The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (32 page)

They are strong in number, says Bjerg, and we are only three, or rather two.

Exactly, says Falck. He bends over some papers Bjerg assumes are notes for his sermon.

Bjerg wanders about the settlement and looks around. People greet him politely, though seem in no way approachable. He addresses a few, but receives only vapid smiles and nods. A number of them are seated on the rocks facing the ford, eating salmon laid out before them. He is invited to join in. He selects a piece, removes the flesh from the bones and devours it. The fish is fat and juicy and tastes of salt. He can hardly remember having tasted anything as good in years. He reaches out for more and looks up at them with an enquiring expression. They speak all at once.
Takanna
. He does not know the word. But he understands that he is welcome to take another piece.

He sees Rosine some distance away. He stays close by in the hope that she will notice him. But she does not, or perhaps pretends not to. Who can blame her, he thinks, the way I have behaved. He scolds himself for his stupid pride. He would so very much like to speak to her, to take her hand in his and tell her he is sorry, to call her by her proper name.
Panik
. He feels so abysmally alone among all these strangers who treat him with such kind indifference. Tomorrow they will be indifferent no more. Something will happen. He has no idea what. But he cannot go back to the colony without at least having tried to carry out the arrest warrant.

Early in the evening he lies half asleep in the tent and is woken by a rummaging at the opening. He sits up. A head appears. Amanda. She says something to him,
Rasimusi
, and then something else that sounds like
kraajid!
She beckons to him.

Are you asking me to go with you? Is it about Panik?

She nods eagerly. He follows her out.

They walk upwards, following the ridge at an angle, though always ascending. Their path is made difficult by the vegetation, tall bushes and branches of creeping willow catch on their clothing and slow them down. They descend into a gorge, leap across a stream, scramble up a slope. His boots are not suited for climbing and more than once she must reach down and help him. Then, eventually, the ground levels out, a new plateau on which grows only moss and lichen. There are no dwellings here. They continue higher still and come to a narrow pass with boulders at the bottom. Amanda puts a hand on his shoulder. Now, he thinks to himself, now she wants me. We will take off our clothes and join together. We will kiss and caress. I want to see her and commit it all into my mind, to touch everything, and I will imagine her to be Rosine. It will not be perfect, but it is better than nothing.

Amanda looks at him. She smiles. There is something oddly nervous about her, something urgent. Her eyes widen and she points.

Are we to go down there? he asks.

She shakes her head, then gives him a shove in the back. He stumbles forward and turns. But she is gone, vanished in a matter of seconds.

He turns round once more and strides off in the direction of a tarn that is half-encircled by the steep crags at whose foot it lies, plunging rock extending like two arms that almost meet at the opposite shore. The lake is thus pleasantly sheltered from the wind, a natural dip in the rugged landscape. At the shore he sees a figure seated in the sand. He stiffens and squints. He walks on, slowly and without haste; her figure grows closer; the rounded neck he has studied and stared at in the boat, and behind it her face, eyebrows arching above a look of astonishment.

Panik
? he says.

She bursts into laughter. Then shakes her head.

Rosine, he says.

Rasimusi.

He sits down beside her. They shuffle closer. He puts his left arm around her waist, cups the fat of her hip. She places her left hand on the knee of his breeches, the palm facing upwards. He places his own hand on top of it. They lace fingers; they squeeze each other's hand.

Panik
? He tries again.

She shakes her head energetically. It seems he is not allowed to use her proper name.

And there they sit. He has no idea what they are to do. But he wishes for nothing more than this. It is sufficient. They look out over the body of water that lies in the shadow of the dark fell. It is a foreboding place. The snow-clad peaks to the south of the ford sparkle in the sunlight. The fells they see furthest away to the south-west must be those close to the colony. He could tell her about it, if only they could speak.

He turns his face towards her and she looks up at him. Her smile is a stiff mask. She is quite as nervous as I, he thinks to himself. He draws her towards him and she relaxes, rests her head against his shoulder. He kisses her, feels her soft, spongy lips against his own, which are tough and weathered. She says something and tugs at the sparing tufts of his beard. He pinches the lobe of her ear. She says something else, firmly this time. He breathes into her ear and apologizes. Did it hurt? She is appeased and they kiss, both of them now at once. He feels the tip of her tongue as it darts; he chases it with his own; their tongues come together and wrestle gently inside her mouth. She gives him a playful shove. They sit beside each other, he with his arm around her, she with her left hand in his right.

Lovely view, he says. A good place to live.

When they return towards the settlement Amanda is there, waiting on the slope. She gets to her feet and goes with them the rest of the way. Bjerg hears her interrogate Rosine and he hears that she replies in a posi­tive tone. They arrive at the dwellings. Hardly a soul is out; the people have turned in for the night; the air is thick with smoke from their fires. Bjerg wonders where they are leading him, what their plan is for him. He walks with them; whatever is to happen will happen. He loves Rosine, he knows this now. Nothing can happen to change it.

They come to a house which Amanda enters. Bjerg hears low voices inside. Rosine stands beside him. He cannot make her look at him.

Then Amanda comes out again. She gestures for them to come inside. There is a small entry where he must bend his neck. He kicks off his boots and steps into a room some few paces in length and breadth, illuminated by a train-oil lamp that spits and splutters. Two old people, apparently chased from their beds, are putting on their clothes. They smile and greet him and edge their way out towards the door. Bjerg removes his hat and bows politely. The old folk vanish. Amanda says something to Rosine, who sends her a calm, trusting look. Then Amanda, too, is gone. The door closes quietly behind her. They are alone.

Bjerg looks at Rosine. He senses that she has known all along that this was to happen. It must mean something, but what it means is not apparent to him. Her knowing what is to happen has a calming effect on him. It relieves him of some of his burden.

And then they are naked beneath the reindeer skin. He explores her and takes his time. It surprises him how clean she is, though she has always been so in his fantasies. There is a faintly acrid smell about her, an olfactory echo of urine tubs and fermented meat. He is aware, too, of some effluvium reminiscent of ammonia, but not even that repulses him. Rather, it strikes him as pure and clean, like the chemical fumes of textile manufacture. Her skin is warm and smooth; it smells spicy and dry and of smoke. Her cunt is sweetly odorous. She pushes him away when he tries to kiss it. He tries again and she strikes him about the head and admonishes him in a whispered voice.

This is what we Danish men do, he says, as though he were an expe­rienced lover. It is our favourite meal.

She lets him do it. It feels soft and downy against his mouth. It opens and is smooth and moist. He explores her hands. They are rough and callused and he remembers that they comprise one fourth of the power required to transport six people in a heavily laden boat over more than one hundred nautical miles. Poor little hands, he breathes, kissing her palms and sucking her fingers. He fumbles at her breasts, buries his face in the folds of her skin, sucking and licking. Glancing up, he is confronted by her impassionate and curious gaze. But when he goes down again, to touch and lick her cunt, to feel inside it, she makes a brief sound of protest. It is not what she wishes.

What do you want? he asks. Tell me what to do?

She tugs at him. He sits up and she opens her legs, slaps the opening of her cunt twice with the palm of her hand, then roughly parts her labia. This is not her first time, he thinks to himself. He positions himself between her silken legs and enters her. She forces his head down towards her and utters sounds of gratification. When he comes, he bursts into tears. He lies awkwardly with his head between her breasts and gasps for air. She runs her fingers through his hair, dries his moistened cheeks and makes maternal noises.

You are my first, he says. I have not had a woman before. I want no other than you, my darling. I belong to you. Do with me as you please.

When he returns to the tent the next morning, the flintlock is gone. He searches through his things, in all his pockets, but the arrest warrant is gone, too. He sits on the bed. Without the warrant and the gun he is without authority. He is nothing. He is just a boy. But no matter. A burden is removed from his shoulders. Now he can do what he wants.

He hears the ship's bell and goes outside. There is a fog, but the plateau itself is bathed in sunshine. The fog is a gleaming white and as thick as custard; it follows the ford as it weaves inland and he feels the bitter cold that accompanies it, but also the warmth of the sun that will soon chase it away. Behind the settlement and on the other side of the ford, the profile of the peaks stands as sharp as a knife against the blue autumn sky. People come wandering up the slope; they follow the paths that have been trodden through the moss; a long train of families with children, clad in their finest garments. Bjerg stands in the opening of the tent in a worn sweater of Icelandic pattern, shrouded by the night's vapours, and feels like the most uncivilized of them all. He catches sight of Rosine, walking arm in arm with Amanda. They do not look up at him. Soon we can present ourselves together for everyone, he tells himself. I shall ask Pastor Falck to give us the blessing in the church. The thought makes him feel like a benefactor and he is moved to imagine Rosine's gratitude.

He goes inside and puts on a different pair of breeches and his blue coat, its sleeves are embellished with galloons to signify his royal authority. He loosens his pigtail, tightens it again, spits on his fingers and smoothes his short fringe as well as he is able. He unties his oil-tanned boots and scrapes off the worst of the mud before putting them on. There is no mirror, yet he feels at ease with himself, a handsome young man. She will take note of me, he thinks, she will feel proud that I belong to her, just as I am proud that she is mine.

There must be more than a hundred people outside the church. The bell still peals in its little tower between the church building and the gateway of whale bones. It is a brass bell, he sees, it looks like the kind used to mark the hours on board a ship. Probably something they have plundered from a wreck. The churchgoers turn to look at him; a path opens in their midst, leading to the church door, where Pastor Falck stands in full vestments. Bjerg sees that the priest is pale. He clutches his Bible and looks like he is freezing. Bjerg notices now that the air has chilled during the last hour. Cold gusts sweep down from the high ridge behind the settlement and a grey carpet of cloud extends between the peaks.

Where on earth have you been? Falck asks.

Where is our kayak man? Bjerg asks.

There has been much commotion in the night, says Falck. Have you not sensed it?

I was up on the fell, says Bjerg.

All the more fortunate for you. Your arrest warrant has caused a great deal of anger. They have been looking for you everywhere.

The warrant is gone, says Bjerg matter-of-factly. I don't know where it is and I don't care.

On a low rock stand a man and a woman, side by side; she in colourful garments embroidered with pearls, he in a simple black anorak and breeches of skin. They smile kindly, solemnly, and exude authority.

Habakuk and his woman, says Bjerg.

They have not shown themselves until now, says Falck. They are cunning. Now everyone understands that they must choose between us and them.

Bjerg feels at once uncomfortable in his blue braided coat. He feels naked without his flintlock, even though it would probably only make things worse. He senses a feeling of excitement and restless joy among the throng. They laugh and chatter; some young men perform somer­saults and leapfrog to much amusement and jubilation. Still more people come wandering up the slope; the crowd swells.

Did Didrik take the warrant? Bjerg asks.

One would assume so.

It is treason, says Bjerg. It may cost him his life.

Indeed, says Falck. But one must understand that Didrik was plunged into strife when he heard about the order. Rather a peculiar dilemma, if one thinks about it. Falck wipes his brow with a handkerchief he has hidden in his sleeve. His loyalty to the king on the one hand and to his people on the other. These two matters are usually one and the same, but not in this instance.

I feel a similar conflict myself, says Bjerg.

Falck turns and looks at him. What do you mean?

I have, well, er, committed myself to a certain person, he says.

Aha! A brief grin passes over Falck's face. Our pretty oarswoman, I take it?

Bjerg nods.

You have been courting, Constable Bjerg. So that was what you were up to while the entire settlement was out looking for you. And probably with her mother's blessing, I shouldn't wonder.

Her mother?

Amanda is Rosine's mother. Didn't you know?

So that's why she calls her
panik
, says Bjerg. I thought it to be her name.

Falck laughs. It seems she is an eager matchmaker, this Amanda. Are you happy with each other?

I love her, Bjerg hears himself say.