The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (14 page)

These natives, he notes, are not nearly as native as he had anticipated. Rather, they resemble hardened Danes more than even the colony folk themselves. Clad in knitted coats and anoraks, caps pulled down over their brows, shoddy footwear, stinking clay pipes in their mouths. Their proud smiles vex and offend him. Wide-bellied and smug they are. He addresses them in their own language, sentences he has learned at the seminary under Egede's tutelage, but they appear not to understand and reply in Danish.

What? What says the pastor? We don't understand the pastor's tongue.

He finds them slovenly, aloof, unreliable, dirty, foul-smelling. They possess an ability, he notes, to stare utterly without expression at any person who speaks to them. It is like tossing a stone into a pond without making a ripple. Seemingly there is nothing within, no thought, neither joy nor anger, no bed of emotions. The stone descends into emptiness and gloom and the surface closes about it in silence.

The colony is situated on a peninsula, which, seen from the top of one of the fells to its rear, which he ascends the day after his arrival, resembles a crippled hand extending amputated fingers into the sea. The Trade and the inspectorate command perhaps a score of houses, the Mission has the church, a provided residence and a storage house. There are a number of small dwellings built with peat and comprising some European features, such as doors, window frames and even gutters. Here live the christened natives, mostly families with an abundance of chil­dren, who play more or less naked outside. The place appears peaceful and cosy, at least from a distance. But much of it is in a miserable state. The savages live further from the colony, in tents made of hide, or in communal dwelling houses close to the shore. One sees a number of them on the water, passing in their skin-covered vessels on their way in to the ford or out to the sea. On the opposite side of the peninsula, in the bay between two promontories, lies the Moravian station of the German brethren and their large congregation of Greenlanders. He visits them and finds this stronghold of Pietism in Greenland to be properly clean and well organized, and the natives there to be far more hospitable and accommodating, and less corrupted, than those on the Danish side. Unfortunately, there is bad blood between the Brethren community and the Danish mission, a circumstance issuing from the elder Egede's days, so although they inhabit the furthest wilderness and live only a quarter Danish mile away from each other, the two communities keep largely to themselves.

The colony itself is dirty and unproductive, plagued by drunken- ness and libidinous behaviour on the part of the Danish-Norwegian employees, as well as the land's inhabitants. It would seem they are resolved upon breeding and drinking themselves to death. In truth, he is prepared for such wretchedness. The reputation of the country's oldest colony has been poor ever since its foundation, when two dozen convicts were dispatched here as cheap labour. During the first ten years, nine-tenths of the district's natives perished, and old Egede himself returned home disillusioned and without his wife, who succumbed to one of the epidemics. Presumably the place is in better shape than it was then, though this is to say little indeed.

His gait still unsteady, he pays a visit to the inspector, hoping to find there a modicum of culture, some small measure of homeliness and comfort. But Inspector Rømer proves to be a cantankerous Aalborgenser, heavily burdened by paranoia and a dermatological condition that causes the skin of his face to fall away in white flakes and blights his hands with weeping sores. Morten Falck recognizes that the man is plainly reacting pathologically to the place, both mentally and physically. He smells of damnation and rotten teeth, and is convinced that the colony crew and the natives are plotting to do away with him. He sends Morten Falck a look that is at once hostile and frightened.

The Magister has spoken to Basbøl, I take it? he says in a voice that is a rasp hardly with sound.

No. Who is Basbøl?

Ha, Rømer croaks, lifting his brow as if to say, All right, play your games, but take note that I have seen through you. He coughs, or else he laughs or emits a choked lament, Morten Falck is unsure. Priests have never done anything but cause trouble in this land. They come here with their notions of guilt, their cross and their ministry, and keep the natives from their work. He scratches his eyebrow and a puff of dusty skin descends slowly through the air. Oh, I know perfectly well why you are here, sir.

And why might that be? I can assure Monsieur Rømer that I merely wish to pay my respects, as is befitting for any new arrival.

Indeed. The inspector laughs silently to himself and pours himself a brandy, sits and scowls and scratches his eyebrows, until Morten Falck, having given up expecting anything at all sensible from the man, gets to his feet and leaves.

Later, he learns that the inspector is a hardened alcoholic and is rumoured to lie with small native girls in bouts of drunkenness that he is wont to display, whether the hour be late or early.

Morten Falck writes letters home to his parents, his sister and to the Bishop Egede. He draws up a more official report to the Mission ­skollegium in which he bemoans, inter alia, the filthy conditions in the colony, and in particular the inspector's antics, which he finds to be of poor example to the natives. Encountering Rømer at the harbour, he informs him that he has lodged an official complaint.

The inspector bursts out laughing, though utterly without sound. He shall find his bloody match, he shall, the honourable Magister, he wheezes. Wait until winter, then the Magister's demons will come crawling from their hiding places. And then it'll be me reporting him.

I follow my calling, Morten says, and intend to behave like a decent human being.

You listen to me – priest! Rømer squeaks. I was here before he came, and I shall be here when he goes again, whether it be in his coffin or as a passenger on ship. I've found my modus vivendi, and it's the only way for white folk in this place. This land is not made for innocent babes such as the noble Magister. Either he grows up in a hurry and trims his sails or else he goes under. Farewell, Mr Falck!

In the bishop's residence, which normally stands empty, he greets his colleague in Holsteinsborg, the colony north of Sukkertoppen. Mr Oxbøl is an old man and has been in the country a lifetime. Morten Falck finds it comforting to speak with the old missionary, as the inspector's predic­tion has put him ill at ease. The old man seems to be bright of mind and body and would moreover seem disinclined to drinking. Yet he is plainly an uncompromising soul, Morten senses, and realizes that he is in for no gentle chat. Nevertheless, the man appears solid as the rock on which he stands, and moreover well clad and proper in appearance.

However, Mr Seidelin, Godthåb's own missionary, is clearly given to debauchery and intemperance, for which reason Morten Falck is compelled to pen a second report. His official residence stinks abom­inably, and Morten must enter the man's bedchamber and rouse him in order to speak with him.

Have you no help in the house? he asks when Seidelin finally rises to his feet.

The priest shuffles over to a chair on which stands his night pot. He unbuttons his breeches and passes water with his back to his guest.

Certainly I have, and many of them, he says, laughing over his shoulder, his urine splashing everywhere except the pot. But they've no conception of what it means to keep clean. They're used to living in filth and disorder.

Your catechist had to give the service today in your place. You should be ashamed.

Oh, but I cringe with contrition, says the priest, buttoning his fly. The same goes for us all in this terrible place. He yawns and stretches his limbs. But we have a good time of it, I can tell him that!

He returns to
Der Frühling
and is relieved again to be in the company of decent men, yet is filled with doubt and apprehension. If his own colony is ridden with only half as many ills as he has seen in Godthåb, he will have more than enough to attend to. But he feels far from convinced that he is the right man for the job. He is not even properly devout. Salvation and the liberation of man through the Passion of Christ are to his mind at best metaphors, at worst empty phrases. Prayer cannot fortify him; he finds it to be mere words learned by rote, whose content he does not believe. He must place his faith in detached rationalism, he tells himself. He will sweep the darkness from the colony, from the minds of the heathens and the benighted colony folk. He will teach them, illuminate by common sense and instruction. He sees the pastor Seidelin in his mind's eye, pissing in his chamber pot as he looks over his shoulder and laughs. Ten years, he thinks to himself, despondently. What will ten years do to me? He lies down on his bunk and picks up his Rousseau.

The weather is still, though quite damp. Much of the land remains hidden from sight, only the skerries and islets through which they pass are clear. They sail in the sheltered waters, the captain familiar with them from previous journeys on which he has entered sunken rocks and other perilous hindrances on his private charts. There are many birds. The boat is launched and a number are shot for dinner. One day Morten Falck sees the back of a whale curve the surface ahead of the ship, many hundredweight of flesh, bones and blubber passing silently through the sea, leaving behind only clouds of atomized water in the air. The sight gladdens him. The whale is one of God's creatures; in this, at least, he believes. And life is all around him, even here. There must be a meaning in it. His reading of Rousseau has returned to him some of his vigour and optimism, as it always does. He looks out upon the vast expanses of green that cover the land. After his wanderings at Godthåb they already feel familiar and homely. He longs to be upon them, to lie on his back in tall grass and gaze at the sky. He recalls the Dyrehaven where he lay with Abelone. The sound of humming bees, the swallows that flitted about on high, her happy laughter. He feels a stab of guilt. They come to him still, these pangs of remorse, and always they cause him to yield, and he must cough in order to conceal it should others be present.

Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains!

He has read these words so many times they seem almost to have lost substance, as the Lord's Prayer may become devoid of its content and work simply on account of the ritualized repetition of its constituents, their rhythm and ring. He has made use of the quote quite automatically whenever he has encountered a problem or felt anxious about a matter, and the words have fortified him like a strong dram or a splash of cold water in his face. But now he baulks at them. It is as if the sentence dissolves in front of his eyes, to reappear in a new guise. It startles him. He recognizes what it is the words wish to tell him. He has always thought of them as a cynical expression of resignation to life, an interpreta- tion that once fuelled his own blasé cynicism as a young student in Copenhagen. And yet such an interpretation is incorrect, he realizes now. The words are a cry, a fanfare, a direction, full of optimism and joy! Man, be thou free! Cast thy chains away!

Indeed, he thinks to himself. This is what I have done and what I shall do. The betrothal was a chain constraining us both. I broke that chain and cast it away, as I have wrenched myself from all else in my life, from my family, my homeland. How simple it is! He can hardly comprehend that he has failed to grasp the meaning until now. My entire youth, he muses, wasted on a misinterpretation. It took a sea voyage for me to understand Rousseau's utterance, to understand myself, why I am here and not in a rectory on Lolland.

Is the Magister unwell?

He feels a hand on his shoulder. Captain Valløe. The captain looks at him with concern. It would seem he burst into laughter, or perhaps cried out.

He turns to face the captain and takes his hand. I should like to thank the captain for all that he has done! he exclaims excitedly. For everything, yes, indeed, everything!

Valløe smiles. Come down into my cabin, Magister, he says, and we shall drink a toast for a successful voyage.

Roselil has recovered after the long journey. At Godthåb she was taken ashore and allowed to graze on the rough tussocks outside the colony. She produces a small amount of drinkable milk again, and both he and the ship's company partake of it every day. As he reminds the captain, they have suffered very little scurvy on the voyage and Valløe cheerfully agrees that such a cow is a blessing.

They near their destination. A time is drawing to a close. It is the sixteenth of August and they have been underway for two and a half months. The men hang in the ropes and peer into the fog. Morten Falck holds prayers on the deck. He allows the crew to confess their sins. All have been troubled by impure thoughts. They have taken the name of the Lord in vain, have spoken ill of their fellow men and abandoned themselves in self-abuse. All the usual. He demands no more of them. He places his hand on their foreheads and gives them the benediction. Your sins are forgiven, he says, cast away your chains, go forth into the world and do good. They become as children, smiling gently and becoming calm. Their faces light up. The miracle of the blessing. These are good, Christian people, he thinks to himself. And finds it sad that he will soon be removed from them.

Voices sound in the fog. Women? The laughter of women? One of the seamen shouts and points. Kayaks and skin boats approach. The oarswomen of the latter wear their hair tied up in a knot. Morten finds them a funny sight. They look over their shoulders as they row, faces shining like copper coins. Are they singing? Savages! At last, he thinks, at last he is to meet the true savages, whom he shall guide in the time to come, and turn towards salvation and freedom in Jesus Christ, the Lord. This is quite another matter than the laziness of the hybrids he encoun­tered at Godthåb. He feels overwhelmed with gratitude for having been permitted to be a part of this, for being designated such a role in life, and he must descend into the cabin and lie down to rest one final time on the bunk, where the lice seep forth and mingle with those that inhabit his clothing.