Ice

by Ulla-lena Lundberg

  Of course people speculate. For example, that maybe she’s not Irina Gyllen at all but a completely different Russian, a famous spy smuggled into the country perhaps, or a defector, a female scientist that Russian agents are looking for, a person whose head is full of Russian state secrets! Someone who’s taken Irina Gyllen’s identity, with General Gyllen and his wife standing surety. Because does she really resemble them? No, not a bit. Papa Gyllen is a head shorter and stout, Mother Gyllen is taller and thinner but not like her in any other way. There is definitely something fishy, because “Irina Gyllen” speaks Swedish like a Russian.

  Undeniably. But whoever she is, she has a good name on the islands, and whoever she is, the Bolsheviks have been outsmarted and taken it in the chops. Which is excellent and makes people proud and protective. Not that she can’t take care of herself, if it comes to that.

  Yes, she can and does take care of herself, and she works hard at being normal, although it doesn’t come naturally. Out here you’re supposed to be full of fun and jokes, and that’s the hardest part for her. The loss of her sense of humour is perhaps the most striking evidence of everything she has left behind. Large parts of her are missing as she moves among the people and tries to generate interest in the local chatter, at the moment all about the newly arrived pastor and his wife. Eyewitnesses have seen him at the Co-op and shaken hands, and the Coast Guard has seen her on Church Isle—a woman with get-up-and-go. They also mention that there is a one-year-old among the household goods and give her a meaningful look, warning her in good time that she may have another expectant mother to attend to. Now every last one of them will be going to church on Sunday to hear him and have a look at her. There will be several boats going from the village, and Doctor Gyllen is heartily welcome to ride along!

  A difficult point, this. She who’s been saved from the Godless Soviet Union is supposed to throw herself into the arms of the church. Of course she’s thankful to be in a country with freedom of religion. And if she really was a stranger who’d taken on Irina Gyllen’s identity, she would be a devout member of the congregation. But Irina Gyllen doesn’t believe in God. On the contrary, she sees what has happened to Russia as proof that a benign Divine power does not exist. Truth to tell, the very young Irina Gyllen was a free-thinker even before the revolution, and what has happened since has not given her any reason to reconsider her views.

  Religion is an opium of the people. The Örlanders go to church. Irina Gyllen takes a pill. Opium is what all of us need. So in essence, perhaps, she’s a friend of the church. Here, where she lives very visibly among the people, she will stand out less if she occasionally goes to church on the big holidays or, like now, when the new priest is going to be closely examined right down to his buttonholes. She’s going to have a lot to do with him, for the pastor is usually the chairman of the Public Health Association. And the priest’s little daughter will be coming to have her regular check-ups with her mother. So why not, yes of course, she’ll go. There will be a lot of people, and she likes that better than when the pews are nearly empty and everyone looks around at her to see if she sings along and reads the general confession and how she reacts to passages that they imagine will be painful to her.

  “Yes, thank you,” she says. “I think if you have room in the boat, I’ll come.”

  Her Russian accent thickens whenever she’s conflicted. That doesn’t escape them, but they look at her sunnily and say there’s always room for the doctor, and she’s heartily welcome to ride along.

  Chapter Four

  IF THE PRIEST WERE NOT in such a howling rush, he’d be seriously nervous about his first sermon on the Örlands. He remembers it intermittently and tells himself he must take some time with it. Early in the morning. Late at night. Maybe a little while after lunch. This first time, he needs to be well prepared. Calm. Everything on paper in case he loses his way.

  But how can a person get up early when he’s gone to bed so awfully late? And how can he retreat to his study after lunch when he is responsible for so many things that have to be mended and assembled and put away, and then when an unexpected visitor comes wandering up from the church dock? That means talk, and it’s nice to have such a talkative congregation. He wouldn’t dream of sending away anyone who needed to speak to him.

  Two more days, then one. Then he begins, in a state of desperation, early in the morning. Slumps in his armchair like a dead fish and tells himself that if he digests the material thoroughly now, then his brain will work on it during the day and he’ll be able to shape it into a passable text in a few hours this evening. All day he leaps anxiously from one task to another so he will also have time to go through the procedures in church. The verger and the organist describe the traditions of the congregation and the signals to be used when necessary between the organist in the loft and the priest before the altar. The verger explains the ins and outs of bell ringing in great detail and when he mentions the priest bell, the pastor pricks up his ears.

  “The priest bell?” he asks. “What’s that?”

  The verger tells him that they observe the ancient custom of ringing the small bell when the priest arrives at the church. “Not before a quarter to and not later than ten to. I stand in the belfry and keep watch, and when I see you leave the parsonage, I start to ring the bell, and I keep ringing it until you’re through the church door. Then I climb down and come to help you get robed.”

  Both the verger and the organist look at him uneasily and the organist adds, “It’s the way we’ve always done it.”

  He sees that they’re afraid that because he’s young, he’ll think this custom is old-fashioned and set himself against it, but he smiles and says, “Of course. If that’s the way you do it, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  They look relieved, and when they rehearse the key points in the Mass with the organist at the organ, the pumper working invisibly at the bellows, the verger in his pew, and the priest at the altar, a kind of exhilaration and good fellowship spreads through the building. For when the organist gives him his note and the pastor frees his voice and sings, “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen,” the organist and the verger can hear that this priest can truly sing the Mass. The organist’s playing acquires life and reverence, and the Mass goes brilliantly while the verger does his work smartly, turning the hymn numbers for the congregation, opening the altar rail for the priest, and following him to the sacristy when he will change from his robes into his cassock during the pre-sermon hymn.

  Petter recalls that this congregation is often described as a singing congregation, and the thought makes him happy. He has already heard that the last priest’s greatest failing was that he couldn’t sing the Mass. There will be no problem in that area for Pastor Petter Kummel, who sings more readily than he preaches. The final liturgy goes swimmingly, and he feels a little chill when he remembers that when he does all this for real, tomorrow, he will already have delivered his sermon. He can only hope that he won’t be dying of shame.

  “The old priest couldn’t sing, the new priest can’t preach,” is what they’ll say. And what with one thing and another, even though Mona makes an early supper and gets Sanna to bed and tries to steer him to his study, it is dreadfully late when he sits down to work.

  And sits and sits, deep in self-contempt, thinking how much he needs someone to guide him through the key points here too, the verger and the organist, so that there will be a sermon. What is the matter with him? Why is he pleasant, collected, and wise when he has other people around him, and why does he feel only emptiness and panic when he sits down by himself to concentrate on writing a sermon?

  And sits, in a kind of panic-stricken hubris, his need to be dazzling, brilliant, unforgettable an impediment to his preaching. As if the purpose was to show off Petter Kummel rather than the Word. Which it is his duty to administer and expound.

  The Word, the Word, Pastor Kummel reminds himself over and over as the minutes pass. He looks at the texts
yet again but has so little time that he can’t manage to read them carefully. There’s nothing wrong with the lessons. It’s the lead-in that’s lacking. And the payoff, the elegant conclusion. And the brilliant discourse in the middle.

  Would he have become a priest had he known how nerve-racking it was to preach? Not a chance. When he wrote his practise sermons at the university, he thought they would flow automatically once he was free from all the supervisory eyes and acrid comments. Once he could “speak with his own voice”. So he’d believed. Word for word.

  So now here’s your chance, Pastor Kummel. Your own voice. But there is silence. He can picture himself climbing up into the pulpit, praying a little prayer and looking out over the congregation, people who are five times as critical as the theology faculty, people who have spent so much time in church that they know at once that he’s on thin ice. He opens his mouth and hopes that something will come out, but nothing does. Then he reads the day’s lesson, and when he’s done he closes his mouth. He opens it again, but nothing comes out. Then he reads the notices and gives a signal to the organist for the collection hymn. It starts up a little sloppily. There is a great agitation in the church. His first sermon—silence.

  Mona looks in. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s not.”

  “You’re too tired. We have to start going to bed in the evenings. We’re running ourselves ragged.”

  “It’s not just that I’m tired. I can’t do it. I’ve got no talent for it. I’ll have to resign the post.”

  “When we just got here? Don’t talk nonsense! Use your sermon from last autumn. Nobody here has heard it.”

  “That’s real bankruptcy, a priest recycling his sermons.”

  “It will give you an idea. It’s here in this box somewhere. Read through it calmly. Then go to bed, and during the night it will all come together. Tomorrow morning you’ll know what you’re going to say.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “Don’t be silly. Thank heaven you keep your papers in order. Here it is.”

  “Thanks, I’ll look at it. Go to bed now. I’ll be in soon.”

  He hopes she’ll fall asleep quickly, tired as she is. She’s been cleaning furiously, and baking. The whole house smells good. They’re going to have the parish council and the vestry for coffee after High Mass. How is he going to be able to look these intelligent people in the eye after his fiasco? His fiasco—there he goes again, thinking only of himself and the impression he’ll make. Instead of what he was put here to proclaim: the Word of God.

  It’s not about his own brilliance. It’s about conveying the Word, which is without blemish, the support and bulwark of every second-rate preacher. But the introduction, the personal touch that puts the text in a new light? Something to make them listen? Something from their own world, which they understand and take an interest in?

  In this specific instance, it’s the new pastor they’re interested in, however much he tries to convince himself that his own person is of no importance. Is it then wrong, is it simply ingratiating to say things they want to hear, to talk about his first impressions of the parish?

  This thought fills him with strong, clear pictures and he knows what he will say. And he is calm, not deceptively calm, but calm enough to sleep. He looks at last year’s sermon with new eyes, sees that he can use bits of it after his new introduction. It’s going to work.

  Almost unconscious, he staggers into bed. Mona is already asleep, clearly not as nervous as he. It is soothing that she seems to think he’ll manage. It’s far too late for him to get up early, but he’ll still have time to think through the text and get it under control.

  Or so he thinks, the simpleton. Because in the morning, Papa has to mind Sanna while Mama does the milking, and Sanna is not the kind of person you can just dump in a crib and close the door. On top of which, Sanna is irresistible when she has Papa to herself. She smiles and chirps and puts her cheek against his, and he thinks that he must be allowed to spend a few minutes every day with his daughter. What does it say about his Christianity if he won’t let his own child come to him?

  Then Mona comes back in a rush, changes clothes and bangs about setting the table. No miracle occurs in his study. He gathers up his prayer book, the parish announcements, his old sermon, his new ideas jotted down as notes. He’ll have time to glance through them before it’s time to go, he thinks, but then there’s a commotion in the passage where someone has wrenched open the swollen door. Because the church handles all vital statistics and the parish record-keeping, people bring their administrative business to him right before the Sunday service, since Church Isle is a bit out of the way and now here they are anyway.

  Perfectly understandable, and once you’re aware of it, you can make allowances, but this first time it’s unexpected. He hurries to his study door and meets the man with a smile, because he can hear that Mona is not very welcoming. “Come right in!” he says warmly, although she’s in the act of saying this isn’t a good time. And when the matter has been dealt with—and the good cheer and the high hopes—it appears that the clock has taken a jump and it’s time to put on his cassock and collar. Mona helps him, proudly. The cassock was tailored at considerable cost and fits him very well! He’s told her about the priest bell, and she keeps a close eye on the clock so she can send him off at a quarter to. She’ll follow along with Sanna a bit later. Of course she wants to be there for his first High Mass and to see the congregation. She’s more nervous than he knows. It’s important that he should see her calm and without misgivings. If only he could organize his time so he was better prepared!

  The church bells have already rung at ten-thirty, a lovely racket in the clear air. At a quarter to eleven, they see the verger climb into the bell tower again, and so he takes his Bible, his prayer book, papers, and notes and gets ready to go. Faint-heartedly, he prays a silent prayer that all will go well, a schoolboy’s timorous prayer for help in a fix for which he can blame no one but himself. Sanna whines and wants to go with him, and Mama is angry. “Hush, Sanna! You can’t come to church at all if you can’t be quiet!”

  It feels like when the first Christians were driven out into the arena, except they were heartened by confidence and faith. He is fearful and timid, a poor servant of Our Lord. Unworthy of his calling, he opens the door and walks out onto the steps.

  Such a lot of people already gathered in the churchyard! He stands for a moment on the steps and sees a steady stream of people walking up from the boats past the parsonage. When they see him on the steps, they leave a space for him, and he moves out into it. The priest bell starts to ring.

  Only the small bell, as the verger said, and it tolls more sparely than the rich sound of the two bells swinging together. As the pastor walks and the bell rings, he becomes another person. He lays aside Sanna’s screaming and Mona’s scolding. Mona’s nervous silence, her hopes that it will all go well. He sets aside his ego, his fear of inadequacy, of making a fool of himself, of being criticized and mocked. He is no longer his own imperfect self, he is the congregation’s shepherd, who unravels mysteries for them and provides them with the means of grace. He walks towards the church the way priests on this island have been doing since the Reformation, maybe even in the days of the cloister.

  He reaches the gate and walks up the gravel path, and although there is a great crowd of people, he is always surrounded by open space. As long as the bell rings, no one speaks to him, and he stops to speak to no one, smiles just slightly, and bows his head. The church door is open, and as he steps across the threshold, the bell tolls for the last time.

  The church seems larger now that it begins to fill with people, the ceiling higher, the choir loft farther away. The air inside is so thick that he feels he must push his way through. The verger has left the door to the sacristy ajar. The priest puts his books down on the table and sees that his robes are ready—a white alb, a purple chasuble with a cross embroidered in gold. The verger hurries in followed by t
he organist with fresh sea air in his clothes. They greet him and speak to him differently than on Saturday. They look at his collar rather than make eye contact. Today they treat him like a priest.

  “It’s going to be full today,” the organist says and rubs his hands, perhaps with delight, but maybe just because they’re cold and he has to play the organ. In low voices, they exchange words about the different parts of the service— that they’ll have to start the collection hymn over from the beginning if the verger can’t finish in time, and that they’ll have to be prepared for at least two settings of the Communion table. The priest asks the Lord to bless their devotions, and the organist goes to his loft, very nervous, as the priest notes to his surprise. He is so young that he thinks that he alone is tormented and uncertain, whereas all the others must surely be calm, confident in themselves and in their duties.

  The verger really is calm, always ready to offer support and to explain how things are done in this parish. The priest puts the wide alb on over his head and the chasuble on top. Silently, the verger hands him a comb so he can smooth his hair. They look at the clock and the verger peeks out—full. And more coming up the hill. He notes that the ones who live closest to the church have the most trouble arriving on time.

  It’s almost time, and the verger goes off to ring the congregation to the service. Now both bells are working together beautifully, and the sound is powerful and seductively bright. He must remember to tell the verger he rings the bells well. And when the bells have been tolling for several minutes, the organ starts to play. He can hear the bellows pumping all the way into the sacristy, the hissing and wheezing before the machinery has warmed up and the organist has laid his hands on the keyboard. He begins with arabesques on the processional theme, variations from the hymnal, soothing, enveloping, while the coughing and rustling continue down in the church. But when the verger starts to sing “Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven”, everyone joins in.