Chapter Seven
He says it’s fun to be on the move and happily jumps aboard and comes with me to visit the priest at Mellom, his closest colleague. The engine thumps along and we stand and talk while he looks around and asks me to repeat the names of the islands in the order we pass them, because that will be useful to know when he gets his own motorboat and can make the trip under his own power.
He’s already good friends with Brage Söderberg and is very impressed with what he knows. “You’ve got to have unbelievable concentration if you’re going to make it through the islands in fog and darkness the way Brage does, using only a clock and a compass, and be certain that you’re exactly where you’ve reckoned you ought to be. That’s what I call competence. It’s almost uncanny. Of course you have to have grown up out here.”
“Yes, you only learn that from experience.”
“But not from experience alone. It takes a special focus, I think. I’m sure you’ll agree that not everyone can learn to do it. You can live your whole life out here without the slightest idea of how long it takes between islands at whatever speed you’re travelling.”
“A lot of people are good at that. Not many as good as Brage.”
“I’d go anywhere with him. And with you, too. I hear you’ve pretty much seen it all.”
“Well, I’ve seen a bit. But to tell you the truth, before I go out I can see how it’s going to be. When the bays are frozen, for example, I see where the ice is rotten and where the currents are running. I’ve never fallen through the ice, not yet. Because I go where I’ve seen the ice will hold, and I come home all in one piece.”
He sounds, how should I put it, reverential. “You mean you know these parts so well you can see the tricky spots ahead of you?”
“That, too. But also that I can see how it’s going to be.”
“Do you have what they call second sight?”
“Yes, nearly everyone does in my family. There’s nothing special about it. You see what’s going to happen. You can’t change it. I knew my old lady was going to die. Signs and warnings everywhere, but nothing I could do anything about. When I’m going out on the water it’s a little different. Then it’s more active, like a collaboration. I keep my eyes open and I’m told how things are. Then it’s up to me if I pay attention to what I’ve seen or just do what I want.”
Reverence again. “You mean it’s like a higher guidance? Like a guardian angel?”
“Yes, you could say that, yes. I don’t doubt there are guardian angels. But I can tell you that there are powers out here that were old when Jesus was young.”
“How do you mean?” he asks. Not the way you ask in order to keep the conversation going but because he wants to know. We can both see out, so it’s perfectly natural that we don’t need to look at each other, and the watches are long out here so you don’t have to worry that you’ll run out of time.
“I see it like this, that when Jesus was young and out on the Sea of Galilee, there were powers out on the lake that were ancient. The people who’d grown up there knew about them and had run into them in certain situations. Jesus was an outsider. When he saw where his disciples should cast their nets, he thought it came from God, but it was from them, out on the lake. They realized that this man was something special, and they let him see. And he was the sort of man who saw. And who do you think it was who let him walk on water? It wasn’t God.”
The priest stares straight ahead. The bay is as smooth as glass, and the thumping of the engine echoes between the islands. “Have you ever felt their presence?”
“We all did, back in the days when we sailed. Back then, you couldn’t use your engine to outrun the weather, you had to keep your eyes and ears open. The whole world was full of signs. They told you when you should run for home before the storm caught you. They showed you where the fish were. They woke you up so you didn’t oversleep. They were there all the time, but you had to interpret them and understand them.”
“Have you seen them, ever?”
“Yes indeed. Old codgers dressed in hides who stand up on land and signal you to make it home as fast as you can. They warn you about storms. At first you think it’s some old guy from some other village, but when you sail around the island you don’t see a boat anywhere, and the old man has vanished so completely that you think you dreamed it. Nodded off and dreamed it. But several times I put the helm hard over and sailed for home leaving my herring nets to their fate, and every time the seas nearly swamped me before I was back in the lea of my own island.”
The priest looks deep in thought about something, but I go on. “It often seems to me that the ones you can see, they’re among the very youngest. They’re like human beings, and they know what it’s like to be unprotected on the sea when there’s a storm lurking. They know how we live, and they help us. There you’ve got your guardian angels, almost. But the much older ones, they’re more difficult. They don’t understand you, because they’ve been in their world such a long time that they don’t really know what it’s like to be human any more. They’re curious, and you can tell they’re all around you, as if they’d really like to know what it would be like to be in your shoes, but they don’t always understand that you’re about to get yourself in trouble. Sometimes they do nothing, although they could have reached out a hand and saved your life.
“I remember one time when I was out with my herring boat at night. It wasn’t exactly a storm, but there was a heavy sea. Pulling and sucking like mad. I wasn’t worried because my motor was running like a sewing machine, and I was keeping a good distance from those steep cliffs on Klobbar. But there was a terrible power in the waves, and even though I was steering seawards I was being drawn in steadily towards the land. It was pitch-black, but I could hear the way we were getting sucked closer and closer, that horrible gulping sound from the cliffs and the short rattling echo of the motor. I could feel in my gut how the cliffs were pulling me in, in spite of my steering away at full speed.
“The whole time, I felt there was someone right behind me. Curious as hell, the way they are when something’s up, as if he thought it would be interesting to see what happened when we were driven onto the rocks. You can’t talk to them, because I think they come from a time when they didn’t talk like us. They don’t understand what you say, so you have to get them to respond on some other level. I was thinking so feverishly that it wasn’t just language but a cry so primitive that anything could understand it, ‘Now you’ve got to help me to get round that point!’
“Then I could feel how he gave me a push so the boat picked up speed and we made it around Klobbar by a hair and out into open water. ‘Praise and glory!’ I said, but I don’t think they understand stuff like that. The next time I passed that way, in full daylight, I went ashore and put half a loaf of bread on the rocks. I’ve learned from experience that there’s nothing they’re as wild about as bread. The smell of bread is the best thing they know, because it reminds them of something they once loved dearly. That’s what I believe. There’s nothing they like better than bread, and if you want to stay in their good graces, then leave some buttered bread behind when you sit and eat your lunch on some skerry.”
The priest mumbles something about gulls and terns. “Of course,” I say. “Naturally they take those shapes, you can understand that. It’s like in dreams when white birds hover like a cloud above swarms of herring. When they show us where to fish, they take the form of white birds.”
“I don’t know what to say,” the priest says, but I like quite a bit what he nevertheless does say. “What you’re saying is incredibly interesting. You and Brage are the most skilful, most competent boatmen I know. The only conclusion I can draw is that there’s another kind of wisdom than the one we learn about in school and at the university. Call it another kind of sensitivity if you like. Anyway. I respect it and esteem it.”
“I know that a lot of people call it superstition,” I say, gently.
“Not I,” he says. “But all th
at was a lot for a fairly green priest to swallow. Some time I’d like to continue this discussion, but right now I’m most interested in how you’re going to navigate in to Mellom. The channel goes between two islands that look like just one. Tricky!”
From one world to another. Handshake with the postal-boat skipper, quickly up onto the dock at Mellom, a smiling face for the Mellom priest, who has come down to meet him. A rare chance for a meeting with a colleague, a great joy!
Fredrik Berg is only a few years older than Petter Kummel, but he’s had his pastorate for two years and is wise and disillusioned. Soon enough, this young pastor will wake up to his congregation’s less attractive sides. There will be feuds, discord, obstinate silences, letters to the newspaper, ugly messages to the diocese. Just wait. But at the same time he can’t help finding Petter’s enthusiasm infectious, as is the friendship he immediately offers. “I was hoping for that!” Petter says when Fredrik, the older of the two, suggests that they should call each other by their first names, even though they’ve never met before. Fredrik studied theology in Åbo and Petter was at the University of Helsingfors. Nevertheless they have more in common with each other than with anyone else in the archipelago—two young priests strolling from the dock to the parsonage in lively conversation.
They are both nature lovers, it turns out. The beauty of nature makes up for a lot, Fredrik acknowledges, and Petter makes comparisons. The smell is different because of the pines on Mellom; there are no conifers out on the Örlands. For a moment, the scent of pines and their deep green reflection on the water make him nostalgic for the security of the inner archipelago, but at the same time he’s as proud as a child of how wild and salty and windswept the Örlands are. Never green reflections on the water, only dark grey-blue and silver and ash grey, or a bright blue glassy surface like today. “I’ll never tire of that. I’m thinking of staying on the Örlands my whole life,” he declares.
Fredrik Berg has a penchant for sweet-and-sour smiles, but he can’t quite pull one off as he says to his new friend, very cheerfully, “Just wait till autumn. And winter.”
“Oh I will!” Petter says. “I’m looking forward to it!”
They saunter towards the parsonage, two men at leisure, in no hurry, but so young that even a slow walk covers a lot of ground. Soon they’re walking up the parsonage steps. Fredrik looks a little uncomfortable when his wife comes out the door. She is nervously eager to make a good impression and fears she has already failed. “Welcome,” she says. “Did you have a good trip?”
That stops him for a moment as he thinks back. “A good trip? Well, yes, I suppose so. Anything can happen out here. You go out on a little boat trip and get a lecture on pre-Christian thought into the bargain. Post-Anton is unbelievable.” He shakes his head. “Excuse me, that isn’t what we were going to talk about.”
“They’re so fantastically superstitious out here, they all believe in ghosts. There’s hardly a one would dare walk past the churchyard after dark. But now come in, both of you, and sit down at the table. Come in, come in!”
She waves them into the dining room and goes into the kitchen herself. A child peers at them from the stairs, another from behind a door. A third is screaming from the bedroom. The table is set, and Mrs Berg comes in with potatoes and boiled carrots, then comes back with a baked pike, resting golden and beautiful in its own juice. Petter looks at his colleague with interest. “Do you fish?”
“With the greatest pleasure. I caught this one on a spinner. But mostly I fish with nets. I wasn’t raised on it, so I’ve had to learn by experience. Fortunately, there were people happy to teach us when we first came. What about you?”
“Yes, indeed. Papa was from Åland and I’ve been laying nets with him since I was six. And my brothers and I pulled spinners so fast in a rowboat that everyone thought we had a motor. When we got here there were some nets in the boathouse that we’ll set out when we’ve got the time. Big holes. If my highly esteemed predecessor had any that were better, I believe he must have sold them.”
Fredrik laughs heartily at that. “I think you’ve got his number. Our friend Skog never misses a bet. Did he manage to sell you his generator?”
“My uncle Richard bought it at the auction. You mean it doesn’t …?”
“Nope.”
“Good money down the drain! Oh my. There are so many holes I could have mended with that money.”
Fredrik is just glad it didn’t happen to him. In a good mood, he calls in the two self-propelled children and has them say hello to Pastor Kummel. They look at him critically, one curtseys and the other bows. Petter is fond of children and talks to them and asks questions, they twist and writhe and let Mama answer. She urges them to eat before the food gets cold. Petter is hungry, and he can’t praise too highly the island custom of stuffing hot food down the craw of anyone who’s come a great distance. “And this is delicious! Thank you so much for your hospitality.” He looks around discreetly for the salt, but they do things differently here.
There are many conventions to follow, many questions they must ask him, and much for him to report. How they’re getting along, if Mona likes the place, about their little girl and whether she tolerates the constant breeze on the island without getting ill. About their impression of the congregation. “Old scoundrels and cocky youngsters,” Fredrik Berg sums them up. “How are things going?”
Petter, earnestly: “I don’t know what to say,” and then, as if he’d been awarded first prize, “But what a parish! What a joy to work with such people.”
Fredrik is about to say, “Just you wait!” but controls himself. “Well, yes. But I was thinking of the vestry and the parish council.”
“Excellent. Though the organist tells me that the divisions in the community are serious. That’s not really news. All parishes have factions. I think I won’t let on that I know anything but just play it by ear from case to case.”
“Good luck with that,” says the Mellom priest, who decides to wait with his examples until the two of them are alone. The meal is being cleared away, it looks to be a beautiful day outdoors, and both men long to go out. Kummel’s thoughts are already racing as he thanks his hostess. They make their escape with ease, leaving Mrs Berg with her pots and pans. She looks the way Petter recalls that his mother often looked, and fleetingly he wonders if Mona will come to look that way. But Mona’s industrious and strong and a completely different sort of woman!
To begin with they walk with their hands behind their backs, but gradually they loosen up and Petter actually begins to gesture a bit with his arms. “A whole world!” he says. “There’s no branch of science, no academic area that couldn’t find subject matter in such a place. Oddly enough, I’ve grown much more interested in my studies out here than I ever was at the University.”
He observes the plant life with interest, subtly different from that on the Örlands. Pines predominate, even on the south side facing the open sea and the Örlands. Out there the granite is bare, with stripes and grooves from the ice age, great boulders that tumbled from the glaciers and have worn depressions in the granite where they’ve lain for thousands of years. The two men move from botany to geology, an area both know something about. The words “weathering” and “gneiss” are mentioned, and Petter has already learned that parts of Paris were built with granite from the Örlands. Fredrik grows more relaxed the farther they get from the village, even though he did exchange pleasantries with a couple of fishermen they met among the boathouses. But when they’re alone again he says that they’re nice enough face to face, but behind your back they say other things entirely.
Petter thinks about this and says that the important thing for him is that they’re friendly to his face, it creates goodwill and makes all transactions so much easier. “Of course I realize that there will be occasional confrontations, but then it’s good to remember that their faces are normally so friendly. For the time being, until I’ve got a clear picture of the battle lines, I’m going to assume that
all the friendliness is genuine.” He stops and adds, abashedly, “Call me naive if you like, but I really believe it is. The same way my friendliness is genuine. What would I have to gain by ingratiating myself with a lot of grinning?”
“Quite a bit,” Fredrik thinks, but he says, “It’s not a question of their ingratiating themselves. It’s more about a frightening desire to question. To object. Delay. Resist. Obstruct. Stall. Conspire. Betray. Deny. As if all of that was so much fun that it’s impossible to resist—practically the meaning of existence. Even the ones you’ve come to know as wise, temperate, experienced, fair-minded people. Even them.”
They stand looking out to sea, in the general direction of Petter’s islands to the south, not visible now but sometimes appearing above the horizon like a mirage on a hot summer day. He struggles with the thought that Fredrik wants to spoil his devotion to his congregation, which in Petter’s case includes even their weaknesses. It also occurs to him that Fredrik’s remarks are not general observations but rather the result of personal disappointment, maybe even bitterness. He smiles. “It sounds like you speak from experience.”
In the face of such sunniness, the priest of Mellom melts once again. He smiles back and suggests that they find somewhere pleasant to sit down—out of the wind, with a good view and a nice rock ledge to sit on.
And then he says, “As you’ve certainly noticed, we’re alone out here. No fatherly dean to ask for advice. We have the theological authority, although we’re young and green, whereas the old men are polished politicians to a man. You can’t let them see you’re inexperienced. You’re the one who can read canon law. You’re the one who understands the instructions from the cathedral chapter. You’re the one responsible for seeing that the rules and decrees are followed. If you show any uncertainty, they’re like wolves. And if you give as good as you get, then suddenly they present a united front.”
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