The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (40 page)

2. Any person showing disobedience in respect of the present notice, and of Colony Manager, Trader and Commandant Jørgen Kragstedt, will like­wise be considered to be discharged and will be liable to prosecution and punishment.

Dieterich Rømer

Inspector, Southern Inspectorate, Godthåb

27 October 1790

It is in large part as he had anticipated, with the exception that there is no mention of his own role in the matter. He had been expecting – and had come to terms with – his dismissal. The fact that the Trader and Inspector Rømer, his two worst enemies in the country, completely omit to name him in writing is almost the hardest part of it. The burden of guilt as regards what has occurred, and what will occur, rests thereby entirely on his own shoulders.

In the evening he drinks what aquavit is left in his bottle, then whatever he can find in the way of wine and ale. He wakes to a pound­ing noise and thinks at first it must be his hangover thumping in his head, but then it is repeated. Outside stand several men with torches in their hands. Their voices are a clamour and for a moment he is afraid they have come to drag him away and place him in chains on the Trader's orders. Then he begins to grasp fragments of what they say. Something has happened. The cooper. The blubber house. In the name of Jesus!

He pulls on his coat and steps into his boots and follows the men down to the harbour.

The smith stands guard at the blubber house. He opens the door for the priest and lets him in. A large torch has been placed in a holder on the wall inside the door. It lights up the cooper's heavy frame from below, the body hanging by a chain over the boiling tub, face twisted in sancti­monious despair.

He swings still, says the smith at his side, looking up. It must be less than half an hour since he jumped.

What are you waiting for? says Falck. Get him down, for goodness' sake!

By an intricate muddle of ropes and knots, the cooper has made it nigh impossible for his body to be returned to the ground. A posthumous joke, though no one laughs, apart perhaps from the cooper himself, wherever he may be.

It's Magister Krogh all over again, says the smith, labouring to loosen the rope that holds the cooper aloft, the rope which in turn is attached to the chain by a myriad knots. The carpenter, the cook, Constable Bjerg and two of the colony's native constables struggle to steer the cooper's body away from the blubber boiler, while Falck supervises the removal from a safe distance. And yet the cooper slides from their hands and plunges into the tub. Falck turns away in disgust as the smell of boiling human flesh fills the room of the blubber house. Boat hooks are called for, the men curse. Eventually they haul him up, though are unable to touch him because of the heat, and he is deposited on the stone floor with the same sound as a dead fish. Falck steps forward and squats down at the body. The cooper's face is swollen from the hot oil, he stares up at the ceiling with an affable, greasy grin.

Outside the blubber house stands the cooper's wife. Falck approaches her. She carries the infant on her arm. The retarded boy is with her. He calls out for his father in Greenlandic, a manic, braying voice. Someone holds him back to stop him from running inside.

Falck pats the wife on her shoulder. He does not know what to say. He feels an urge to vomit. Then Kragstedt is there. He looks content. Now look what you have done, he says. May I be the first to congratulate the Magister.

The Seventh Commandment

A Salute to the Mad King (1791)

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

‘Thou shalt not steal.'

What does this imply?

Answer: That we should fear and love God, so that we may not rob our neigh­bour of his money or possessions, nor acquire the same by spurious merchandise or by fraudulent traffic; but to assist him in improving and protecting his property and livelihood.

Darkness has crept over the land. When the sun retreats to the south, the ice projects silently from the north. The frost is like a barber's blade against the cheek. The edge of the ice lies a day's march away, say the hunters, the only ones to defy the cold, clad in ragged kamik boots and worn-out anoraks of canvas whose most vulnerable points are lined with old issues of
Københavns Adresseavis
.

The snow crunches beneath Morten Falck's thin leather soles as he hurries home from his weekly pilgrimage to the Trade office, where the overseer has handed out his allotted provision. The Trader himself was absent, a fact for which he is thankful. Kragstedt avoids him as far as possible for the moment, and Morten Falck avoids Kragstedt. He has not visited the Madame for some time. The intimacy that had occurred between them had become oppressive and the easiest remedy was to slide apart. He has seen the Trader and his wife stroll from the colony, arm in arm, returning ruddy-cheeked, and he has felt pangs of jealousy on this account. He misses his visits with the Madame, the warmth of the Trader's parlour, their discussions of the novels they are reading, the good aquavit, the grandfather clock measuring the stagnancy of time. He misses the confidentiality of another human being. And yet he sets store by solitude.

However, he does pay visits to the Trader's loft. He secured the keys while seated in the Trade office one afternoon, waiting for the overseer to come. They were there in front of him and he took them, that is to say his hand took them. Once home again with his modest provision in a bag, a week's food and drink, he took out the keys and pondered what to do with them. Eventually he decided to use them for their proper purpose: to open a door. Since the autumn he has thus been well provided with groceries. Roselil still gives some small amount of milk. He has thought of having her butchered. The expenditure and the bother involved in keeping her is more than her scarce quantities of milk can compensate for. But he has not the heart to have her put down. The smith has gradually adopted her and will under no circumstance hear talk of her slaughter, though he will not pay for her maintenance either.

He shuts himself in the kitchen, prepares oats and pork, and takes the meal into his room to eat, devours it and wipes the plate clean with bread. His stomach grumbles its disgruntled thanks. The time is just past four; his catechism and instruction are completed; he has no visits to pay this afternoon, unless he is called upon. Previously, the widow would have been at his door at this time to receive his personal instruction. He smiles glumly. It is several months since her disappearance. He has no idea where she might be. He doubts that she has gone to the Eternal Fjord and he is certain that she is not to be found at Holsteinsborg. Apart from that, she could be anywhere. Her christening has been postponed and postponed again, either because some other matter prevented it or because of her own sudden reluctance. Sometimes he wonders if she even wants to become a good Christian.

Did I love the widow? he asks himself, noting that he already thinks of her in the past tense. Judging by the pain and longing he feels now that she is no longer with him, he did. But what was it, then, that I loved? A sullen, recalcitrant woman who often succumbed to outbreaks of rage. Once, she sliced holes in his mattress with a cleaver, thrashing and tearing at the straw until he was forced to lie on top of her and hold her tight. What are you so angry about? he asked her. Who is it you want to kill? You, priest! she replied in her own language, the language of rage and honesty, a wicked grin curling her lips.
Illit, palasi!
And with that she wrestled free, dropped the cleaver and left. A mystery. That was what he loved, or perhaps loved. He sighs. The daughter is abandoned in the communal dwelling house, where most probably she is neglected by the natives.

A light glances the window and is cast briefly against the ceiling. The fire-watcher's lantern. He hears the man's heavy footsteps as they pass. The smith. An incorrigible sinner not even twenty degrees of frost and year after year of debauchery can do away with. Inspector Rømer's words come back to him:
I was here before he came, and I'll be here when he goes again
. Apparently, the worst sinners are those who do best in this wilderness.

He sits skimming through the day's issue of the
Christiania-Kureren
, dated 27 January 1790 or exactly one year ago to the day. There is a piece on the previous year's disturbances in Paris. He has read on ahead, which is not his custom, and has absorbed in disbelief, partially excited, partially horrified, reports of the persecution of the royal family, the annexation of church property, the storming of the Bastille. And now his year's issues come to an end. Compared to these events the dissolution of the Stavnsbånd in Denmark was little more than a triviality. He wonders where it will end and imagines prison cells full of noblemen awaiting their fate, palaces razed, bodies floating in the Seine, burning buildings and red flags waving on the barricades. A new order, which perhaps will spread to the rest of Europe. The papers seem to expect it will happen, some even hope. In the Danish and Norwegian press it is a time of suggestion. How will life in peaceful little Copenhagen be affected, or back home in Lier? Will there be anything left to return home to? Does he even want to return home? In the summer he felt like a fish in water up here, now he is no longer sure.

There is a knock on the door. Bertel's wife, Sofie, who is still employed in the Trader's household, stands outside with a letter for him. Come in, he says, and close the door, my dear. She enters, looks about her, and he can tell she thinks the priest's home to be humble and rather sorry compared to what she is used to.

He tears open the letter and is surprised to see that it is an invitation:

In anticipation of the approaching birthday of His Majesty, our beloved King Christian the Seventh, and the annual celebrations of such an occasion, it would please Madame Haldora Kragstedt and the undersigned if the Magister would favour us with the pleasure of his person's presence and company in the Trader's home this coming Sunday the 29th of January at 12 o'clock noon. Food and wine will be served to the Colony's Danish contingent, and subsequently a dram of spirits to such Greenlanders as are employed by the Trade. Moreover, at the request of my good wife, and as a novelty this year, treats will be handed out to the Colony's children. Your humble servant, Jørgen Kragstedt, Commandant, etc.

Falck broods at length over the letter. He reads it several times. Is its tone to be understood as sarcasm and thereby as a deterrent against presenting himself? Or is it correct and neutral, and perhaps identical to the invitation all others in the colony have received? Has the Trader resolved to let the past lie or has his wife talked him into reconciliation?

He crumples the letter in his hands and throws it on to the floor. Only then to pick it up and smooth it out. Sofie sits waiting in his arm ­chair, he realizes. Her feet are on the table and she is watching him. He smiles at her. She returns her feet to the floor. I shall attend, he decides. Or rather, I shall not. Hm. I shall write a similar letter to the Trader in reply, in exactly the same tone, and if the Trader's letter is meant to be sarcasm my reply will appear quite as sarcastic. If it is meant sincerely, then mine, too, will be taken as such. The only problem is that he has no idea what to put. I shall attend, he thinks. Or shall I? No! Or perhaps.

Thank the Trader for his invitation, he says. I shall be happy to attend, of course.

She curtsies, a gesture the Madame must have taught her. He has never before seen a Greenlander curtsy. Or is this, too, some form of sarcasm? I spend too much time in my own company, he tells himself. Sofie has gone.

Say hello to your husband! he shouts after her. And your fine boy!

A poor decision, if timely, is better than a good one that is not. Some statesman's motto he has read somewhere, perhaps the Count von Bernstorff's. He is decided and feels relief. Thank you, dear Count! Now he is alone. Now he may permit himself to drink, though the bottle is as good as empty.

Again he thinks of the widow. He recalls the lingering smells of the dwelling house in her clothes. Like heathen skin, he thinks, that he ought to have stripped from her body, removing her from her natural state and replacing her into civilized, pale nakedness that he might have covered with his kisses and copulated with in the good Danish tradition as prac­tised by his colleagues, among them Pastor Oxbøl at Holsteinsborg. But then he might not have found her so alluring now. Anyway, it came to nothing, and now he regrets it, as he knows he would have regretted it even more had he done it.

She had lain with so many men and was not reticent in speaking of it. He allowed her to confess her sins and listened to what he told her of the lusts and vices of her lovers. He absolved her of her sins. She looked at him enquiringly and smiled. Why is
palasi
crying? I am not crying, he said. Go now and come back in the morning. She could not get it into her stupid head that he was not like the men she told him about in her confessions. At moments of weakness neither could he.

Two of the large communal houses are inhabited in the winter, besides them some smaller dwellings of peat and planks in which live mostly christened Greenlanders employed by the Trade. According to his most recent survey, the still-heathen count thirty-five souls, children and adults, an improvement on the previous year when the colony was all but depop­ulated. Famine has made people hesitant; they take their precautions and elect for the relative security of the colony rather than freedom in the outlying settlements and the ever-looming threat of hunger.

He thinks much upon the two prophets inside the ford and their well-organized settlement on the high land. He had been petrified standing in the church and speaking against Habakuk, and the man's ability to address his people impressed him.

Morning, the 28th of January. Bertel has laid out the chess set when Falck arrives.

Brr, such cold! he says. But here is nice and warm.

Bertel takes the thick coat Falck wears outside his cassock and hangs it on a nail.

The boy lies on the cot, reading. Sofie has gone up to the colony house to help the Trader's wife get things ready for the occasion of the king's birthday. The boy's breathing is laboured and punctuated by wheezing, yet he seems wholly absorbed in his reading. Now and then he turns a page.

Falck and Bertel sit down facing each other and begin to play. On his way here Falck decided on an opening, but some few moves into the game his plans are already crumbling and he is as usual forced on to the defensive.

I have been invited to dinner, he says.

Bertel moves a piece.

At the Trader's.

Falck's move is foolish and Bertel punishes him promptly.

I'm not sure about it. I feel most inclined to make my excuses.

The boy coughs.

Though I should not like to appear inaccessible.

Your move, Pastor.

And the Madame may wish to see me. We were once good friends, the Madame and I.

Check, says Bertel.

Is something the matter? Falck asks.

Yes, your queen is in danger.

Falck leans over the board. They play, silent in the light of the lamp.

What are you reading? Falck asks the boy.

He holds up his book. Falck nods and smiles. It is one of the volumes he has given him from his library.

The lad is clever, he says to Bertel. He will make a fine catechist like his father.

He won't be a catechist.

So you say.

He is to be a priest. Bertel makes an assault from his right flank.

Priest, indeed. I must say. Or bishop, perhaps? Falck smirks.

Why should a Greenlander not become a priest? Bertel says rhetorically.

I suppose it is possible, says Falck peaceably, though he senses that his look is one of doubt. A priest, is that what you want to be? he asks the boy over on the cot.

The lad looks up from his book and shakes his head. A ship's captain.

Ah, a ship's captain. You wish to journey out and see foreign lands?

He nods earnestly, then returns to his reading.

Checkmate, says Bertel.

Falck laughs.

They go to the communal house together. To enter they must descend on to all fours and crawl. Morten has drawn his cassock up to his chest and holds it gathered in one hand to save it from becoming dirty, which is to say dirtier than it is already. Everything becomes dirty so fast. Bertel crawls in first. From the ceiling in the entry hang remnants of clothing and skins, curtain by curtain, and various objects of bone, wood and metal. Hunting implements, perhaps, or heathen amulets. The entry is long and narrow. Morten follows Bertel's boot shafts and concentrates on the words of his Lord's Prayer.

Shrill laughter greets him as he pokes his head into the dwelling-room. Immediately it ceases again. Eyes watch him in the dim light. Their laughter has always scared the wits out of him. But it is not him they are laughing at, it is a secret mirth, most likely unfit for other ears, and in this instance he is grateful that his poor Greenlandic spares him from grasping their obscenities.

He seats himself on the strangers' bench and pulls off his coat, though still he is too warmly dressed. The long room is dark, thick with the stench of filled urine tubs, human odours, sizzling oil lamps, flesh boiling in dented pots over the fire. He knows these houses; he has become used to the smells and the nakedness, the sound of squelching breasts and hands slapping at lice. But the heat is hard to endure when clad in a wool cassock.