The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

by Aitken, Martin, Leine, Kim

  I know one of them, says Didrik. She received instruction from Magister Krogh some years ago. He indicates one of the figures. She was a young girl, perhaps fourteen years old.

  Did the magister not christen her? Falck asks.

  I think she changed her mind. Some relatives came and persuaded her to go with them.

  How sad. How stupid! Falck sounds as if the loss is personal.

  Bjerg reaches out to the train-oil lamp and runs a finger along its edge, loosening a fatty crust. He pokes in the cooking pot and lifts out strips of some undefinable substance.

  Falck studies them, feeling them between his fingers. Garments of skin, he says. The national dish of the hungry.

  Bjerg has had enough of death for one year. He goes outside and sits in the heather with his back to the tent. He hears Falck inside say, Such peace, Didrik, this is as good a farewell to life as anyone could wish.

  Death was certainly better than what went before it, says Didrik.

  How do you consider they died? It would seem to have occurred at one and the same time. Could they have eaten poisoned food, intention­ally perhaps, in order to end their days?

  They froze to death, says Didrik. They ate the clothes from each other’s bodies and then there was no more blubber for the lamp. It looks like it happened two years ago, when there was a long cold spell.

  But where is the fifth? Falck asks. Someone must have arranged them like this.

  They find the fifth inhabitant a short distance from the tent, face-down on the ground. Bjerg sticks the toe of his boot under the corpse and turns it on to its back. The well-preserved face of a female stares up at them, a bare breast, a bird spear protruding from between the ribs.

  Lord Jesus, Bjerg whispers. Is there no limit to this land’s cruelty?

  They pull the tent down, wrap the dead in its skins and commit them to the ground as best they can, then build a cairn of stones from the shore. Falck says a prayer over the grave. Lord, have mercy upon these innocent children of a heartless land. The wind picks up with the changing tide; the words flap away from Falck’s mouth. Bjerg clutches his cap. The women are called to observe the ceremony, but they are reluctant, giggle and utter inappropriate comments about dinner. As soon as Falck is done, they hurry back to the camp. They eat hare. Bjerg makes do with gruel and this time it is more than sufficient. In the night the women’s subdued jabber is like a dripping tap. He shushes them, but when they lower their voices it annoys him even more. Next to him, Falck mumbles in his sleep. Now I am closer to Thee, Lord, he says more than once. The smell of the sleeping bag’s dark, close interior is appalling. He lies up against Falck’s backside and must focus his thoughts for fear that the physical contact will give him an erection. Eventually, he leaves the sleeping bag and walks until he is over a hill. He lies down in the heather and curls up against the cold, preferring to freeze than to lie marinating in the sweat and bodily smells of other men.

  He hears someone approach, light footsteps rather than heavy boots. He lies with his eyes closed, on his side in the heather, pretending to be asleep. He is furious with her. He does not know why, but the emotion is there. He acknowledges an urge to do her harm, so refuses to open his eyes and receive her. Instead, he lies motionless, savouring his malice and lack of willingness to oblige her. She places her hand on his arm and squeezes gently. He feels her fingers sink into his woollen sweater and grip the muscle of his upper arm. He breathes deeply, his jaw hanging open like an idiot’s. He is asleep. And yet he smells her. Her naked body, clad in the skins of dead animals, her skin against the skins, sweat mingled with remnants of blubber and the urine used in tanning, the smell of smoke from the fire. He lies still and senses all this as she sits on her haunches and studies him, assessing the authenticity of his sleep. Someone calls out to her from the camp. He recognizes the voice of Amanda.

  Panik.

  He hears the rustle of her feet once more behind him as she hurries away. She has abandoned him. He would like to have looked now, to catch a glimpse of her back, but he is facing away from her and does not wish to run the risk of her seeing him stir. So he remains quite still. He wonders how she will deal with the disappointment after she has returned to the camp, imagines her squeezing into the tightness of the sleeping bag, the women folding themselves around her, the women folding themselves around him, their hands exploring under his garments. He imagines her hurt at having been rejected. Perhaps they will whisper, poke fun at her and make things worse. He gloats at the thought. It will only do her good. He tears tufts of heather from the ground, causing the soil to fly. He grinds his teeth and groans in annoyance. Now he is close to her.

  The Eternal Fjord. Last evening the clouds descended on to the fells, and when this morning they drifted away, the peaks were collared with snow. It is the first time Bjerg has seen glaciers at close quarters. They snake between the fells, down towards the ford, where they are curtailed, ending in vertical walls of blue ice. One hears them rumble; sometimes the reiteration of a former swell passes by and raises the boat several ells, then lets it down again, utterly without sound. The fells on both sides are jagged; they rip apart the clouds, reflect in the sheen of the ford, so clearly that a person can fall into doubt as to what is up and what is down. For this reason, Didrik prefers to sit in the boat, otherwise he fears he will be seized by the kayak sickness so dreaded by all Greenlandic hunters. He amuses himself by teasing the women. They chatter away in their own language, secure in the linguistic incapacity of the two Danes. Didrik is rather more popular than Bjerg cares for, and he is aggrieved by the fact that the kayak man is so able to make the women shriek with laughter.

  When they sail on the next day, the ford has drawn in the fog. They must go close to the land in order not to lose their bearings. Falck is unset­tled by it. He keeps asking Didrik if his course is certain. Didrik points diagonally upwards. There is the sun, he says. Bjerg can see it. The place into which he points is slightly brighter than the rest of the bell jar they are in.

  Bjerg would not mind them getting lost and ending up somewhere else entirely, far from the prophets. The sealed arrest warrant burns in his pocket. The closer they get to the time and place at which he must step into character as an executive authority, the less he feels like one. He has not the slightest inkling of what awaits him inside the ford, whether there are many people or few, whether they are savages or more like the chris­tened Greenlanders in the colony, or whether one or the other would be most to his advantage. Perhaps they have prepared themselves for some sort of attack; perhaps they have entrenched themselves, cleaned their rifles and laid plans. He is not ready for such a contingency. He has never been a soldier and has no intention of beginning now. At the first sign of violence he intends to lay down his arms and wave the white flag. Moreover, he considers that people should be allowed to believe in what­ever they wish and he suspects that deep down the priest is of precisely the same opinion.

  The ice creaks and sighs. Now and then it is a loud whistle or a super­natural wailing note. They stare solemnly into the fog; the women look over their shoulders. Falck believes the sound to issue from the wind as it is pressed between the fells. Bjerg cups his hands to his lips and blows.

  Exactly, says Falck. All great natural phenomena can be duplicated on a smaller scale, as you so admirably demonstrate, good constable.

  Then all of a sudden they think they hear hymns. The women pull in the oars. Everyone pricks up their ears. They sit and listen.

  If I’m not mistaken, says Didrik, it is one of Count Zinzendorf’s.

  I think you may be right, says Falck.

  Again they listen. Didrik mouths the words, das ist in Jesu Blut schwimmen und baden.

  What hideous piety, says Falck with a laugh. Indeed, it is Zinzendorf. It seems he has found his proper place at long last. Row, he commands the women, it cannot be far now.

  It went straight to the sto
mach, that song, Magister, says Bjerg.

  Indeed, says Falck, the poor nobleman was no great poet. His hymns are as long as this ford. How scandalous that the products of his sick mind should find root in this country.

  I find many of the hymns to be things of beauty, says Didrik. We Greenlanders are fond of a good hymn with emotion to make us cry.

  That may be so, but you would be well advised to keep the Count’s perversions as to the Lord’s bodily fluids, not to mention his libidinous piety, out of the ministry. Such things have an inflammatory effect on receptive souls. Use Mr Richardt’s hymns instead, if pietism really is necessary, his works are pleasing and quite harmless.

  They keep on rowing, though without the settlement appearing. Falck thinks they must have rowed past it, but Didrik remains certain it lies somewhere ahead.

  But the singing, says Falck. It sounded so clear and close by.

  Then they are out of the fog; the ford is visible again, the same fells and glaciers as the day before, only closer now. Didrik points. Some irregularities in the landscape can be made out in the distance. Houses. Smoke is rising up from them. Falck stands in the bow and peers ahead. Bjerg hears him mutter something about spectral reflections of sound, natural amphitheatres creating echoes and acoustic illusions.

  Can I ask the Magister a question? Bjerg enquires.

  Of course, says Falck, turning round to face him. Ask away, my boy.

  All these phenomena, whistling noises and hymns and tall waves when there is no wind, does it not indicate that the ford is bewitched?

  Bewitched? Bewitched does not exist. What are you trying to say? When something occurs that we do not understand it is not a case of witchcraft but a law of nature as yet unknown to us. Medieval darkness and superstition is not something to which we would care to return, am I right?

  Indeed, learned magister, Bjerg mumbles, but I still think it peculiar.

  On second thoughts, perhaps you might be on to something, dear Bjerg, albeit unwittingly, says the priest kindly. He laughs to himself. This ford contains an accumulation of mysterious and unfathomable natural phenomena, that much is true. And this fact precisely, in combi­nation with pietistic fogs, has made fertile soil for the uprising we now, by the fresh winds of reason, are about to disperse. Do you understand, Bjerg?

  Yes, Mr Falck. We’re nearly ashore.

  They look in at the land and see staggered plateaus separated by rock, high above the shore. At each level are houses of stone, timber or peat. Smoke curls from their chimneys. At the highest point is a larger structure with a kind of gateway in front and a cross uppermost on the gable end. A church. Most probably there are at least as many houses as yet concealed from them as those that are visible. Bjerg estimates their number: at least threescore. The inhabitants here must be several hundred strong, the greatest concentration of Greenlanders in the country’s history.

  Jesus, Bjerg blurts out, thunderstruck. It looks like a whole peasant village!

  Falck, too, is astonished. It reminds me of Norway, he says. Of a settlement up on the ridge at Drammen. But I have never seen one as big as this at home.

  They are received kindly on the shore and are helped to unload their goods and draw the boat up on to the land. Bjerg looks around; he carries the flintlock on his shoulder. He is overwhelmed by their sheer numbers; his ears are assailed by their palaver. They are clad both in coarse frieze and in skins; most wear European as well as Greenlandic garments. Pipes are smoked, passed from mouth to mouth. Fresh water is brought and they are given cups from which to drink. Bjerg notes that the oarswomen are welcomed heartily, presumably by relatives they have not seen in a long time, and he feels pangs of jealousy. He realizes the women are no longer under his command, as he at least imagined them to be during the journey. It was a mistake to bring them here. Already they disappear up the slopes with their friends. He sees Rosine go with them; she has merged in, stepped back behind her mask. He has lost her.

  It occurs to him that he has committed a second error. He has allowed the people to carry the goods ashore, among them the powder keg and the box of flintlocks. He watches as they are taken to a structure at the shore, presumably a storehouse. Now he has equipped them with weapons and ammunition enough to start a war. He stops a man. Take me to the person in charge.

  The man looks at him kindly, though without comprehension.

  Nalagak? Bjerg ventures in unhelpful Greenlandic.

  The man smiles emptily.

  Habakuk, says Bjerg. I wish to speak to Habakuk or his wife.

  Falck comes over to them. All in good time, constable. Let us first find our accommodation and see what is what. He sweeps a hand. Such a magnificent, majestic place, don’t you agree? One quite understands them in their choice of location.

  I am to arrest Habakuk and his woman, Bjerg says in a low voice. By decree of the king.

  He produces the warrant and hopes he is not committing another mistake in handing it to Falck. The priest takes his time to read the docu­ment. He studies the seal, scrutinizes the signatures. Then he hands it back to Bjerg.

  We must first speak with them, he says quietly. Perhaps they may be talked into coming along of their own accord. Who knows?

  The settlement of Igdlut is short of dwellings; people have arrived in their droves all summer and not everyone has yet managed to build their own house; they sleep cramped together on the sleeping benches of others. Bjerg orders the tent to be raised at the top of the main plateau, close to the church building. Here they arrange themselves. Didrik stays with them. He seems to be worrying over some matter, is silent and brooding. Bjerg has noticed that he and the priest have conducted whis­pered conversations, or heated discussions, with much gesticulation, shaking of heads and pulling of faces. When Bjerg approaches them, they fall silent and wait for him to go. Then they begin again. They see little of the women; it seems almost as if they are hiding. Bjerg mentions his concern to Falck. Will the oarswomen be at all inclined to return with them to the colony? Let us perform our duties as well as we are able, Falck responds, and leave it to the good Lord to take care of matters over which we have no control, Bjerg.

  What’s wrong with our kayak man? he asks.

  Oh, a conflict of conscience, says Falck. I told him about your document.

  Was that wise, Mr Falck?

  That remains to be seen, the priest replies. We shall place it in the hands of the Lord.

  The Lord’s soon got plenty to be getting on with, says Bjerg with annoyance.

  Tomorrow I shall conduct a service in the splendid church building, says Falck. I expect you to be in attendance. Then we shall have to see what happens.

  Shall I take the gun?

  My dear Constable Bjerg, surely you would not even contemplate taking an instrument of death into God’s house?

  I would.

  Well, be that as it may, I would ask you to refrain. We shall employ the power of the Spirit and the word, not gunpowder and bullets.

  They are strong in number, says Bjerg, and we are only three, or rather two.

  Exactly, says Falck. He bends over some papers Bjerg assumes are notes for his sermon.

  Bjerg wanders about the settlement and looks around. People greet him politely, though seem in no way approachable. He addresses a few, but receives only vapid smiles and nods. A number of them are seated on the rocks facing the ford, eating salmon laid out before them. He is invited to join in. He selects a piece, removes the flesh from the bones and devours it. The fish is fat and juicy and tastes of salt. He can hardly remember having tasted anything as good in years. He reaches out for more and looks up at them with an enquiring expression. They speak all at once. Takanna. He does not know the word. But he understands that he is welcome to take another piece.

  He sees Rosine some distance away. He stays close by in the hope that she will notice him. But she does not, o
r perhaps pretends not to. Who can blame her, he thinks, the way I have behaved. He scolds himself for his stupid pride. He would so very much like to speak to her, to take her hand in his and tell her he is sorry, to call her by her proper name. Panik. He feels so abysmally alone among all these strangers who treat him with such kind indifference. Tomorrow they will be indifferent no more. Something will happen. He has no idea what. But he cannot go back to the colony without at least having tried to carry out the arrest warrant.

  Early in the evening he lies half asleep in the tent and is woken by a rummaging at the opening. He sits up. A head appears. Amanda. She says something to him, Rasimusi, and then something else that sounds like kraajid! She beckons to him.

  Are you asking me to go with you? Is it about Panik?

  She nods eagerly. He follows her out.

  They walk upwards, following the ridge at an angle, though always ascending. Their path is made difficult by the vegetation, tall bushes and branches of creeping willow catch on their clothing and slow them down. They descend into a gorge, leap across a stream, scramble up a slope. His boots are not suited for climbing and more than once she must reach down and help him. Then, eventually, the ground levels out, a new plateau on which grows only moss and lichen. There are no dwellings here. They continue higher still and come to a narrow pass with boulders at the bottom. Amanda puts a hand on his shoulder. Now, he thinks to himself, now she wants me. We will take off our clothes and join together. We will kiss and caress. I want to see her and commit it all into my mind, to touch everything, and I will imagine her to be Rosine. It will not be perfect, but it is better than nothing.

  Amanda looks at him. She smiles. There is something oddly nervous about her, something urgent. Her eyes widen and she points.

  Are we to go down there? he asks.

  She shakes her head, then gives him a shove in the back. He stumbles forward and turns. But she is gone, vanished in a matter of seconds.

  He turns round once more and strides off in the direction of a tarn that is half-encircled by the steep crags at whose foot it lies, plunging rock extending like two arms that almost meet at the opposite shore. The lake is thus pleasantly sheltered from the wind, a natural dip in the rugged landscape. At the shore he sees a figure seated in the sand. He stiffens and squints. He walks on, slowly and without haste; her figure grows closer; the rounded neck he has studied and stared at in the boat, and behind it her face, eyebrows arching above a look of astonishment.