The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

by Aitken, Martin, Leine, Kim

  Women of the lower classes do not have this custom of constricting themselves and stuffing cushions under their skirts, he says. We common men are not so easily fooled. We know what’s underneath. It might be contended that makes our women freer than yours. He pauses, and when she remains silent he continues in pensive mood: But then I suppose we are all of us constricted, one way or another. And no matter how we may plead and beg to be released, there’s no one there to listen. Such is life.

  She senses – still in this remote manner that is so unquestionably a result of her mind having separated itself from her humiliated and suffering body – how his little speech begins to carry him away with indignation. She refrains from comment, but nourishes a faint hope that he is losing himself in thought, perhaps soon to forget what he is about, and that the iron will grow cold. But then he is at her garments once more.

  How does a lady manage to tie this every day? he asks.

  My chambermaid helps me. Sometimes my husband.

  Perhaps I should call for your husband, so that he can help me. He laughs amiably. But I remember now that he’s away.

  On his return he will commence proceedings against you and have you severely punished, Hammer, she says, aware that her tone is hardly convincing.

  Punishing me would mean acknowledging that I have made him a cuckold. Not many men would do so of their own will.

  She says no more.

  It would seem he has tired of corsets and knots. He takes out his pocket knife again and proceeds to cut open the lacing. It yields with an elastic snap for every slice of the blade, and retracts through the garment’s brass lace holes. He pulls the fabric away, puts it to his face and inhales deeply. When he removes it, she sees that he smiles with delight.

  Woman! he exclaims.

  He tosses the corset into a corner, then looks down at her. Only the chemise remains.

  He slits it open from top to bottom, a single, clean cut, as meticulous as a tailor, the blade following the sleeves all the way to the wrist. The garment falls away. He rolls it up into a ball and casts it aside. Now she is naked. She wonders that she is not cold. But she is warm, glowing even. She is on her back with her arms above her head, looking up at the smith who is looking down upon her. Her chest heaves, she lies tense so as not to move her injured arm. She has gathered her legs and drawn them slightly upward. But she cannot hide the thick bush of her pubic hair that completely hides the vulva and the pubis, continuing like an arrowhead towards her navel where it dwindles to a thin though pronounced black thread. She has always felt shame at this rampant shock and considered it a reminiscence of something wild and untamed within her, something that she has always repressed. Right up to this day. And therefore I lie here now, she thinks to herself.

  The smith bends forward and buries his face in her belly, snorting and grunting, then pressing his mouth to her breast, extending his tongue, seizing the nipple with its tip and licking its circumference, sucking and releasing with a slobbering sound of pleasure, playing with its elastic resistance, clasping both her breasts roughly now in his hands; his calloused hands that grate against her sensitive skin, the yellowed horn of his nails digging deep into the tissue.

  Soft as a newborn mouse, he gasps in a dreamy tone. When I was a boy I would find the nests of the mice in the barn and take up the soft and tiny young. I adopted them like they were my own children. I caressed them and looked after them. So soft they were, so soft. And you, Madame Kragstedt, are so beautiful and perfect, once your garments are removed, like a small animal, warm and beautiful and afraid.

  As he takes hold of her and turns her on to her side, he sees the metal shavings that she has hardly noticed dig into the skin of her back. He tries to brush them away, and snorts in annoyance on discovering how deeply they have pierced. He draws back his hand and she sees it is bloodied. There is a knock on the door.

  He is on his feet in an instant. She realizes the door is unlocked now that he has taken out the bolt and used it upon her.

  Tentative knuckles against the oak door.

  Quickly, he lifts the great anvil from its base, swings it across the place where she lies and puts it down so as to block the door. He squats down on his haunches and places a hand over her mouth.

  Who’s there?

  Is the Madame with you?

  She recognizes the voice. It is the catechist, Bertel Jensen.

  Go away! the smith shouts at the door. There is no lady here!

  The maid says she went with you, says the catechist. Is all well with her?

  How should I know? The Madame is not here, I say. Go away, and look after your own people instead!

  The door is rattled cautiously, but will not open on account of the anvil. Silence descends. She thinks she ought to scream. The Lord has sent her this native catechist and now she must demonstrate her willing­ness to be saved by screaming. But she does not scream. She hopes only that the man will go away and leave her alone with her shame and fear.

  Hammer returns. He is gone, he says in a soothing, conspiratorial tone, as though they are both of them together in this, and both afraid of being caught. Then he takes off his shirt, loosens his braces and steps out of his threadbare Sunday breeches. He kneels, his member jutting, heavy and swollen. She cannot take her eyes from it. His nakedness chafes her nostrils. He smells like a horse. He bends down and whispers into her ear as though they are in cahoots.

  We must be quiet.

  She tries to utter agreement, but cannot. Her chest convulses in spasms. She feels her mouth contort.

  No, don’t cry, he implores. It will be no good if the lady cries. I shall be gentle with her. The lady will think it’s her husband come to court her.

  She lets go of herself and begins to sob, then feels his hand across her mouth again. Their eyes meet. His member brushes against her stomach, hanging half-erect in a downward arc. She feels its warmth, how full of yearning it is to be put inside her. He wriggles into place and forces her legs apart. He thrusts a thumb into the fold next to her sex. It makes her jump and stretch out her legs. She sees how the smith’s muscles tremble across his chest and shoulders.

  I’ve never had a true lady friend, he says. A sweetheart, I mean. It’s mostly just been bend over and pull up your skirts, woman! But this, this is different. The Madame should know that I am grateful indeed.

  She feels his member thrust against her opening. But she is dry and will not allow him to enter. The enquiring, melancholy eyes look upon her again. She sees that he is at a loss.

  Then his face lights up. He turns and reaches to the bench and retrieves a round, wooden container. It is a grease tub, she realizes, smell ­ing the rancid fat as he pulls off the lid. He scoops his fingers inside and smears the contents first upon his member, then her vulva. She gasps.

  There. Now the lady is as sweet as a jar of honey.

  She gasps again as the smith enters her. She clenches her teeth so as not to scream and turns her head to the side, feeling the smith pressing her to the floor, the metal shavings digging into her back. Now he begins to writhe and she senses the final hindrance give way inside, his member moving freely, her inner form treacherously yielding to his shape. He takes hold of her ankles, bends her legs upwards, pressing her further into the floor and the razor-sharp fragments upon it. His grip is a vice. He thrusts his head backwards and she cannot help but look at him; she can see that he is losing the last remnant of awareness of what he is doing, becoming at one with his action, as she becomes at one with her pain. And then it is he who cries out, while she tightens her jaw and utters no sound.

  It is dark when he loosens her ropes. She cannot get to her feet on her own and must reach up to take the outstretched hand he offers. He passes her her clothing, item by item, and she dresses. Her back is an open wound, but there is little pain from it, only a warm, burning sensation. The smith sees it, too.

 
Dab the sores with some of your husband’s aquavit, he says. She wonders if it is meant to be a joke.

  She makes do with putting on the damask gown and her boots. The smith accompanies her back to the colony house, carrying the rest of her garments gathered in his arms. Reaching the door, he hands them to her in a bundle that she snatches from his hands. For a moment they stand staring at each other. The smith has removed his hat. He is bareheaded before her, clenching it to his chest.

  The Madame has no need to despair, he says solemnly. No woman has ever cared for it. It is painful to them, our old pastor told us so. I know very well that women are not lustful at all. So it is. Goodnight, Madame Kragstedt.

  The chambermaid comes to her that same evening, silent and knowing. She extracts the metal shavings from her back with a pair of tweezers, cleanses and dresses her wounds. It takes most of the night. She prom­ises she will say nothing to her husband when he returns.

  Sleep with me tonight, says Haldora.

  They retire to the chamber and snuggle up to each other beneath the down. The girl has an odd smell and the thought occurs to her that she might bring lice into the bed. But she doesn’t care. She clings to her and falls asleep with her arms wrapped around her.

  Some days later she ventures outside for the first time since the encounter with the smith and finds the wooden gate of the vegetable garden replaced by one of wrought iron. The gate is perfect, the pattern exactly as intended, and all the letters are present and correct. Semper felix. Her family motto.

  She opens the gate and enters the vegetable garden, then falls to her knees. All over the little patch, green shoots have appeared in the black soil.

  The Fourth Commandment

  A Visitation (1788)

  The Fourth Commandment, as it is most plainly to be taught by a father to his family:

  ‘Thou shalt honour thy father and thy mother.’

  What does this imply?

  Answer: That we should fear and love God, so that we may not despise or provoke our parents or superiors; but to give them honour, to serve, obey, love and esteem them.

  A morning in autumn, early dawn, September. The first sun bathes the fells of the mainland and warms away the fog. The ford is still.

  Seven people leave the colony by kone boat and kayak; four oars ­women, three men. One of them is Rasmus Bjerg, constable of the Royal Trade. It is not without reluctance that he embarks upon this long, hazardous and in his view pointless journey. But the Trader has ordered him and there is nothing to be done about it. He sits in the stern, making use of the time by taking apart his flintlock and cleaning its components with linseed oil. He assembles and disassembles and assembles it again. It is a nervous compulsion; he cannot prevent himself from taking the firearm apart when it is assembled or from putting it together when it is apart. He retracts the cock, pulls absently on the trigger, and the cock strikes the pan with a snap that causes the women to jump. He retracts it once more, pulls again on the trigger.

  Constable Bjerg, says Falck, who is standing upright in the bow, erect as a mast. For God’s sake, man! You’ll drive us all to madness.

  Very well, Mr Falck. He puts the firearm down. His fingers itch to pick it up.

  One of the mixtures from the colony, Didrik is the kayak man and leads the way. He sails some boat-lengths ahead of them, quite without sound. Bjerg wishes it was he who sat in the kayak, so that he might make more use of himself, employ his strength, propel himself through the water and be free. But he has never learned to sail a kayak. He has tried on more than one occasion and was almost drowned. They say that if a person does not learn it as a child, he will never sail such a vessel safely. Most likely it is true. Didrik certainly looks like he is at one with it, gliding swiftly along, parting the water in silence.

  Constable Bjerg sits face to face with the oarswomen. They work in seamless harmony, leaning on their oars, rocking back and forth. In the follow-through of each stroke they perform a flicking motion of the wrist that causes the boat to dart forward abruptly, and the two passengers, he and Falck, to sway slightly at the hip. The blades of the oars ripple the surface of the water and the ripples dance like tops. His eyes follow them. Then he stares at the oarswomen, amusing himself by resting his gaze upon them one by one. They dislike it. Like animals, he thinks to himself. They don’t care to be looked at either, at least not dogs; a dog can be provoked into attack by staring into its eyes. But these women are good-natured. He wonders if they are like other people under all their garments of skins. Like other women. He would like to find out. Their hair is tied up in a knot on top of their heads, bound with twine studded with coloured beads of glass. Their feet, in sealskin kamik boots, are placed against the crosspieces in the bottom of the boat, he sees the little kick they make with every pull, the almost imperceptible lift of their behinds from the thwart. They sit, two-by-two, one pair in front of the other. Their cheeks are large, polished surfaces mounted on high cheekbones; their mouths are small, teeth ground down, though not rotten, more honed by chewing on a diet of bones. Their upper garments are bulky jackets trimmed with leather straps laid crosswise to present their breasts, though not so as to give rise to arousal. Rather, the breasts are items of utility. It is said they wash in their own filth, yet they look clean enough to Rasmus Bjerg. Appetising, almost. A man is put in good humour by observing them.

  Constable Bjerg, Falck says again, this time rather more sharply.

  He realizes he has picked up his flintlock and sits tapping it against the powder keg. He grins sheepishly and puts it down. Pardonnez-moi, monsieur le prêtre, he says. Bjerg has learned a small amount of French on board large ships.

  Give me that gun, says Falck.

  It is my gun.

  It is the Trade’s gun. Give it to me. Then he will have no cause to be tempted.

  Bjerg passes it over the heads of the oarswomen. They both stand, the boat rocks slightly. The constable sits down again, but Falck remains upright, spying ahead across the water. The women break into song. Their shrill, metallic voices cut to the marrow.

  It is rather late in the year for a journey into the district, he says.

  I beg your pardon? says Falck.

  Autumn is upon us. Snow might fall at any time.

  I’m sure we’ve plenty of time to do what needs to be done, says Falck.

  He looks back and picks out coils of smoke from the houses of the colony, and one or two peat dwellings of the natives. To the left, steep, forbidding fells rise up, to the right are skerries of low-lying islets, and far into the mainland some snow-covered peaks. He wonders if it is where they are destined.

  The fog still lingers in the bays and where the sun has yet to reach. It is as though the rocks are shrouded in gauze or tulle. It makes him think of death. There are people who live entire lives here, he says to himself, and is unable to comprehend it.

  Rasmus Bjerg is twenty-two years old, the youngest man in the colony. He hails from the Horsens area, his father is a freeholder, but with five elder brothers he is so far removed from allodial rights that remaining at home was pointless. He went to sea immediately following the confirmation. He receives letters from his parents and thus assumes that they are still alive, but he has not seen them in many years. At one point he sailed the trade triangle, transporting slaves from the Gold Coast to the West Indies, though mostly he has worked ships conducting lesser trade on minor routes. This is his first time in Greenland. He finds it to be dark, insular and oppressive. He misses the open sea, the discipline of life on board, the comradeship, the freedom of going ashore, the lack of ceremony, the fistfights and the heartfelt scenes of reconciliation, the long voyages and all the routines. He misses a girl whose name was Ulrikka and whom he does not expect to ever see again, but to whom he would like to write, if only he could put words together on paper in a manner that is decent and proper. He is capable of writing and has written letters
to his parents, but never to a girl. Perhaps the priest will help him, if he can bring himself to confide in him.

  He leans back against the tent of skins and the sleeping bags that are stuffed away in the stern. His arm dangles over the side, his fingers trailing, making little whirls in the cold water. The boat is heavily laden with goods, among them ten flintlocks of poor quality, a keg of gun ­powder, lead, casting moulds, fuses and flints, twenty copies of the New Testament translated into Greenlandic, transported in a box lined with lead, and other merchandise. What Falck and the others are unaware of is the envelope Rasmus Bjerg carries in his inside pocket. It contains a warrant issued by royal decree for the arrest of Habakuk and his wife Maria Magdalene. Kragstedt has invested Rasmus Bjerg with the authority to do what must be done, and to do so with force should it be deemed necessary. He wonders what it will feel like if he is compelled to shoot another human being. He is confident that he wishes to do so, it being the secret desire of any man to kill another, and yet he is afraid at the prospect. The slaves died in droves and were tipped over the side as casually as the contents of chamber pots, but he has never actually seen a person be killed. And now he has the authority to do so. If necessary. It is a strange thought.

  The song of the women rings out across the ford; the oars creak in time. Are they smiling at him? They appear stupid. They laugh too much and he is already rather tired of them. When they sing he can see into their mouths, all the way in to their flapping uvulas. Is there even a human thought in their heads? He sees their fat knuckles tighten and release on the handles of the oars, he sees their small feet brace as they take the strain. If he were to lie with one of them, which would it be? He studies them by turn. It is hard to tell the difference. The black slave women were hard to tell apart, too, but most likely on account of their features being obliterated, as it were, by the blackness of their skin. These Eskimo women are pale and yet they still look so utterly similar. It is as if the knot in which their hair is tied up has drawn their facial features upwards as well, lending them an odd expression of constant astonishment about the eyes. It must be strange to kiss one of them. How would they taste? He refrained from doing so with the slave women, though the opportu­nities were plenty and the crew all urged him: Get some practice in on one of the savages, Bjerg, so you know what to do when you get married. But the thought repelled him. He would often be put to work hosing below deck, a task that did little to stimulate feelings of any romantic nature. These women who now sit facing him, rocking gently back and forth, are not slaves and one cannot do with them as one pleases. As far as he knows they are, moreover, good Christians. And yet they are so very different from him, as different from him – and from the girl named Ulrikka of whom he still thinks from time to time – as the pitch-black women who lay like herrings in a barrel in the hold of the Fredensborg.