The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (53 page)

And when I then said nothing, she took my silence to be acceptance and described to me in detail how she would go up on to the cliff to sit down and wait for me, that we might release each other from our mutual bonds.

And thus now my soul has as much need of the Lord's mercy and absolution as the widow's own.

15 August, the Assumption

A visit at long last to Madame Kragstedt, who, it seems, has been waiting for me these past two weeks. She offered me a glass and said: Magister Falck, will you forgive me if I have one myself? Partake as you wish, Madame, I replied kindly, having already heard talk of her present condi­tion. And not one or two, but indeed several did the good lady consume during my time with her, though without it affecting her in any visible manner.

A sorrowful visit.

A no more cheerful visit to the Trader's office this afternoon.

The widow is dead. The Trader informed me of it and looked upon me with an inquisitive smile as he spoke. Though my surprise was, of course, acting – and of the most demanding kind – I nonetheless felt overwhelmed with grief at hearing the words uttered in the small space of the office. As such grief indeed overwhelms me once more as I write! And now there is no reason to play-act, for I am quite solitary.

.  .  .

They found her at the shore, drowned and badly mutilated, having been dashed against the rocks. This, then, was her fate. I pray that the ship will soon be here with my successor that he may take care of the funeral. I have entered her name in the book of the christened. It is my final kindly nod to the widow. Thereby, she is entitled to a Christian burial. She was an unhappy and deceitful person in need of forgiveness, and that shall be my epitaph for her. My forgiveness she must wait for, as I am not yet ready to bestow it.

.  .  .

Have received abundant provisions from the Overseer, including one pot and a half of aquavit and good meat. The widow is here. All well!

16 August, evening

It is complete. The ship has arrived this midday with my successor, Magister Olaus Landstad of Finnmark, a man of good health and seem­ingly of solid constitution, with Lapp blood in his veins, I think, which the climate of this land and the Danish living will almost certainly soon put to the test. Which is to say that upon the order of our bishop he is to travel immediately on to Holsteinsborg to succeed the now deceased Missionary Oxbøl. I shall wisely remain silent as to the missionary's demise.

But Sukkertoppen has from this year onward no longer a pastor, and at the resolution of the eminent college none is to be called here again. Magister Landstad has thus a considerably expansive district to frequent, his parish now encompassing both the Holsteinsborg and Sukkertoppen colonies, and I predict that he will hardly be able to conduct regular supervision of it all. Thereby, my friend Maria Magdalene and her faithless husband will, I hope, henceforth enjoy peace in which to live without interference from us Danes. Who knows, perhaps the reveries and notions of liberation will be rekindled and once again ignite the Greenlanders, that they may emerge as a free and independent people!

Magister Landstad has been informed by the Kollegium of these despicable prophets and he questions me eagerly on the matter, prom­ising solemnly that he will make sure their ungodly activities are swiftly brought to an end. I wish him the best of luck!

One of his first duties, however, will be to inter the widow, of which matter I have already informed him. I wish neither to see her nor follow her to the grave!

Alas, it is true! My dear sister is no more; my father informs me of it in his letter. But I saw you, Kirstine, you were one of the saved, and my sorrow will be tinged by the joyous knowledge thereof.

The good ship
Charlotta
sets sail for Bergen in little more than a week. Thereby I will in short time make passage directly to the land of my birth, and hereby I conclude this journal.

Morten Falck

Missionary, Sukkertoppen Mission Station, 1787–93

Departed 24 August 1793

The Eleventh Commandment

Harpoon (1791–
3)

What does God declare concerning all these commandments? Answer: He says thus: I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniq­uity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me; and shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments. What does this imply? Answer: That God threatens to punish all such as transgress these com- mandments. We should therefore fear His wrath and not sin against these commandments. But He promises grace and all blessings to all such as keep them. We ought, therefore, also to love Him and trust in Him and cheerfully obey His commandments.

Harpoon!

The hatch is flung open: a red-bearded face appears, roaring. Look sharp, you two scoundrels, or I'll have the both of you keel­hauled all the way home to Aberdeen!

Harpoon leaps to his feet. Joe follows him on to the deck. It is pitch-black; some torches illuminate the foredeck. The moon pitches like the seasickness towards the horizon in the west, casting darkness rather than light, and yet causing the sails to appear luminously leaden and grey. The entire crew is up; they look worn out from the watch and agitated; they run up and down the ladders, colliding in the confusion, yelling instruc­tions to each other.

Easy now, the captain growls on the bridge.

The first mate stands at the portside bulwark. He endeavours to direct the men.

Joe grunts something in his own language, or perhaps merely grunts.

Harpoon says, Stick to me, Joe.

Aye. The big man puts a hand on his shoulder.

The captain sees them. He beckons. Come here, lads!

They go up on to the foredeck.

He stands with his telescope, though it can be little use in the dark. His clay pipe protrudes from the corner of his mouth, his lip curls around the mouthpiece. But the captain seems happy: his eyes sparkle in the torchlight. He points into the darkness. Harpoon narrows his eyes and stares. He hears rather than sees it, the curve of a back ripping a gash in the waves, the spout projected high into the air. Joe expels some small sounds; he shuffles eagerly on the deck planks.

A bowhead, says the captain, and peers into his telescope, vigilant and yet detached. The Greenland whale. And a splendid one it is. Ready by the boats. We'll have bowhead chops for breakfast.

Ready, the boatswain replies, a low voice beneath the bridge, and the order echoes over the darkened deck behind him.

Ready, lads? the captain enquires. He fixes his eyes on Harpoon and Joe.

Yessir, says Harpoon.

He puts on the greasy, foul-smelling suit. Joe helps him cord it at the neck and hands, checks to make sure it is tight enough. Then the noose is pulled down over his shoulders and fastened around his chest. Joe grasps the other end and tugs. They exchange glances, a faint and knowing smile. Harpoon takes the weapons, a lance fixed upon a long wooden shaft, and a small barbed trident, which he ties to his wrist.

Ready, he says.

Aye, Joe grunts and tugs again on the rope.

The hunt is on. Because of the darkness they delay lowering the rowing boats and try instead to tire the beast by means of the ship itself. Harpoon bides his time. They toy with the whale, or it toys with them, the truth of the matter remains as yet unclear. It arches its back and spouts in anger, dives, surfaces again and thrashes the sea into foam, barging the ship and causing it to shudder.

A playful fella, says the mate in acknowledgement, and the crew laugh tensely.

They stay close to the whale, firing at it with flintlocks, never allowing it peace, hounding it so that it submerges only briefly and with longer intervals between. The sails are set, the ship careens in the seaway, its swallow-tailed flag up above smacking in the darkness, the sea crashing over the deck and retreating again in a rush about the crew's ankles. The mate yells hoarsely and barks out commands; the captain stands and observes, utterly collected.

Get those bloody cloths tightened! the mate bellows.

The crew are at the winches, boot by boot, and tighten with all their might.

Steady, says the captain. His clay pipe is a red, pulsating glow in the murk. His arms are raised slightly at his sides.

A couple of hours pass.

The spout of the whale sounds different; the beast is out of breath and afraid. It is only a pair of ship's lengths ahead and knows it can no longer escape.

Steady now, for God's sake! the mate barks from the rear.

Harpoon looks up at the moon and thinks: Do you see the moon tonight, too, my boy? Do you know which of us will win? The ship or the whale?

Slack the sails, says the captain.

Slack, slack, slack! yells the mate.

Slack those fuckin' sails! a hand echoes.

You hold your filthy tongue and mind your work! the mate barks back at him.

The crew laugh, their teeth and eyes gleam white in the dark.

The sails tug on the screaming winches, they flap in the wind, smack ­ing and cracking like whips. The boom sweeps back and forth across the deck, the crew ducking as one, and then the sails are taut again and the ship leans lazily to port and begins to drift.

Harpoon stands calmly and waits his turn. Joe stands at his side, trem­bling with excitement and hunger for meat. He feels the heavy hand upon his shoulder.

The captain makes a gesture and in a tone that sounds almost resigned he says: You may lower the boats.

The squeal of the winches is followed by three consecutive splashes as the boats hit the water. The men follow, tumbling over the bulwark and down the ladders. They push off, the oarsmen take the strain, and at once all is still and concentrated. Harpoon stands in the bow of the first boat, the captain's boat. He stares into the darkness; he listens; he breathes in the air. Behind him stands Joe with a firm grip on the line. He feels rather than sees the whale some boat's lengths in front of the stem; he feels the idle vortex made by its tail; he feels the fatigue inside its head, its death wish. He understands this animal. He wishes he could change places with it. He feels how they close in on it with every stroke of the oars, and he counts down, five, four, three, two and flings the harpoon with all his might.

The seamen rest on their oars. They have all heard the harpoon strike, the hollow, satisfying thud of the blade as it tears into skin and flesh, and they keep their distance from the line as it runs from its holder, so as not to be dragged out with it.

Direct hit, says the captain, who is seated in the stern. Haul her in.

Haul her in! the mate yells from one of the other boats.

The boat begins to careen to port, the men lean to starboard; they unwind the line and fold it around the barrel-shaped holder on the floor of the boat.

Here she comes, says the captain. Fire your rifles.

The whale emerges, gasping from its blowhole. From all three boats flintlocks crack, muzzle-flare flashes red and white in the darkness, cascades of blood and blubber spray out in all directions. By the vibra­tions the line implants to the hull of the boat, the men can feel the beast recoil with every round that strikes it.

Then it is still, yet everyone knows this is the most perilous moment of the hunt; it is during these seconds that the animal decides who is to win, the ship or the whale. Harpoon awaits his order, but the order is unforthcoming.

Now the animal thrashes its tail again; it arches its back, leaps and thrusts itself down into the depths, and the men yell in alarm, Slack! Slack! The line whistles down from the gunwale at an acute angle, a spray of water fanning in its wake.

Just let her go one last time, says the captain calmly. And they allow several hundred fathoms of line to run over the side. Then it is slack once more and the men begin to haul her in.

Harpoon hears the ship behind him, not far away; he hears the keel draw up the sea as it rises, then release and sink into the waves again. They lie on its lee side, sheltered slightly from the seaway. He sees the lanterns swinging in their holders and the figures standing at the bulwark, peering out towards him. He never knows if he will return to them or if the whale will win.

There is not a single command that would make sense at this moment, only a quiet prayer that the line or the harpoon head will not break or the boat be overturned.

The whale appears again, alongside the rowing boat. It emits a hollow groan from its blowhole, and saltwater, slime and blood showers down upon them.

Harpoon!

He has no idea who gives the command, nor does he care. He knows what he must do and the time is now. He stands in the bow and stares into the darkness; he hears the water foam along the flanks of the beast; he tries to ascertain exactly where it lies, listens for the gurgle of its blow­hole, and then he hears the captain's inexorable command once more; he feels the kind yet resolute shove of Joe's hand against his back and he leaps.

He lands not on the whale but in the water alongside it. It thrashes in alarm, lashes its tail and prepares to dive again, an action that must at all costs be prevented. He thrusts the trident into its flank and clambers on to its back. The animal twists and lunges, its tail whips in rage. He gets up on to his knees on the slippery smoothness of its hind and feels for the line, a firm hold, but must cling to the trident. His mouth is full of seawater and blood. He makes his way forward, along the back of the whale, as clumsy as a beached walrus, then rises to his full height amid the frigid spray that issues from the wheezing blowhole; he plunges the harpoon downwards, feels how firmly it lodges in the flesh. He calls back to the boat and they tighten his line.

Now get your Eskimo arse back here! they say.

The whale tries to squirm free. It has been harpooned by all three boats now; the lines slacken, then sing as they tighten, a loud and thrum­ming vibrato, and Harpoon ducks so as not to get caught up in them and perhaps lose a limb; he is plunged into the water again, has no choice, vanishes below the surface, into the silence of the sea, where sound is woollen and motion is slow and up and down are of no consequence, and there he senses the maelstrom of the whale as it endeavours to rotate around its axis and tear itself free; he hears the stifled shouts of the crew, hears how the whale slams against the boat, causing its wooden frame to groan, then everything slows, he becomes limp and listless, his arms paddle feebly for a moment until he submits, his grip on the trident lost, and he is indifferent.

And then he is on the deck of the ship, heaving and vomiting seawater. Joe is bent over him, untying the line around his chest.

All right?

All right, says Harpoon. Help me out of this suit and bring me my whisky.

He is the suicide man who cannot die. Again and again he plunges into the sea from one of the rowing boats belonging to
Henrietta of Aberdeen
, and each time he is resurrected, covered in slime and blood, as on the day he was born. He squirms on the deck, coughing and shivering with cold as the crew laugh at him, prodding him playfully with the toes of their heavy sea boots and call him a bloody devil. Whereupon he is given his whisky and sent to his cot. He knows he is lucky. He was asleep when they found him on the open sea, hunched forward in his kayak; they threw a noose around him and pulled him in. Since then he has plunged into the waters and been dragged up again more times than he cares to recall. It is an arduous business, time and again to expose oneself to death and yet remain alive. The boy died easily. He lay still on his cot and went out like a tallow lamp. Harpoon cannot even catch a cold.

The crew have several names for him.
Harpoon
is for his function on board.
Mutie
is for his silence and reserve. And
Phantom
was given him at the time he was caught in the light of the ship's lantern, drifting upon the sea in his little kayak.

He sleeps below deck with the bearded wild man who is as silent as himself, a man who lets out an occasional grunt of annoyance, now and then perhaps a laugh. His face is kind, his body good and warm to lie up against in the cold of the bow, its planks joined with ice. He sleeps a lot. Days may pass during which nothing happens on deck and the only thing a person can do is to sleep. The captain has some books, but the crew does not read; they consider reading to be a thing for women and land­lubbers. Harpoon thinks of his life as a book. It is a book whose script is half erased and whose illustrations are faded and unclear. For each day that passes, and for each time he plunges into the sea, then to be resur­rected, more blank pages appear in his book. He staggers about on deck, staring in at the coast without knowing whose coast it is, then returns down below to snuggle up to Joe.

The sea has been rough for some time, but the wind dies down and the sails hang limp while the sea below them swells ominously. In calm, with the ship lying like a dead weight upon the surface, they row about in the boats on the lookout for whales. Harpoon jumps on to the back of them and kills them; he falls in the water, drowns, is resurrected and concludes his job with a glass of whisky. He joins in the work of cutting the blubber and removing the jawbones of the bowhead, and when, on occasion, they catch a sperm whale he puts in his share of effort removing the head from the body and winching it on to the deck, where they puncture the spermaceti organ and tap the wax. They send him into the whale's insides, where he may sit and ponder like Jonah, eventually to emerge with lumps of ambergris, a hard fatty substance secreted in the animal's intestines and destined to perfume the folds of European women's skin and their most intimate places.

The wild man works with him; they are treated as one by the crew, like brothers. But he knows as little about Joe as the rest of the men, and does not understand a word of his language. All he knows is that he can trust him, and that he keeps a tight hold of the rope and hauls him unfailingly back on to deck again. Joe does not take to the water; he is far too big and clumsy, and something about him says he fears it. He is hesitant about entering the boat, and in a strong sea he appears nervous and keeps to the middle of the deck. Harpoon has no idea where he is from. Certainly he is not a Greenlander, nor is he European. His fingers are as soft as silk from the daily work with whale fat; he strokes Harpoon's cheek when they lie down to sleep. Sometimes he whimpers in the night, his legs twitch, he chomps and makes sounds that could be words in his own language, whatever it might be. Harpoon pats him on the arm and speaks soothingly to him; sometimes he says the Lord's Prayer. The wild man sleeps peacefully again.