The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (22 page)

The peas are almost boiled. Dahl has endowed him with a lump of rancid butter, which is better than nothing, and he recalls the conviction of his dear, deceased mother that a person ought to consume at least a pound of dung each year. He puts a spoonful into the peas. The instant smell of ammonia from the fetid substance fills his nostrils. He can barely wait until the food is cool enough to eat and pours himself a cup of ale, which he downs in one. He belches, the yeasty aroma of the flat brew prickling in his nose. Alcohol issues out into his brain and body, concen­tric rings of well-being that prompt him to relax. He fills the cup again and sips at its contents. And then he eats.

He potters about in the house, in his room, in the kitchen, the parlour, putting things in their place, cleaning the stove, humming a psalm, open ­ing the flue so that some of the after-heat may seep into his habitation. He shovels a few glowing embers into the bucket and tops it up with fresh coal from the alcove in the kitchen. Coal produces only a minimum of smoke once it has burned down to embers, and for this reason he uses it in his lodging instead of the cheaper bricks of peat. He carries the coal bucket to his room, shakes it slightly in order that the hot coals may be dispersed among the cold, then puts it down on the thick slab of slate under the desk. There should be enough to last the evening.

He places the aquavit on the desk along with a glass. For the moment he leaves it untouched. But it is there, in all its power and glory. He hums to himself and performs a few more domestic rituals, turns the clothes on the line, tidies his bed, goes back and forth between his room and the kitchen, shakes the coal bucket again. It will soon be hot.

Outside, daylight yet remains, but rain, fog and cloud have descended upon the colony. The colony house has vanished from sight. Indeed, he cannot see a single structure from the somewhat removed situation of the Mission station. The fog is good. It will help him forget where he is. He goes back to his room.

He plucks an issue of the
Christiania-Kureren
from the clothes line, a publication his father sends him annually, a year's subscription at a time, which he reads on the appropriate date, though with a delay of exactly one year, providing the issue in question has not been ruined by damp. He tears half a page from it to use as a spill. He dwells on an obituary notice, now several years old:

Christiania, the twelfth of January 1789. Our beloved mother, Birgithe Christine Falck, née Rasch, widow of long since deceased postmaster Falck of Christiania, has peacefully departed this life in Akershus, aged 88 and one half years. Notice hereof is hereby given to kin and friends by her sorrowful bereaved. Andreas Falck. Carl Falck.

A notable age. She must have come into the world in the year 1700, when Tordenskjold was still a boy and Frederik IV was king. His father has circled the notice. The deceased hails from his side of the family, the side from which Morten has taken his surname.

He rolls the paper, the notice and his name together and puts it to the coals, lifts the tiny flame to the lamp and ignites the wick. He sits, holding the spill between his index finger and thumb, watches the flame consume the printed characters,
lly depart, 88 and on h, ful bereave, Carl Fal
, sees his own name vanish and then lets go at the last moment, as the flame turns to ash and gently descends to the floorboards. He steps on the glow and takes out his correspondence.

He lifts the bottle of aquavit from the desk, weighs it in his hand, pours half its contents into a cup and lays out writing paper, pens, ink and sand. Evening is drawing in, the colony bell has struck nine. Now the fire-watcher will sing the hours. He tests the nibs of the pens with his fingers. They are all soft and in need of sharpening, preferably they should be replaced. With his sharp letter opener he cuts thin shavings from them, tests them again with the tip of his finger, one after another, makes his selection and dips it in the ink, turns to the most recent page of his diary and writes for an hour or so of his visit with Madame Kragstedt. He drinks a little of the aquavit, then puts down his cup and adds a short addendum concerning the widow and his encounter with Kragstedt and the Overseer Dahl.

He takes out his lead pencil and sits down to draw, a distraction that never fails to settle his mind. He takes his little mirror and endeavours to produce a self-portrait. The result is a brooding, disabled-looking indi­vidual of suspicious intent. He looks at the drawing, looks in the mirror. The drawing speaks true; it knows something he did not. He crumples it up and tosses it into the coal bucket, takes a new sheet and draws a woman, naked and smooth-haired. She reclines with legs apart and the beholder is confronted first by the sight of her vulva, the glistening moistness of whose labia he labours upon, and beyond her genitals her abdomen, languishing breasts, her chin, mouth and eyes, her gaze. It is a satisfactory drawing, in its composition as well as in certain other respects, yet he is unable to keep it. Someone, perhaps Bertel, has been rummaging among his papers. The thought of him possibly having read his diary, especially his entry of the previous night, concerns him. He ought to begin the habit of destroying all that he writes of such nature. Libidinous drawings are perhaps not the most damaging of items, but they must nevertheless be disposed of. To the bucket with the drawing. The jug of good ale is empty, the bottle of aquavit considerably depleted. He is flushed with warmth from drinking and writing and drawing, perhaps also from an impending fever that is most likely of sexual origin.

He goes to the window, cools his heated brow against the pane and looks out towards the colony house that lies somewhere in the fog. The glass is uneven and has drooped in its frame like a caramel mixture, prob­ably as a result of too little lead. The raindrops spatter against it. He picks out the roofs of the boathouse and the blubber house at the shore. There are no people to be seen. But the fire-watcher is about, perhaps the smith again, almost certainly patrolling at the warehouse and along by the promontory from where he will spy for the ship they await, and look out for thieves on the prowl. The crew are most likely as always in their room, passing round the ale jug and the aquavit bottle, slapping their playing cards down on the table, blustering their bids and keeping the Madame from her sleep. And then there are the mixtures in their small houses, the silent servants of the colony, among them Bertel, and the native folk in the Greenlander dwellings. They are many who inhabit the place. And Kragstedt himself, enshrouded in the blue-grey smoke of his long-stemmed pipe, or else retired to bed.

There is a knock on the door. He gets up and opens it, stares blankly into the night.

You? What do you want?

She does not reply.

He steps back, a single pace. She enters, takes off her clothes, hurriedly and yet as a matter of course, and climbs into the bed, draw­ing the covers over her. The woodwork of the alcove fails to creak, he notes, the straw of the mattress is silent. She looks across at him. She says nothing.

Now that you are here, I am glad, he says, then adding with a sigh: I suppose there is nothing I can do about it.

He stands and looks down at her, wearied by alcohol and defeat. Her naked body beneath his foul-smelling covers. She blinks her eyes. He bends down, stares at her, puts his hand under the covers and touches her between her legs. She is there. She is to the touch as she has always been, still and passive, cold as a rock. He retracts his hand. He can sense the smell of her, or perhaps only the recollection of it.

Sleep, he says. I have work to do. A pastor's work. He smiles.
Palasi
work!

She turns over towards the wall. He tucks the covers around her. She is now a parcel waiting for him. Indeed, he has missed her.

He seats himself once more at the desk. There is still some aquavit in the bottle. He puts his finger through the ring and pulls out the cork. The sound is like a kiss. He puts the bottle to his mouth and drinks a little, corking it again with a vigorous shake of his head, a gasp and a shudder –
huuh!
– only then to promptly open it again and drink some more. Now he is drunk. Drunk, but still not merry. How much aquavit does merri­ness require? And why drink otherwise? One drinks to become merry.
And he said unto them: Drink, and let your hearts be merry!
He follows the Lord's commandment, for he is a true Christian. He drinks again, small, measured mouthfuls. And now there is none left. The aquavit is inside him. It has changed places. Now it is he who is the bottle.

He puts the bottle down on its side. It rolls towards the edge of the desk. He observes it with interest. It drops and skitters across the floor without breaking. The widow sits up and looks at him. After a moment she lies down again. She is used to his excesses. He retrieves the bottle, places it once more in the middle of the desk and releases. Again, it travels towards the edge and drops to the floor with a clunk. The widow emits a sound of annoyance. He chuckles quietly to himself, feeling at once mischievous and almighty. He picks up the bottle and repeats his exper­iment, and then again. The bottle rolls, the bottle drops. Why does it drop? How does it know in which direction the floor is to be found? He shakes his head, the room mimicking the motion, though in reverse and with a kind of elastic delay, as though space were a frame attached to his head by means of threads. It continues to travel after he has stopped. An excellent observation. It must be committed to paper! He snatches up the pen, but is unable to coordinate his movements sufficiently to dip it in the ink pot and is forced to abandon the enterprise. Besides, he has no more paper left. He resumes his bottle game. Everything strives down­wards, he thinks to himself. Everything bears within it a yearning for the depths, for the darkness and the filth that is there at the bottom of all things. Everything that is human or is created by man bears within it an inherent aversion to light, to purity, to ascension, to the heavens. We may rise up but briefly, in the faith, in will and in prayer, in sense and knowledge, perhaps even in love, yet always we will strive downwards again, to the filth in the gutter. This is the phenomenon Dr Newton calls gravity, without which all the gutters of the world would run in arbitrary directions and their dirt would consume us all. Thank you, Lord, for your wisdom!

Falck retires. He undresses and crawls under the covers to lie with the widow. Her skin is warm. He squeezes her hand, wraps himself around her body, presses his mouth to the soft, yielding flesh between her shoul­ders and neck. She turns her head slightly and whispers something he does not understand. He smiles. Then he says:

My wife.

I forgive you.

Do you forgive me also?

Now we shall sleep.

He knows that she is not real.

Part Two

Colony and Catechism

The First Commandment

Visionaries (c. 1785–8
)

The First Commandment, as it is most plainly to be taught by a father to his family:

‘Thou shalt have no other God before me.'

What does this imply?

Answer: That we should fear and love, and trust in God above all things.

The settlement named Igdlut comprises a handful of peat dwellings scat­tered around a bay some way inside the inlet the Danes call the Eternal Fjord, approximately two days north of the colony. A score of individ­uals inhabit the place, among them Maria Magdalene and her husband Habakuk. The ford, measuring thirty Danish miles in length, comprises several perpendicular elbows, giving the illusion that at each turn it will come to an end, only for it then to continue – the eternal ford. The settlement of Igdlut, whose name means ‘the dwellings', lies near the first of these turns. The bay is several hundred paces in extent, and its bed is of sand, allowing a person from the vantage point of the tableland to plainly pick out the shoals of fish as they pass through its waters. It is an excellent landing place for boats. The surrounding slopes rise steeply, their scrubby vegetation often difficult to penetrate, but some twenty or thirty fathoms up from the shore lie the monumental plateaus, staggered in height and separated from each other by low and rugged rocks. When Habakuk's mother died last year they buried her there at her request, in an unmarked grave, her head faced towards Jerusalem. The spot affords a view extending all the way to the mouth of the ford and the open sea in the west, and to the jagged fells and dogged, creeping glaciers that wind towards the water in the east.

In the spring they fish for capelin,
ammassat
, that run into the ford in shoals so tightly organized the fish may be scooped on to the shore with sieves fastened on poles, until the rocks teem and glisten with the flapping catch. In July it is the trout, sometimes the salmon, speared with a stake of split willow armed with barbs, or else long perches made of wood to which are fastened the sharp, hooked bones of the seal. In autumn the men depart to the north to hunt the reindeer. The settlement possesses a flintlock. Habakuk, the leader, acquired it some ten years ago when working for the Trade up at Holsteinsborg. The rifle has maintained the people of the settlement ever since, but now it is in poor repair and Habakuk never uses it without fear that it will backfire and turn him blind.

Habakuk and his wife Maria Magdalene inhabit one of the dwellings furthest inside the bay, at the mouth of the river. They have lived here for some years, though originally they hail from Holsteinsborg. On occa­sion they talk of how pleasant it might be to live upon one of the plateaus, with a fine view to all sides. Yet to be settled so far away from the shore and the river would be troublesome. No one lives on the fell, people would shake their heads at them if they should ever move there, and they would be looked upon as peculiar. So they have remained at the shore. It is where we Greenlanders belong, as Habakuk is wont to remark to his wife. The sea is our mother and there we must remain.

Maria protests: But there comes a time when one must leave one's mother and we are no longer children.

He scrutinizes her and then she knows it is best to remain silent, for otherwise his mood will be foul for the rest of the day.

Both were christened as adults. In the first years of their lives they lived as their parents, in heathenism and ever on the move. They speak only seldom of this previous time, prior to their christening, it feels as if it were another life entirely, a dark and provocative issue on which it is best not to dwell. And yet Maria Magdalene thinks upon her youth, a nomadic life, summers spent in the skerries with her family, winters close to the colony. They lived in tents made of hide and in earthen huts, makeshift and temporary. They existed in their filth, but the filth had its function, it was natural and of no inconvenience to anyone. Only when a person becomes Christian, she thinks to herself, does filth become filth, a substance to be avoided and removed, a foul-smelling and shameful thing.

Home was where the family was, and where the creatures of land and sea which they hunted were to be found. No loyalty existed towards any place in itself, no particular feelings of home attached to certain rocks, plateaus or bays, no urge to settle. Such things came only with Jesus and the Baptism. It was as if the three dashes of water with which the priest wetted one's forehead imparted a whole new set of emotions. They listened to the stories about Jesus and learned from the catechist to burst into tears. And the tears created the emotion that lay behind the tears, as though in reverse and by delay. They had not existed before. But now they occurred in any conceivable situation. Laughter belonged to the heathen life, tears to the Christian. And so it was that they became attached to one place, the same tent rings and dwelling walls, the same constellation of ridges and valleys, and the enervating rhythm of daily life. When they went away to hunt, they told each other and people they met of their home by the colony. And when they did so, they burst into tears. They realized that they longed to be home. A completely new emotion. And always it was a relief to return, to slot back into familiar surroundings as though into old clothes, to walk the same routes across the same rocks, to greet the same people.

She recalls how the winter would twist and tighten its grip upon Holsteins borg. Kællingehætten, the great peak behind the colony, made aflame by the low sun, the Northern Lights flickering blue above snow-clad slopes, the moon spreading its metallic sheen across the fellsides. She ran in her kamik boots over the snow, young and cheerful, almost weight less. The missionary Oxbøl received her in his big house, and he gave her lessons in private, for she was quick to learn. He had taken it into his head to teach her to read and write. This was before she knew Habakuk.

Mind what you learn from the priest, said her father. He is forever after the young girls.

She was familiar with the rumours concerning the old pastor. He had lain with several girls she knew; two of them had become pregnant and the skerries were said to teem with his illegitimate offspring, without him ever bothering to have them taught or christened. Now the majority are grown up and the priest himself remains vigorous and productive. She often encounters his progeny whenever she is away from the colony, light-skinned and freckled and unreliable. The lake of fire and brimstone awaits Oxbøl, there is no forgiveness for the likes of him, and most likely he knows it too. But back then she was unworried by the pastor's intent. His wish to teach her to read and write had become her own. The urge to read was like a hunger. And she learned quickly. She read the cate­chism and the Gospel, she read issues of
Kjøbenhavns Posttidende
, used by the Trade for wrapping paper, and she read books from the pastor's library. When he tested her on the catechism, he was compelled contin­ually to interrupt.

I must impress upon you not to answer my questions in your own words, as though in ordinary conversation, but to follow the exact wording of the text.

But if you put it into your own words, it shows you have understood the meaning of it.

That may be so. But this is the Holy Word of God and it is to be learned, not understood. You must bow to the Word, woman, and desist from making yourself His equal.

He made me in His image!

That's enough, Maria, Oxbøl would splutter, exasperated. Or else I shall be unable to confirm you.

Nonetheless, in the autumn she was confirmed.

Now I'm christened and confirmed, she said to him, so now we may no longer sleep together. It's a wonder you haven't got me pregnant.

He sat in his chair and studied her with his foxlike eyes and a wry smile on his bloodless lips. You could be my wife, Maria.

You're an old man, I don't want you, thank you very much. Besides, I am engaged.

And what is his name, this fortunate young man?

His name is Habakuk. Oxbøl can marry us.

Oh, thank you. Thank you, indeed. I am most touched. Have you been seeing this suitor while you have been coming here?

We've been seeing each other since the winter.

You're no better than all the rest, the priest spat.

Lauritz Oxbøl, the Lord will punish you for your sins, she said, sending him a carefree smile.

Hm, the priest muttered, and drummed his fingers on the table.

And your bastards will return and take vengeance.

Let them come. I am not afraid of them.

She kissed him before she left. She was actually fond of the old philan­derer. He was a hard master, who said what he meant. It was a trait she appreciated.

Habakuk was employed as a blubber-cutter at the Trade. He was tall and dark and always wore a tricorne hat he had purchased from a seaman. They had attended confirmation classes together, where they got to know each other.

You're the priest's mistress, Habakuk said. I bet he's taught you more than the Lord's Prayer.

And so they became lovers. Habakuk's parents were settled at Holsteinsborg and had been christened in youth. Habakuk himself had received schooling for a couple of years, taught by Niels Egede, son of Hans Egede, Greenland's apostle. He could both read and write, and the first letter she ever received was Habakuk's formal request of marriage. She took him to Oxbøl, who grudgingly married them in the new Bethel church. Afterwards, Maria crept back to read what the priest had written in the register. It said:

15 August 1775, Assumption Day. On this day were joined together in the Bethel Church Habakuk, a blubber-cutter, and the woman Maria Magdalene, both of Holsteinsborg. With His blessing I did wish the newly wedded couple a long life together in happiness and unity. Amen. Lauritz Oxbøl, Missionary.

Maria laughed when she read this. The priest had been so disagreeable while wedding them, and yet the entry recording the marriage belied the fact entirely. He must have been biting his tongue, she thought to herself. She tore the page from the book and put it in her pocket. Now it hangs in a frame on the wall inside her home.

But the missionary Oxbøl was loath to release her. He sent for her at odd times of the day and he was a powerful man, so she was afraid not to answer his call. And she became pregnant. A pale and freckled child with untrustworthy eyes was delivered into the world. Habakuk was not pleased. He went to the colony manager and lodged a complaint. The colony manager wrote to the priest and the priest wrote back and had Habakuk dismissed from the Trade. After which they packed their belongings and came to Eternal Fjord.

And now they are here, at the settlement of Igdlut, where live a score of christened individuals and approximately the same number who remain heathen yet wish to become Christian. Maria Magdalene and Habakuk have provided instruction in collaboration with the catechist, the unchristened have learned the catechism and sing the hymns of Brorson in such a manner as to nearly raise the roof of the earthen hut in which they gather. They have wept at the sufferings of the Lord until dissolved in tears and mucus, and they live a life as devoutly Christian as any other. But no priest has visited them in years. Maria hopes this will change. She has learned that the missionary at Sukkertoppen, a Magister Krogh, whom she has never met, has ended his days and that a new pastor is on his way. Perhaps this one will be more interested in what goes on in his district than the one who hanged himself.

That autumn both the trout fishing and the reindeer hunt fail. The winter is hard. They must boil and eat their leather belts and kamik boots – a humiliation Maria has not experienced since childhood. All the chil­dren of the unchristened perish; some are strangled so that they may be spared the suffering. The mothers go into the fells with them, singing, and return, silent, with their clothing. The catechist at the settlement speaks to the parents and tells them that killing their own children is incompatible with the Christian life. But he can do little in the face of their problem and inwardly most are grateful for this departure of hungry mouths. Two young hunters are lost, failing to return from hunting trips. The elderly walk quietly away into the fells or on to the ice, they turn their heads one final time and look back upon the settlement with weary eyes, then vanish beyond the point or over the ridge, never to be seen again. When spring comes only half a score of adults remain. The cate­chist holds prayers for the dead and the missing; and those who have survived feel a strong sense of togetherness, yet remain fearful of what the future may bring. There is talk of them perhaps having to move out to the colony at Sukkertoppen, where at least they will not be allowed to lie around and die.

But the catch of capelin turns out to be good: optimism returns. They sail out into the skerries at the mouth of the ford and collect the eggs of the long-tailed duck, black guillemot and common murre. They harpoon seals as yet heavy with the fat of winter; glistening chunks of blubber-covered meat are laid out, steaming on dried skins, and a feast is held which lasts for several days.

In the skerries they encounter a young woman who has also come from Holsteinsborg. Habakuk enquires how things stand there. They are the same. The old pastor, Oxbøl, is he still alive? As far as she knows. And has he given you instruction and christened you? asks the catechist. He has instructed me, she says, and here is the result of it. She indicates her little girl, pale and freckled and sickly in appearance. He let the Spirit of the Lord come upon me, but he did not christen me. So all is unchanged at Holsteinsborg; they cannot return there. If they are to leave, then it must be to Sukkertoppen, which indeed lies closer, but is also the poorer.

The young woman and her daughter return with them to Igdlut and move in with Habakuk and Maria Magdalene, installing themselves on the sleeping bench for visitors. The other women of the settlement dislike her; they find her haughty and presumptuous on account of her having lain with the priest and because she can read the scriptures and write her name. Moreover, she is a mixture and the fact makes them ill at ease. Indeed, some of these same feelings taint their opinion of Maria Magdalene, not least the suspicion that she considers herself above them, but due to Habakuk, who is the settlement's oldermand, they have swal­lowed their resentment and treated her well. Instead their bitterness is turned towards the stranger. Voices whisper and the situation is made no better by the woman sticking her nose in the air and plainly thinking herself better. On two occasions she accompanies Habakuk and some of the other men into the ford to catch trout. They return without a single fish, though smiling smugly all over their faces.