The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (20 page)

I see. That would explain why much of it appears so nebulous. I shall read it again. I wish I had mastered the English language, then perhaps many things would be so much clearer to me.

I will send you an English dictionary and the novel in the original, he promises. It will make a healthy diversion in the dark months.

Thank you for your concern, she says, rather curtly. I shall expect to receive it in a year's time.

She places the pipe rack in front of him. He thanks her and picks up a small pipe whose bowl is of whalebone, the long stem and bit of amber. He loosens a sheet of tobacco from the thick block, tears it into strips with his fingers and twists them into the chamber. Madame Kraagstedt asks if she may be allowed to light it for him. She strikes the tinderbox and holds the burning char cloth over the hole. He puffs. The flame dips, rises, dips again. He blows smoke towards the ceiling. Madame Kragstedt extinguishes the char cloth. She laughs.

Has the Madame considered taking up smoking? he asks. It is healthy for the constitution and makes good recreation.

I think I have had enough fire and smoke, she says curtly.

Forgive me, Haldora.

No matter. It was not your fault.

He pretends not to have heard. If he answered he would inevitably give himself away, he imagines. They say nothing for some time. The Madame disappears behind the screen and makes splashing noises. He lets his gaze follow the smoke to the ceiling, where it spreads outwards and remains in a cloud beneath one of the joists. He thinks of what is above, a store full of groceries, tea, coffee, tobacco, ale, aquavit and salted hams. He has been up there several times, that is to say in the previous colony house. It was reached, as it is in the new one, by a steep ladder and a hatch in the gable end, where a pulley has been fixed to the wall, so that wares may be hoisted to the loft. He thinks he can smell the sweet aroma of hops, the pungent whiff of ammonia from the legs of lamb that hang from the beams there. If only he could get hold of the key. He dismisses the thought from his mind. He has been to the loft for the last time.

Madame Kragstedt brings him yet another glass. She squeezes by and seats herself. The irregular ticking of the chronometer reminds him of the warbler at home in Lier.

Magister Falck must know that I am rather displeased with him.

He looks at her, ridden with guilt. He feels his pulse pounding in his neck. He swallows. With me, Madame? For what reason?

Her cheeks redden. Oh, please do not play innocent, Magister, she barks irritably. I am displeased because you are abandoning me. Leaving me here in this wilderness.

I see, he says with relief. I was not aware that you knew of my plans.

If you thought it a secret, Magister, then I must correct you. The whole colony knows that you are waiting for the ship like a lecherous youngster waiting for his sweetheart. Oh, forgive me, my tongue!

He places a comforting hand on her arm. My time is done, he says. My present circumstances, my health, my finances, are not such as to allow me to remain. If I can get away with body and soul intact, I may still be able to secure a living at home.

Oh, Morten, what about me, how shall I survive without you? Perhaps you think I, too, can apply to be released? But I am stuck here in this filthy whore hole! She clasps her hands together, her knuckles white. The scar on her face is almost violet.

Oh, dearest! He rises and sits down again beside her on the bench. Cry as much as you wish, my dear.

She puts her head to his shoulder and sobs. He holds her, feels her skin through the fabric of her dress, her ribs shaking with tears, chest heaving, the quivering flesh of her abdomen, her trembling spine.

Thank you, she says, and dries her face in her handkerchief. She smiles, then laughs a little. You are the only man I have met who is not afraid of a woman's tears.

Do you mind if I pour myself one last glass? he asks.

Please, take as much as you want, she says in a thick voice. Drink from the bottle if you so wish. But pour me a glass, too.

In the hall, which is not spacious enough for two, she stands and studies him.

Madame, he says in anticipation.

She does not move, but stares at him with a look on her face as if she is considering where and how hard to strike him.

He reaches for the door, but her hip is in the way of it opening. She moves aside, but in the wrong direction. It is as if she is playing a game, and part of the game is that he is not familiar with its rules. If he opens the door now he will force her against the wall. He turns slightly, so that she may squeeze past him into the parlour. They exchange glances. She presses her lips together. He laughs nervously. But she does not move. Her face is vacant, her mouth without expression, eyes empty and black as coal from the laudanum.

Is something the matter? he asks.

Kiss me, for goodness sake, she hisses irritably.

He leans forward and kisses her on the cheek. Not so much a farewell as an au revoir, he says.

She has placed her hands on his shoulders. They rest gently upon the muscle. He feels a slight warmth from her palms. Then she kisses him on the mouth. He laughs and tries to push her away. Her tongue protrudes from between her lips. She looks grotesque.

They change places. She edges past him and stands in the doorway of the parlour.

Go now! It is almost a scream.

All will be well, Madame Kragstedt. Have faith in the Lord and all will be well. He stands for a moment at the door before stepping out. She sends him her twisted smile, the tip of her tongue protruding inap­propriately from between her lips.

Jesus Christ, our Heavenly Father!

It gushes from him the moment he pulls up his cassock and sits down on the privy seat, a mud-like mass, almost without smell, an inexhaustible landslide of brown. His intestines writhe in agony, and yet there is a considerable element of joy at being able to release, to discharge this spray of filth and empty the bowels. He groans, bites his hand and chuckles. His sphincter blares and squelches, and then there is silence. He feels more is to come and shifts his weight from side to side, bent double, his head between his bony knees, his hands massaging his stomach, but nothing is forthcoming. It is as if something is stuck inside him, a thick log of excrement blocking his passage. But most likely a fold of the intestine, he considers. He recalls images of the corpses he dissected and drew as a young man, and he sees now his own colon in his mind's eye and the blockage that has occurred. He imagines its slow release and the sudden slop that comes with it. The thought of it helps. A new deluge is evacuated and his anus trumpets a fanfare.

And then silence again. Is it done? Experience tells him that it is never done, that there is always more to come. He remains seated and kneads his stomach, digging his fist into the saggy flesh, systematically following the garland of intestines. Nothing happens. The colony's privy is situated on a promontory a short distance from the warehouse buildings. Beneath him, lapping waves lick the slime of faeces from the rocks. An icy wind wafts his behind, causing his genitals to contract. It feels pleasant, and a short exposure is most probably even healthy. Thank you, Lord!

Magister Falck, is that you?

He stiffens. The voice comes from the cubicle next door, on the other side of the partition.

Mr Kragstedt?

I thought it sounded like your voice, says the Trader. Are his evacu­ations pleasing?

Indeed, Falck replies. Most pleasing.

I saw you come running from the colony house. Have you attended to my wife?

Yes, she wished to converse with me.

Excellent, Mr Falck. You are such a helpful person. I, too, wish to converse with you and have waited some time. I almost have the impres­sion the Magister has been avoiding me.

Certainly not, Mr Kragstedt. I have been busy with a number of matters. A priest has much to which he is compelled to attend. As a matter of fact, I was intending to come and see the Trader this very after- noon.

Well, then, Kragstedt says. And now here we are, each on his own perch.

Indeed, says Falck.

I trust my wife offered him a little pick-me-up?

The Madame is most generous.

Yes, she is quite exceptional. Did she confess her sins?

No, she did not ask to confess. Her soul is pure.

Oh, come now. There is always something, surely, says the Trader, no longer sounding quite as convivial. It is a simple fact of life, Magister, that sins accumulate faster than dung in a cowshed. A person must muck out in the mornings.

Perhaps the Trader wishes to confess his own sins? Falck ventures, the same attempt at malicious irony that failed in his earlier confrontation with the smith.

The Trader ignores him. I often get the feeling the Magister knows my wife's secrets better than I do myself, he says.

There are matters a person can only confide to a man of the cloth, says Falck. It is a pastor's job to bear such burdens, that they do not come between spouses.

Hm, the Trader grunts. Falck hears a rustle of clothes behind the partition, the rattle of buttons and buckles. As I am sure the Magister realizes, his carrying on with the prophets ought to result in proceedings.

I see, Falck says to the wall.

You have incited the natives to revolt against the Trade and His Royal Majesty's trusted representatives.

It was not my intention to do so.

You have disregarded your duties as a priest, the Trader thunders.

Yes, it is true. Falck groans as a new deluge departs his rectum. Yet he senses a light in Kragstedt's anger. It occurs to him that if the Trader really did intend to put him in chains he would not be issuing this tirade while seated on the privy, nor would he have kept him on tenterhooks these past two weeks.

You have been a poor example to Danes and natives alike!

I cannot argue with the Trader.

So what do you suggest we do about it, Magister Falck? He hears the glee in the Trader's voice and feels deeply relieved. His excrement runs like thin gruel.

My fate is in the Trader's hands, he says, releasing a sigh. What will you do with me?

I can think of any number of things, including wringing the honourable Magister's neck.

Indeed, he says, and finally feels himself to be purged. I am certain I have deserved it. Thank you, Mr Kragstedt.

But a man in my position cannot always do as he sees fit.

Of course not.

And therein lies the difference between me and the Magister. I take my responsibilities seriously.

Indeed.

A silence descends for some seconds behind the wall, a tantalizing silence. The Trader would probably prefer to be argued with so that he might fulminate some more, but Falck will not give him the satisfaction. Word has it from our bishop, says Kragstedt, that the Mission station here in the colony will be closed down in the autumn.

Closed down? Falck exclaims.

By royal decree, says Kragstedt with ill-concealed contentment. The Mission's activities will be curtailed along the entire coast. Which is to say that whatever else may happen, the Magister will be returned home by the next ship.

A storm of conflicting emotions rushes inside him.

Does the Magister understand what I am saying?

Yes. I understand. At least, I think so.

Since your connection with the Trade will be terminated, I find it best that we settle our accounts today. I shall wait for him outside.

The planks of the floor creak, the door of the adjoining cubicle opens and slams shut. Falck remains seated. His relief is short-lived. He is not to be put in irons, and yet he is greatly in debt to the Trade, a matter which financially may have him enchained for a considerable number of years to come. He realizes that Kragstedt has made sly use of his threat of arrest, the fear and anxiety Falck has borne within him this past fort­night, and his subsequent relief at the threat being lifted, as a means of softening him up in order to claw back his money.

Exactly how much he owes the Trade is a matter of which he has no conception. All he knows is that the debt has accumulated over six years and that he has long since lost control of it. A disgraceful circumstance of being called to the Mission in the colonies is that all expenses accrued by virtue of the office are accountable wholly to the missionary himself. He ought to have kept his own ledger in the years that have passed, but has never got round to it. He considers himself to be a practical man, not a bookkeeper, and the very sight of a ledger causes his vision to blur. He has shirked the responsibility, has received groceries on tick, tobacco and aquavit, to begin with also coffee and tea, wares that are not a part of the normal provision. But for the last two years the Overseer Dahl has refused him credit and he has had to make do without such items, which are a small, yet comforting, luxury of life in the wilderness. He fears the reason has to do with the size of his total debt. There may be a ceiling, some astronomical sum, of which he has now fallen foul.

He gathers a handful of moss and wipes himself, then studies the result with interest. Indeed, there is blood. Good! With blood there is cleansing. He gauges the amount to be the equivalent of a minor bloodletting, something he often performs on others, but never on him ­self. He pulls up his drawers and lets the cassock fall around his legs. Stepping outside, he sees the Trader standing on a rock some distance from the privy, his brass-buckled boots planted firmly apart, hands on hips.

Jørgen Kragstedt looks cheerful and contented, he thinks to himself and wonders whether it will be to his advantage. The Trader has not yet changed into his commandant's uniform, is still in his working clothes, a worn leather waistcoat with buttons of tin, a linen shirt and a homespun coat. His head is bare, his brown hair gathered tightly at the neck in a little pigtail, an appearance which lends him an air of civil authority that Falck finds more foreboding than any wig. The Trader is a picture of raw strength and physical health, and the situation seems to become him well. His double chin rests gently upon a white scarf. He looks down at the pastor with a smile as he clambers up to join him.