The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (37 page)

She looks down at herself. She must have fallen asleep. She sees the priest's head, wigless, between her legs. She thinks she sees the lice upon his scalp, but tells herself it is the medicine. As yet there is no pain, just a dull sensation of someone interfering with her below. Bent over the priest's shoulder with a light in her hand stands the girl, her other hand extended and holding an object of some description. Both are staring at the same point between her legs, utterly absorbed, the light from the lamp flickering in their faces.

It would be better for you to look up at the ceiling, Madame Kragstedt, he says. There is nothing of interest to you here.

She puts her head back on the pillow. She is in a wood where the light falls in bottle-green bundles. She wanders in the space between the tree­tops and the brown leaves on the earth. She is not alone, for her deceased sister walks at her side; they stroll, arm in arm, chatting and giggling.

Her sister is to become engaged; her suitor is at their home speaking to their father. She lists all the things that must be bought, first for the wedding, then for the household. The house is there, a fine house in a provincial town; there are servants, horses and how many children? Many children. And how shall these children be obtained? By being together as man and woman, of course, says the sister. Haldora laughs. It is the most foolish thing she has ever heard. To dine together, to stroll arm in arm, to kiss? However might such things result in a child? What nonsense! To share the bed, whispers her sister, to do unmentionable and delightful things together. To let him come close to you, to enter inside, prising you apart so that you become open, an act of transformation whereby the man becomes a slave and the woman his master.

Oh, that, says Haldora, recalling the miller.

When the priest has confirmed you, I shall tell you all about it, her sister says.

Lie still, dear Madame Kragstedt.

Apparently she has been laughing in her sleep. Now she looks up at the Trader's ceiling, sees the heavy oak beams that bear the weight of the ceiling planks, or the floor of the loft, if one is above. The hams are above, smelling of ammonia, she thinks to herself, the Trader's ale and aquavit settled in their fat-bellied barrels, the sacks of cereal and oats are there, and the sweet-smelling hops and the tobacco with its spicy aroma. Though I cannot see it, it is there anyway. The world is more than the little bubble about my own person; it is large and great, and hangs together. There are so many people in the world, and my sister Jensigne is one, even though she is dead, and my father, dead, is another, and my mother and my living sisters, and I, too, am here, albeit they cannot know that I am here still, and have no idea that I am lying in this bed about to have gunpowder detonated inside my vagina, and no one else could care less, including myself.

She sees that the priest is sweating, that he bends forward and peers squintingly into her wide-open vagina at what lies inside.

More light, he says.

The girl brings the lamp closer. If only he does not singe his hair, Haldora thinks.

More light! says the priest again.

The girl turns up the lamp. It begins to spit.

Thank you, says the priest. That's better.

She feels that he is stuffing something inside her, presumably the linen rags. The girl holds the speculum that keeps the vagina open, at the same time balancing the spitting lamp in her other hand.

Madame Kragstedt, says Falck, rather strained. I shall now insert this probe into the cervix. You will most probably feel some pain, but you must endeavour to remain completely still.

The pain comes in a single stab, a searing bolt of lightning that leaps from out of the numbed darkness. It takes her utterly by surprise and causes her abdomen to jolt at once.

Lie still, Madame Kragstedt. Clench your teeth.

Another stab, and again her body jolts in response, though not quite as violently as before. Falck mutters something under his breath. He is manipulating a long piece of steel wire by which he would seem to be inserting the linen rags into her uterus. He mutters again, clearly in annoyance.

Are you having problems? she enquires in a voice she hardly recognizes.

Not at all, no problems, dear Madame, just an unexpected narrow­ness. I shall have to be a little rougher, I'm afraid.

I see.

It is essential you remain quite still, Madame Kragstedt.

Call me Haldora, for God's sake, she says.

Very well. Haldora, dear friend, you must lie completely still for a moment. I shall now penetrate.

She grips the linen underneath her and turns her head to the side. Yet now when the jab comes, her abdomen reacts utterly of its own accord, an upwardly arched spasm. The instrument Falck is attempting to insert inside her flies through the air and lands on the sheet at her side. She hears an exclamation, a commotion, a shattering of glass followed by a protracted hissing sound, then a bang and a flash of light. Falck leaps into the air with a cry, hands to his face, hair aflame. I knew he should mind his hair, she manages to think, but perhaps now he will be rid of his lice. She senses a searing pain, but it is as though she sees the pain rather than feels it; it is removed from her, and inconsequential compared to the stabbing endeavours of the priest as he sought to enter her uterus. But then she realizes that the burning sensation she feels is literal. There is a spitting and a sizzling between her legs and the room is quickly filled with a nauseatingly foul stench. She leaps from the bed and staggers into the parlour, where she sees the girl come running towards her with a shovel. On the shovel is a pile of snow, and the Madame squats down and presses her scorched genitals upon it. Steam and smoke rise into the air. Falck groans inside the chamber. He appears in the doorway and fumbles his way to the table. He sits down on the bench.

Water! he moans.

The girl fetches the bucket. He bends over it and splashes his face.

It was an accident! he wails. The cursed lamp! The gunpowder ignited before I was ready. It exploded in my face. Madame Kragstedt, are you all right?

With the girl's help, she is picking charred strips of linen from her vagina. They smell of burnt flesh and saltpetre. There is some blood, and when the final rag is removed the blood runs red and clear onto the snow beneath her.

The smith is expelled in the night, at two o'clock, according to the fire­watcher's melodic calling from the harbour. She has ached increasingly down below and blood has emerged, with dark, elongated lumps in it that Falck has studied with the one eye by which he is able to see. He has wound a cloth around his head, his face is marred here and there by burns, and much of his hair has been singed away. They have all drunk a fair amount of aquavit and the priest has recited the Lord's Prayer more than once and told her about his childhood in Norway, his years in Copenhagen, and eventually about his enchantment with the native girl who launders for him.

But he insists that he has not laid a finger on her. Rather, he is besotted by what she represents, he explains. Her freedom, perhaps. Falck sighs. I don't know what it is.

They sing a couple of hymns. They kiss each other and weep. The girl comes and lies down to sleep next to her. The Magister steals glances at her.

There you both are, he says. The two of you.

He goes into the parlour and sits.

She calls out for him when she feels her abdomen contract. It comes in waves and she presses as hard as she can, while Falck kneads her stomach. But the smith will not come out; he clings to her. For the first time she feels a kind of tenderness for the child, the way it fights so hard to remain in a world in which it is unwanted, and she is overcome by guilt.

But then she feels it come. Falck, who has monitored her bleeding, becomes excited. They press in unison and presently she hears a sudden squelch, followed by a small plop. The priest bends down and picks some­thing up off the floor. He exits into the parlour, huddled over whatever it is that has fallen out of her. For some minutes everything is completely silent. Then he returns, spattered with blood, eyebrows raised. He nods.

What was it? she asks foolishly.

Nothing, says the one-eyed pastor. It was nothing at all. I ask the Madame to forgive this ignorant clergyman, but you have been wrongly diagnosed.

Wrongly diagnosed?

Indeed, Madame. You are not pregnant at all!

Am I not? Then what was it? Why?

This has not occurred, Madame, says Falck. It was a dream. Not a pleasant one, but a dream nonetheless. And none of it means anything at all.

I understand, she says.

Lie down and go back to sleep, Madame Kragstedt. I am certain your next dream will be much nicer than the one you have just had.

And she dreams of Jensigne in her confinement. She sits with her; they hold each other's hands. Her sister sleeps most of the time and when she is awake she is usually confused. But one day she wakes up and looks at her with very attentive eyes. They are alone; the family is downstairs. Haldora sits for a long time, holding her sister's hand. I am with you, she says.

The Sixth Commandment

Holy Wedlock (1790)

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

‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.'

What does this imply?

Answer: That we should fear and love God, so that we may live chastely and modestly in words and actions; and that each should love and honour his spouse.

Morten Falck passes a golden hour. He has clambered up one of the low yet steep peaks behind the colony, has found himself a ledge facing south and sits baking in the sun. He has removed his wig, shaken the lice from it and put it down beside him, loosened his hair bag and allowed his hair to hang freely about his shoulders. He feels it benefit from the air and the sun, like the rest of him. He draws the broad brim of his hat down onto his brow and squints his eyes. His face is warm and he feels as if the inside of his skull is illuminated by a blinding white light. This must be the kind of peace one feels immediately before death, he thinks to himself. But he does not feel that he is to die. Not yet. And it is easy to reconcile oneself with not dying, at least today.

His botany box is beside him. His sketchboard with a sheet of drawing paper on it is on his knee, but he has not yet drawn anything. He has not drawn from nature all through this past winter, ever since he lost the sight of his left eye, and has satisfied himself with sketching the women of his eternal fantasies as one way of staving off his loneliness. And now he lacks the heart to be confronted by his partial blindness and the recogni­tion that his poor vision perhaps has rendered it impossible for him to produce his botanical studies. He has been forced to acknowledge that the dream he had on his arrival here, the dream of compiling a
Flora et Fauna Groenlandica
, will never be realized. With only one eye he is unable to accurately judge distance and perspective. The world consists of coloured surfaces arranged in front of and behind each other like theatrical scenery, the seamless transitions between them are gone. In isolation they remain detailed enough, but he is unable to gauge how far away they are. It causes him difficulty when he is out on his hikes. He must often feel his way forward with his foot and at all times proceed with caution, so as not to step awkwardly and break his ankle.

Instead of taking his sketch pad he has begun to bring along with him into the fells a stone-breaker. Within the fords he has discovered several strata of precious metals and on a trip north he observed sediments of graphite in the fellsides, and moreover coal in the region of Disko Island, in part already exploited, though clearly unsystematically and on a hand­to-mouth basis. In a cloth bag at home in the Mission house he has put away some nuggets of gold he washed from the gravel of a riverbed, likewise in the Disko area. Approximately four ounces in all, rightfully belonging to the Trade, and thereby ultimately the Crown, though this is a fact he has no intention of heeding. The gold is his pension, suffi­cient for him to establish a living on his return home.

Morten Falck smiles to himself.

He has now been in the country for three years this autumn. The time has passed quickly; terrible events have occurred, but much good as well. Death has stared him in the eye more than once, and he has stared back almost without blinking. He has matured. His years in Copenhagen were no more than an extended childhood. Many carry on as such throughout their entire lives. But not he. With a shudder he thinks of how things would have been had he married the young Miss Schultz and settled in a parish in Denmark. Sweet Abelone, he thinks, such harm we would have done each other. Much rather his damp dwelling, the daily struggle against spiritual darkness and a lost eye. This, at least, is how things appear to him seen from a sunny ledge behind the colony of Sukkertoppen.

The widow has cleaned for him when he arrives home. The place is neat and tidy; his clothes are laundered and lie smooth and folded in the chest. The widow herself is not there. Most likely she has gone over to the Trader's house. But he can smell her. He is still in the process of her catechism, preparing her for the mercy and salvation of the Lord. If she is proficient, he has promised her that she may be christened and con ­firmed in the autumn. And she is proficient. He has taught her all through the winter and she can rattle off the articles and explanations quicker than even the brightest orphanage boy at the Vajsenhus. The only thing is, she asks too many questions. She insists on arguing with the Lord, which is to say His local vicar on earth, the Missionary Falck. And in the event that she senses an opportunity to get the better of him, she never hesitates to do so. He is an easy prey. Sometimes he feels he is a mouse teaching a cat as to proper eating habits. He has solemnly explained to her the impor­tance of humility when appearing before the Lord. The Lord detests arrogance, he tells her, hearing to his annoyance an echo of his father, the schoolmaster, though insisting nonetheless: When appearing before the Lord, one must be as a washed and obedient child.

It was the Missionary Oxbøl who made me dirty, she says. I was obedient to him and look what came of it.

The Lord will deal with Oxbøl, he tells her for the umpteenth time. He is sick and tired of hearing about the old priest's repugnant habits. Time and again he is put forward as a counter-argument, an example of the bankruptcy of Christian principles in this land.

No one can ever wash the old priest from me, she says mournfully.

But most certainly, he says, that is exactly what the Lord can and will do. He will cleanse you of your sins. He will make you pure and new as an infant. You must trust Him.

That sounds fine, she says. If he can wash the priest's blood from me I will do whatever He wishes.

He takes her hands and says the Lord's Prayer. She follows him, word for word, her lips a whisper. Afterwards, she appears calm and clarified. The saving of this woman's soul in particular has become important to him. So far he has instructed and christened five adult Greenlanders, of whom three are now dead. If she can obtain salvation, he thinks, then he shall have committed one good deed in this place. But she is full of bitter­ness and anger and is always on her guard. The slightest physical contact is carefully weighed and considered, each word he speaks is turned and examined.

You must trust me, he says. I am not Oxbøl.

You are a Dane, she replies.

We each have a job ahead of us, you and I, he says firmly. I must win your confidence in the name of the Lord and you must cast off your arrogant garb.

Take off my clothes?

He is compelled to apologize and put it differently. The meaning is not literal, he says, the words are a parable, a metaphor, you understand. We all of us must undress before the Lord, but it is not a matter of the flesh, as perhaps in the case of your former priest. But all she does is stare at him.

And he imagines, beyond the metaphors and the parables, his rela­tionship with the widow becoming more intimate. That she will undress literally. That they will marry. That he will take her daughter unto himself. That she will provide him with a batch of strong sons who might carry him to the grave upon their shoulders. Sometimes she gives him a scrutinizing look. He feels she can see right through him and that she does not care for what she sees. I am not worthy of her, he thinks.

An insistent knocking on the door wrenches him from his thoughts. Outside stands the cooper.

Good afternoon, Dorph, he says.

The peace of God upon you, Missionary Falck. Might it be possible to have a word with the pastor?

Of course. Let us sit down here on the step. The sun is lovely and warm.

They sit down. The cooper is a corpulent man with a large and doleful face, full of righteous outrage at this vale of tears and his own unrea­sonable plight. Speaking with him always leaves Falck with a slight headache.

I just wanted to ask the missionary if he has heard news?

I'm afraid not, Dorph. There has been no ship and the Inspector, as you know, does not interfere in such matters. When the ship comes in a fortnight we shall see if there is anything for you.

It will be the same as other years, says the cooper, and hangs his head. Seven years I have waited for that marriage licence, without anyone having bothered to send an official rejection.

I sympathize with you, Dorph. I do indeed.

I live in sin, says Dorph. Falck sees the man's lips begin to tremble with rage. How long must my children live as bastards? How long must people be allowed to call my beloved wife the cooper's mistress?

There, there, says Falck, and pats him on the arm.

I am a good Christian! the cooper sobs.

One of the best, says Falck. The Lord sees your devotion.

Is there nothing you can do, Mr Falck?

Such as what?

He could marry us.

Hm, says Falck, somewhat uneasily. However much I wish to help you, going against the authorities is hardly the way.

Is it not the pastor's duty to bless a man and woman's cohabitation that has given four children to the world? the cooper says irascibly.

No, it most certainly is not. I would remind you, Dorph, that it was entirely of your own free will that you took a native woman to be your partner, despite, as far as I am informed, having been warned against it by Magister Krogh. You chose to turn a deaf ear.

It was love, says Dorph, and submits like a lamb.

You might call it that and I am in no doubt that such love is genuine.

But at the time you allowed yourself to be governed by your lust and now you are paying the price. A glance at the cooper makes him regret that he has spoken harshly to him. A ship will come soon, he says in a more conciliatory tone. Then we shall see if it brings a marriage licence with it.

Marriage is instituted by God, says Dorph, not by a mad king.

Yet subject to the authorization of State, Falck rejoins with a wagging finger. Do not forget that the two parts make up the whole. The cooper's shoulders sag. He stares at the ground. I give you my word, Dorph, that you shall not remain unmarried. Your plight is most unsatisfactory and I shall do what I can to help you.

God bless the missionary, says the cooper, contented, and returns to his home. Falck remains and chews his lip.

The other woman in his life is Madame Kragstedt. He has spent many hours in the warmth of her parlour during the winter. He has read to her from Voltaire and Rousseau.
Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains!
He reads his boyhood's
Robinson Crusoe
to her, in the German translation, savouring the language's vowels as they ring in the Trader's rooms. She is Robinson, he Friday. She bursts into tears at her bondage, her childlessness and insufferable boredom within the timber walls of the colony house. They stroll, sauntering, arm in arm, out of royal Copenhagen and into the countryside, around and around the parlour, conversing light-heartedly upon the things they observe along their way, be they door frame, window frame or ceiling joist. He draws her atten­tion to the farms that lie between scattered copses of beech, undulating fields dotted with grazing cattle. She indicates bulrushes, daisies, butter­cups and foxtails. Around the folding screen, past the stove, then back again. He bends down and picks her a posy of wild flowers. She chirps with delight and carries them as she would a child, against her breast, stroking their petals gently with her free hand. Before he returns to his rooms, he kisses her on the cheek. He feels her sharp talons clutch at his side and releases her. If Kragstedt dies, he thinks to himself, I shall ask for the Madame's hand in marriage. It would be the decent thing to do.

If I am not already wedded to the widow by that time. The women in his present circumstances are new, his ambivalence old and familiar.

The smith's workshop is open. He goes inside. Hammer stands stripped to the waist, clad only in his loincloth, working a glowing lump of iron. He straightens up on seeing the priest in his doorway, but Falck gestures for him to carry on. He pumps the bellows and the fire flares up. He puts the iron into the flames, turns it several times, removes it and places it once more on the anvil, to be hammered again. The clash of metal has a musical aftertone. Falck wanders about the workshop. The smith ignores him. The heat from the furnace burns the side of his face that is turned towards it, the other remains chilled. The work of the smith fascinates him, alchemically magical, fire and darkness, something one ought to shy away from, but which nonetheless he is drawn towards. A transubstantiation, spirit implanted into the iron, which takes on the shape of the thought by the intervention of fire. The muscles of Hammer's shoulders ripple in the glow. Falck pictures him on top of Madame Kragstedt's naked body on the filthy floor. This is where it happened, he thinks. Here on this very spot.

The iron spits and sizzles as Hammer immerses it in the water tub. He removes it, studies it with an appraising eye, and puts it down on the anvil. He slams the door of the furnace shut. The room becomes dark and abruptly cold. He gives the priest an enquiring look.

I wish to ask Hammer about a matter.

Ask away, priest.

Is it conceivable that you would confess your sins to me?

The smith butters a hunk of the colony's black bread with butter he digs from a wooden bowl with his sheath knife. No, thank you, Mr Falck, it would be of no interest, I'm afraid. I've already told the priest all I have to say.

You have committed serious sins, Hammer. You ought to make peace with the Lord.

The Lord wants nothing to do with me, nor I with Him, and that's that. We leave each other alone. I know what I've done. I know what awaits me when I lay my head on the pillow for the last time. He sends

Falck a glance. Why is the priest so interested in my sins?

The inferno, Hammer. Hell. Are you prepared for it?

I imagine it's much the same as here, the smith replies with his mouth full, sweeping out the hand in which he holds his buttered bread. Just a bit bigger and hotter and populated with old friends. I'm sure they need a smith in Hell as much as they do in Sukkertoppen, don't you think so, priest?