The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (41 page)

Faces lurk behind the lamps, cheekbones shine like copper. There must be some thirty people at least. They sit tightly beside each other, behind each other, women, men, children in a naked, perspiring huddle. He greets them unspecifically. A number return his greeting in a friendly manner.
Kutaa, palasi
. Hello, Priest. His eyes adjust to the dark. He sees the naked bodies glistening, copper-red in the light of blubber lamps. Some are occupied eating soup from bowls of tin; women comb each other's hair; men sit cross-legged outermost on the benches and are deloused by their daughters. The pots boil vigorously, bones protruding from the scalding liquid; steam fills the room with moisture. Falck wishes he could take off his cassock, divest himself of his priestly dignity and merge naked and perspiring into the midst of these bodies. But he knows he cannot, that it is not possible.

They were indulging in something when he and the catechist arrived, he senses it and can tell by their faces, something that hangs yet suspended in the air above the benches. He knows it still takes place, especially when visitors come from outside. New blood, new flesh. Lamps are extin­guished and bodies come together in the dark, fresh seed is sown. A mixture of entertainment and necessity. The priests have fulminated against it ever since Egede's day, but the practice is seemingly imper­vious to such criticism. Combating it is perhaps inadvisable. Falck at least has no intentions of opposing such an entrenched feature of their lives. He pretends it does not exist.

Let us speak of the Baptism, he begins uncertainly. Let us speak of why Christian people have devoted themselves to the Lord.

Bertel translates. A silence ensues.

Why should we be christened? says one of the unfamiliar men who sits scraping the sweat from his upper body and arms with the broad blade of a woman's knife.

So that you may become good people, Falck replies, and so that you may know God and find peace through Jesus Christ.

But we are good without knowing God, the man retorts, flicking his wrist to send a fan-like spray of perspiration from the blade, causing a blubber lamp to flicker and sizzle. The acrid stench of steaming sweat claws at his nostrils.

Indeed, he says accommodatingly. But some of you are not good. You live in sin. You commit evil deeds. You kill defenceless children and women.

Unruffled, the man continues to scrape the sweat from his skin; there is something affectionate about the way he proceeds, as though it were a form of self-satisfaction. Falck cannot look away from it.

But the Christians in the colony, do they know God?

Yes, they are christened, they know God and the Saviour, His only begotten son. Falck knows what comes next.

The man smiles. But these people are bad. They drink and curse and are lecherous, and they too kill others who are innocent. Is this not right?

It is true, some of them are bad. God has forsaken them.

They have children by our women, then want nothing to do with them.

They will be punished in the life to come.

Are all people like this in Denmark?

The discussion is not proceeding in the direction Falck had wished, but he knows from experience that it does not pay to evade an issue or lie. One must forge ahead, concede what must be conceded, and hope to emerge unvanquished. Many are, he says. Man is weak. But there are many good people, too. Our king is good.

The man looks at him attentively, not unkindly. He is on his own terri­tory and feels secure. He has raised an eyebrow. Falck senses he is up against a highly astute man who is amusing himself. Perhaps we should send some of our people with your ships to Denmark, to evangelize in your country and teach your king to turn his people to righteousness?

If first they would be christened, then indeed, Falck replies slyly. Then they could go to Denmark and teach the people there to be good Christians.

But Priest, the man counters, flicking the blade once more and causing the lamp to spit, many have journeyed to Denmark and have never come back. What has happened to them?

I don't know.

They are dead. Are they not?

Yes, I'm afraid they probably are.

Greenlanders cannot tolerate the air in Denmark, says the oldermand in the corner. It is like poisoned water to them, and since they cannot help but drink it, they become sick and die. With the Danes it is much the same. They cannot abide the air in our country. They become maddened by it; they drink and whore and die like flies. You do not look so well yourself, Priest. Why is this so? Did God make us so different?

We are all equal before the Lord, he says half-heartedly.

Bertel says something to the oldermand, who says something to his wife, who in turn spoons a portion of soup into a bowl. She comes over and places it on the floor in front of him. He can see that the soup is full of barley groats, indicating to him that Kragstedt has shown mercy upon the natives and is sustaining them with Danish groceries.

Eat, Priest! says the oldermand. You look like you need it.

Both he and Bertel scoop the soup into their mouths.

It's unfair of him to judge Christian people on how the colony folk behave, he says to Bertel when presently they sit digesting the meal.

Why? says Bertel.

Because they are scoundrels, says Falck.

Exactly, says Bertel.

Hm, he says. Are you not supposed to be on my side?

Is the priest not supposed to be on our side? Bertel retorts.

Of course, he says. You know I am.

Danes look after Danes, says the catechist. That's how it's always been.

Instead of discussing matters of theology and arguing with Bertel, he tells a story from the Bible. The natives always have good appetite for a story. The scriptures speak to everyman, such is their divine nature. They are all ears, and watch the priest attentively as he speaks in Danish, then turn to Bertel when he translates.

Today it is the story of Jonah. He makes the most of the unwill- ing prophet's arguments with the Lord, he waves his hands, alters his voice and play-acts. The natives laugh. On the floor a flock of children sit, open-mouthed, gaping up at him. Then Jonah flees from the Lord. He runs back and forth, stooping beneath the low ceiling, sweating grotesquely in his cassock. He sails upon the great ocean and a terrible storm begins to blow. His arms flail like the wings of a windmill; the wind blows from his mouth. This is something they know and understand. What kind of boat was it? they want to know. Was it a rowing boat or a sailing boat? Was the wind onshore or offshore?

On this matter the scripture is silent, he says, out of breath.

And what kind of whale swallowed the prophet?

On this, too, the scripture is silent.

A humpback, perhaps? No, not a humpback, for a man cannot pass through the neck of a humpback. It must have been a sperm whale; they can swallow a whole boat.

They love the details and when he is unable to account for them they make them up themselves. And yet they readily accept what is unrea­sonable, such as Jonah surviving in the belly of the whale. It is all a part of the conception, things happening that cannot happen in reality, like when the shamans with their hands tied behind their backs fly to the rear side of the moon or descend to the bottom of the sea.

A discussion arises concerning Jonah's behaviour. Of course he should run away, some opine. What God asks of him – to go into the town of Nineveh and tell the inhabitants there that they are going to perish – would place his own life in jeopardy. Before he knew it, the messenger himself would be dead. But the Lord gives him strength, say others, only Jonah will not trust Him. Who would, after He sent him out in a storm and into the stomach of a whale! They roar with laughter. Falck feels his sweat run down his chest and hopes that he will not catch a cold once they are outside again.

The palm tree at the end of the story presents a problem. A tall plant with big leaves is how Bertel translates it. They cannot picture it. A fern? A bush? Falck draws a sketch on his pad. At the foot of the tree he places a stooping, emaciated figure.

Aha, they say at once.
Palasi!

No, he says. Jonah.

But he looks exactly like
palasi
, they reply impishly.

Perhaps you are right, he says kindly and laughs along with them. Perhaps it is
palasi
under the tree.

What about God? they ask. Where is He?

It is forbidden to make images of God, Falck tells them. It would be blasphemous.

Discussion continues. There is growing agreement that Jonah's God is unreasonable and intransigent, unamenable to negotiation. Our spirits, they say, are not spiteful like your God.

It is a comment he cannot ignore. He protests. No, God is love! He shows us what is good.

Even before his utterance is complete, he knows what they will say. And the reply comes promptly:

But you Danes are not good. God must be terribly angry with you!

As usual, he receives his few catechumens in the Mission house and prepares them for christening. That is, he endeavours to gain an impres­sion of the degree of their ignorance or stupidity, in the Christian sense, and the extent to which it will be feasible at all to venture towards con ­secration in Christ through baptism.

Again he misses the widow. She was bright; she could follow his thoughts even when he began to babble and could tell him what he was trying to say and what she would say in counter-argument. It would annoy him dreadfully, but now he misses it. She had a good grasp of the Gospels and could be merciless if he should refer incorrectly to a passage in the scripture.

Magister Oxbøl said, she would say.

Just forget Magister Oxbøl for the moment, would be his reply. It would be best if you forgot all about what he taught you and allowed me to instruct you instead. Then perhaps you would more fully understand that God's love and the old priest's are not necessarily the same.

But when he tested her in the articles and their explanation he would invariably hear some echo of the Missionary Oxbøl's voice.

He asked her. Do you wish it?

She looked at him in bewilderment, her expression exaggerated like an actor's. She knew exactly what he meant.

Do you wish to be christened? To be betrothed to the Lord?

I am a poor widow, she said. I would rather be betrothed to you, Morten Falck. That other one has been dead for many years, and if he is not, then he is too old for me.

He sighed. Answer me properly. Do you wish it?

Yes, I wish it.

Why?

So that they will not kill me.

Who?

She jerked her head silently. Them over there.

Her fellow natives in the dwelling house. He was aware of the delicate situation she was in. Unproductive members of the communal houses were often done away with. Fortunately for her, the hunting had been good that winter. But now she was living on borrowed time. If she became christened she would be protected by Danish law and then they would not dare harm her.

If you behave, I shall prepare you to be baptized in the spring, he said. But you must make every effort to deserve it. Not for my sake, but for your own. If you should be christened with serious sin on your conscience, then you will be lost.

Priests! she spat disdainfully. You are like nosy old women, always wanting to know everything about a person before giving your absolu­tion. God knows me, I've told Him everything. He understands me.

The baptism, and preparation for it, is like a bath, he explained to her. One is cleansed of sin when kneeling down to repent.

Perhaps that's why you Danes never wash yourselves with water, she said. Old Missionary Oxbøl's cock smelled like a rotten salmon, but even then he was not ashamed to stick it inside me.

How disgusting! he exclaimed. Be quiet! It's your tongue that's like a rotten salmon. I will not have such talk in the Mission house.

Shall I go into the Pastor's chamber? she said and smiled.

Yes, do so. Wait for me there. I shall give you some linen to wash and we shall talk of these matters later, without such rudeness.

The widow in his little parlour, which she filled with the smell of smoke and urine tubs and boiling pots, a blend of odours whose single elements repulsed him, but which as a whole led him around by the nose. His entire longing and lust was contained in that smell. It remains here still, long after she has vanished.

In one matter, at least, he is inclined to agree with old Oxbøl: he feels that from a theological standpoint it would be wrong to baptize the widow. She is a heathen through and through, vivacious, steeped in care­free heathen sin. It was only when discussing Christianity that she became sullen and recalcitrant. The Christian phrases were a thing she could put on like clothing by virtue of her natural shrewdness, yet he was in no doubt she divested herself of them as soon as she was back in the dwelling house. But perhaps, he thinks to himself, once again in doubt, perhaps salvation might have been attained gradually, as an after-effect of the christening, rather than the other way around. Perhaps she might have learned to love Jesus and to love me, the way I, perhaps, loved her. Now it is too late to find out. I have let her down. I have allowed a soul to slip from my hands.

Perhaps he will never see her again.

He wakes up late on the morning of the king's birthday. The day has crept in, freezing cold and dark, the remnants of dawn an effervescence on the horizon. There is some wind; he sees the snow whirl upon the ice, chasing across the islets. Towards noon the sun appears, a bombardment of frigid colour, before burning out like a tinderstick, daylight gone.

The colony has seen a frenzy of activity. The flag has been hoisted, the colony bell has tolled, and a stifled semblance of a speech has been made in honour of the king, given by a Trader clad in full uniform in front of his house and attended by his shivering wife, the Danish crew and a handful of natives come to receive their cup of aquavit. The little canon has spluttered a tenfold salute, the carpenter has blown a fanfare, the modest gathering has barked its hurrahs in time with the Trader's sabre, and now everyone has scuttled back inside, the flag has been taken down and all is dark.