The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (21 page)

Falck straightens his back. He stands close to the Trader, but one step below him, due to the slope of the rock, something Kragstedt most likely has anticipated. The situation makes him think of his father, who he has seen stand before the sorenskriver in Lier on many an occasion. He can see the remnants of the Trader's last meal between his healthy teeth. Going by the smell of him, and the stains on the front of his shirt, he has partaken of smoked salmon and a rich meat soup, probably containing good and solid dumplings.

Falck senses his stomach rumble. What are we waiting for? he hears himself ask, a faint echo of the enterprising Morten Falck of old.

After you, Magister, says the Trader, and sweeps out his arm.

They descend from the rock, walk past the whipping post and enter between the buildings at the harbour. The Trade office is located in one of the warehouses. For a brief moment they stand and look out to sea. The Trader believes the ship will cast anchor in the bay within twenty-four hours. The natives have gone out in their kayaks and boats, he says. And they are never wrong.

Overseer Dahl rises politely as they step inside. He greets Falck rather formally, making him fearful that dreadful circumstances are about to befall him. It is plain that the Overseer has been expecting him. He is shown a chair and sits down on it. His mouth is dry. He looks around the room, but sees neither shackles nor chains.

Dahl picks up a thick ledger from the desk and opens it. He licks his finger and skims through the pages. Then he turns the book round and indicates a column.

Here.

His finger runs down the page and turns it over. Years, dates and sums of money flash by as though in a tombola, page after page of entries and figures, and then his finger stops and stabs at the bottom.

And here.

Falck bends forward. He squeezes his bad eye shut and stares at the figure. It is worse than he had anticipated, though not quite as bad as he had feared. Neither shackles nor chains, at least not yet. Only the debt.

One hundred rigsdalers? he says, looking up at the Overseer, then at the Trader, who has remained standing. One hundred rigsdalers exactly? Why not one hundred and seven or ninety-five? How can it be explained?

The exact figure was slightly larger, as the Magister may ascertain by examining the account, says Dahl. Mr Kragstedt has instructed me to round the figure down to the sum mentioned.

Easier to remember, says the Trader. The Magister has been given a rebate for the sake of old friendship.

Perhaps Magister Falck would like to be alone in order to study the figures for himself, Dahl suggests politely.

He turns the pages. I don't understand, he says. These are ordinary goods for which my contract stipulates I should not be charged. Butter, bread, oats.

And nor has he been, says Dahl, not until a certain limit. However, purchases in excess of the ordinary provision must be paid for, as the Magister would know if he cared to study the terms of his tenure.

All these extra rations have gone to the needy, he protests. As the Overseer will be aware, times have been hard, there have been shortages, and since the Trade has declined to take any responsibility at all for the hungry, the Mission has donated small amounts of oats and butter in order that they should not perish.

How very touching of the Magister, says Kragstedt drily. I am sure he will receive his due rewards in the next world, but this is a business, not a charitable institution, and neither is it the gateway to Heaven. He chuckles at his wit and the Overseer emits a cackle. Oats and butter cost money, and in the final account, Magister, it is all the property of His Royal Majesty. I take it he would not steal from the king and share the spoils with anyone who happened by?

I was unaware it had to be paid for, Falck replies meekly. These are provisions for charity. I find it unjust.

The instruction is quite unambiguous, says Dahl. Moreover, the tariff for luxuries has gone up.

What tariff? What instruction?

A copy has been put up on the wall of the store, says Kragstedt. It has been there a whole year. Has he not seen it?

No, as a matter of fact I have not. I am not in the habit of reading the Trade's announcements. I must assume they concern neither me nor the Mission.

Oh, but they do, Magister. Indeed they do. Dahl, would you be so kind as to show Magister Falck the instruction and the tariff? It seems he has been too busy to take note of them.

Certainly, Mr Kragstedt.

But Falck cannot tear himself away from the columns of figures, now that he sits with them at his disposal. He flicks back and forth through the pages, studying entries for aquavit, tobacco and coffee going back years. The ledger is an almanac of excesses for which he is now being held accountable, on top of the help he has provided to the needy out of the good of his own heart. There is something not right about this account, he knows it. He sits bent over the columns. He feels himself grow warm under his wig, removes it and puts it down on the desk. He sees the lice come crawling from among the white powdered horsehair. He runs his hand through his own hair. It is damp with sweat.

This expenditure, he says. I admit that it may be excessive, but much of it must surely fall under the old tariff?

Correct, says Kragstedt. If the Magister had settled his account earlier, the old tariff would have been considered valid. But now the new one has come into effect, and therefore his debt has risen accordingly, and with retroactive effect. Wholly in accordance with the instruction, of course.

And this column here, Falck says. What is this?

Interest, says the overseer.

Interest! He tears at his hair. What interest? At what rate?

The rate according to the tariff, Dahl replies imperturbably.

I don't understand it, he says, turning the pages. It cannot be right. I intend to submit a complaint.

Very well, says Kragstedt. He's within his rights. Nevertheless, he shall have to sign to the effect that he has been made cognizant of the account and has studied it, if not accepted its validity.

The Trader dips a pen in the ink pot and hands it to him. The Overseer considers him inquisitively with the trace of a grin. Voices can be heard outside, laughter, running footsteps, heavy boots dancing a jig on the quayside. Probably the cook and the smith. Laughter again. Kragstedt and Dahl exchange glances and a smile.

Here, says the Overseer, and places his index finger where the signa­ture is required.

No, he says, and pushes the pen away. I wish to initiate investigations first.

What investigations, Magister Falck? Kragstedt looks at him in puzzlement.

Furthermore, I wish also to speak to you, Mr Kragstedt, of certain matters of a personal nature. Concerning the Trader's wife.

Kragstedt retains his composure. If he does not sign, I shall have to consider it embezzlement of public money. I would be compelled, no matter how reluctantly, to have the Magister arrested.

It would not be the first time.

Think it over, Magister, Kragstedt implores. This can only cause him further problems, besides the ones he has already brought upon himself. If he signs this document, I shall give him my word as a gentleman of honour that he may continue to live well and without accrual of further debt until his departure. Gratis and with full access to all shelves of the warehouse. What do you say?

He dips the pen once more, tapping away the excess ink against the edge of the ink pot and handing the quill across the desk, eyebrows raised in a question mark, face lit up in a smile.

Be good and keep your honour for yourself, says Falck. It is my right to ask for some days of respite.

He looks up at the Trader, who stands pensively on the other side of the desk. His thumbs rest in the waistband of his breeches, his paunch full and heavy.

I dare say, he replies. In which case, naturally, I must take my own precautions.

Falck senses the terror creeping up on him. He expects at any moment to hear the sound of shackles and chains. What on earth have I done? he asks himself. Why am I so stubborn? But instead he hears the voice of the Trader:

I have something in my possession that would seem to belong to the Magister.

Kragstedt steps up to the shelf and finds a folder, which he opens. It contains a stack of papers full of writings and drawings. He flicks through them and chuckles. He holds up a sheet with a sketch of a naked woman. Falck feels himself at once grow cold.

Not bad. The Magister is a proper artist.

How .  .  . ? Falck blurts out, only to choke on his words and remain silent.

We found this journal, as we might call it, among the Magister's things when we collected him up the ford. If I am not mistaken, this would be his mistress so lovingly portrayed here. The Trader hands the paper to Dahl, who studies it with a smile of acknowledgement before handing it back. This journal makes very interesting reading, Kragstedt says. Wouldn't you say, Dahl?

Very interesting indeed, the Overseer echoes.

The Magister's college and Professor Rantzau himself will no doubt find it both instructive and titillating, says the Trader.

Falcks says nothing. His arms rest like lead upon the desk.

The Trader cannot resist twisting a knife in the wound: Such a shame about your mistress, Magister.

She was not my mistress, he mutters under his breath. She was my wife.

The Trader appears not to have heard him. It was your good friend the smith who found her last night. It seems she jumped from the cliff, unless someone pushed her. It grieves me on your behalf, Magister. I know he was attached to this unfortunate person. The Trader does not appear to be grieved at all, neither in voice nor appearance. Rather, he would seem to be in his element.

Falck sits with his head in his hands. Outside, the sun appears in a fleeting glimpse. A shaft of its light creeps on to the desk and illuminates a column of the ledger, then fades away and leaves the paper grey. It is all over, he thinks to himself. Everything is over. The only thing he wishes now is to come away to the Mission house and close the door behind him.

He clears his throat. I want my groceries back. Good bread, pork, oats, a jug of ale, aquavit. My catechist, Bertel Jensen, must also be provided for.

Of course, says the Trader promptly. Overseer Dahl will make sure he gets what he needs. The Magister can carry it all home with him once he has signed.

And my papers, Falck adds. My journal.

His journal will remain with us, Kragstedt replies. You have my word, Falck, that these papers will not be seen by any unauthorized person.

He looks at them in turn, Dahl in front of him, the Trader to his right. He takes the pen, dips it in the ink and taps it against the edge of the ink pot.

Where do I put my name?

The Overseer points again.

Here.

It is as if both of them hold their breath as he places his signature beneath the final column with a cramped flourish:

Hereby attested by Morten Falck, Priest of the Mission at Sukkertoppen.

This fifteenth day of August, AD 1793.

He returns home, staggering slightly. The defeat, the humiliation and the shock have made him weary, but as the Saviour has taught him, in humil­iation there is liberation, in misfortune and grief a catharsis. If it is true, he has good reason to be glad. Indeed, he feels happy and, for the first time in years, free. Moreover, the sun now shines on the dampness of his perspiring back. In a canvas sack he carries the groceries Dahl has issued to him, among them a bottle containing one and a half pots of aquavit, his other hand bears a jug of good ale.

The grass is wet, the path muddy. The hem of his cassock drags in the dirt. He lifts it up, stumbles and drops the sack in the mud, almost spilling his ale. By some dexterity not a drop is lost. Thank God. He continues on his way, only a couple of hundred paces to the Mission house, yet today his path seems longer. He walks in the shadow of his debt and the poverty which by a few swift strokes of a pen has been imposed upon the remaining years of his life. In exchange for a measure of aquavit and ale. Thereupon more humiliation. Supplication. Ridicule. Self-contempt. Without prospect of becoming decently wed. An early death. At this moment he feels contented by the thought, relieved of responsibility and hope, and thereby free to abandon himself to the bottle that nestles in the sleeve of his vestments and the jug he balances in his hand. From dust thou hast come, he mutters to himself, to dust thou shalt return, and from dust shalt thou rise again. How can they treat a man of God in this manner? What has happened to the world that such a thing is possible? But he wishes not to dwell on it. He thinks of the bottle, of how he will remove it from his sleeve and twist the cork from its neck. The pungent vapour of alcohol in his nostrils. He will take his time, for he is in no hurry. He has the evening, and the night as well.

He puts down the muddied sack in the kitchen and finds the fire steel and flint. He takes a handful of dried heather and makes a pile in the stove, stacking the peat around it and on top. With numb fingers he strikes the steel. A fan of sparks leaps to the tinder, igniting it at once. He gets down on all fours and blows cautiously, a thin jet of hard air. A crackling blue flame flickers, rises up yellow through the peat and gradually reddens. He remains on the floor and watches it, feeling its warmth against his face. The cramped room is soon unbearably hot and in order to endure it he must keep the door open to the rain that now falls heavier than before. He stokes the fire with the poker. The smell of the pork makes the saliva well in his mouth, though he is unsure if it is due to hunger or nausea. Yet he knows it will help to eat. The thought of the aquavit calms him.

He adds dried peas to the meat, some water from the trough, and stirs with a ladle. He leaves the pot to boil, goes to his room and removes his cassock, the ruff and his wig. All of it is wet. The ruff, a gift from his father, has again lost its shape, has become limp and sticky to the touch and now resembles a pamphlet picked out of the gutter. The horsehair wig has absorbed so much rain as to double in weight, the powder coag­ulated into thick, mealy lumps on which the lice feed lustfully. He puts on a shirt and breeches and takes the ruff with him into the kitchen. He stirs some potato starch into cold water and dips the collar until it is soaked. With a brush he removes the worst of the dirt. Its white has long since gone, but he has no more blue with which to restore it, and he does not allow the girl who washes for him to touch an item so essential to his work. It must be crimped, and this is a job he manages himself. He finds the collar iron and heats it in the fire. He shapes the ruff carefully, taking care not to singe the material, burning his fingers instead. Soon it is returned to its intended form. He carries it back to his room and places it in its round wooden box, which he leaves open in order that the damp may leave it.