The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1995, Síða 38

148
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
SPRING / SUMMER 1995
Irish friend — yes, even better than he him-
self. The secret concerns his mother’s
brother, as you perhaps know, but it cen-
tres around a buried treasure. The uncle is
long dead — ”
“And died here in the Red River Valley,”
I said, though I was really not sure about
that.
“The uncle is long dead,” he said, “and
died south in the United States in April,
1870. He had buried the money on the
bank of the Red River near Fort Garry and
he intended that his nephew Arnor Berg
would cross the ocean to dig up the money
and give it to the man or men who had a
right to it. Arnor Berg came west four or
five years ago to look for the hidden treas-
ure but did not find it, then stopped search-
ing and disappeared south into the United
States. I know every step he took from the
time he left Iceland until he left this house.
I have searched for him for nearly two years,
even going home to Iceland, and I resolved
not to stop until I found him, for I have a
great deal to tell him about his uncle. And
I can direct him to the money. No doubt
you would like to know how I came upon
this secret.”
“Yes, I would enjoy hearing about it,” I
said, intending to let my voice show that it
was of little concern to me. (The reader
will know whether I was hiding my curios-
ity from this clear-sighted man.)
"Then I shall explain it immediately,”
said Mr. Island, taking a small notebook out
of his pocket without looking into it. "Two
( DRS. H. JOHNSON 'j
& O. OLSON
PHYSICIANS and SURGEONS
Phone 633-7281
WESTBROOK MEDICAL CENTRE
Logan and Keewatin
\. Winnipeg, Manitoba J
years ago, I was staying in a small village
not far from the city of St. Paul in the
United States. I stayed for some days in a
small hotel run by a French Catholic. As I
wrote my name in the hotel register, I no-
ticed the landlord, who was close by, star-
ing at me as if he found something strange
about me. A little later, he asked me my
nationality and I told him. He wanted to
know how long I had been in this country
and if I could speak and read my mother
tongue. He seemed very anxious to find out
about my homeland and race. The next
day, a young monk came to the hotel and
asked for me. He said he came from an
abbey nearby and that the abbot sent me
greetings and asked me to meet him as
soon as possible because he wanted to get
news from me about some man of my race,
and that this was very urgent. I quickly set
off with the young monk who chatted and
smiled on the way to the abbey, but became
silent as the grave when we arrived there.
He showed me into a small room just in-
side the front door of the abbey and I
waited there for some time until the abbot
came. The abbot was a man of advanced
years, intelligent-looking and handsome, of
middle height, but stout and clumsy. He
greeted me cordially and thanked me pro-
fusely for coming. “I am told you are John
Island and are Icelandic,” said the abbot,
after seating himself opposite me. “That is
altogether right, reverend father,” I said.
“I am also told you know your mother
tongue perfectly,” he said. “I am a long way
from knowing my mother tongue com-
pletely,” I said, “but I can read it quite well
and I understand and speak the everyday
language as it comes from the lips of the
common people.” “What her common peo-
ple speak is the language of every nation,”
said the abbot, “and for the last few weeks,
I have wanted to find a reliable and discreet
man who reads and understands the Ice-
landic language. I have never known an
Icelander myself, but I know that, in later
years, a fair number of Icelandic people