The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

by Aitken, Martin, Leine, Kim

  Dear Abelone.

  He does not crumple the paper. Now he can stand to look at it. He studies his handwriting, the swirls of the quill. His hand is fully restored like the rest of him, though it has become rather more slanting, a touch more pointed. Through the window he watches the afternoon turn grey. He sees that beyond the frost-covered pane it has begun to snow. He puts on his coat and boots and goes into town.

  The cold has subsided. His feet remain warm inside his well-greased boots. The city is oddly still. Perhaps it is the silence that follows upon serious illness or perhaps it is because of the snow that falls in large flakes. He walks down Vimmelskaftet towards Amager Torv, but then turns left along Klosterstræde, wanting to look around the narrow streets of the Klædebo quarter, perhaps purchase a little something for Miss Schultz, a token of his gratitude for all that she has done for him, for his being alive, and for the feelings she arouses within him. And then he is in Vester Kvarter. He cannot recall having passed the Rådhus, and yet he must have done. Hanens Bastion. And now he is in the same drinking house. The host seems to recognize him and brings ale. He seats himself and listens to the music and the talk at the tables.

  Later, the boy appears. He sits down at his table.

  Now it’ll soon be spring, Pastor.

  He says nothing.

  Then we can get away from here.

  Where will you go?

  All over. Anywhere. I like to be journeying, to see what’s round the next corner.

  I could go with you, says Morten and laughs.

  The boy laughs, too. A fine gentleman like the pastor can’t go with one like me.

  Morten smiles. He says nothing. The potman brings them their frothy mugs. He looks up at the man and sees himself reflected in him. I must be radiant, he thinks. Am I lost or saved?

  Does he want a turn like before? says the boy.

  No. I just wanted to see you one last time. To see if you were real.

  Skål, Pastor, says the boy. I’m sure we’ll meet again.

  I doubt it, he says, and leaves half a rigsdaler on the table.

  He resumes his studies, working his hardest to complete them. Eventually spring arrives. The days grow longer, the weather milder. The gutters thaw and the nightmen shovel the filth ahead of them through the city to the canals. The cobbles are shiny and clean, then comes new waste from the latrine buckets and night pots, mash from the brewing houses and distilleries. The warmth, the stench and the rats come seeping back with an epidemic of the fever that weeds out the city’s most impoverished. Four of the boys he has taught at the Vajsenhus expire with them. His own constitution is strong and sound.

  In June 1785 he graduates non contemnendus, i. e. with the lowest grade required to pass. And yet it is better rather than worse than he had expected. He has been afraid of a rejectus and has already composed in his mind a letter of apology home to his father. He has neglected his theology. Not until this last half year has he studied systematically. But for his probationary sermon in Vor Frue Kirke, where he speaks for Professor Swane and a select congregation upon David’s Psalm 43, he receives a laudabilis, the highest mark possible. His performance surprises not only his examiners, but also himself. He has felt a man’s gaze upon him, a very old man seated in the front row, with grey-blue eyes, angular hawk nose and a smiling, vivacious mouth that seems to repeat and chew upon each word he hears. He does not know who this man is, but his presence has a stimulating effect upon him and after a while he addresses only him. Afterwards, they are introduced. He is Poul Egede, pastor of Vartov and bishop of Greenland, son of Hans Egede. Moreover, he is principal of the Seminarium Groenlandicum, a position he has inherited from his father.

  He bows deeply before the bishop. An honour, he mumbles.

  Has the Magister considered joining the holy mission? Egede enquires, sizing him up with lively, aged eyes.

  The thought has occurred to me, says Morten. Are there prospects with the Mission?

  In Greenland, says Egede. He reaches out and squeezes Morten’s upper arm tightly, then smiles and retracts his claw-like hand. You are Norwegian?

  It is the first time a person of his status has addressed him informally, as an equal. He tells him where he is from. Egede asks him about his family and his plans for the future, and he tries to hide the circumstance that he has no plans whatsoever. He thinks to himself: This is a sign. He agrees to consider entering the seminary as alumnus the following autumn. Heartily, Egede wishes him a pleasant summer and wags a finger at him to indicate he does not intend to forget the matter.

  Somewhat dazed after the examination, the unexpectedly excellent mark and his conversation with Egede, he leaves Vor Frue Kirke and wanders out of the city by the Vesterport gate. He walks and walks. A shower passes and drenches him. He dries out. He feels the grit beneath the soles of his boots, the wind blowing in his face, full of the smells of stables and the fresh aroma of cut grass. He has no idea where he is. He asks a man with a horse-drawn cart. Rødovre, learned magister. He is still in his vestments. He removes his wig, sits down on a stone by the road and watches the swallows flitting above the field, twisting sharply in the air, ascending towards the heavens. He feels the blue consume his eye. He is content, yet empty. His divinity studies are completed. The letter of apology to his father need not be sent. What is he to do with himself? He has devoted no thought to the matter.

  Curtains of rain approach from the west, a thunderstorm rumbles and crackles, the wind bends the trees. He walks back and the weather catches up with him. The dirt track becomes a mire, soil washed from the fields. His ruff collar wilts and the potato starch runs in rivulets down his cassock. And yet he feels himself free. On his return home he takes off all his clothes and drapes them over the furniture. He lies down naked on the bed.

  Greenland?

  Midsummer’s Eve, 1785. Two coaches trundle through the city, one in front of the other, each drawn by hired carthorses with blinkers and rattling, creaking harnesses. The coaches arrive at the Nørreport gate and must wait a whole hour to come out into the countryside. Many respectable families have felt the urge to take the air outside the ramparts.

  Morten Falck sits in the same carriage as his host. The printer has lit his clay pipe. He calls out greetings and lifts his hat to other families in other coaches. He is in an excellent mood, recalling excursions of his youth, handing out pamphlets of cheerful ballads and prompting the others in the carriage to sing along. With them are some of the men from the printing shop. They sit leaning back in their seats, eyes veiled with fatigue and the blasé aspect of the city dweller. But Morten is attentive. He notes everything: the pretty mistresses in the other carriage with their mother Madame Schultz, and the young men who ride by, the suitors, pert backsides bobbing in the saddle as they issue their courteous greet­ings. At the gate, acrobats and other entertainers perform; punch and ale is served; wives go about and sell pastries and confectionery. Schultz splashes out on punch to all his men, including Morten. He drinks some of the sugary liquid. It fizzes like fresh ale and goes straight to his head. Shortly after he finds himself bawling along to one of the printer’s raucous ballads. The printer smiles at him encouragingly. He pats him on the knee. Morten turns his head and looks at Miss Schultz. He is about to propose a toast to her, but thinks better of it. Instead, he calls upon the print workers to drink in honour of Madame Schultz and her sister, who also wishes to take the country air. He stands up in the coach, swinging his mug. Smiles and good cheer, sunshine and laughter. He plops back onto his seat and promptly falls asleep.

  When he awakes they are out of town. The carriages make slow progress. They are in the middle of a procession stretching as far as the eye can see. He realizes the printer is talking to him.

  Has the Magister visited the spring before?

  No, I did not know of its existence until the printer was so kind as to invite me. We have our own little s
pring back home. They say its waters have healing properties.

  You must drink a cup, says the printer. Spring water is without a doubt healthy for both mind and body. It cured me of the melancholy of youth.

  Morten nods. He notes, too, that the printer now addresses him as an equal. It is exactly what they say of the spring at home. I remember I drank from it as a child. However, I believe it is now silted up.

  But the Magister is a man of science, says the printer, and, moreover, a theologian of the modern age. Does this notion of healing springs not run counter to both?

  Not at all, he replies. Partaking of water from a spring can be nothing if not healthy for a person who has spent a long winter inside the ramparts.

  The printer laughs. He is satisfied. Morten realizes he is being assessed. He hopes he has said nothing inappropriate during his brief intoxication at the city gate. Schultz leans forward. What is more, he whispers, they say the spring of Kirsten Piils Kilde can make the secret wishes of young people come true.

  I shall bear it in mind, says Morten. Absently, he wonders if the printer’s words are a subtle hint. His head feels heavy. He jumps down from the coach to follow along on foot for a while. The mistresses Schultz and their mother smile down at him. He lifts his hat and bows. Presently he climbs aboard again.

  The printer complains about the dullness of their route. He would prefer to go by Strandvejen, which affords splendid views across the sound on one side and to the woods on the other. But Strandvejen is in poor condition, he is told, potholed and broken up. The driver suggests they go by way of Gentofte and Ordrup and pick up the coast road a little south of Klampenborg. He knows an occasional shortcut where the traffic will be less. The printer approves the plan, out of consideration for the ladies’ behinds, he says. Madame Schultz turns and scolds him. Tsk, I shall have to wash his dirty mouth! She laughs. The girls roll their eyes and fan themselves excitedly.

  Morten dozes, but wakes again as they reach the point at Hvidøre. The coach turns north along Strandvejen, which indeed is pitted with holes. The driver growls a command to the horses to slow them down. Morten looks out across the glittering Øresund. He looks at the ships, their sails flapping lazily in the slack wind, the dismantled fleet that lies packed together further south. On the other side of the water the hostile coast, at once threatening and enticing, the same clouds drifting over its hills as swept across Denmark only a short while before. Morten thinks upon the matter drowsily, his head nodding slightly this way and that, until his thoughts become a muddle. The nature of the earth is conveyed to the mind, he thinks to himself, whereupon the mind reflects upon the earth, which in turn rises up once more into the mind, and so on, an endless sequence of matter and spirit. A chatter of voices and peals of laughter from the carriage in front, a snorting of horses, hooves clack­ing on cobble, the rattle of traces, gulls screaming out across the sound. Morten straightens up. He wipes drool from a corner of his mouth and looks about. They have arrived.

  Singing, they drive through the red gates of the Dyrehaven, the royal hunting grounds to which Copenhagen’s public in its yearning for nature has been admitted since the days of Frederik V. Here, too, they make slow progress due to the sheer number of carriages. Eventually, the driver stops and begins to unload. The party jumps out and finds a spot close to the spring, where they spread out their blankets upon the grass and hand out the contents of their picnic baskets. The printer and his wife seat themselves. Schultz sends his store man to find them some coffee, which in his opinion is as beneficial to the health as the waters of the spring, not least when it contains a splash of aquavit. His daughters gather round them, three daisies in the grass. They pester their father so that they might be allowed to explore. Please, Daddy, dearest Daddy, we shan’t go far. Only if they keep to the area around the spring, says the printer, and only if they are each accompanied by one of his men to look after them, armed with a cane. The fairground of Dyrehavsbakken is a den of pickpockets and tinkers, Jews and Gypsies and scoundrels of the dark, and the bailiff in Kongens Lyngby and his appointed officers meant to uphold the peace have already drunk themselves silly, I shouldn’t wonder, Schultz opines gruffly, in which state they will not be of use to anyone.

  Morten bows to Abelone. Miss Schultz, allow me to perform the duty of accompanying the mistress and ensuring her safety.

  Abelone exchanges glances with her mother and receives a nod. The Madame coos and instructs her to take care. Her sister, who is seated at her side, seconds her caution. Abelone rises and crooks her arm under his elbow.

  They stroll about and watch the entertainers, the jugglers, the sword swallowers with their flaming breath, the Turkish percussionists, the buxom female singers who play the harp and stringed instruments and display their sumptuous cleavage. Young Jews with shaved heads wander among the throng with trays folded out at their midriffs, from which they peddle Dutch cigars, percussion caps, blacking and fuses that may be ignited and thrown to fizzle and crackle under people’s feet, making them dance with fright. A tightrope walker clad in a leotard performs dizzying tricks high above the ground. More than once he would seem about to fall and the audience gasps, some scream. Miss Schultz grips his arm, puts her hand to her mouth, her eyes fixed upon the figure in the air. Morten is inattentive to the tightrope walker and watches instead a thief at work, emptying the onlookers’ pockets. When he comes nearer their eyes meet. The boy stiffens, observes Morten with a canny, measuring eye. Then his pretty lips part in a smile. He bows with an elegant sweep of his hand and vanishes. Morten watches him go. His mouth fills with the greasy taste of sperm.

  Abelone looks at him, her cheeks blushing. Magister Falck, she says, are you unable to stomach such excitement?

  Er, no, he squeaks, and runs a finger inside his collar.

  You’re not unwell, I hope? she says. You look so pale. Have you seen a ghost, Morten?

  I could do with some refreshment.

  Abelone pulls on his arm and leads him to the spring.

  She runs over to her mother to fetch cups, then returns and considers him inquisitively. You really are pale, she says.

  It’s nothing. He blames it on the punch, the long drive, the heat, on becoming faint from standing with his head leaned back. I feel better now. He accepts a cup and stares at it.

  A cup from which no person has drunk, she says. Otherwise the spring water will fail to have effect.

  The area around the spring, which is built up with boards in the way of a well, resembles a camp hospital. The sick and infirm sit about on stools and lie upon stretchers or else they come limping, supported by helpers. Behind the spring, further up the bank, lie heaps of abandoned crutches and bloodied and pus-soaked bandages thrown away by pilgrims ecstatic at abrupt recovery. The smell of sickness and infected wounds pinches the nostrils. Abelone holds a handkerchief in front of her mouth. She nudges him forwards. On the platform above the steps music is played and there is singing and dancing. He sees twirling skirts, hears laughter, the beat of a drum, a bear growling and straining at its chains. He feels dizzy and fatigued, the sun beats down upon his neck as if all of a sudden he were in the circles of the Inferno itself. Abelone tugs on his sleeve.

  Look, it’s our turn now, Magister.

  The attendant of the spring, a peasant woman in a bonnet and a white embroidered apron, asks if they have brought with them a cup from which no person has drunk. They hold out their cups and a boy fills them with water from the spring. Then they are pushed onwards to stand at a short distance to drink. The water tastes rather muddy, as well water often does, and has an unclean appearance. He empties his cup. Abelone dashes hers against a stone, causing it to shatter, and asks that he do the same. He must throw his own cup three times before it breaks. Finally, they each give a coin to the spring, remove themselves from the crowds and stroll, arm in arm, towards the woods.

  Did you remember to whisper a wish? she asks as they
walk away.

  Indeed, he says. I feel better already. And you?

  She laughs. Now we are cleansed, Magister Falck. Now we can do exactly as we please.

  They wander along the shore, arm in arm still, though occasionally Abelone lets go and dances across the sand, jumping aside with a little shriek when the waves come lapping in, before returning to join him again. The foam licks away her footprints. She chatters without pause. There is a self-confidence about her now, something playful, challenging even. He is not sure, but she makes him feel ill at ease. What does she want? Does she even know? How does a man do these things, and in what order? Why is there not a handbook on the subject?

  She walks backwards before him. The hem of her dress is wet. She laughs and points. He turns round. Their footprints are a curve marking the border of waves that have come and gone.

  These two people, she says, look like they have just come from the inn, to judge by their uncertain path.

  I am intoxicated, he says. By love.

  But she seems not to hear him, for which he is grateful. What is he to say or do now? Force her down into the sand so that his kisses might wash over her like the waves? What expectations of the choreography of love has her reading of novels imparted to her? He sees the printer in his mind’s eye as he lay with his head in his wife’s lap but a short while ago. His shirt frill was open, he puffed on his clay pipe, Madame Schultz’s fleshy, yet no less beautiful hand rested familiarly on the hair of his chest. When Abelone informed them they would walk along the shore, he raised his glass of punch and winked his eye at Morten. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

  They stand still and look out on the Sound.

  The ships are pretty, she says. Their sails are as white as the gull’s wings.