her." She took a drag and exhaled fast. She heard someone at Marta Mist's end, asking what was going on.

 

 

"Okay, okay," said Marta Mist. "What about the others—have you phoned them?"

 

 

"No, you've got to help me. I want to get it over—let's all meet at ten and finish it. I have classes today."

 

 

"I'll talk to Dóri. You call Andri and Brjánn. Let's meet at the bookshop." Marta Mist hung up without another word.

 

 

Bríet scowled at her mobile. Of course it was Dóri who was with Marta. So she wasn't planning to phone anyone—just leave all the dirty work to Bríet as usual. If she had just offered to call Andri or Brjánn it would have been fair. Bríet stubbed out her cigarette against the steps. She walked toward the bookshop, searching for Brjánn's number in her address book.

 

 

* * *

From his office window, Gunnar watched Bríet walk away.
Fine,
he thought—
I've got them panicking
. When he had met the girl earlier it had been a huge effort to keep on talking. He had nothing on them—except the certainty that they were deeply involved in drugs and God knows what else. His offer to arrange a meeting between them and the lawyer was a shot in the dark—until then they had never done a thing he asked and he did not really expect them to begin now. So he had resorted to threats—the sort of language they might understand—and he seemed to have guessed correctly.

 

 

That crowd had always annoyed him. Harald was clearly the worst, but the others were really little better. The only difference was that they had not deformed their outward appearances to match what was inside. In his desperation to rid the university of the abomination they called a history society, he had checked their files and discovered to his astonishment that some of them were outstanding students.

 

 

Lowering the blinds again, he picked up the telephone. On the table in front of him was the lawyer's card—he had to stay in her good graces and the German's, too, if he wanted to locate the manuscript that Harald had stolen. STOLEN. It was unbearable to pretend he had liked that repulsive young man and to talk about him respectfully. He was a common thief and a disgrace to himself and everyone who knew him. Gunnar put the telephone down. He had to calm himself—he couldn't phone the lawyer in this mood. Take a deep breath and think about something completely different. The Erasmus program grant, for example. The application had gone in, and there was a good chance it would be approved. Gunnar managed to pull himself together. He picked up the telephone and dialed the number on the card.

 

 

"Thóra, hello. Gunnar here," he said in the politest voice he could manage. "It's about Harald's friends—you wanted to meet them?"