The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (25 page)

Yes, I suppose you can tell by its teats, says Bertel.

It's called an udder, says the boy.

The milk can be drunk, Bertel tells him.

I know. You can make porridge from it, and cheese and butter.

It seems no one can tell you anything you don't know already, says Bertel.

The boy grins. I read it in a book.

And what are you going to be when you grow up?

A sailor, says the boy, and laughs. A sea captain.

I think there are two of us to decide on that, says Bertel, and gives the boy's ear a playful tug. What do you want to be?

A priest, says the boy dutifully and looks up at his father. His blue eyes sparkle.

That's right, says Bertel. Think of it, the first Greenlander to be ordained into the clergy! You'll show them we're no stupider than them.

Two days later. A knock on the door. A young woman is standing outside. She gives him a folded piece of handmade paper.

From the priest, she says.

And who might you be?

She says nothing.

Do you work for the priest?

She shakes her head. He asked me to give you this, that's all.

He unfolds the paper and reads the cramped handwriting:

Dear Bertel Jensen, I am not quite well and would be indebted to him if he came hither! Morten Falck, missionary.

What is the matter with the priest? Bertel asks. He is not drunk, I hope?

He might be ill, I don't know. He looks like a ghost.

Bertel studies the woman closer. Where do you come from? I don't think I have seen you before.

From up north.

Holsteinsborg?

She raises her eyebrows in the affirmative.

What are you doing here in the district?

I am here with my daughter, she says. I live in the communal house.

With the savages? Has the priest at Holsteinsborg not christened you?

I am unchristened, but the old Missionary Oxbøl has been diligent in his teachings.

Indeed, I know all about the missionary and his teachings, Bertel replies curtly.

The woman looks over his shoulder into the parlour. I can look after your boy, she offers.

But you have a daughter of your own.

Milka. She is five years old, a pleasant girl. We can come here in the daytime, the children can play together. I can clean and cook.

We have no need. This is an ordinary house, we have no servants here. My wife and I take care of our own domestic matters. And my boy needs peace and quiet, not friends.

She lowers her gaze. Bertel is annoyed at her, and at himself for the pangs of guilt he now feels. She is a mixture like him; most likely her life is hard if she is alone with a child. He wants to shut the door, but it would entail shutting it in the woman's face and he cannot bring himself to do so. There is something about her that makes him wonder.

Do I know you? he asks.

She shrugs.
Naluara
.

Is there anything else you want?

Perhaps the priest has need of a housekeeper, she suggests.

Yes, perhaps. I can ask him. But he cannot take you in to live. You understand that, of course?

I can read and write, she informs him. Oxbøl taught me.

He would seem to be your benefactor, the Missionary Oxbøl.

He is the girl's father.

Old Oxbøl? Bertel stiffens. He doesn't know what to say. You let the priest lie with you? he enquires reproachfully.

Maybe it was that Holy Spirit of his. It didn't feel like it, though. Is the Holy Spirit made like you men?

Mind your blaspheming tongue, woman. I ought to beat you for that.

I won't hit back, she answers impertinently.

No, and I would advise you not to. Anyway, now that you're here, hm. I shall speak to the priest. Go now.

I'd rather be here.

Tired of the clergy, is that it? Thinking to try one of your own kind instead?

Being catechized can be painful, she says. A girl risks becoming with child.

The new priest is not like that. I'm sure you would be one to ruin him, though. He lets out an involuntary chuckle. It's worth a try, I suppose. Let me speak to him. Perhaps he will take you on.

At last she leaves. He watches her as she walks away. Her strong posture, her buoyant stride. Where have I seen you before? he thinks.

He finds Falck sitting on the step in front of the Mission house in his vestments, marble-white feet protruding from beneath the hem of his cassock. He is staring at something up on the fell, but when Bertel looks he sees nothing.

Magister Falck? he ventures, and can tell by the sound of his voice that he has now returned to his subservient role, though his hat remains upon his head.

Slowly, the priest turns his gaze towards him.

Can I be of assistance, Magister?

God bless him, Bertel Jensen.

Is the Magister ill?

Not ill, exactly. But then not quite well either, it would seem. It must be some sort of land sickness after the long sea voyage. This entire continent pitches and heaves worse than any vessel in a storm. And the Trader's hospitality doesn't help.

Bertel says nothing.

Is it always like this? Falck enquires.

Like what, Magister?

Drunkenness and gambling, frivolity from morn to eve?

I wouldn't know.
Naluara
. What the Danes get up to is not my concern.

One can only hope things will get better once the ship sails again.

Bertel stands in anticipation without replying.

And today I am invited once more, Falck sighs. How shall I stand it?

The Magister could say no, Bertel suggests.

Indeed he could, says Falck. Nevertheless, it is important to get to know people, to get off on a good footing with those with whom one is to associate in the years to come. And good people they are, too, it seems, better certainly than those at Godthåb. But I have neglected him. I have neglected my good catechist. Not a moment's work since my arrival. He must think badly of his new priest.

Bertel could say that the new priest is no different than the former, but he elects to remain silent.

He shall come with me, says Falck all of a sudden, perking up. He shall accompany me to dinner at the Trader's.

Me? I've never eaten in the colony house. I've never been inside.

Well, then it is high time. Falck reaches his hand out towards him. Help me to my feet. I feel better already.

Bertel follows him inside where Falck puts on his wig, breeches and boots. It is the first time he has spoken to the pastor since his arrival two days before, and now he is helping him dress. He mentions the woman who is seeking a position as housekeeper. Falck is receptive. He needs someone to wash his clothes and keep the place tidy. Bertel says he will send her over, so that the priest might speak to her himself.

Excellent, though I already made her acquaintance when I sent her off with my message to you. Who is she? Falck enquires.

I don't know her, Magister. But she has been taught the scriptures and she has a daughter.

Is she on her own? Who is the child's father?

Dead, Magister, says Bertel. Sometimes the lie is the more profound truth, he thinks to himself.

Ah, a widow. Poor soul. Send her to me, by all means. It will be a pleasure to help the unfortunate woman. Perhaps we may even make a good Christian out of her.

Perhaps, Magister Falck.

The priest beams. Bertel stands waiting while he makes himself presentable. As they leave the house, Falck says: Enough ceremony. From now on we are friends, Bertel. What do you say?

What's the Magister's name, then?

Falck is slightly taken aback. He stutters and says: Morten, my name is Morten.

Have you anything against me calling you Magister Falck?

Call me what you want, dear friend. But now you must show me the delights of this place, Bertel Jensen.

Together they stroll through the colony. Bertel explains to him its situation at the southern end of an island extending some two Danish miles to the north. He points to the peaks and tells him their Danish names. He takes him to a clifftop with a view out over the sea and in towards the mainland with its rugged peaks covered by snow.

Falck makes enthusiastic noises. He asks many questions whose naivety amuses Bertel, questions concerning the cold, the darkness of winter, the opportunities of getting about, the doings of the natives, but he answers readily. And Falck enthuses. This is all so much better than I had hoped, he says. We shall work well together. I am certain everything will turn out splendidly.

They come by the communal dwelling house of the heathens. There are people everywhere, children, women, men, all are occupied by some or another task that must seem to the priest to be strange and incompre­hensible. Bertel explains to him about the natives' kayaks and boats and hunting equipment, the particulars of their houses and how they are arranged inside, the ways in which they prepare their food. Falck is all ears.

And these people, he says, none is christened?

Most are familiar with the Word, some receive instruction in order to receive the Baptism. But since the former pastor's demise things have been at a standstill.

Indeed, says Falck briskly. There is much to do. These ignorant souls, they are as lambs, waiting only for a shepherd to lead them into enlight­enment and freedom.

Perhaps, says Bertel. Could be.

And out in the district, Falck continues. How do matters stand there?

There are many people, says Bertel. In the south and in the north and inside the fords. Most likely they will have heard of the Lord Jesus from their own kind, and there will be some who have been christened and who teach them as well as they can, but there's probably several hundred who've never seen a priest.

Excellent! Falck exclaims with enthusiasm. We shall go to them and teach them, you and I, Bertel.

They are on their way back to the colony. Falck turns towards him with his hand outstretched.

For our fruitful collaboration, he says.

They shake hands. The priest's feels solid and strong.

I thank the Lord for having sent me here, says Falck. I feel certain it will be a blessing to me, and perhaps my presence may even bring some good to this land.

I'm sure, says Bertel.

Falck begins to talk of a tour of the district as early as this autumn. How is it to be arranged?

The Magister will need to get hold of a boat and a crew, and all the equipment as well, says Bertel.

Has my predecessor, the unfortunate Magister Krogh, not left anything that might be of use?

The Magister never went anywhere, he did his work here in the colony.

You mean he never left this island?

He did once accompany the Trader on a trade journey, but he didn't seem to care for it much. His sea legs were no more, he said, after the long voyage from Copenhagen.

Then how did he envisage returning home again? Falck says, begin­ning to laugh.

Well, he never did, did he? Bertel rejoins. He hanged himself in the blubber house.

Falck's laughter immediately subsides. Hm, so very true. How sad! Let us hope the good Lord has mercy upon his soul.

As they enter the Trader's home a loud clatter is heard, followed by shrieks of laughter. Madame Kragstedt sweeps towards them in her expansive dress.

Magister Falck! she exclaims, radiant with joy. Come inside. You can say prayers over what is left of the soup. Our maid has just dropped it on the floor.

I have brought my catechist, says Falck. Madame and Bertel Jensen know each other, I assume?

The Madame hesitates for a moment, before her face lights up in a smile. Why yes, of course, my maid Sofie's husband, we have indeed bumped into each other now and then. It can hardly be avoided in such a little place as this. She glances uncertainly from Falck to Bertel. Does the Magister wish for his catechist to join us at the table?

Naturally, Madame. We are all equals before the Lord, are we not?

They enter the room. Beneath curling veils of tobacco smoke sit perhaps a dozen men around the dining table. Captain Valløe greets Falck exuberantly and makes room for him at his side on the long bench. They step around the soup that lies in a puddle on the floor, and Sofie, who is on all fours, picking up the shards of broken porcelain. She glances up at Bertel, a look of distress, and mouths something to him which he fails to grasp. He shakes his head and nudges a shard towards her with his foot. Falck stops and looks at Bertel.

My wife, says Bertel.

Indeed, says Falck, and puts out his hand to the disconcerted Sofie. Good afternoon, madam.

Er, says Sofie, staring now at the rivulet of soup that runs between Falck's feet.

He steps out of the way. A pleasure to meet you, Madam Jensen.

A voice at the table erupts into laughter. Madam Jensen, indeed!

They seat themselves. Drinking glasses are put out before them. The mate fills the first of them, but as he is about to fill the second a hand extends to grip his wrist. Kragstedt's hand. The aquavit is for the Danish crew only, he says. The law forbids the provision of spirits to the natives on all but the flag days.

The mate puts the cork back in and removes the bottle.

Would he care for a glass of beer? Madame Kragstedt enquires kindly.

Rather a glass of water, he says. He feels the warmth rise in his cheeks. A glass and a jug are put out in front of him. He pours himself a glass and drinks a mouthful. He hears little of what is said, but sits and watches his wife on her knees wiping up soup from the floor. Then he is distracted by Falck's wig, which he has placed on the table next to his plate. He sees that it is teeming with lice. A dish of meat, peas and cabbage is handed across the table. He takes some and puts it on to his own plate and begins to eat.

Several of the other dinner guests have likewise removed their wigs and deposited them untidily next to their plates. All are ridden with lice. Bertel cannot take his eyes away. He shovels the food into his mouth without tasting it.