The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (45 page)

Where did he get it?

He found it after the explosion, she says. It flew over the fell.

Then it belongs to the Trade, says Bertel.

She gives a shrug.

She still lives in the communal house. It is there she always returns, there she feels most at home – or perhaps it is the only place where she feels safe. He realizes that he does not know her at all. She grew up with an aunt, her mother having died giving birth to her. They lived like all other natives, wintering inside the fords, remaining in the skerries for as long as possible in the months of summer. When she told him she was a daughter of Oxbøl's he felt annoyance, hatred, compassion, disgust, a chaos of emotions. She had already guessed they had the same father; she had sensed it, she said, and Sofie had known for some time. It is about time you found out too, brother. His own mother is still living, further north at Holsteinsborg, where the old priest still wreaks his havoc. He cannot understand how she can endure to live in the same colony as Oxbøl. But it is several years since he last saw her. Most of his life he has avoided the place in which he was born and grew up. He receives the occasional greeting from his mother, by the kayak messenger that serves the two colonies.

Bertel wonders who it was who decided he should become a catechist. His father – that is, the man who in official respects was named as such, the hunter, Jens – enjoyed seasonal employment by the Trade at Holsteinsborg. Most probably he was aware of who the biological father was, and so presumably they found the catechism to be in some way appropriate. Whatever the reason, at the age of fourteen Bertel Jensen became a pupil of the catechist at Old Sukkertoppen, which is now all but depopulated. Later he came to the new Sukkertoppen and has remained here ever since.

Question: What are the planets?

Answer: Round, dark bodies having many mountains and valleys upon their surface, surrounded by atmospheres and presumed habitable by living beings.

Bertel dismisses his speculations as to the past. The present demands his attention. He goes over to the carpentry shop where he meets the smith. He shows him the materials he has collected and asks if he may use some tools.

What will he make? asks the smith.

A kayak. For my boy.

Ah, Madame Kragstedt's little fancy man? says the smith and laughs. He can use what he likes as long as he clears up after him. And if he breaks anything he must make sure it's replaced.

I won't break anything.

I said if he does.

He doesn't bother to reply. He waits until the smith has gone. Then he goes about the work. He has built kayaks before, though some years ago. And this kayak is small; he must spend much time and exert himself mathematically to scale down from adult size. He begins with the hull. For the frame he uses old wood he has had stored to dry. It takes him a week to construct the skeleton. Then he carries it over to the communal house where some women clad it with skins. They seal the vessel with seal fat, which they rub in from bow to stern. When they have finished they leave it to dry in the wind for some days, returning frequently to rub in some more. In the meantime he carves a double paddle out of a plank of larch, drills small holes in it and equips it with fittings of finely filed and polished narwhal tusk, which he lets into the wood with dowels made of the same material. The native women have fixed amulets to the cords that criss-cross the deck, some stumps of bone and a small leather pouch of indefinable contents. He dares not remove them, but recites the Lord's Prayer over the vessel in the hope that it may appease both heathen and Christian powers.

On the boy's birthday at the end of the month the kayak is finished. He goes over to collect it early in the morning and places it in front of the house. The coating of fat makes it shine and he pictures the vessel gliding through the water. Then he goes inside and says in a casual tone, Some ­one seems to have left something for you outside.

The boy goes out and stands gaping at the kayak. He walks around it. Sofie scurries to join him. She claps her hands together and emits high-pitched cries of astonishment. You kept this quiet, she says.

Bertel is gladdened. He cannot stop chuckling. He sits on his haunches and watches the boy. What do you think of it?

Is it for me? the boy asks. There is a trace of suspicion in his voice.

Who else would it be for?

Who made it?

I did.

Really? says the boy.

Didn't you think your father could do such things?

The boy smiles wryly. Can I try it out and see if it fits?

I had your mother measure your backside when you weren't looking, Bertel says. Let's go down to the shore. You can try it out in the element in which it belongs.

He spends the whole day teaching the boy to keep his balance. By afternoon he has become proficient enough for them to paddle out together, each in his own kayak. They paddle alongside each other. When the boy becomes uncertain, Bertel extends his paddle so that he may grasp it tightly, or else he lays it across the decks of both kayaks, so that they may drift side by side.

When they return home in the evening, Bertel says: I'm thinking of making a trip south next month. Do you want to come with me?

Just me and you? asks the boy.

The two of us on our own. I've bought an extra rifle. I can teach you to shoot.

Is he old enough? Sofie asks with concern. He is not even confirmed yet. Wouldn't it be better to make some shorter trips around the island instead?

But the boy is all for it. Father, he asks, can I go and tell Madame Kragstedt so that she can come and see my kayak?

Yes, do so, my boy.

Later he discovers the Madame has given the boy a present: a folding writing set of mahogany with three pen shafts of varnished bamboo, a dozen nibs and a small gilded knife with which to sharpen them. It is the finest writing set Bertel has ever seen, a preposterous gift.

It's a travelling set, says the boy. I can take it with me on our trip, Father.

Bertel lifts the little brass ink pot from its hollow and turns it between his fingers. He puts it back in its place. It's much too fine, he says. It might break.

Sofie's pregnancy is confirmed, she tells him when he enquires. She has not bled since the spring and can tell by her breasts that she is with child. She asks him not to say anything to the boy until some months have passed and she can no longer conceal it.

We're doing well together, says Bertel.

Yes, she says. They lie on the bed, their legs entwined.

Do you remember to say the Lord's Prayer? he asks.

Every morning.

You must remember to thank the Lord as well.

I thank him each and every day. I thank him for my capable husband and my clever and beautiful son.

He lies with his arms around her and senses her drift into sleep. He wriggles cautiously on to the other side to do likewise.

Question: What are the four major parts of the Earth's land masses?

Answer: Europe, Asia, Africa and America.

Before he departs with the boy, he asks Sofie to return the writing set. It is inappropriate, he says, to give the boy such a precious gift. It must be worth more than you are paid there in a year.

But Madame Kragstedt says she is so very fond of our boy. I think she has become attached to him in a way neither of us can understand.

All the more reason to return the gift. Can't you see that she is trying to ingratiate herself? I shouldn't wonder if she wished to adopt him as her own.

Perhaps it would not be the worst thing to happen, says Sofie. He would still be our son. And his opportunities would be much improved.

My boy is not going to grow up in that madhouse. Return the gift, say whatever you like to the Madame, but I will not have such an expen­sive item in my house.

Then he sets out with the boy.

They sleep under the open sky; they sleep with the natives they meet along the way; they sleep in some of the small timber huts that have been erected by the Trade. All the time he is alert to make sure the boy does not overly exert himself or become cold and wet. In the evenings he rubs his legs and feet with snow. The old winter snow that still lies in the clefts and in places of permanent shade is coarse and good for stimulating the circulation.

It's odd, says the boy, that cold snow can warm you up.

It is one of the things a person may learn from our people, he replies. The Danes do not understand such matters. They think the snow is cold.

At a summer encampment in the far south of the district they witness a shamanistic seance. The hands and feet of the shaman are bound by leather thongs. His drum is on the ground in front of him. The audience is invited to check the bindings, and the boy, too, is allowed to test them. Then a skin is hung up in front of the light-hole and the lamps are extin­guished. There is grunting and groaning, the drum begins to play. It is as if it hangs suspended in the air, now at one end of the room, now at the other. A strange voice speaks to them, scolds them, curses and derides the Danes. The drum is struck loudly throughout. Then it becomes silent. A couple of children whimper, an infant sucks manically at the breast, otherwise all is still. In a voice that is almost normal but for a slight bleat, the shaman asks that his bonds be loosened. The skin is removed from the light-hole and the lamps are lit. The man is seated in the same place as before, with hands and feet bound. When it is over, the mood becomes buoyant. Soup is served and stories told.

Bertel lies down on the sleeping bench and clutches the boy tightly. You must not tell anyone about this, he says into his ear. He feels the boy tremble. There, there, he says, nothing happened.

I miss my mother, says the boy.

We go home tomorrow, says Bertel.

He can sense the boy is unwell as they paddle north. He is plainly weak and cannot paddle for any stretch of time. Bertel tries to tow him, but it is awkward and unworkable. They make slow progress. When finally they reach Sukkertoppen he must carry the boy up to the house.

What have you done? Sofie says when she sees him laid out on the bench, gasping for breath.

He doesn't know what to say.

Question: What is the air?

Answer: A fluid, elastic body encompassing the entire globe until a certain altitude and allowing us the sense of hearing.

He goes to Falck and the staggering priest comes to tap his fingers routinely against the boy's chest and back, conversing with him lightly and casually.

Is it the consumption again? Bertel asks him.

Yes, the consumption returned. Falck has gone outside; they stand by the step and talk. It would seem your trip was rather strenuous, he says.

It was not strenuous until he became sick, says Bertel defensively. We had a fine trip together.

As you will, but the fact of the matter is that he is suffering from exhaustion and has caught a chill that has awakened his former condition.

Can you help him?

I could open a vein and let his blood, but whether it would help I have no idea.

Do so, says Bertel.

Falck goes home to fetch his medical bag. When he returns, he speaks with the boy and explains to him what is going to happen. The boy does not protest. Falck produces a thin metal tube from a case, an instrument he refers to as a
straw
, which is cut diagonally at the tip. He takes the boy's feet, leans forward and studies them, his bad eye tightly closed, runs his hand over the ankles, taps them briskly with his fingers. Then he asks Bertel to grasp the boy's lower leg and to press down hard. He inserts the diagonal point of the tube into a bulging vein at the ankle joint. Bertel sees how the skin parts obligingly around the metal and droplets of blood appear. The boy emits a stifled whimper. Dark blood now begins to drip from the instrument's opposite end into a cooking pot. Falck massages the calf, long downward strokes, milking. The blood runs faster. When a cupful has collected he removes the tube and wraps a cloth around the ankle. He studies the blood in the pot. It glistens with a hint of green; its pungent odour offends the nostrils.

Gall, he explains. The boy is full of it. I shall perform a second bleeding in a couple of days if needs be. And remember to give him the cow's milk each morning.

Bertel does not tell him that the priest's milk is thrown away in the evenings. None of them can stand the taste, least of all the patient himself.

The bloodletting has settled the boy; he sleeps heavily for twelve hours and smiles when eventually he wakes. He asks for his writing set.

Later, says Bertel. When you are well again.

The boy studies him inquisitively. His gaze is unkind.

Later he goes up to the colony house and asks Sofie to retrieve the writing set. They stand in the hall. The Madame hears them; she comes out to see Bertel. Her expression is taut.

Let the boy come here, she says. I shall look after him and make sure he recovers.

I know what the Madame wants, says Bertel, and it is not in my boy's interests.

If he wants the writing set back, he must let the boy come to me.

Does the Madame think children are wares that she may purchase when the fancy takes her? Is this how she endeavours to make up for what has happened to her, and for the fact that she cannot have children of her own?

Silence. Both women, Sofie and the Madame Kragstedt, glare at him.

Forgive me. He utters the words very quietly. I am doing only what I believe to be best for my boy.

He turns and goes back home.

That evening Sofie informs him that she has been released from her employment. But she has the writing set with her. The boy is happy to see it returned. He sits up all evening, coughing and wheezing, writing in his exercise book.

If the boy becomes well, I will join them inside the ford, Sofie says. I'm tired of this.

A couple of days later Bertel tries to find Falck so that he may perform a second letting of the blood, as he has promised. The boy has a high fever; the writing set lies idle on the table beside the cot. It is all they can do to force water over his lips. But the priest is not at home and when Bertel goes down to the wreck and calls out for him there is no sign of life inside.