The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

by Aitken, Martin, Leine, Kim

  He speaks often of Greenland’s future development. It is a land of enormous opportunity, as he likes to lecture her, and immeasurable resources. Only ambition and will are lacking, and someone to organize matters into a system. Most who are posted here are satisfied to stick it out for the apportioned number of years, earn a wage and serve the king. Survive. Advance a couple of rungs.

  My dear Haldora, he says, occupying the middle of the room. What this country needs is for the small administrative units, the colonies, to be dismantled in favour of centralization, with a view to the industrial exploitation of what the land has to offer. Of course, a certain autonomy, he mutters, pacing back and forth beneath the rafters of the ceiling, will be required, a degree of, erm, detachment from the mother country; self-rule, if you like. A new governor would have to be appointed . . . indeed, of course!

  At this juncture, Jørgen Kragstedt sends his wife a smile, which she returns. This is a discussion they have conducted many times before.

  Had he asked her what she needed, she would have said: a child.

  So he refrains from asking.

  The marriage came about during his time in Denmark awaiting his posi­tion as colony manager. Her father, the apothecary Knapp in Køge, was family to his mother far removed, and Kragstedt had frequented the resi­dence in the summers of his childhood, long before Haldora was born. Her father it was who had taken it into his head that they should be brought together, before she even realized that he existed at all. He was invited into the home on a number of occasions; a heavy man with red hair, a feature she found slightly repulsive, though not sufficiently to cause her to object. She had yet to become herself again, following the death of an older sister in labour. Decisions were made, steps taken. It was the easiest way.

  The proposal itself occurred during a walk. Woods. A village. The manor. Fields. The lake. It was a very long walk. Eventually they were standing on a bridge that led over the millstream. The sound of gushing water and the paddles of the mill wheel released her from the exact and no doubt stuttered articulation of the proposal. She said yes. He stood with his hat under his arm, his upper body slightly bowed. His scalp was freckled. He looked at her enquiringly, anaesthetized by the noise of the mill. They walked home, arm in arm, neither having heard what the other had said, though both assuming the matter to be happily resolved. When they arrived home, her parents embraced them and wept. And thus they were betrothed.

  The dowry never materialized and Kragstedt spoke of taking the issue to the courts. But then so much else happened. He was given his position, preparations were to be made for the voyage, and they married so quickly that it gave occasion to gossip. Then they departed. Her parents and sisters sailed as far as Elsinore. A year after their settling at Sukkertoppen they received word of her father’s bankruptcy and sudden death. Two sisters are still living, and her mother, too, but she has no one close by in whom she feels she may confide. Now, however, she has begun to regard Magister Falck as one who might fill the void in her life. She has no idea if she will ever see Denmark again.

  She catches sight of the smith, who stands gazing at the enclosed garden, the black soil. She draws quickly away from the window and the smith fails to notice her presence. But then she hears someone on the main step and a knock at the door. She goes into the hallway, stands in the dark and listens.

  Who’s there?

  Niels Hammer, Madame. The smith. If you don’t mind, it concerns the Madame’s gate.

  She opens the door, opens it wide. The smith stands looking up at her with bloodshot eyes, his head bare, hat pressed to his chest. He gapes. Haldora glances down at herself. Is there something amiss with me? she wonders. She realizes she perhaps ought to have draped a shawl over her bare shoulders and gathered her hair, which hangs freely down her back.

  The smith clears his throat. The thing is, you see, Madame Kragstedt, the thing is I need your help.

  My help?

  The smith laughs nervously. With the gate. The drawing. He flaps his hand in the air: The drawing has become blurred. On account of the dampness, perhaps. He groans softly, then pulls at his whiskers. Haldora smells the fumes of alcohol that waft towards her and recoils. The smith steps up to her, only to think better of it and retreat downwards again. Would the Madame do me the favour of casting her eye on the drawing and explaining to me certain things about which the pitiful smith is unclear?

  We have already spoken of this several times, she says admonishingly. I thought him to have understood. Did he not assure me of it just the other day?

  That may be so, but a man can become uncertain. He throws out his hand in apology. I wouldn’t wish to make a mistake so the whole thing should have to be scrapped. All I want is to do it just the way the lady wishes. He stares at her, his eyes devour. She stares back, without causing him to lower his gaze.

  Does he have it with him? The drawing?

  In the workshop. He jerks his head nervously in the direction. If the Madame would come with me down to the workshop, she will see what I mean. I can’t describe it properly in words, it’s kind of . . . He throws out his hand again and expels a slight, explosive snort. It’s the iron, Madame, a resistance in the iron, in the transfer from the paper. I’m sure the lady understands that I can hardly bring the iron and the drawing and the hammer and the anvil up here to show her. Can the lady not see? He closes his mouth and bites his lip.

  Haldora smiles at him. The sight of this fawning and subservient muscle of a man makes her feel strangely at ease. She could extend the toe of her boot and he would take it in his hand and kiss it with reverence. The thought makes her feel rather elevated, omnipotent and extravagant. She feels goodness and mercy absorb into her soul. She smiles. Yes, I can see that. But can it not wait? Today is Sunday. Tomorrow I can visit him as usual and we can go through the whole thing again.

  If the Madame would have me excused, I’ve all manner of things to be getting on with tomorrow. With the carpenter and the cooper being laid up in bed, I’ve been saddled with their work as well as my own, as if it weren’t enough to be smith. The way things are, I’ve got no choice but to work on the gate on the rest day, and run the risk of a fine into the bargain.

  She considers the smith as he stands there in his Sunday best, heavy and drunken. If truth be told, he has said what she hoped he would say. There is no other way but to go with him. She leaves the door ajar and goes back inside, where she puts on a shawl and her boots, sticks a couple of pins in her hair and gathers it under her hat. When she comes out on to the step, the smith stands rocking on his heels and smooths back his hair with his fingers.

  Lead me to his workshop, she says in a commanding tone.

  Following on his heels down to the harbour, she registers that the air has become chaotic. It must be the change of tide, she thinks to her­self. Gulls scream, swooping down and rising sharply, one of them absconding with something hanging in its beak, a whole flock in pursuit. The smith throws open the door of the workshop. She hesitates a moment before stepping inside. The door snaps shut behind her. She stands in the room’s bitter cold.

  Has he not lit the furnace? she asks. I thought him to be at work.

  She turns to face him. He is standing with his back to the door, observing her. He smiles gingerly. She stiffens, aware of herself in her flaming red dress, her bare arms beneath her shawl.

  The lady is like a piece of Heaven, says the smith in a thick voice.

  He moves forward. She retreats a pace and is stopped by something against the back of her thighs. She puts a hand out behind her and raises the other in front of her face to fend him off.

  Do not hurt me, she breathes.

  Pardon? says the smith with the French pronunciation, and laughs.

  Tell me what you want, Mr Hammer.

  He breathes heavily and she can see that he swallows. She knows that she should not be hesitant and passive, that she
ought instead to speak to him in an ordinary tone about the wrought-iron gate, and thereby drag him out of that which is about to overcome him. But she is herself in a state of terror and giddiness, as though she were standing on the edge of an abyss looking down. She wants to jump, but dares not.

  I want to lie with you, Madame Kragstedt. He speaks calmly and deliberately.

  He knows what he wants, she thinks to herself. The thought has formed inside him, and the thought is the mother of the action. It is too late now to stop him with talk.

  Indeed? she says. I imagine he does. She feels her lips quiver, her teeth chatter.

  Is the lady cold? He sounds almost kind and caring.

  Yes, it is cold in here. She fumbles behind her back, her hand finds an object and explores it, identifying it as a tool. Hammer’s hammer. She tries to force herself to be calm.

  The smith stands stock-still, looking at her. He seems to be taking pleasure in the situation, as though he were thinking: Who is the master now? He moves away from the door, takes a couple of steps forward, reaches out and touches her breast.

  The Madame is becoming. It’s neither right nor fair that her husband should have her splendours to himself.

  She feels his hand on her breast; it squeezes investigatively, quite unroughly. She looks down at the hand. It is huge and coarse, marred with scratches and sores, the fingernails yellowed and broken. It squeezes her breast again, cautiously, and more than once. The smith looks up and she meets his gaze.

  I hope the lady doesn’t mind me having a feel, he says

  She shakes her head stiffly.

  My father used to say you’re all that way, all women. Lustful. It’s why women and not men become whores. I can’t say if it’s so, but it’s certainly true that only women submit to their lust and sell their bodies for copper. What would be the lady’s opinion on the matter?

  Her mouth is as dry as paper. She tries to wet it in order to speak. Is his father still alive? she stutters through chattering teeth.

  There’ll be no talk of my father here, he snaps.

  No.

  She feels his hand against her cheek. It feels like a dead thing, timber or a piece of iron. Her face must be warm.

  The lady blushes, says the smith. It becomes her. Madame Kragstedt is beautiful, beautiful as an apple. He laughs. What nonsense!

  His hands begin to explore up and down her dress, trying to find a way inside. But the fabric resists, more than she herself, layer upon layer of confining garments to be peeled away if he is to reach the goal of his desire: her skin. The hands move feverishly, he issues sounds of annoy­ance and comes closer, pressing himself against her. She smells his sweat and the aquavit on his breath, but also the bitter scent of her own skin and the rancid smell of stale sweat embedded in the fabric of her clothing as it becomes warm. He lowers his head and kisses her. She feels his wrig­gling tongue wet against her cheek and ear. He takes a step back and spits.

  Ugh! he exclaims. What’s that?

  Powder, she says. Does he not like it?

  He stares dully as she grasps the hammer and wields it in an awkward, circular movement that sends a flailing shadow across the ceiling and ends in a thud against his head.

  He steps backwards, a single pace, and sways. She is filled with a prim­itive sense of at last having overcome her paralysis, and withdraws in an arc to the right, edging her way towards the door, facing the smith with the hammer raised above her head. Hammer’s hammer. Now it has struck him back. She almost finds it amusing.

  Don’t hit me! He staggers and shakes his head and looks like he is about to collapse. He retreats another step and grasps the frame of the door.

  If I have to, I will, she says without emotion. Let me out and I shall refrain from striking him again.

  I’ll open the door, he says. Look. I’m opening it now.

  He has turned his back on her. She could easily, and with justifica­tion, deal him a solid blow across the neck and put him out of commission for good. But she does not. She hears the bolt drawn back, the heavy sound of the iron, and as the thought of what he might be doing becomes complete in her mind, he swivels around almost in a pirouette, with such grace it would have been comical in any other context. But in his hand is the long iron bolt, jutting outwards like a sword. He raises it in the air, extends his arm to its full length and brings the iron down hard on her forearm.

  She hardly registers the pain, only that the blow causes her to drop the hammer, which falls to the floor with the dullest of thuds. She sinks to her knees. The smith swings his booted foot and kicks the hammer away from her, propelling it across the floor and out of reach.

  Now you have made me angry, he says calmly, and she can tell from his voice that he is smiling. Now I must punish you, Madame Kragstedt. Whatever happens now, the Madame has brought it upon herself.

  In the name of the Lord, she stutters, and now it is she who whimpers. Have mercy, please. I have not caused him any harm.

  She remains on her knees, half in pain, half in humility and prayer. Her hand clasps the point of the impact. Her arm hangs limp. She wonders if it is broken. She hears the smith lay down the bolt.

  Why did the lady do it? he asks. Why did she strike me? I wasn’t going to hurt her, only lie with her. He lowers his hand to grasp her chin, raises it slightly, forcing her to look at up him. Now I shall have to tie her up, otherwise she will strike me again.

  He finds a short length of rope and ties her wrists together. She cries softly from the pain in her arm, and her sobs cause him to pause and gaze at her.

  I’m sure it’s not as bad as it feels, he says.

  She watches him fasten another rope around the stone on which the anvil rests. Now I shall tie you here, he says in a kind voice. There’s no use fighting. If the lady screams, I shall have to gag her. What a pity for that sweet little mouth, to stuff it with dirty cloth.

  She shakes her head and tightens her jaw.

  Good, says the smith. Now we can begin.

  He takes his time as he lifts her gown, running his hands through the fabric. How on earth are we to free the lady from these garments? he says.

  She sees the difficulty of it. She is lying on her back with her arms above her head, bound to the stone. The heavy gown of damask has shoulder straps and cannot be pulled down. He tries to draw it over her head, but to no avail. He looks at her enquiringly.

  Release me, she says, and I will undress myself. It is no easy matter to undress a woman.

  He guffaws and shakes his head. He heaves at the dress, but succeeds only in twisting it awry. He produces a pocket knife.

  No! she exclaims. Not like that. At the back is a corset, hidden.

  He rolls her on to her side and fumbles with small fasteners that hold the rear of the dress together. She feels it release.

  What is this? he says. This crossed lacing?

  The corset of the gown, she says. There is a knot.

  His hands search up and down her back until finding it. But the hands of a smith are crude and clumsy and he cannot untie it. He inserts a finger between the corset and the skin of her back and tugs at the lacing, but must abandon and release it, causing it to snap into place again in a way that makes her jump. He returns to the knot.

  I don’t want to ruin such expensive clothes, he says. But this knot is too tight for me.

  She says nothing.

  Then she feels him press his face against her back. She wonders what he is at, but then realizes that he is trying to loosen the knot with his teeth.

  He straightens up and curses. She glances over her shoulder. He draws a hand across his cheek, then sits down with a wince.

  A bad tooth, he says. He opens his mouth and prods the tooth with his finger. That wretched knot has made it come loose.

  I can give him aquavit with which to dab it, she proposes. My husband does so
to good effect. But you must release me first.

  I’ve got my own aquavit, he snaps. The lady can keep her old wives’ twaddle to herself.

  He grasps the corset and tugs at it once more, hard and repeatedly. The pain that shoots from her arm causes her to whimper. Then the silken cord snaps audibly and the dress is released.

  Ha! exclaims the smith. He takes hold of the two sides of the corset’s drawstring and pulls them apart. The gown opens, seams split as the lacing is wrenched. He pulls the garment over her head. She thrashes her legs, feeling she is about to be suffocated. Then the gown is at her arms, and he gathers it in a thick heap at the point where she is tied to the anvil stone.

  The smith wipes his brow. He considers the next layer. And what on earth is all this? he says.

  She turns her head to see what he is looking at. My tournure.

  And what good does it do?

  It expands the skirt at the rear. It is considered becoming.

  He sniffs contemptibly, then unfastens the rectangular horsehair cushion, relieving her of it and casting it aside.

  The next layer is her silk chemise. His rough hands pause to stroke it. The silk catches on his skin like burrs. His breathing is heavier now. She knows its sound. Then the chemise is pulled up to the same place as the dress.

  Another corset? The smith curses under his breath. He tries to insert his fingers, only to find it too tight. He pulls and tears, but the corset will not yield.

  Why must gentlewomen use such inconvenient garments? he asks.

  It is a corset, she hears herself say. It is what the fashion dictates. And men like to see women who are narrow at the waist and broad across the hip.

  He shakes his head and grins. It must be why gentlefolk have so few children, he says. The iron’s gone cold before it’s struck.

  He looks at her, his eyes settling on her breasts that rest in the cups of the corset. He seeks her gaze. She stares away, though is afraid to close her eyes for fear that it may provoke him. She says nothing.