The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (24 page)

And then He is gone. She stands alone, high up above the settlement, which is enshrouded by fog. It is the middle of the night, yet light. A pair of ravens tumble in the air and caw. The next day she writes it all down on a piece of hide from which the blubber has been scraped. She puts the document away under her mattress. She has need of someone to consult about the dream and wishes her husband would come home soon.

Some days later the dream recurs. She is standing at His side, as though she were His equal, and He sweeps out his hand and repeats the same, perhaps mischievous question:
Do you believe all this to have come from nothing?

No. Of course not.

But no exchange comes of it. She would like to ask Him about various matters now that He is here, she would like to ask His forgiveness for being angry with Him for the death of her daughter; to ask His advice concerning her son, the boy with the freckles. But every time she is about to speak He waves his hand dismissively. He does not look at her. He looks away, out across the ford and the fells.

Do you believe all this to have come from nothing?

No, I have already said.

She ventures to examine His chest; she bends forward and draws His coat aside. And there she sees the wound. It is not bleeding, but neither is it healed. A flaming, open gash. The entry point of the Roman lance. It reminds her of her daughter struck by the arrow. She wakes up crying.

Maria Magdalene
, He says to her one night,
go forth and say to your people that their lives are sinful. They shall gather in number and leave the colony and the Danish drunkards and philanderers, and they shall worship the Lord
.

It is the longest pronouncement she has heard Him utter. She writes it down, word for word, in the morning. Now she has covered the entire parchment with his words. That same day, Habakuk returns from the hunting.

He hangs his head and appears remorseful. They have killed several large animals; they come with the skinned carcasses and deposit them on the ground, hind quarters with legs poking up into the air, red muscle marbled by yellow-white tallow and tendons. The winter is secured. But Habakuk is silent. After he has washed the blood from his hands he goes into the house and lies down on the bench. She boils him a portion of entrails and barley oats, but he pushes the plate away and turns to face the wall. The boy comes in. She gives the food to him instead and he gulps it down. She can see that he has grown. When he has eaten, Habakuk asks him to leave.

Something has happened, he says.

Yes, she says. Something has happened. But what?

He tells her. They hunted every day, but without fortune. The animals were too far away; they were too timid, and whenever he came within range to shoot, he missed. Something was wrong; they could sense it. He stopped sleeping with his mistress, thinking that perhaps the Lord was angry with him on such account and that sleeping alone would better his fortune in the hunt. Yet still they killed nothing. Then one of the men suggested they resort to hunting magic. They made small effigies of rein­deer out of dwarf birch and heather, and pronounced spells over them.

In the days that followed they killed many animals. But no one among the men was pleased. They were afraid they would be punished with sickness and accidents.

Maria is horrified. You have worshipped idols!

Yes. The Devil made us do so, am I right?

Then Maria tells him about the dreams. She shows him the parchment with everything the figure in white has said to her. They resolve to follow the commandments to the letter in order to avoid punishment. They lie separated from the rest of the dwelling house by means of a hide draped from the ceiling. It allows them some privacy. They hear the other members of the household come in bringing meat with them, which they begin to boil. The room quickly becomes stiflingly hot. Maria and Habakuk take off their clothes and lie down naked on the skin. They listen to the talk going on in the house. They whisper and make plans.

In the autumn they move up on to the high ground. To begin with they live in tents. They lift the joists from the old dwelling at the shore and carry them up the fell. They dig fresh peat and allow it to dry. They erect the walls. The wives tan the bowels of seals, which they use for windows; the men salvage the carcass of a humpback whale and lay the bones on the shore for the beach fleas to cleanse, after which they will be used for rafters and struts. They sail along the coast, which is awash with wreckage from sunken vessels, and collect what driftwood they find: planed planks, blubber barrels, wooden chests, rope and great rolls of canvas. Inside the ford the inhabitants gather together whatever they possess in the way of European building materials, boards, hasps and latches, iron hooks for their pots, but the spoils of the shipwrecks turn out to be plentiful enough for their efforts to be superfluous. They know that plundering wreckage constitutes a violation of Danish law and that they risk chains and the pillory should they be discovered, but they tell each other that this is our country, what drifts onto our shores belongs just as much to us as to the Danes, and they can come and claim it if they dare.

Habakuk constructs a long bench with room enough for each of the three couples who are to live with them to have their own spacious dwelling area. They erect a flagpole made from a jib mast, and hoist up a bowel skin decorated with a stylized impression of people dancing, hand in hand, in a ring. Their fluttering flag can be seen from afar.

Habakuk holds prayers on the plateau, in front of the new house. He tells of his wife's latest dream in which the Lord once again has appeared before her. The Lord is pleased, he says. He rejoices in His children. He says they have chosen the path to salvation and independence, a path they cannot walk with the Danish philanderers and topers of the colony. We are ourselves now, says Habakuk, and the Lord Jesus Christ is with us!

Yes! they reply who sit listening to him. But what are we to do if a boat should come from the colony and they say that we have corrupted the faith and stolen the wreckage that rightfully belongs to His Majesty the king? For this is, indeed, what we have done!

As long as we give heed unto the Word of the Lord, nothing bad can happen to us, says Habakuk calmly, taking his time to look them each in the eye. This land belongs to us, what washes on to the shore is ours to take without permission, and no one has the right to tell us what to believe in. The Lord is with us! He speaks to my wife and I pass His word on to you.

The autumn gives up trout, salmon and reindeer in abundance. The winter stores are filled by the time the cold arrives and the ford ices over. People come to them from all corners of the district; new dwellings are built on the high ground, of peat and wood and stone. New storage pits are dug in the ground for winter stockpiles and are quickly filled. Blubber and brushwood and peat are burned for heating, but also driftwood from the shores of the skerries. The dwellings are good and warm; children are born and their mothers have milk. Then winter comes and the settlement hibernates and lies dormant. Thick, fresh smoke rises in silence from a score of chimneys high above the ford. When spring arrives no one has perished from hunger, and they even have meat in reserve when the capelin fishing begins.

That summer boatloads of new settlers arrive almost by the day. They laugh in astonishment at the sight of the plateaus on which stand houses of all shapes and materials. What is this? they exclaim. These people must be insane! And then they go ashore and build something even stranger.

Maria Magdalene dreams. She has dreamt these houses and these people, now she dreams even greater things. She dreams houses on all the rocks and thousands of people living well and in peace and harmony. She dreams a school and Habakuk says to the people: The Lord has said there must be a school for our children, so that they may learn to read and write. And so they build a school and the children learn to read and write. And Maria Magdalene dreams of a hospital for the old and sick, and Habakuk passes it on; and they devote a house at the top of the plateau to those who are infirm, and employ some elderly women to look after them. And Maria Magdalene dreams, or perhaps merely has the idea, of a communal store and a list of those who have plenty and those who are in need, and all of it is carried out; and a widow's pension is set up for those who are left on their own, and a sick-benefit scheme for those who for a time find themselves unable to work, and a fund for those who lack the aptitude to go on the hunt, but who are able to carve figures out of driftwood and soapstone. And Maria Magdalene dreams of a church. And she says to Habakuk, The Lord has spoken to me. He says we must build a church and it shall be made of the land's own building materials, though we may use driftwood, too, and it shall lie upon the very highest point of the highest plateau. And thus they begin the laborious work of gathering driftwood and slate and peat for a church. The building work lasts a whole summer; hundreds of people take part. It is a fine church, facing west, to the mouth of the ford, to travellers arriving by boat, and in front of it an arch is erected with the jawbone of an Arctic whale.

What have you dreamt this night? Habakuk asks his wife.

I dreamt that we are to live in peace and tolerance with one another, she says.

He seems disappointed. Is that all?

It is the greatest of all dreams, she says.

The Second Commandment

A Meal (August 1787)

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

‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.'

What does this imply?

Answer: That we should fear and love God so that we may not curse, swear, conjure, lie or deceive by His name, but call upon the same in every time of need; to pray, praise and give thanks.

Bertel is awoken by something cold and smooth passing across his belly. It is the hand of his wife, fumbling in sleep. He pushes it away, gets out of bed and goes over to the boy. He is sleeping peacefully. His feet have scuffed the cover from his body; his shirt has twisted around his torso and ridden up under his arms. Bertel puts it gently right again and pulls up the cover. The boy sniffs a little and turns on to his side. Concern and love. A difficult mixture. He has inherited his father's freckles and pale skin, as well as his irregular teeth, dishwater-blond hair and the bunged-up snoring, about which Sofie has always complained in relation to his own person. In addition, the good head on his shoulders. A fine candidate for the clergy. Bertel smiles to himself. Then he tears himself away and goes down to the harbour to look at the new arrivals.

The ship lies calmly swinging at anchor in the bay, half-concealed in the fog. The colony bell tolls – perhaps it was what caused him to wake – and the crew are busy making ready for the welcome. He seats himself on top of a barrel, begs a spill from one of the native constables and lights his pipe.

Presently he sees a ship's boat on its way ashore, four seamen at the oars, the captain standing upright in the bow. The Trader stands ready to receive him, his young wife under his arm. She says something to him, then laughs, a chirping twitter, bright and foreign. What a strange bird she is, Bertel thinks to himself. The natives gather at the shore, hoping to do trade with the seamen. He notes that the women have neatened them­selves; they are clad in whatever European clothing they own in order to make an impression on the Danish seamen. Bertel grimaces. The thought of his own mixed blood fills him with nausea, and when the native women jostle to mingle with the white men, he feels rage.

The boat is laden with wares and luggage. One of the colony's own boats has put alongside the ship to be filled up. Bertel goes over to Dorph, the cooper who lives with his sister-in-law, the only member of the Danish colony crew with whom he is remotely on speaking terms.

What is that hanging from the boom?

The cooper laughs. They say it is a cow.

A cow? Bertel stares. He has never seen a cow before. The beast hangs suspended from the cargo boom, and sways high above the deck. It lows in suffering. He has seen cows in the illustrated magazines that Sophie brings home with her from the Trader's house, where she is maid. He never thought he would see one in real life.

Or maybe it's the Holy Spirit, says Dorph. The way it floats about between the masts and won't come down.

You should not talk of the Holy Spirit like that, says Bertel by way of correction, though he nearly bites off his own tongue on seeing the glare the cooper sends him in reply. Know your station! it says. He realizes Dorph could lodge a complaint for having been addressed in such a manner by a native. Most likely the pulley is stuck, he says, to smooth things over. He can see the crew gathered on the deck; they look up at the cow and parley.

But who would bring a cow, and what's it to do here? the cooper says.

The cow belongs to the new pastor, says the Overseer Dahl, noting something on a slate. It is a milch cow. Its milk is highly nutritious, it restores the sick and keeps those who are well in vigour.

Does it help against pains in the chest? Bertel enquires.

Milk is like medicine, says the Overseer, for once deigning to look at him. It helps against this and that. If it survives the unloading we might all have a glass.

If it is the pastor's cow, then I shall ask for a glass for my boy, says Bertel.

I'm sure he will receive all the milk he wants, Bertel Jensen, says the Overseer. After all, he is to assist the pastor in his duties, so it's only natural he keep his catechist in good health.

Dorph asks the Overseer if he thinks the ship has brought his marriage licence. I have waited years as it is, he complains.

I know nothing of any marriage licence, Dahl says dismissively. He shall have to wait until the mail is brought ashore.

But I live in sin! the cooper exclaims dramatically.

Don't we all? Dahl retorts. Dorph is not nearly as put upon as he thinks. Nevertheless, I wish him all the best in the matter. He withdraws with his slate.

The boat lays to, and two men clamber on to the quayside. The captain follows them, bringing with him some of the light and fresh weather of the sea. He straightens up and smiles. He is clad in a long coat and white stockings to the knee. His hair is quite short. Bertel recognizes him from previous arrivals, a corpulent man with a pockmarked face and agreeable countenance. The Trader and his wife walk forward to greet him, the former raising his hand in salute to the tricorne hat he has donned for the occasion. Kragstedt is in full commandant's uniform, silver-buckled shoes and a short wig. At his belt is a sabre. Madame Kragstedt wears a floral dress trimmed with gold flounces. Bertel is quite familiar with the garment, Sofie having recently brought it home with her to mend. She put it on and together they jumped into the bed, there to play the Trader Kragstedt and his wife. Bertel smiles at the thought. He catches Madame Kragstedt's eye and is glanced by her brilliant smile. Bertel looks down at the ground. The captain slides one foot forward in front of the other in the way of the true galantier and bows, takes her hand between his thumb and index finger and raises it to his mouth, touching it lightly with his lips. Apparently a joke, Bertel thinks to himself, for all three laugh. But then they know each other from the year before. The Danes and all their peculiarities, understood by them alone. They walk back together along the quayside, the men's sabres swinging at their rears as they cross the planks, the Madame's dress a billowing rustle. They ascend the little slope to the colony house, where the bell still tolls. Kragstedt barks out an order to the ringer, a native employee of the Trade:

Enough, man, or we'll all be deaf!

The bell goes quiet. They enter the house.

The winch seems to be working again. The cow is lowered in stages into the ship's boat, whereupon some men follow, clambering over the bulwark and descending by way of the rope ladder. The oars are put into the water; they move up and down like the wings of some mechanical bird. Bertel sees a man in a black coat and wide-brimmed hat with a high crown standing in the bow, his gaze fixed upon the land. He must be the new priest. He begins to boss the men about. His agitation apparently concerns the animal that now lies tethered in the bottom of the boat. One of the seamen loosens the ropes around the cow's legs, shouts and commands are heard from all quarters, the cow kicks its hooves and the boat rocks perilously. And then it is brought ashore onto the quayside, where the priest speaks soothingly to it while holding its muzzle and scratching behind its ears. Folk stare, especially the natives, who gape, literally, in disbelief.

A reindeer! They exclaim. Why has this fool taken a reindeer across the sea? Where are its antlers? Look, its teats are as big as a sack of blubber!

Bertel does not dare to approach the priest as long as he is standing with the cow, which tosses its head and lows. Without realizing, he has removed his hat and stands clutching it before him, in hesitant sub ­servience. The cooper steps up to the priest. He takes the cow by the rope and leads it over to the blubber house to be tethered. The beast strains against the rope and lows. The priest asks for water to be brought and the cooper fetches the fire bucket. The cow lowers its head and drinks. It urinates, a gushing torrent upon the planks of the quay. The priest addresses the cooper. Bertel cannot hear what is said, but the cooper removes his hat and bows courteously. The priest looks about him. Bertel sees that he sways slightly, rocking backwards and forwards.

Bertel Jensen, he says with a bow. Catechist. And the Magister is our new priest, I take it.

The priest looks at him and extends his hand. Bertel takes it in his. Morten Falck. I am to replace the missionary Krogh. Where is the missionary?

Kicked the bucket, honourable Magister. Passed away, I mean.

Of what did the good priest die? Was he ill?

It was more an accident, Magister, says Bertel, hesitating.

What kind of an accident? Falck looks him in the eye.

He hanged himself, says the cooper, now returned. Inside here, in the blubber house, honourable Magister. When they cut him down, the body fell right into the boiling tub, but we fished him out again with a boat hook. Sizzling more than a suckling pig on a spit, he was.

My goodness! says Magister Falck. I must remember to find a more suitable place should I wish to accompany Mr Krogh.

If the Magister's thinking of doing himself in, it best be done away from the colony, Bertel blurts out.

But the priest takes it with good humour. He pats him on the arm. A joke, dear Jensen. I assure him, I have no immediate plans to do such a thing, but am fit and healthy in body as well as in mind.

I see, says Bertel, and catches the priest's eye. Would that be on account of the milk?

The priest wanders off along the quayside, then returns. Bertel studies him. He is a tall man, stout and broad-shouldered. His eyes are blue, but the thick pigtail that hangs down his neck would indicate that his hair is dark and crinkly.

So this is Sukkertoppen's famous colony? says the priest in a jovial tone. Not much to look at.

The district's a good size, says the cooper. Several days in any direc­tion. Bigger than Jutland's mainland from Skagen to Flensborg.

Indeed, says Falck. A colossal land and only a handful christened.

There's plenty to be getting on with for a pastor, says the cooper. Idol worship, murder and heathen darkness all around. The Magister Krogh had to give up, God rest his soul.

The soul of a suicide finds no rest, says Falck.

Perhaps he just stole a march on something worse, says the cooper. The Magister was losing his senses, kept hearing trumpets and hymns, and saw dead people wander across the heavens.

Indeed? How interesting. A shame I did not have the opportunity of making his acquaintance.

The cooper suggests they move the cow on to the land, where it may munch the fresh grass. They loosen its tether and find a place below the colony house where they fasten its rope to a rock.

Do not be afraid, says Falck to Bertel. She will not kick. She is as good as the day is long and appreciates human company. He pats the beast on the back and Bertel does likewise. He feels the hide tremble and with­draws his hand. It feels greasy. He wipes it on his shirt.

It looks sad, he says. Most probably it knows it is to die soon.

Falck looks at him angrily. She most certainly is not to die, excepting the fact that we all must, sooner or later, you take heed of it. Perhaps this cow will survive us all. Her name is Roselil, by the way.

Hello, Roselil, says the cooper, petting the animal in a way Bertel finds rather intimate and odd. Oh, I've not seen a cow since I was a boy. A man could start missing his home.

Bertel knows he should refrain from comment, but priests have always made him want to utter inappropriate things. Who is to make sure the natives don't kill the cow and put it in their cooking pots? he blabbers.

This seems to give the priest pause for thought. Does he think there is a risk of it?

There's a lot of meat on a beast like that, says Bertel. He senses he has the pastor's full attention and can allow himself to say what he wants. The savages are most bloodthirsty and cold-blooded, and cunning to boot. They won't hesitate a moment if they get the chance to do it in.

I shall ask the Trader to post a watch, says the priest pensively.

Perhaps it would be best to slaughter it straightaway, Bertel suggests, before the savages get there first. Then we might all have fresh steaks.

The priest pales. Bertel bows with a smile, then walks back to his home. He has spoken far too much, but cannot help but gloat over having alarmed the priest.

Sofie is up now, making porridge for the boy, who lies on his bed, flicking through one of his magazines.

When you get up I'll show you something, says Bertel.

The boy looks up at him over the page. Show me what?

Wait and see. But I promise you, you've never seen anything like it before.

Bertel goes up and kisses Sofie on her neck. She twists and shoves him away with her shoulder, then glances up and laughs. She bares her teeth and growls at him. He pretends to be afraid. The boy looks across at them from the bed. But when Bertel looks back at him, he retreats behind his magazine.

I must be off in a minute, says Sofie.

Of course, to wipe the Madame's arse.

There's a big dinner on, I have to wait at the table.

I'll give the boy his porridge. You go.

She puts down what she has in her hands and sticks her feet into her kamik boots. She kisses him fleetingly, then the boy, and is out of the door. A pot on the stove spits clumps of boiling porridge.

Where is Mother going? asks the boy.

To help out at a dinner at the Trader's. A ship has come.

He could bite off his tongue. But now he has said it. The boy becomes ecstatic and rushes over to the window in his bare feet. He eats not a mouthful of food until they have been down to the harbour to see the ship and greet its crew, who tramp up and down the quayside. Afterwards they walk up to the place where the cow stands tethered.

A cow, says Bertel. A real live cow. Who would have thought such a thing?

A heifer, says the boy. I think it's a heifer.