Maria protests: But there comes a time when one must leave one’s mother and we are no longer children.
He scrutinizes her and then she knows it is best to remain silent, for otherwise his mood will be foul for the rest of the day.
Both were christened as adults. In the first years of their lives they lived as their parents, in heathenism and ever on the move. They speak only seldom of this previous time, prior to their christening, it feels as if it were another life entirely, a dark and provocative issue on which it is best not to dwell. And yet Maria Magdalene thinks upon her youth, a nomadic life, summers spent in the skerries with her family, winters close to the colony. They lived in tents made of hide and in earthen huts, makeshift and temporary. They existed in their filth, but the filth had its function, it was natural and of no inconvenience to anyone. Only when a person becomes Christian, she thinks to herself, does filth become filth, a substance to be avoided and removed, a foul-smelling and shameful thing.
Home was where the family was, and where the creatures of land and sea which they hunted were to be found. No loyalty existed towards any place in itself, no particular feelings of home attached to certain rocks, plateaus or bays, no urge to settle. Such things came only with Jesus and the Baptism. It was as if the three dashes of water with which the priest wetted one’s forehead imparted a whole new set of emotions. They listened to the stories about Jesus and learned from the catechist to burst into tears. And the tears created the emotion that lay behind the tears, as though in reverse and by delay. They had not existed before. But now they occurred in any conceivable situation. Laughter belonged to the heathen life, tears to the Christian. And so it was that they became attached to one place, the same tent rings and dwelling walls, the same constellation of ridges and valleys, and the enervating rhythm of daily life. When they went away to hunt, they told each other and people they met of their home by the colony. And when they did so, they burst into tears. They realized that they longed to be home. A completely new emotion. And always it was a relief to return, to slot back into familiar surroundings as though into old clothes, to walk the same routes across the same rocks, to greet the same people.
She recalls how the winter would twist and tighten its grip upon Holsteins borg. Kællingehætten, the great peak behind the colony, made aflame by the low sun, the Northern Lights flickering blue above snow-clad slopes, the moon spreading its metallic sheen across the fellsides. She ran in her kamik boots over the snow, young and cheerful, almost weight less. The missionary Oxbøl received her in his big house, and he gave her lessons in private, for she was quick to learn. He had taken it into his head to teach her to read and write. This was before she knew Habakuk.
Mind what you learn from the priest, said her father. He is forever after the young girls.
She was familiar with the rumours concerning the old pastor. He had lain with several girls she knew; two of them had become pregnant and the skerries were said to teem with his illegitimate offspring, without him ever bothering to have them taught or christened. Now the majority are grown up and the priest himself remains vigorous and productive. She often encounters his progeny whenever she is away from the colony, light-skinned and freckled and unreliable. The lake of fire and brimstone awaits Oxbøl, there is no forgiveness for the likes of him, and most likely he knows it too. But back then she was unworried by the pastor’s intent. His wish to teach her to read and write had become her own. The urge to read was like a hunger. And she learned quickly. She read the catechism and the Gospel, she read issues of Kjøbenhavns Posttidende, used by the Trade for wrapping paper, and she read books from the pastor’s library. When he tested her on the catechism, he was compelled continually to interrupt.
I must impress upon you not to answer my questions in your own words, as though in ordinary conversation, but to follow the exact wording of the text.
But if you put it into your own words, it shows you have understood the meaning of it.
That may be so. But this is the Holy Word of God and it is to be learned, not understood. You must bow to the Word, woman, and desist from making yourself His equal.
He made me in His image!
That’s enough, Maria, Oxbøl would splutter, exasperated. Or else I shall be unable to confirm you.
Nonetheless, in the autumn she was confirmed.
Now I’m christened and confirmed, she said to him, so now we may no longer sleep together. It’s a wonder you haven’t got me pregnant.
He sat in his chair and studied her with his foxlike eyes and a wry smile on his bloodless lips. You could be my wife, Maria.
You’re an old man, I don’t want you, thank you very much. Besides, I am engaged.
And what is his name, this fortunate young man?
His name is Habakuk. Oxbøl can marry us.
Oh, thank you. Thank you, indeed. I am most touched. Have you been seeing this suitor while you have been coming here?
We’ve been seeing each other since the winter.
You’re no better than all the rest, the priest spat.
Lauritz Oxbøl, the Lord will punish you for your sins, she said, sending him a carefree smile.
Hm, the priest muttered, and drummed his fingers on the table.
And your bastards will return and take vengeance.
Let them come. I am not afraid of them.
She kissed him before she left. She was actually fond of the old philanderer. He was a hard master, who said what he meant. It was a trait she appreciated.
Habakuk was employed as a blubber-cutter at the Trade. He was tall and dark and always wore a tricorne hat he had purchased from a seaman. They had attended confirmation classes together, where they got to know each other.
You’re the priest’s mistress, Habakuk said. I bet he’s taught you more than the Lord’s Prayer.
And so they became lovers. Habakuk’s parents were settled at Holsteinsborg and had been christened in youth. Habakuk himself had received schooling for a couple of years, taught by Niels Egede, son of Hans Egede, Greenland’s apostle. He could both read and write, and the first letter she ever received was Habakuk’s formal request of marriage. She took him to Oxbøl, who grudgingly married them in the new Bethel church. Afterwards, Maria crept back to read what the priest had written in the register. It said:
15 August 1775, Assumption Day. On this day were joined together in the Bethel Church Habakuk, a blubber-cutter, and the woman Maria Magdalene, both of Holsteinsborg. With His blessing I did wish the newly wedded couple a long life together in happiness and unity. Amen. Lauritz Oxbøl, Missionary.
Maria laughed when she read this. The priest had been so disagreeable while wedding them, and yet the entry recording the marriage belied the fact entirely. He must have been biting his tongue, she thought to herself. She tore the page from the book and put it in her pocket. Now it hangs in a frame on the wall inside her home.
But the missionary Oxbøl was loath to release her. He sent for her at odd times of the day and he was a powerful man, so she was afraid not to answer his call. And she became pregnant. A pale and freckled child with untrustworthy eyes was delivered into the world. Habakuk was not pleased. He went to the colony manager and lodged a complaint. The colony manager wrote to the priest and the priest wrote back and had Habakuk dismissed from the Trade. After which they packed their belongings and came to Eternal Fjord.
And now they are here, at the settlement of Igdlut, where live a score of christened individuals and approximately the same number who remain heathen yet wish to become Christian. Maria Magdalene and Habakuk have provided instruction in collaboration with the catechist, the unchristened have learned the catechism and sing the hymns of Brorson in such a manner as to nearly raise the roof of the earthen hut in which they gather. They have wept at the sufferings of the Lord until dissolved in tears and mucus, and they live a life as devoutly Christian as any other. But no
priest has visited them in years. Maria hopes this will change. She has learned that the missionary at Sukkertoppen, a Magister Krogh, whom she has never met, has ended his days and that a new pastor is on his way. Perhaps this one will be more interested in what goes on in his district than the one who hanged himself.
That autumn both the trout fishing and the reindeer hunt fail. The winter is hard. They must boil and eat their leather belts and kamik boots – a humiliation Maria has not experienced since childhood. All the children of the unchristened perish; some are strangled so that they may be spared the suffering. The mothers go into the fells with them, singing, and return, silent, with their clothing. The catechist at the settlement speaks to the parents and tells them that killing their own children is incompatible with the Christian life. But he can do little in the face of their problem and inwardly most are grateful for this departure of hungry mouths. Two young hunters are lost, failing to return from hunting trips. The elderly walk quietly away into the fells or on to the ice, they turn their heads one final time and look back upon the settlement with weary eyes, then vanish beyond the point or over the ridge, never to be seen again. When spring comes only half a score of adults remain. The catechist holds prayers for the dead and the missing; and those who have survived feel a strong sense of togetherness, yet remain fearful of what the future may bring. There is talk of them perhaps having to move out to the colony at Sukkertoppen, where at least they will not be allowed to lie around and die.
But the catch of capelin turns out to be good: optimism returns. They sail out into the skerries at the mouth of the ford and collect the eggs of the long-tailed duck, black guillemot and common murre. They harpoon seals as yet heavy with the fat of winter; glistening chunks of blubber-covered meat are laid out, steaming on dried skins, and a feast is held which lasts for several days.
In the skerries they encounter a young woman who has also come from Holsteinsborg. Habakuk enquires how things stand there. They are the same. The old pastor, Oxbøl, is he still alive? As far as she knows. And has he given you instruction and christened you? asks the catechist. He has instructed me, she says, and here is the result of it. She indicates her little girl, pale and freckled and sickly in appearance. He let the Spirit of the Lord come upon me, but he did not christen me. So all is unchanged at Holsteinsborg; they cannot return there. If they are to leave, then it must be to Sukkertoppen, which indeed lies closer, but is also the poorer.
The young woman and her daughter return with them to Igdlut and move in with Habakuk and Maria Magdalene, installing themselves on the sleeping bench for visitors. The other women of the settlement dislike her; they find her haughty and presumptuous on account of her having lain with the priest and because she can read the scriptures and write her name. Moreover, she is a mixture and the fact makes them ill at ease. Indeed, some of these same feelings taint their opinion of Maria Magdalene, not least the suspicion that she considers herself above them, but due to Habakuk, who is the settlement’s oldermand, they have swallowed their resentment and treated her well. Instead their bitterness is turned towards the stranger. Voices whisper and the situation is made no better by the woman sticking her nose in the air and plainly thinking herself better. On two occasions she accompanies Habakuk and some of the other men into the ford to catch trout. They return without a single fish, though smiling smugly all over their faces.
Maria Magdalene’s feelings towards the woman are mixed. She has some sympathy for her on account of her shrewdness and for being an outsider, yet she, too, is galled by her arrogance and feels pangs of jealousy when she returns from the ford in the company of the men. She has words with the woman. You give rise to unease and envy, she warns. The other women hate you.
But she will not listen. She is as contrary as a child and seems to be permanently consumed by anger, which she is determined to take out on others. She replies that if the women cannot hold on to their men, it must be their own fault.
I wanted to help you, says Maria Magdalene. But now I understand that you do not want to be helped.
The women seethe in silence; they put their heads together and mutter. Maria hears them agree that they are ill-served by having a stranger live among them who nourishes herself so heedlessly on their meagre resources. When the winter comes she must be gone. And if she will not leave of her own accord, they have decided, they will kill her. She is unchristened and one cannot be punished for killing a heathen. Maria broods upon it and must concede that in her heart she wants them to do it. Why will she not leave? It is her own fault if anything should happen to her. Naturally, the men are aware of what is afoot, but remain passive. They are contented by the upheaval; they amuse themselves with the stranger and take her with them into the fells and lie with her, or else they creep over to her place on the sleeping bench when the lamp has been extinguished, whereafter the darkness is penetrated by giggles and pleasured moans. But when the winter comes, Maria considers, and life turns harshly upon them, then they will be quite as eager as the women to get rid of her. So for the time being they grin smugly, stay frivolous for as long as they can, and refrain from pondering the consequences. Maria speaks with her husband, only for him to sweep her concerns aside. The woman is a heathen. She has lain with almost everyone; it is no wonder the women frown upon her.
You lie with her too, Maria accuses.
He flinches slightly, then smiles, puts her hand to his mouth and kisses it. She is but a heathen, a bit of fun for us men. Surely you cannot begrudge your husband a bit of fun? It is you I love, you who are my wife.
They are going to kill her, says Maria.
Oh, I am sure it will not come to that.
You have no understanding of women at all, says Maria. You have no idea how vengeful and wicked they can be. You think women are better than men.
Let us speak no more of it.
She must leave, says Maria. I tell you, I won’t have her living here any more.
Now you are the vengeful one, says Habakuk.
But that evening the stranger does not come to lie on the bench. Maria discovers that she has moved into one of the other dwellings.
Habakuk has bought himself peace for a time. After a while, Maria asks him about the woman’s plight. It seems they neglect her; she exists on chewed bones and rotten food. They force her to give up her child to another woman. One evening, when five of the women are alone with her, four of them hold her down and the fifth thrusts a tent pole into her groin.
Here’s your priest! they shriek. Can you feel how pleased he is to see you?
She clenches her teeth and her face contorts into a lump of pain. Yet she makes not a sound. Maria takes no part in these goings-on. But she is present. And she does nothing to stop them.
They cease when she begins to bleed. They draw away, frightened by the sight of blood, and leave her to lie in peace on her bench. She continues to bleed, then comes the fever. She curls into a ball without making a sound and assumes she is dying. Maria hopes she will die. It would be best. And yet she attends to her every day and brings her water and soup. It is her duty as a Christian. Eventually the woman gets up. She staggers about on her spindly legs and gloats. The women respond by placing red-hot coals on her skin when she sleeps. They tear out tufts of her hair. Maria offers to let her move back into her house. She declines.
These are my lessons, she says. And better at least than those of the Missionary Oxbøl.
Then one day, when most of the men are away, the women drag her down to the shore; and those who do not drag her, kick her and scream their encouragement to the others. They tie a rock around her neck, then row out into the bay and throw her overboard. They row ashore again and gather together to watch. Maria Magdalene sees it all from outside her house. She does not intervene. The woman does not sink. She hangs suspended with her head down, legs flailing in the air. The women stand on the shore and yell that she must die! Some of them wail hyste
rically. They gather stones on the beach and hurl them at her. Diavulu! they shout. Die! Their missiles rain down and penetrate the surface with loud splashes and plops. Some are well-aimed and strike their target. Maria hears it all. The woman still flails. It seems her head cannot be entirely underwater, for strangled, spluttered screams issue from her mouth and lungs. The women retire to their dwellings. They cannot endure the sight of her struggle to remain alive. Maria hears them break into a shrill-sung hymn.
She goes down to the shore and wades out to the little island on which the boats lie drawn up, and launches a kayak into the water. As she approaches the woman she can see that she has been kept afloat by pockets of air in her clothing. Maria keeps a distance, she is afraid that the woman will grab her and cause her to capsize. Their eyes meet. Her gaze is oddly calm. She reaches out her hand and the woman hesitantly accepts it. She cuts the rope and the rock sinks to the bottom. The woman heaves herself on to the stern sheets. She grips the boat tightly, coughing and vomiting.
Those useless idiots, she says. I could have told them myself that rock was too small.
Maria takes her home with her. She gives her dry clothes and hot soup. She must force her to eat.
Why do you want to die so much? she asks angrily.
Because I’m good for nothing, the woman replies through chattering teeth. I can spread my legs for men; it’s all I can do. I’m full of the Missionary Oxbøl’s semen; it runs in my blood and when I sweat, I sweat semen. Once, I wanted to be christened and die in order to find peace, salvation. Now all I want is to die. Salvation is not for me.
You cannot stay here, says Maria. You poison the entire settlement. You’re a bad person. I want you away from here.
The woman looks at her with a smile of resignation. You are like me, she says. You are my sister.
What do you mean? I’m not like you at all.
You have lain with him, too, she says. He told me. You were his great love.
The Prophets of Eternal Fjord Page 19