The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (59 page)

His bread is all but gone and the chipwood box given to him by Madame Therkelsen – filled with pickled meat, cheese, sausage, oats and dried peas – will soon be empty. He continues along the same track he has followed for some days; perhaps it leads from a disused mine, he thinks to himself, since it passes no houses or other structures. He decides to ration what provision he has remaining and goes hungry to bed. He is still in the fells, but can tell by the trees, which are taller and less gnarled, that he has descended. The sun has been out and the weather has remained dry since the night it snowed. He is now certain he is going in an easterly direction. In the middle of the day, ten days after saying farewell to the farmer, he spies some clearings upon an esker in the distance. They can be made only by human hand. He feels his heart quicken, then senses that he is not eager to see people again, to hear himself negotiate for shelter and food, to explain where he is from and where he is going. To use their privies, wash in their basins, eat from their plates. To be polite and receive politeness in return. To bring his person and its inexorable smells and sounds into the private domain of others, and to be equally exposed to their own. The triviality of it all. He has felt himself to be in good harmony with his body these past days, passing wind when it suited him, pulling down his breeches to defecate without modesty. But he knows he has begun to smell rather rank and that he has acquired habits approaching base nature, which he must quell if he is to be a guest in someone's house. Preferably he would sleep in the hay of a barn.

There lies a small village at the foot of the esker where he has spotted the clearings in the forest. A handful of houses scattered at each side of the track. The meadows are enclosed by wattle fencing; horses, cows and goats graze peacefully. Some of them lift their heads and watch him as he approaches. A horse whinnies gently, perhaps a kindly welcome, perhaps a warning to its owners. There are no people to be seen.

Among tall weeping birches is a house of two storeys with a dozen shining windows. A manor farm. He crosses the front, where clucking hens disperse with flapping wings, goes up to the front door and knocks. He finds it to be ajar. He remains standing for a moment, then steps inside, hesitantly calling out, though without reply. He ventures further inside, into a kitchen where a pot stands simmering on top of a large stove. It smells of meat and herbs. Beneath the ceiling a cloud of steam has accumulated. On the table are the remains of a meal and some tall glasses with dregs of ale in them. Three plates. He picks up a crust of bread, dabs it quickly in some solidified fat and stuffs it into his mouth.

He hears a woman's voice behind him, swallows and wipes his mouth. He turns round. In front of him stands a tall woman in an apron, her hair tucked into a blue scarf. In one hand she holds a gardening tool, still with clods of soil on it. She looks straight at him and is clearly on her guard, her eyes at once both inhospitable and accommodating, yet quite without indignation at his standing in her kitchen and munching her food.

Would the gentleman be looking for someone?

He clears his throat, in doubt as to whether he will be able to control his voice. I do apologize. The door was open. My name is Morten Falck. Magister Falck, he adds impulsively.

And where on earth has the Magister come from?

From Bergen.

On foot?

Over the fells. He waves his hand in the direction of the forest.

Ah, a wanderer? Somewhere there is laughter in her voice.

For want of a complete answer he changes the subject. Where is this place I have come to, I wonder? he enquires and finds the frivolous, Norwegian Morten Falck he used to know so well to be reunited with him here on the eastern face of the fells.

The place is called Ådalen, she says. Eight Norwegian miles to the east lies Vinje.

Telemarken?

She nods. Where was the Magister thinking of going on foot? She smiles.

He tells her.

Winter will soon be here, says the woman. The summer has been unusually long this year, the harvest has been the best in memory, but the old folk say the winter will be as hard. Not that I credit the old dodderers with any ability to forecast the weather. But that is what they say. She pauses, noting that he has no immediate comment to make. In any circumstance you ought to put off going on until the spring, now that you have negotiated the fells in one piece.

My aged father is waiting for me.

Mr Falck can at least have something to eat. He must be hungry after such a journey. She stifles a smirk, clears the table and puts out some cold remains in front of him. I am cooking a capon, she tells him with a nod towards the pot that stands simmering. I do hope the smell of it does not take away the Magister's appetite.

He is already at work devouring the food.

The woman's name is Gunhild Krøger and she hails from Kristiansand. Her husband, a wealthy farmer, died some years before, leaving her to inherit all that he owned, having no descendants or brothers to carry on the place. Now she runs the farm herself, though on a smaller scale. Much of the land has been leased out, some of the fields lie fallow, the livestock reduced to a small number of milch cows that secure a steady income throughout the year, two hundred sheep pro ­viding wool and meat, and a score of hens to supply the household with eggs. Moreover, she grows some barley and has begun to experiment with potatoes.

Falck sets about lending a hand in the running of the farm, in exchange for lodging in one of the widow Krøger's rooms. He helps in the harvesting of winter apples and the last of the beet. He allows the labourer to order him about. There is plenty to be done. He waters the animals, mucks out the stalls, washes the milk basins. He milks the cows and is praised for his good skill. The best time of his day is in the morning when he goes sleepily into the byre with a bucket in each hand and seats himself upon the three-legged stool, leans his brow against the belly of a cow and speaks softly to it, feels the smooth teats slip between his finger and thumb, and hears the pointed, rhythmic jet of milk as it strikes the bottom of the bucket. He eats with the farm folk in the long dining room beyond the kitchen, with Madame Krøger at the head of the table. He gives thanks for their food and the good and decent people chorus, Amen! It is his only task as clergyman. The rest of the time he is allowed to be as unpriestly as he wishes. Madame Krøger asks no questions. No one enquires about Greenland or his past. It does not interest them. He is relieved by the fact, albeit a little disappointed.

In November he goes into the fells with the labourer and some other men, who have been hired for the occasion, to gather and shepherd Madame Krøger's sheep back to the farm. The job takes a week. The young herding girls, who have spent a whole summer in solitude, chirp joyfully at the prospect of returning to their families in the valley. Falck asks one of them if it is not a strain to be isolated for such a long time. There's always company to be had for those who want it, she replies mysteriously. And besides, there's always the animals. One of the girls is clearly pregnant. No one comments upon it.

Madame Krøger confides in him: I suffer dreadfully from cold feet. Sometimes I wish to stick them in the kettle.

Falck makes noises of sympathy.

My blessed husband gave me no children, the Madame continues. He possessed habits which unfortunately rendered it impossible.

He does not enquire into the nature of these habits. Instead he offers to warm her feet and sits down in front of her with them in his lap.

He asks the Madame's age and she says about the same as the Magister's.

Both were born in 1756, she a month earlier than he. He says he feels as though he could be her father. I have travelled far and lived many lives. Madame Krøger's life would appear to have been more stable.

I suppose it seems that way, she says. But like the Magister I feel detached from the person I once was, the carefree, frolicsome girl who went about Kristiansand twirling her skirts. Not much is left of her.

It is evening. The labourer and the maid have retired for the night.

I am not unattractive to you, am I, Magister Falck?

He squeezes her toe. Not at all, Madame Krøger. Why ever would you think such a thing?

Oh, I don't know. It is something a woman may feel when she lacks a man. Uncertainty. You have soft hands, she says. Priestly hands.

Thank you.

I must decide what to do with the young heifer, she says pensively. Is she to be slaughtered or should I bring the neighbour's bull to her?

The bull, he says. Let the poor animal live and have some fun from life.

He goes to her chamber, she raises herself on to her elbows, draws aside the cover and, when he climbs in beside her, she wraps herself around him. She trembles and whimpers and twines her freezing feet in his own.

I will be kind to you, Magister. I just need to warm my feet first.

And then they are together. It soon becomes a habit. Madame Krøger's feet are warmed.

The workers know what is going on and it would seem not only that it finds their acceptance, but also that they expect him to settle here perma­nently. It's no good for women of her age to be alone, says the labourer. They become too exacting. He laughs. He is enjoying his own little adventure with the maid, who has only just been confirmed and is scarcely half his age.

Madame Krøger is a good friend. She asks no questions; she allows him to be without a past and demands of him no future. She laughs when he tries to be funny, though often his wit is feeble. A humourist he is not. She is patient and helpful beneath the covers and she tells him he is a wonderful lover. It prompts him to make greater efforts.

She is not beautiful, yet her face is harmonious and pleasing, her hair long and smooth and very thick. She smells of the day's work, the baking of bread, the boiling of apples, the curdling of milk into whey, examinations of pregnant livestock, the slaughtering of hens, the tending of horses. It reminds him faintly of the urine tubs and blubber pots, while retaining its own distinct character of Norwegian interior. In the evenings she squats down over a bowl and washes herself below, while he stands watching her. He is fond of it. He takes the bowl out and empties it for her when she is done. They retire together.

Life proceeds under these new circumstances. He milks the cows, feeds the hens, argues good-naturedly with the labourer, lends an ear to the maid's concerns and comforts her by telling her that if it feels right, then it is right, and if it does not, it must cease.

It feels right.

Then you have no cause for concern, my child. The Lord sees the purity of your heart.

Will Mr Falck marry us?

I am not a priest, he says. I have cast my vestments.

But the Magister could still marry us, in the name of the Lord?

And so he does, in the finest room of the big house. The labourer and the maid stand holding hands before him; he freshly shaven and lustrous from soap and water, hair wetted and combed, whiskers waxed; she small and demure and very solemn. He performs the ceremony and they make their vows. The Madame has roasted a duck. The groom soaks up the fat from his plate with bread and must subsequently retire to bed with a stomach ache.

I am with child, says the girl.

Indeed, says the Madame. It will be nice with some life in the house.

They drink to her health and congratulate her.

I was born out of wedlock, she says. Such a fate will not befall my own child.

You have a good husband, says Madame Krøger.

Sometimes he thinks of his years in Copenhagen. They have come nearer since his leaving Greenland. Who am I, exactly? he wonders. Why do I feel at home here, among complete strangers? Had I turned left in the forest, where then would I have ended up? Is my life nothing but chance?

He writes to his father and receives a swift reply, only a couple of weeks into the new year. He looks forward to seeing him again, his father writes, if he is still in the land of the living by then. His travelling chest has arrived undamaged; he may come any time he likes. He does not seem to be in any hurry to see me, Falck thinks. His father's letter provides a lengthy account of the infirmities of old age, written in a firm hand, a confident, legible script, encompassing all manner of detail as to his symptoms, the turning blue of his nails, dizziness, chronic fatigue,
aches and pains throughout my entire body
, the usual.
My life is most certainly soon at its end! Alas, to be left alone is the heaviest burden of all!
This persistent mention of being alone. Falck writes back and tells him that he intends to come home in the spring or early summer. His father's complaining has annoyed him. He snaps at the labourer and when the labourer is too cheerful to take notice, he snaps at Madame Krøger. She takes him aside and comforts him.

I wish very much to remain here, he says.

No one is chasing you away, she says.

Snow bending the branches of the trees. Snow piling up on the roof, so that Falck must climb up with the labourer and shovel it away. Snow falling gently, great flakes of it. Snow making the stillness still and the silence nameless. In the new year there is much of it. The wheels of the horse-drawn vehicles are replaced by runners; the horses themselves shod with snow shoes, so as not to sink in the depths. Madame Krøger is as pale as alabaster, though comely. When he lifts up her blouse, her shining breasts appear, two white orbs as firm as hard-boiled eggs. There is little work to do, besides milking the cows and feeding the livestock. And shovelling snow. Sometimes he accompanies Madame Krøger and the labourer on their trips to Vinje with the milk. He wanders about the town, while she takes care of her errands, and feels himself warm amid the snow, feels himself to be as white and still as snow inside.

Through the valley runs a river, in places widening to create a succession of small lakes like pearls on a string. One of these lakes lies below the house. In February, when some light has returned and the icicles hanging from the eves have yet to start dripping, the labourer clears a circle on the lake, ties skates to his feet and runs upon the ice. Madame Krøger joins him. Falck hears her laughter. He goes to the window and looks out on them. They dance and glide, forwards and back, in figures of eight and other patterns, drawing away from each other, then coming together again. Madame Krøger skates in a long dress, her feet cannot be seen; she floats, keeping her back straight, rather than leaning forward like the labourer, holding her head high, arms behind her back, scarf fluttering behind her. She turns and he can see how the manoeuvre increases her speed; he hears the blades as they cut through the ice, throwing up spray in their wake. The labourer catches up with her, he grasps her left elbow and they glide together in a wide arc, veering off as they near the drift current, where vapour issues from the thin and mushy ice, then return. His arms swing like pendulums; she smooths along, proudly upright. They skate for a long time. The maid comes and stands beside him. They watch them together. He takes her hand and she squeezes it tight. She leans in to him and rests her other hand on her swelling abdomen.