The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

by Aitken, Martin, Leine, Kim

  On this matter the scripture is silent, he says, out of breath.

  And what kind of whale swallowed the prophet?

  On this, too, the scripture is silent.

  A humpback, perhaps? No, not a humpback, for a man cannot pass through the neck of a humpback. It must have been a sperm whale; they can swallow a whole boat.

  They love the details and when he is unable to account for them they make them up themselves. And yet they readily accept what is unrea­sonable, such as Jonah surviving in the belly of the whale. It is all a part of the conception, things happening that cannot happen in reality, like when the shamans with their hands tied behind their backs fly to the rear side of the moon or descend to the bottom of the sea.

  A discussion arises concerning Jonah’s behaviour. Of course he should run away, some opine. What God asks of him – to go into the town of Nineveh and tell the inhabitants there that they are going to perish – would place his own life in jeopardy. Before he knew it, the messenger himself would be dead. But the Lord gives him strength, say others, only Jonah will not trust Him. Who would, after He sent him out in a storm and into the stomach of a whale! They roar with laughter. Falck feels his sweat run down his chest and hopes that he will not catch a cold once they are outside again.

  The palm tree at the end of the story presents a problem. A tall plant with big leaves is how Bertel translates it. They cannot picture it. A fern? A bush? Falck draws a sketch on his pad. At the foot of the tree he places a stooping, emaciated figure.

  Aha, they say at once. Palasi!

  No, he says. Jonah.

  But he looks exactly like palasi, they reply impishly.

  Perhaps you are right, he says kindly and laughs along with them. Perhaps it is palasi under the tree.

  What about God? they ask. Where is He?

  It is forbidden to make images of God, Falck tells them. It would be blasphemous.

  Discussion continues. There is growing agreement that Jonah’s God is unreasonable and intransigent, unamenable to negotiation. Our spirits, they say, are not spiteful like your God.

  It is a comment he cannot ignore. He protests. No, God is love! He shows us what is good.

  Even before his utterance is complete, he knows what they will say. And the reply comes promptly:

  But you Danes are not good. God must be terribly angry with you!

  As usual, he receives his few catechumens in the Mission house and prepares them for christening. That is, he endeavours to gain an impres­sion of the degree of their ignorance or stupidity, in the Christian sense, and the extent to which it will be feasible at all to venture towards con ­secration in Christ through baptism.

  Again he misses the widow. She was bright; she could follow his thoughts even when he began to babble and could tell him what he was trying to say and what she would say in counter-argument. It would annoy him dreadfully, but now he misses it. She had a good grasp of the Gospels and could be merciless if he should refer incorrectly to a passage in the scripture.

  Magister Oxbøl said, she would say.

  Just forget Magister Oxbøl for the moment, would be his reply. It would be best if you forgot all about what he taught you and allowed me to instruct you instead. Then perhaps you would more fully understand that God’s love and the old priest’s are not necessarily the same.

  But when he tested her in the articles and their explanation he would invariably hear some echo of the Missionary Oxbøl’s voice.

  He asked her. Do you wish it?

  She looked at him in bewilderment, her expression exaggerated like an actor’s. She knew exactly what he meant.

  Do you wish to be christened? To be betrothed to the Lord?

  I am a poor widow, she said. I would rather be betrothed to you, Morten Falck. That other one has been dead for many years, and if he is not, then he is too old for me.

  He sighed. Answer me properly. Do you wish it?

  Yes, I wish it.

  Why?

  So that they will not kill me.

  Who?

  She jerked her head silently. Them over there.

  Her fellow natives in the dwelling house. He was aware of the delicate situation she was in. Unproductive members of the communal houses were often done away with. Fortunately for her, the hunting had been good that winter. But now she was living on borrowed time. If she became christened she would be protected by Danish law and then they would not dare harm her.

  If you behave, I shall prepare you to be baptized in the spring, he said. But you must make every effort to deserve it. Not for my sake, but for your own. If you should be christened with serious sin on your conscience, then you will be lost.

  Priests! she spat disdainfully. You are like nosy old women, always wanting to know everything about a person before giving your absolu­tion. God knows me, I’ve told Him everything. He understands me.

  The baptism, and preparation for it, is like a bath, he explained to her. One is cleansed of sin when kneeling down to repent.

  Perhaps that’s why you Danes never wash yourselves with water, she said. Old Missionary Oxbøl’s cock smelled like a rotten salmon, but even then he was not ashamed to stick it inside me.

  How disgusting! he exclaimed. Be quiet! It’s your tongue that’s like a rotten salmon. I will not have such talk in the Mission house.

  Shall I go into the Pastor’s chamber? she said and smiled.

  Yes, do so. Wait for me there. I shall give you some linen to wash and we shall talk of these matters later, without such rudeness.

  The widow in his little parlour, which she filled with the smell of smoke and urine tubs and boiling pots, a blend of odours whose single elements repulsed him, but which as a whole led him around by the nose. His entire longing and lust was contained in that smell. It remains here still, long after she has vanished.

  In one matter, at least, he is inclined to agree with old Oxbøl: he feels that from a theological standpoint it would be wrong to baptize the widow. She is a heathen through and through, vivacious, steeped in care­free heathen sin. It was only when discussing Christianity that she became sullen and recalcitrant. The Christian phrases were a thing she could put on like clothing by virtue of her natural shrewdness, yet he was in no doubt she divested herself of them as soon as she was back in the dwelling house. But perhaps, he thinks to himself, once again in doubt, perhaps salvation might have been attained gradually, as an after-effect of the christening, rather than the other way around. Perhaps she might have learned to love Jesus and to love me, the way I, perhaps, loved her. Now it is too late to find out. I have let her down. I have allowed a soul to slip from my hands.

  Perhaps he will never see her again.

  He wakes up late on the morning of the king’s birthday. The day has crept in, freezing cold and dark, the remnants of dawn an effervescence on the horizon. There is some wind; he sees the snow whirl upon the ice, chasing across the islets. Towards noon the sun appears, a bombardment of frigid colour, before burning out like a tinderstick, daylight gone.

  The colony has seen a frenzy of activity. The flag has been hoisted, the colony bell has tolled, and a stifled semblance of a speech has been made in honour of the king, given by a Trader clad in full uniform in front of his house and attended by his shivering wife, the Danish crew and a handful of natives come to receive their cup of aquavit. The little canon has spluttered a tenfold salute, the carpenter has blown a fanfare, the modest gathering has barked its hurrahs in time with the Trader’s sabre, and now everyone has scuttled back inside, the flag has been taken down and all is dark.

  Before his attendance at the Trader’s house, Falck washes from head to toe. He does this in the blubber house, the only place in the colony, apart from the colony house, where the copper is always on the boil and where it is warm enough for such excesses. The cow is sheltered in the blubber house in the winter. H
e goes to the booth and greets her. She rubs her muzzle against his coat, nudges him, and he speaks to her: What do you want, Roselil? If you don’t tell me, I can’t give it to you. He laughs, takes the hard tack from his pocket and extends his hand. She crunches it between her teeth, munches for a moment, licks her lips and looks at him once more in expectation. I see the smith has been spoiling you, he says.

  He takes off his clothes, digs his hand into the soap tub and rubs the fatty substance into his skin. The carpenter, who also wishes to be clean for the occasion, douses him with buckets of hot water. He scrubs his body and limbs until the blood rushes to the skin and turns it pink. The soap is made of seal blubber and lends him the same bitter smell as greets his nostrils when entering the communal houses, the same smell that issued from the widow’s warm skin garments.

  Naked and steaming, he changes places with the carpenter, who is tall and awkward and forever stooped forward on account of his bad back. He fills the leather bucket and pours the water over the man. The carpenter groans with delight and scrubs himself vigorously, working the soap into a lather. When they are done, they scrub the floor, then ascend to the drying loft where their clothes are hung.

  A bath is a good thing indeed, says the carpenter. One should do it more often.

  Falck agrees.

  He puts on his laundered and ironed cassock; his hairpiece has been hanging outside in the frost for a week and should now be relieved of louse eggs. He has washed and starched the ruff himself and shaped it into neat crisp folds with the collar iron. Sofie, Bertel’s wife, takes care of his laundry for the time being: she is the widow’s replacement. He pays her too well, a manifestation of the unfathomable, chronic guilt he feels with regard to Bertel, and he knows they despise him for it. The washing is done here in the blubber house where the copper is and where there is a loft for drying. His clothes are impregnated with the rancid smell of train oil and are slightly sticky to the touch, but such inconveniences are usual and the same for everyone, including the Trader and his wife, for which reason he is unbothered by it.

  Once I saw a sailor who kept a bird in a cage, says the carpenter. I wonder if the Magister, having read so much, would know what bird it might have been?

  A parrot? says Falck. Many sailors take them from the colonies to sell them at home.

  No, it wasn’t a parrot, it was a small bird with green and blue feathers and a bright yellow beak.

  A canary, says Falck.

  I can’t ever forget its song, so pretty and sorrowful it was. It had a mate that didn’t survive the voyage, so it was all alone.

  How sad.

  Anyway, this one died too. The climate didn’t agree with it. So that was that.

  Something about the carpenter’s tone makes Falck stop and look at him. The bird dying could hardly have been much of a surprise to its owner. Are you trying to tell me something, Møller?

  Sometimes I think the Madame is like that canary. The Trader has her locked up in a cage. I suppose he’s frightened she’ll fly away.

  Madame Kragstedt will not fly anywhere.

  Of course not. The Trader looks after her. He doesn’t want anything to happen to her.

  Such as what?

  Everyone knows what happened a couple of years ago when the Trader was away.

  Do not speak ill of your neighbour, says Falck.

  I’m just saying, that’s all, so the pastor is informed.

  It is more than two years since that occurrence, says Falck. If you had knowledge of it, you ought to have said so before. What more do you know about the matter, Møller?

  The Madame was harmed. She was like a ghost to look at for a long time after. The pastor himself was away at the time, the only ones here were myself, the smith, the cooper and the Overseer.

  Do you know who harmed the Madame?

  The carpenter evades his gaze. No one knows for sure. But the cooper and I spoke of it.

  Falck scrutinizes him. He realizes he doesn’t want to hear any more.

  He didn’t hear it from me, says the carpenter, but the pastor might wish to speak with the smith.

  Have you talked to anyone about this, Møller?

  Yes, to the cooper.

  And no one else?

  To you, Magister Falck.

  Yes, all right, Falck snaps. That’s not what I meant.

  No one else, Magister. The cooper thought the smith should have been put in chains.

  The cooper is dead and has his own account to settle with the Lord. The smith’s salvation is none of your business, Møller. Speak to no one about this, do you understand?

  Indeed, says the carpenter. It may be not my business and I’ll take it with me to the grave, but now at least I’ve spoken and no one can come and say different. The matter is yours, Magister Falck.

  When they open the door they see that the steam from the blubber house turns to ice as it collides with the freezing air and falls to the ground as snow.

  At the Trader’s table the talk is of sickness and how to stay well while stationed at such an outpost.

  Good health, says the Trader, is usually an art of omission. It is more a question of what a person refrains from doing rather than what he actually does. Would you not agree, Mr Falck?

  He swallows the food in his mouth and takes a sip of wine. Most certainly, Trader.

  I, for instance, refrain as far from possible from being outside in bad weather, says Kragstedt, and thereby I never catch a cold. I refrain from drunkenness and lechery and am thereby unstruck by those ailments of body and soul that result from such behaviour.

  So it was sarcasm, Falck thinks to himself. Or sheer obtuseness. He concentrates on the food.

  Do you not agree with me, dear? says Kragstedt, turning to his wife. The Madame says something in a brittle voice that Falck fails to hear.

  Hard work, says the smith. That’s the best cure for any illness. To sweat the poison out.

  In Germany they have discovered an elixir of youth, says the Over ­seer. There’s a lengthy article on the subject in my journal. It’s a kind of antidote for the ills of ageing.

  Then we must order a barrel of it, says the Trader, to a scatter of laughter.

  The substance is being tested on mice, the Overseer continues. Their short lifespan makes them suitable for experimentation.

  Revolting, the Trader mutters. Magister Falck, what do you say about this? Have not all the Lord’s creatures the right to be shown respect and not be subjected to unnecessary suffering?

  Well, it’s only mice, says the cook. We’ve quite enough of them back home. I don’t think the Lord will miss a couple.

  I’m not so sure about that, Detlef, says the smith. Mice are in many ways better than us people. I’m very fond of mice.

  Are you thinking about the same kind of mice as the rest of us, Niels? says the cook, lifting a forkful of food to his mouth. Sniggers are heard, followed by the subdued clatter of cutlery. Falck notes that Madame Kragstedt sits as though paralysed.

  We eat animals, the pastor says. If these experiments can help humans to live longer then they are a good cause, worthy of the Lord’s approval.

  But are not our years, in the opinion of the church, dealt out to us by God? the Trader enquires.

  No, as a matter of fact they are not. Such thinking is but blind faith. The Lord has equipped us with free will. Our actions, along with our inborn constitution, determine how long we shall live and how healthy we are.

  Which brings us back to the beginning, says Kragstedt smugly.

  Madame Kragstedt has begun to breathe more easily, Falck sees. She sends him a look and smiles cautiously. She passes him the wine and he holds up his glass and allows her to pour.

  Skål, Morten Falck.

  Skål, Madame Kragstedt. To your health.

  Her cheeks blush slightly. Has she been d
rinking? he wonders. Was her husband’s comment aimed at her rather than me? She has begun to look older. Small pillows of fat have appeared under her eyes, her chin is more pointed, her mouth appears sponge-like, her skin is blotched.

  Yes, a toast to His Majesty the king, says Kragstedt. They rise and raise their glasses. Long may he live, with or without elixir.

  If indeed he is still alive, says the smith once they have sat down again. You never know.

  In that case let our toast be to his splendid son, the Crown Prince, Kragstedt says.

  They say the king is not right in the head, says the carpenter.

  Mad as a hatter, says Constable Bjerg, who has been silent until now. But his son is said to be all there, and fortunately he’s the one running the country.

  They’ve all been mad, ever since the days of Christian the Fourth, says the smith, the same as all the other fine gentlemen who stroll in the parks or sit with their hands in their lap. If they don’t look out they’ll be run over by the people, just like the Frenchmen, and then they’ll end up in the hole, counts and barons alike.

  Enough, says the Trader, no more of such talk, not today when we are gathered to celebrate our dear, distracted king. I would also like to propose a toast to my wife.

  Again they rise amid a scraping of chairs and give three cheers, while Madame Kragstedt remains seated and looks as though she is trying to tear up her napkin.

  Later, when Falck leaves, the Trader comes up to him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

  Thank you for coming, Mr Falck.

  Thank you, he says, slightly overwhelmed.

  Let us put the past behind us, what do you say? I would like to ask your forgiveness for the difficulties I may have caused you.

  We have both made errors, Falck replies with a stutter. Serious ones, even. Forgive me, dear Kragstedt.