The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

by Aitken, Martin, Leine, Kim

  Drunkenness and gambling, frivolity from morn to eve?

  I wouldn’t know. Naluara. What the Danes get up to is not my concern.

  One can only hope things will get better once the ship sails again.

  Bertel stands in anticipation without replying.

  And today I am invited once more, Falck sighs. How shall I stand it?

  The Magister could say no, Bertel suggests.

  Indeed he could, says Falck. Nevertheless, it is important to get to know people, to get off on a good footing with those with whom one is to associate in the years to come. And good people they are, too, it seems, better certainly than those at Godthåb. But I have neglected him. I have neglected my good catechist. Not a moment’s work since my arrival. He must think badly of his new priest.

  Bertel could say that the new priest is no different than the former, but he elects to remain silent.

  He shall come with me, says Falck all of a sudden, perking up. He shall accompany me to dinner at the Trader’s.

  Me? I’ve never eaten in the colony house. I’ve never been inside.

  Well, then it is high time. Falck reaches his hand out towards him. Help me to my feet. I feel better already.

  Bertel follows him inside where Falck puts on his wig, breeches and boots. It is the first time he has spoken to the pastor since his arrival two days before, and now he is helping him dress. He mentions the woman who is seeking a position as housekeeper. Falck is receptive. He needs someone to wash his clothes and keep the place tidy. Bertel says he will send her over, so that the priest might speak to her himself.

  Excellent, though I already made her acquaintance when I sent her off with my message to you. Who is she? Falck enquires.

  I don’t know her, Magister. But she has been taught the scriptures and she has a daughter.

  Is she on her own? Who is the child’s father?

  Dead, Magister, says Bertel. Sometimes the lie is the more profound truth, he thinks to himself.

  Ah, a widow. Poor soul. Send her to me, by all means. It will be a pleasure to help the unfortunate woman. Perhaps we may even make a good Christian out of her.

  Perhaps, Magister Falck.

  The priest beams. Bertel stands waiting while he makes himself presentable. As they leave the house, Falck says: Enough ceremony. From now on we are friends, Bertel. What do you say?

  What’s the Magister’s name, then?

  Falck is slightly taken aback. He stutters and says: Morten, my name is Morten.

  Have you anything against me calling you Magister Falck?

  Call me what you want, dear friend. But now you must show me the delights of this place, Bertel Jensen.

  Together they stroll through the colony. Bertel explains to him its situation at the southern end of an island extending some two Danish miles to the north. He points to the peaks and tells him their Danish names. He takes him to a clifftop with a view out over the sea and in towards the mainland with its rugged peaks covered by snow.

  Falck makes enthusiastic noises. He asks many questions whose naivety amuses Bertel, questions concerning the cold, the darkness of winter, the opportunities of getting about, the doings of the natives, but he answers readily. And Falck enthuses. This is all so much better than I had hoped, he says. We shall work well together. I am certain everything will turn out splendidly.

  They come by the communal dwelling house of the heathens. There are people everywhere, children, women, men, all are occupied by some or another task that must seem to the priest to be strange and incompre­hensible. Bertel explains to him about the natives’ kayaks and boats and hunting equipment, the particulars of their houses and how they are arranged inside, the ways in which they prepare their food. Falck is all ears.

  And these people, he says, none is christened?

  Most are familiar with the Word, some receive instruction in order to receive the Baptism. But since the former pastor’s demise things have been at a standstill.

  Indeed, says Falck briskly. There is much to do. These ignorant souls, they are as lambs, waiting only for a shepherd to lead them into enlight­enment and freedom.

  Perhaps, says Bertel. Could be.

  And out in the district, Falck continues. How do matters stand there?

  There are many people, says Bertel. In the south and in the north and inside the fords. Most likely they will have heard of the Lord Jesus from their own kind, and there will be some who have been christened and who teach them as well as they can, but there’s probably several hundred who’ve never seen a priest.

  Excellent! Falck exclaims with enthusiasm. We shall go to them and teach them, you and I, Bertel.

  They are on their way back to the colony. Falck turns towards him with his hand outstretched.

  For our fruitful collaboration, he says.

  They shake hands. The priest’s feels solid and strong.

  I thank the Lord for having sent me here, says Falck. I feel certain it will be a blessing to me, and perhaps my presence may even bring some good to this land.

  I’m sure, says Bertel.

  Falck begins to talk of a tour of the district as early as this autumn. How is it to be arranged?

  The Magister will need to get hold of a boat and a crew, and all the equipment as well, says Bertel.

  Has my predecessor, the unfortunate Magister Krogh, not left anything that might be of use?

  The Magister never went anywhere, he did his work here in the colony.

  You mean he never left this island?

  He did once accompany the Trader on a trade journey, but he didn’t seem to care for it much. His sea legs were no more, he said, after the long voyage from Copenhagen.

  Then how did he envisage returning home again? Falck says, begin­ning to laugh.

  Well, he never did, did he? Bertel rejoins. He hanged himself in the blubber house.

  Falck’s laughter immediately subsides. Hm, so very true. How sad! Let us hope the good Lord has mercy upon his soul.

  As they enter the Trader’s home a loud clatter is heard, followed by shrieks of laughter. Madame Kragstedt sweeps towards them in her expansive dress.

  Magister Falck! she exclaims, radiant with joy. Come inside. You can say prayers over what is left of the soup. Our maid has just dropped it on the floor.

  I have brought my catechist, says Falck. Madame and Bertel Jensen know each other, I assume?

  The Madame hesitates for a moment, before her face lights up in a smile. Why yes, of course, my maid Sofie’s husband, we have indeed bumped into each other now and then. It can hardly be avoided in such a little place as this. She glances uncertainly from Falck to Bertel. Does the Magister wish for his catechist to join us at the table?

  Naturally, Madame. We are all equals before the Lord, are we not?

  They enter the room. Beneath curling veils of tobacco smoke sit perhaps a dozen men around the dining table. Captain Valløe greets Falck exuberantly and makes room for him at his side on the long bench. They step around the soup that lies in a puddle on the floor, and Sofie, who is on all fours, picking up the shards of broken porcelain. She glances up at Bertel, a look of distress, and mouths something to him which he fails to grasp. He shakes his head and nudges a shard towards her with his foot. Falck stops and looks at Bertel.

  My wife, says Bertel.

  Indeed, says Falck, and puts out his hand to the disconcerted Sofie. Good afternoon, madam.

  Er, says Sofie, staring now at the rivulet of soup that runs between Falck’s feet.

  He steps out of the way. A pleasure to meet you, Madam Jensen.

  A voice at the table erupts into laughter. Madam Jensen, indeed!

  They seat themselves. Drinking glasses are put out before them. The mate fills the first of them, but as he is about to fill the second a hand extends to grip his wrist. Kragstedt’s
hand. The aquavit is for the Danish crew only, he says. The law forbids the provision of spirits to the natives on all but the flag days.

  The mate puts the cork back in and removes the bottle.

  Would he care for a glass of beer? Madame Kragstedt enquires kindly.

  Rather a glass of water, he says. He feels the warmth rise in his cheeks. A glass and a jug are put out in front of him. He pours himself a glass and drinks a mouthful. He hears little of what is said, but sits and watches his wife on her knees wiping up soup from the floor. Then he is distracted by Falck’s wig, which he has placed on the table next to his plate. He sees that it is teeming with lice. A dish of meat, peas and cabbage is handed across the table. He takes some and puts it on to his own plate and begins to eat.

  Several of the other dinner guests have likewise removed their wigs and deposited them untidily next to their plates. All are ridden with lice. Bertel cannot take his eyes away. He shovels the food into his mouth without tasting it.

  To his left sits the smith, in conversation with the colony’s cook, who is sat opposite him. Bertel grasps little of what they say, though under­stands that it has to do with varieties of aquavit.

  My old man was a drunk, the cook says. Færch, his name was, but they called him Jøns.

  We have been talking about the drift towards religious revolt, Madame Kragstedt says to Falck. Rumour has it that a whole flock of christened natives have abandoned the true faith and given themselves up to idolatry. Does the Magister know about it?

  If it is so, they must either be brought back into the fold or ex­communicated, Falck says. But no, he has heard nothing of any such drift.

  He drank himself to death, says the cook. It was the best day of my dear mother’s life, God rest her soul. But before he went he managed to get the stable girl up the spout, and when the boy came out she called him Jøns.

  Perhaps the good Bertel Jensen might know? says Madame Kragstedt.

  At once all eyes are upon him. He swallows a mouthful of cabbage and peas and washes it down with a gulp of water.

  Any man partial to the aquavit will always share with others, no matter how little he’s got, the cook drawls, only to be shushed.

  I know, it’s funny, isn’t it? replies the smith, who likewise has failed to notice that all attention has turned to the catechist.

  Well, says Bertel with hesitation. They say there’s a man and his wife – their names are Habakuk and Maria Magdalene – who claim to receive visions and messages directly from Christ. Captain Valløe clicks his tongue. Little more than a handful of wayward natives, I shouldn’t wonder. I’m sure it’s of little consequence. I’ve heard say they’re attracting followers, says the Trader. It’s not healthy for the Trade if too many people lump themselves together in one place, especially if it’s far from the colony.

  There can’t be that many of them, surely? Falck looks at Bertel.

  I wouldn’t know, he says, and bows his head over his plate. Naluara.

  Won’t it affect the hunting if too many people gather in one place? Valløe asks.

  That’s what I mean, Kragstedt replies. They say they go off along the coast and steal wreckage. That’s enough on its own to warrant chains and the whipping post.

  Perhaps it’s down to hard times, suggests the Overseer, who has not spoken until now. He is seated to the Trader’s right. Every year when we journey out we find settlements with everyone dead to the last man.

  How dreadful! Valløe exclaims. Christian people?

  No, heathens mostly. The Trade looks after the Christian Green ­landers in times of shortage. It’s said the way of the Danish crown in the colonies is exemplary. We make sure people are taken care of. A lot of other nations could learn from us. The English especially are known for hard-handedness in their overseas dependencies. We needn’t look any further than the table here. The Overseer nods in the direction of Bertel. In this country we invite them in and let them dine with us.

  Laughter ripples around the table. Bertel chews on a piece of meat and wonders how he might make his excuses and beat a retreat as quickly as possible.

  They should certainly consider themselves lucky that the Dutch or the English do not rule the country, says Madame Kragstedt.

  So very true, my dear, says the Trader. That would be a different kettle of fish entirely, none of your laissez-faire.

  One of the seamen from Der Frühling addresses Bertel. He enquires as to where he might buy hide or some whalebone.

  I didn’t hear that, says the Overseer, wagging an index finger at the man. You know perfectly well that all trade with the natives is forbidden.

  And yet they leave the Mission and the colony, says Valløe, returning to the subject from before. How does the Trader explain that?

  The religious urge often defies common sense, the Trader replies. That’s the way it is, unfortunately, even with the savages.

  I have some good skins from the winter, says Bertel. Thirty good fox skins. You can buy them off me, if the Trader will permit.

  My older brother was a great big hulk of a fellow, says the smith, drawing the cork from the bottle and pouring himself a glass, before passing it across the table to the cook. He never bloody put up with anything.

  But they’re afraid of the whipping post. That, they are, says the Overseer with a chuckle. No matter that it’s hardly used.

  Mr Kragstedt, says the seaman. Would the Trader make an exception and allow me to purchase these skins?

  Well, says Kragstedt. All right, I shall let it pass.

  And how much would he then sell these skins for? the seaman asks.

  They cost five marks each, says Bertel.

  So then what do you think he did to my old man? says the smith.

  He is shushed once more, though seemingly he fails to be aware of it.

  There’s not been any problems here since we put up the whipping post last year, Dahl continues.

  Five marks, says the seaman with a smile. That would be too much.

  It’s the going rate, says Bertel. I can’t undercut the Trade.

  Well, I’ll tell you, the smith slurs. He gave him a good hiding. Not long after, he kicked the bucket.

  Mine was a brutal bastard and all, says the cook. He beat us with his belt buckle, he did, the bloody swine.

  The smith and the cook descend into raucous laughter. The bottle passes between them.

  Do be quiet, says Madame Kragstedt. The smith pulls a face and the cook cackles.

  The going rate is the going rate, I can see that.

  Bertel is sweating. His tongue rotates the tough meat inside his mouth.

  You could send a boat up, Valløe suggests. Talk some sense into them. If they won’t listen, then bring this Habakuk back here. I’m sure your inspector would sign and post-date an arrest order if we turned up with the sinner in chains.

  That may yet be the outcome, says Kragstedt. But as you say, it would require an arrest order from our honourable inspector in Godthåb, and he would need an order from Copenhagen. It would be a very lengthy process.

  But if the Trader permits, says Bertel, you can have the lot for ten rigsdalers.

  That’s a good deal, says Kragstedt to the seaman. You’ll save a whole mark per skin.

  I had the pleasure of speaking to Inspector Rømer, says Falck.

  Hm, says Kragstedt. A pleasant and charming man, would the Magister agree?

  Good, says the seaman. I’ll buy his skins.

  Indeed, says Falck. I mentioned him in a letter to my patrons.

  That won’t help you any. The man has taken root like lichen on Greenland’s rock.

  As for these visionaries, says Falck, do you not consider, Bertel, my friend, that it would be best to proceed with caution?

  What does the Magister mean by that? the Overseer interrupts across the table.
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br />   I would consider it appropriate, says Falck, that I – in my capacity as missionary of this colony – should assume responsibility for the salvation and discipline of these stray sheep, and journey to their place of settle­ment, wherever it may be.

  Igdlut, says Bertel. Their settlement, inside the ford.

  What ford?

  The one the Danes call Eternal Fjord.

  And the leader of these people, says Kragstedt, his name is Habakuk?

  And his woman is Maria Magdalene, says the Overseer. They call themselves prophets by the mercy of God.

  I will travel there, Falck determines. I will speak to them. I’m certain they will listen to me. The Word of the Lord is compelling when prop­erly imparted.

  The Magister would do well to take care, says the Overseer. They may be armed with flintlocks and ammunition purchased from the English. And the natives are excellent shots.

  The Lord will be with us, says Falck. I am not afraid.

  Then good luck, says Kragstedt. I’ll make sure you get what equip­ment you need, Magister. Such an expedition requires nothing in writing from His Excellency, so you’ll have no problem there.

  Prophets, Madame Kragstedt muses. How magnificent it sounds. The prophets of Eternal Fjord. Bertel sees that she takes Falck’s hand and holds it tight, as though in a vice.

  Now, about those skins, the Trader says to the seaman. I’m afraid I shall have to cancel that transaction.

  Cancel? says the seaman.

  A soup bowl is no inexpensive item, says Kragstedt. That was good French porcelain, that was. Been in my wife’s family for three genera­tions.

  The Madame places a hand upon his arm, only for Kragstedt to brush it away unkindly. He gives Bertel a wry smile and leans forward. Thirty fox skins is fair compensation for such a fine bowl. It’s in your favour, and you’ve even had a meal into the bargain.

  Captain Valløe roars with laughter. He shakes his head vigorously and holds up his hands in deference. Kragstedt, you old shyster! I wouldn’t want to trade with you, that’s for sure.

  But the skins are mine, says Bertel, and almost chokes on the indi­gestible lump of meat he endeavours to swallow. He glances around the table, appealing for support, and his eyes meet the pastor’s own. But Falck smiles fleetingly and looks away.