The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (36 page)

He listens attentively to her account, sits squeezing her hand, looking up at her, saying nothing.

And now the detestable man goes about as if he were virtue itself, she says, devoted to his postil and saintly, as though elevated above me. He knows all too well that I will not report him.

His salvation is already wasted, says Falck comfortingly. The Lord will take care of him. Forget about him, Madame Kragstedt.

How can I forget about him when I have him here inside me? She presses her hands to her belly.

Does your husband know about this?

My husband has been concerned with his own business this past year. He has been away a lot. He has many responsibilities. Now he wishes to set up a whalers' guild and become wealthy. My chambermaid knows, and perhaps my housemaid Sofie.

He asks her about dates, about intimate matters of which she has never before spoken with anyone, at least not with a man. All that is private and by which a woman is burdened.

Take off your robe, he says, and his voice is kind and casual, as though he had said glove instead of robe.

She draws the garment aside and lets it fall to the floor, then pulls the shift over her head. There is no corset. Now she is naked. She feels his fingers against the bare skin of her back, squeezing the raised areas of the skin in which the metal shavings were embedded and which the cham­bermaid spent most of the night extracting. She groans. He clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

The wounds are long since healed, he says. A number of splinters remain beneath the skin, but they are encapsulated and are of no conse­quence apart from the purely cosmetic aspect. There will, however, always be visible signs of your mistreatment.

She nods.

Sooner or later your husband will discover them. Should I not speak to him?

No. Later. She gathers the robe about her and ties the cord around her waist. The shift remains on the floor. She goes over to the sideboard and pours two glasses of aquavit, returns and puts one of them in front of the priest; the other she empties in a single mouthful.

To the Madame's health. He raises the glass and downs its contents, then returns it to the table. He asks where the chambermaid might have got to; she could make herself useful now.

Most likely she is outside. She is in the habit of sitting on the step and smoking her pipe. It is what we pay her for, so it seems.

He goes out and calls for her. When he returns he says that if the Madame is up to it he would like to perform a closer examination of her inner parts.

She is already in agreement with herself that he is the only person in whom she can trust and that she will do as he says. Do whatever you feel to be necessary, she tells him.

He orders her into the chamber and onto the bed, and she lies down on her side with her robe apart and feels his expert fingers wander across her abdomen, squeezing, pressing and prodding, while he emits occa­sional small sounds of satisfaction. The girl sits cross-legged at her side, her back against the wall. She stares at the priest's large hands. He draws the robe away and inserts two fingers into her vagina. She whimpers patiently and feels his fingers squashing her womb upwards. With his other hand he presses against her pubis. Now he has hold of the uterus and rocks it gently back and forth.

This is a manoeuvre I learned from Professor Schiøtz, he says, and smiles at her from the gap between her legs.

He withdraws his hand, straightens up and wipes his fingers with his handkerchief. Madame Kragstedt, you are pregnant.

How far gone am I, do you think?

Approximately five months, judging by what the Madame has told me and by the size of the embryo. It is a ripe time.

Ripe? For what?

For removing this .  .  . tumour. Is that not what you wish?

Then you will help me?

I shall consider it. He looks at her solemnly. Abortion is a serious matter, particularly for me, an ordained priest, but no less so were I a surgeon, which of course I am not.

I have not asked you to .  .  .

On the other hand, he says, cutting her off, this pregnancy, which has been forced upon you, is highly detrimental to your constitution. Allowing it to proceed to childbirth would involve placing your life in peril.

I would end my days.

Exactly! A life would thus be saved by terminating another.

I shall not press you, Magister Falck.

Ha, a fine time to say so! It would have been better had you not come to me at all with this matter, dear Madame Kragstedt. You have put me in a veritable dilemma.

Forgive me, Mr Falck. But you are the only person in whom I can confide.

Now at last he removes himself from the vista of her gaping, seeping vagina and seats himself on the edge of the bed. He takes her hand with fingers still damp from the examination. She feels an urge to pull away, but the priest holds tight.

Madame Kragstedt. Haldora, if I may. So much has happened this past year, in my life as well as in yours. The muscles of his face tremble.

His jaw appears to ruminate.

The Magister has had much to attend to, she says in a comforting tone.

Indeed, so very true! I have suffered defeat and have already failed in my calling. But you, Madame, are a harbour of security and normality and all that I feel to be slipping away from me in this peculiar land. In short, you are an indispensable friend to me.

And you to me, Mr Falck. Morten.

Thank you, thank you indeed. He leans forward and kisses her on the cheek, presses his face against it and expels a protracted sigh. It is as if he vanishes completely into his own thought. The native girl is still seated beside them, she realizes. She has put on the expressionless mask of the savages. She meets her dark gaze across the top of the priest's wig.

Falck straightens up and collects himself for a moment. How can you be certain the child is not Kragstedt's?

The same way I am certain it is not yours, Morten.

Aha. Yes. I see.

My husband has had much to attend to this past year.

Had he attended to his most important responsibility, this would never have happened, says Falck irritably.

Her bare belly is still exposed, and her pubic hairs that travel up like a black cord towards her navel. She senses her own odour, yet feels no urge to cover herself. She is beyond all modesty and shame. Can you help me to remove it?

Hm, says Falck. He taps the side of his nose rhythmically with his index finger, the same one that a few moments ago was inside her. I do not know, Madame Kragstedt. I shall do what is best for you and it shall be my only consideration.

Thank you. I trust you.

But the child is yours, too, he says. You must not forget that.

I have spent months considering the matter, she says impatiently. I wish it removed from my person.

I shall speak to the smith, he says. I shall study my medical handbook.

I shall ponder upon it. I may even pray. And then I will come back to you, Haldora, whether as a surgeon or as a priest. But always as your friend, Madame, remember this!

I saw the priest was here, says Kragstedt that evening in the bed ­chamber. What did that bird of misfortune want here?

To offer me salvation, she replies.

I see, Kragstedt snorts. Perhaps he should try and save himself first. They say he conducts himself inappropriately with his housemaid.

I don't believe such gossip, she says. Our missionary is a good man.

I don't contest it, he says peaceably. If you find pleasure conversing with him, then by all means.

They are silent for a while. She hears Roselil lowing down by the warehouse. Is there something the matter with the pastor's cow?

Kragstedt laughs. Most likely it misses the smith; he looked after it while the priest was away. I think she may have become attached to the dear man. He's got the knack of her, they say.

I see, she says. Let us hope it is to their common good.

Oh, come now, he mutters, at once annoyed by her tone. The smith may not have studied theology, but he is a good man for the Trade, always civil and easy to get along with.

I'm sure. I have no prejudices.

Smiths have a reputation for being difficult, he says. I recall a few bad examples myself. We should be grateful having a man like Hammer, who sits and reads his postil both early and late. He has even stopped drinking.

Indeed. God bless him, she says.

They lie next to each other in the bed, beneath the same down. A blue blanket is folded over the down's upper edge, forming a border that runs under their arms and across their stomachs. Kragstedt has folded his hands and rests them on his chest. Every time he breathes, the mattress creaks. In the night he keeps her awake with his snoring. She lies and stares up at the ceiling and thinks about her childhood and lost youth. She must have been a flighty girl, she thinks, always dreaming about court balls and suitors of high rank who would come sailing or on horseback.

By behaving dismally she would play jokes on the young men who came to court her. She cringes at the thought now, not for her own sake, but because she feels sorry for them. They would take their leave, bowing with embarrassment, and say Au revoir, Miss Knapp, and she would feel ill at ease, furious and despairing. Once she allowed the miller to kiss her and feel beneath her skirts, not because she was afraid to say no or because she really wanted to be fondled, but because she knew he possessed this peculiar, male desire and it made her curious. How old was she then? Fourteen, perhaps, or fifteen. She remembers his searching hand, how it squeezed her thigh, how it trembled like a frightened little animal, the moisture of his mouth, his gaze, which at first was firm, then crumbling and distant, and finally wretched and distressed. He was old, had chil­dren her own age and smelled like the bridle of a horse. She pulled away from him and ran home. She had felt that he was like a tightly coiled spring or the cock of a flintlock. It made her frightened. But also curious. What would happen if one refused the spring to be released, or the cock to strike the pan? Now she knows.

Kragstedt is asleep. She leans over him and blows out the light, feels her swollen breast brush against his arm. She falls back onto the pillow. Outside, the fire-watcher calls the hour and announces all is well. She recognizes the smith's fine singing voice.

Two days later Falck returns. He has spoken to the smith, who has admitted everything and acknowledges that he has committed a great sin, though he does not in any way appear to be burdened by conscience and most certainly has no plans of confessing the matter to the Trader. A most inveterate person! But enough, we must leave those who are lost to their own damnation. The priest seems to be in splendid humour; his cough has gone, the colour has returned to his cheeks, he strides about and holds forth on techniques of performing an
abortus provocatus
. There is the medical way, he says, which the Madame has already tried, a method we shall pursue no further, and then there is the surgical way.

We shall use neither. He sends her a sly smile. Or rather, we shall use both.

So you have decided? You will help me?

It is a challenge, he says, theologically as well as scientifically. Not to mention for me personally. Yes, I will help you. It will be a form of redress for my studenthood, when I was prevented from following my wishes and was compelled instead to obey my father and study for the priesthood. I have found a certain method by which to remove the child.

What method is that?

Fire, he says with a nervous grin. Fire is the ultimate purification. Think of Purgatory, cleansing the soul of sin and releasing it from tellurian before it slips into Heaven. We shall need the help of your cham­bermaid, a garment of linen torn into strips, a spoonful of gunpowder, some melted blubber, i. e. train oil, and these instruments forged by our friend the smith at my request. He shows her a bent metal rod and an instrument comprising several loose parts that can be joined together. We call this a duck's bill, he says, or a speculum to be more precise. He hands her the instrument and allows her to study it. It is cold and heavy and rattles in her hands.

She gives it back. She looks at the priest, whose eyes shine brightly and whose facial skin has taken on a pale silver appearance with a blush of red on his cheeks. He looks like a young suitor come to court. I under­stand. But where does the fire come in?

A recurring problem with such operations, says the priest, is that the surgery will often result in fever and haemorrhage, or indeed the patient's death, while medicaments may enforce lengthy periods of confinement, as you have already experienced. What we shall do is to place a little detonator, a fuse in the Madame's, erm, in the relevant locus, and the controlled detonation then performed will, erm, well, I'm sure you follow my meaning, being a person of intelligence.

Will it not hurt? she asks.

Yes, indeed, very much so. It will require both confidence and strength, as well as great courage. But the pain will be short-lived.

Moreover, I shall premedicate you with a hefty dosage of laudanum. You may even sleep through the whole operation. Are you prepared for this, Madame Kragstedt?

I am prepared, she says calmly.

Where is your husband?

He went away yesterday and will be back in a couple of days.

Splendid. Let us begin immediately.

He has the girl make up the bed with a linen sheet, and removes the down. Madame Kragstedt clambers up and imbibes the laudanum that Falck has measured out to her, then lies down and waits for the familiar drowsiness and serenity to come creeping. She notes that Falck has begun to tear a second sheet into strips and to soak them in a bowl of train-oil. He lays each one out on a towel, then produces his powder horn and sprinkles the black substance onto each in turn.

We must burn all this when we are done, he says in a conspiratorial whisper. I hope you understand.

Yes, of course.

What we are about here constitutes a criminal act. We can both be put in gaol for it.