The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (28 page)

Ugh! he exclaims. What's that?

Powder, she says. Does he not like it?

He stares dully as she grasps the hammer and wields it in an awkward, circular movement that sends a flailing shadow across the ceiling and ends in a thud against his head.

He steps backwards, a single pace, and sways. She is filled with a prim­itive sense of at last having overcome her paralysis, and withdraws in an arc to the right, edging her way towards the door, facing the smith with the hammer raised above her head. Hammer's hammer. Now it has struck him back. She almost finds it amusing.

Don't hit me! He staggers and shakes his head and looks like he is about to collapse. He retreats another step and grasps the frame of the door.

If I have to, I will, she says without emotion. Let me out and I shall refrain from striking him again.

I'll open the door, he says. Look. I'm opening it now.

He has turned his back on her. She could easily, and with justifica­tion, deal him a solid blow across the neck and put him out of commission for good. But she does not. She hears the bolt drawn back, the heavy sound of the iron, and as the thought of what he might be doing becomes complete in her mind, he swivels around almost in a pirouette, with such grace it would have been comical in any other context. But in his hand is the long iron bolt, jutting outwards like a sword. He raises it in the air, extends his arm to its full length and brings the iron down hard on her forearm.

She hardly registers the pain, only that the blow causes her to drop the hammer, which falls to the floor with the dullest of thuds. She sinks to her knees. The smith swings his booted foot and kicks the hammer away from her, propelling it across the floor and out of reach.

Now you have made me angry, he says calmly, and she can tell from his voice that he is smiling. Now I must punish you, Madame Kragstedt. Whatever happens now, the Madame has brought it upon herself.

In the name of the Lord, she stutters, and now it is she who whimpers. Have mercy, please. I have not caused him any harm.

She remains on her knees, half in pain, half in humility and prayer. Her hand clasps the point of the impact. Her arm hangs limp. She wonders if it is broken. She hears the smith lay down the bolt.

Why did the lady do it? he asks. Why did she strike me? I wasn't going to hurt her, only lie with her. He lowers his hand to grasp her chin, raises it slightly, forcing her to look at up him. Now I shall have to tie her up, otherwise she will strike me again.

He finds a short length of rope and ties her wrists together. She cries softly from the pain in her arm, and her sobs cause him to pause and gaze at her.

I'm sure it's not as bad as it feels, he says.

She watches him fasten another rope around the stone on which the anvil rests. Now I shall tie you here, he says in a kind voice. There's no use fighting. If the lady screams, I shall have to gag her. What a pity for that sweet little mouth, to stuff it with dirty cloth.

She shakes her head and tightens her jaw.

Good, says the smith. Now we can begin.

He takes his time as he lifts her gown, running his hands through the fabric. How on earth are we to free the lady from these garments? he says.

She sees the difficulty of it. She is lying on her back with her arms above her head, bound to the stone. The heavy gown of damask has shoulder straps and cannot be pulled down. He tries to draw it over her head, but to no avail. He looks at her enquiringly.

Release me, she says, and I will undress myself. It is no easy matter to undress a woman.

He guffaws and shakes his head. He heaves at the dress, but succeeds only in twisting it awry. He produces a pocket knife.

No! she exclaims. Not like that. At the back is a corset, hidden.

He rolls her on to her side and fumbles with small fasteners that hold the rear of the dress together. She feels it release.

What is this? he says. This crossed lacing?

The corset of the gown, she says. There is a knot.

His hands search up and down her back until finding it. But the hands of a smith are crude and clumsy and he cannot untie it. He inserts a finger between the corset and the skin of her back and tugs at the lacing, but must abandon and release it, causing it to snap into place again in a way that makes her jump. He returns to the knot.

I don't want to ruin such expensive clothes, he says. But this knot is too tight for me.

She says nothing.

Then she feels him press his face against her back. She wonders what he is at, but then realizes that he is trying to loosen the knot with his teeth.

He straightens up and curses. She glances over her shoulder. He draws a hand across his cheek, then sits down with a wince.

A bad tooth, he says. He opens his mouth and prods the tooth with his finger. That wretched knot has made it come loose.

I can give him aquavit with which to dab it, she proposes. My husband does so to good effect. But you must release me first.

I've got my own aquavit, he snaps. The lady can keep her old wives' twaddle to herself.

He grasps the corset and tugs at it once more, hard and repeatedly. The pain that shoots from her arm causes her to whimper. Then the silken cord snaps audibly and the dress is released.

Ha! exclaims the smith. He takes hold of the two sides of the corset's drawstring and pulls them apart. The gown opens, seams split as the lacing is wrenched. He pulls the garment over her head. She thrashes her legs, feeling she is about to be suffocated. Then the gown is at her arms, and he gathers it in a thick heap at the point where she is tied to the anvil stone.

The smith wipes his brow. He considers the next layer. And what on earth is all this? he says.

She turns her head to see what he is looking at. My tournure.

And what good does it do?

It expands the skirt at the rear. It is considered becoming.

He sniffs contemptibly, then unfastens the rectangular horsehair cushion, relieving her of it and casting it aside.

The next layer is her silk chemise. His rough hands pause to stroke it. The silk catches on his skin like burrs. His breathing is heavier now. She knows its sound. Then the chemise is pulled up to the same place as the dress.

Another corset? The smith curses under his breath. He tries to insert his fingers, only to find it too tight. He pulls and tears, but the corset will not yield.

Why must gentlewomen use such inconvenient garments? he asks.

It is a corset, she hears herself say. It is what the fashion dictates. And men like to see women who are narrow at the waist and broad across the hip.

He shakes his head and grins. It must be why gentlefolk have so few children, he says. The iron's gone cold before it's struck.

He looks at her, his eyes settling on her breasts that rest in the cups of the corset. He seeks her gaze. She stares away, though is afraid to close her eyes for fear that it may provoke him. She says nothing.

Women of the lower classes do not have this custom of constricting themselves and stuffing cushions under their skirts, he says. We common men are not so easily fooled. We know what's underneath. It might be contended that makes our women freer than yours. He pauses, and when she remains silent he continues in pensive mood: But then I suppose we are all of us constricted, one way or another. And no matter how we may plead and beg to be released, there's no one there to listen. Such is life.

She senses – still in this remote manner that is so unquestionably a result of her mind having separated itself from her humiliated and suffering body – how his little speech begins to carry him away with indignation. She refrains from comment, but nourishes a faint hope that he is losing himself in thought, perhaps soon to forget what he is about, and that the iron will grow cold. But then he is at her garments once more.

How does a lady manage to tie this every day? he asks.

My chambermaid helps me. Sometimes my husband.

Perhaps I should call for your husband, so that he can help me. He laughs amiably. But I remember now that he's away.

On his return he will commence proceedings against you and have you severely punished, Hammer, she says, aware that her tone is hardly convincing.

Punishing me would mean acknowledging that I have made him a cuckold. Not many men would do so of their own will.

She says no more.

It would seem he has tired of corsets and knots. He takes out his pocket knife again and proceeds to cut open the lacing. It yields with an elastic snap for every slice of the blade, and retracts through the garment's brass lace holes. He pulls the fabric away, puts it to his face and inhales deeply. When he removes it, she sees that he smiles with delight.

Woman! he exclaims.

He tosses the corset into a corner, then looks down at her. Only the chemise remains.

He slits it open from top to bottom, a single, clean cut, as meticulous as a tailor, the blade following the sleeves all the way to the wrist. The garment falls away. He rolls it up into a ball and casts it aside. Now she is naked. She wonders that she is not cold. But she is warm, glowing even. She is on her back with her arms above her head, looking up at the smith who is looking down upon her. Her chest heaves, she lies tense so as not to move her injured arm. She has gathered her legs and drawn them slightly upward. But she cannot hide the thick bush of her pubic hair that completely hides the vulva and the pubis, continuing like an arrowhead towards her navel where it dwindles to a thin though pronounced black thread. She has always felt shame at this rampant shock and considered it a reminiscence of something wild and untamed within her, something that she has always repressed. Right up to this day. And therefore I lie here now, she thinks to herself.

The smith bends forward and buries his face in her belly, snorting and grunting, then pressing his mouth to her breast, extending his tongue, seizing the nipple with its tip and licking its circumference, sucking and releasing with a slobbering sound of pleasure, playing with its elastic resistance, clasping both her breasts roughly now in his hands; his calloused hands that grate against her sensitive skin, the yellowed horn of his nails digging deep into the tissue.

Soft as a newborn mouse, he gasps in a dreamy tone. When I was a boy I would find the nests of the mice in the barn and take up the soft and tiny young. I adopted them like they were my own children. I caressed them and looked after them. So soft they were, so soft. And you, Madame Kragstedt, are so beautiful and perfect, once your garments are removed, like a small animal, warm and beautiful and afraid.

As he takes hold of her and turns her on to her side, he sees the metal shavings that she has hardly noticed dig into the skin of her back. He tries to brush them away, and snorts in annoyance on discovering how deeply they have pierced. He draws back his hand and she sees it is bloodied. There is a knock on the door.

He is on his feet in an instant. She realizes the door is unlocked now that he has taken out the bolt and used it upon her.

Tentative knuckles against the oak door.

Quickly, he lifts the great anvil from its base, swings it across the place where she lies and puts it down so as to block the door. He squats down on his haunches and places a hand over her mouth.

Who's there?

Is the Madame with you?

She recognizes the voice. It is the catechist, Bertel Jensen.

Go away! the smith shouts at the door. There is no lady here!

The maid says she went with you, says the catechist. Is all well with her?

How should I know? The Madame is not here, I say. Go away, and look after your own people instead!

The door is rattled cautiously, but will not open on account of the anvil. Silence descends. She thinks she ought to scream. The Lord has sent her this native catechist and now she must demonstrate her willing­ness to be saved by screaming. But she does not scream. She hopes only that the man will go away and leave her alone with her shame and fear.

Hammer returns. He is gone, he says in a soothing, conspiratorial tone, as though they are both of them together in this, and both afraid of being caught. Then he takes off his shirt, loosens his braces and steps out of his threadbare Sunday breeches. He kneels, his member jutting, heavy and swollen. She cannot take her eyes from it. His nakedness chafes her nostrils. He smells like a horse. He bends down and whispers into her ear as though they are in cahoots.

We must be quiet.

She tries to utter agreement, but cannot. Her chest convulses in spasms. She feels her mouth contort.

No, don't cry, he implores. It will be no good if the lady cries. I shall be gentle with her. The lady will think it's her husband come to court her.

She lets go of herself and begins to sob, then feels his hand across her mouth again. Their eyes meet. His member brushes against her stomach, hanging half-erect in a downward arc. She feels its warmth, how full of yearning it is to be put inside her. He wriggles into place and forces her legs apart. He thrusts a thumb into the fold next to her sex. It makes her jump and stretch out her legs. She sees how the smith's muscles tremble across his chest and shoulders.

I've never had a true lady friend, he says. A sweetheart, I mean. It's mostly just been bend over and pull up your skirts, woman! But this, this is different. The Madame should know that I am grateful indeed.

She feels his member thrust against her opening. But she is dry and will not allow him to enter. The enquiring, melancholy eyes look upon her again. She sees that he is at a loss.

Then his face lights up. He turns and reaches to the bench and retrieves a round, wooden container. It is a grease tub, she realizes, smell ­ing the rancid fat as he pulls off the lid. He scoops his fingers inside and smears the contents first upon his member, then her vulva. She gasps.

There. Now the lady is as sweet as a jar of honey.

She gasps again as the smith enters her. She clenches her teeth so as not to scream and turns her head to the side, feeling the smith pressing her to the floor, the metal shavings digging into her back. Now he begins to writhe and she senses the final hindrance give way inside, his member moving freely, her inner form treacherously yielding to his shape. He takes hold of her ankles, bends her legs upwards, pressing her further into the floor and the razor-sharp fragments upon it. His grip is a vice. He thrusts his head backwards and she cannot help but look at him; she can see that he is losing the last remnant of awareness of what he is doing, becoming at one with his action, as she becomes at one with her pain. And then it is he who cries out, while she tightens her jaw and utters no sound.