The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

by Aitken, Martin, Leine, Kim

  My boy is not going to grow up in that madhouse. Return the gift, say whatever you like to the Madame, but I will not have such an expen­sive item in my house.

  Then he sets out with the boy.

  They sleep under the open sky; they sleep with the natives they meet along the way; they sleep in some of the small timber huts that have been erected by the Trade. All the time he is alert to make sure the boy does not overly exert himself or become cold and wet. In the evenings he rubs his legs and feet with snow. The old winter snow that still lies in the clefts and in places of permanent shade is coarse and good for stimulating the circulation.

  It’s odd, says the boy, that cold snow can warm you up.

  It is one of the things a person may learn from our people, he replies. The Danes do not understand such matters. They think the snow is cold.

  At a summer encampment in the far south of the district they witness a shamanistic seance. The hands and feet of the shaman are bound by leather thongs. His drum is on the ground in front of him. The audience is invited to check the bindings, and the boy, too, is allowed to test them. Then a skin is hung up in front of the light-hole and the lamps are extin­guished. There is grunting and groaning, the drum begins to play. It is as if it hangs suspended in the air, now at one end of the room, now at the other. A strange voice speaks to them, scolds them, curses and derides the Danes. The drum is struck loudly throughout. Then it becomes silent. A couple of children whimper, an infant sucks manically at the breast, otherwise all is still. In a voice that is almost normal but for a slight bleat, the shaman asks that his bonds be loosened. The skin is removed from the light-hole and the lamps are lit. The man is seated in the same place as before, with hands and feet bound. When it is over, the mood becomes buoyant. Soup is served and stories told.

  Bertel lies down on the sleeping bench and clutches the boy tightly. You must not tell anyone about this, he says into his ear. He feels the boy tremble. There, there, he says, nothing happened.

  I miss my mother, says the boy.

  We go home tomorrow, says Bertel.

  He can sense the boy is unwell as they paddle north. He is plainly weak and cannot paddle for any stretch of time. Bertel tries to tow him, but it is awkward and unworkable. They make slow progress. When finally they reach Sukkertoppen he must carry the boy up to the house.

  What have you done? Sofie says when she sees him laid out on the bench, gasping for breath.

  He doesn’t know what to say.

  Question: What is the air?

  Answer: A fluid, elastic body encompassing the entire globe until a certain altitude and allowing us the sense of hearing.

  He goes to Falck and the staggering priest comes to tap his fingers routinely against the boy’s chest and back, conversing with him lightly and casually.

  Is it the consumption again? Bertel asks him.

  Yes, the consumption returned. Falck has gone outside; they stand by the step and talk. It would seem your trip was rather strenuous, he says.

  It was not strenuous until he became sick, says Bertel defensively. We had a fine trip together.

  As you will, but the fact of the matter is that he is suffering from exhaustion and has caught a chill that has awakened his former condition.

  Can you help him?

  I could open a vein and let his blood, but whether it would help I have no idea.

  Do so, says Bertel.

  Falck goes home to fetch his medical bag. When he returns, he speaks with the boy and explains to him what is going to happen. The boy does not protest. Falck produces a thin metal tube from a case, an instrument he refers to as a straw, which is cut diagonally at the tip. He takes the boy’s feet, leans forward and studies them, his bad eye tightly closed, runs his hand over the ankles, taps them briskly with his fingers. Then he asks Bertel to grasp the boy’s lower leg and to press down hard. He inserts the diagonal point of the tube into a bulging vein at the ankle joint. Bertel sees how the skin parts obligingly around the metal and droplets of blood appear. The boy emits a stifled whimper. Dark blood now begins to drip from the instrument’s opposite end into a cooking pot. Falck massages the calf, long downward strokes, milking. The blood runs faster. When a cupful has collected he removes the tube and wraps a cloth around the ankle. He studies the blood in the pot. It glistens with a hint of green; its pungent odour offends the nostrils.

  Gall, he explains. The boy is full of it. I shall perform a second bleeding in a couple of days if needs be. And remember to give him the cow’s milk each morning.

  Bertel does not tell him that the priest’s milk is thrown away in the evenings. None of them can stand the taste, least of all the patient himself.

  The bloodletting has settled the boy; he sleeps heavily for twelve hours and smiles when eventually he wakes. He asks for his writing set.

  Later, says Bertel. When you are well again.

  The boy studies him inquisitively. His gaze is unkind.

  Later he goes up to the colony house and asks Sofie to retrieve the writing set. They stand in the hall. The Madame hears them; she comes out to see Bertel. Her expression is taut.

  Let the boy come here, she says. I shall look after him and make sure he recovers.

  I know what the Madame wants, says Bertel, and it is not in my boy’s interests.

  If he wants the writing set back, he must let the boy come to me.

  Does the Madame think children are wares that she may purchase when the fancy takes her? Is this how she endeavours to make up for what has happened to her, and for the fact that she cannot have children of her own?

  Silence. Both women, Sofie and the Madame Kragstedt, glare at him.

  Forgive me. He utters the words very quietly. I am doing only what I believe to be best for my boy.

  He turns and goes back home.

  That evening Sofie informs him that she has been released from her employment. But she has the writing set with her. The boy is happy to see it returned. He sits up all evening, coughing and wheezing, writing in his exercise book.

  If the boy becomes well, I will join them inside the ford, Sofie says. I’m tired of this.

  A couple of days later Bertel tries to find Falck so that he may perform a second letting of the blood, as he has promised. The boy has a high fever; the writing set lies idle on the table beside the cot. It is all they can do to force water over his lips. But the priest is not at home and when Bertel goes down to the wreck and calls out for him there is no sign of life inside.

  In the night a crisis occurs. The boy is tormented by spasms, between which he lies limply and without response to their voices which repeat his name. Sofie cries. He is dying! she sobs, and peers out from between her fingers.

  Be quiet! Bertel snaps angrily. You’re only making it worse.

  The next morning Falck appears. His wig sits askew upon his head and his cassock is dirty. Bertel sees that the priest’s hands are shaking. After a perfunctory examination he leaves without a word, only to return an hour later, calm now and smiling, clad in his daily garments.

  I must perform an operation upon the infected lung, he tells Bertel. A cleansing, a removal of the purulent matter, the poison that is spreading to the body and giving him the fever. If I am successful, he will recover.

  Do what you can, says Bertel.

  Question: What are the peculiar properties of water?

  Answer:

  1. Its fluid nature.

  2. Its perceptible density.

  3. Its transparency, such that other bodies may be visible in clean and still water.

  4. The unity of its particles in drops and beads.

  5. The hardness of its particles. If one casts a stone at an angle against its surface, the stone will be cast back in the same manner as in the case of solid bodies.

  Falck produces a new pipe from his bag. It is made of c
opper and as thick as a finger. Like the one he used to let the boy’s blood, it is cut diagonally at its tip, ending in a sharp point.

  The smith has made this instrument according to my instruction, he says.

  They roll the boy onto his side and pull him to the edge of the cot. He seems to be unaware of what is happening. Yet Falck speaks kindly to him; he strokes his hair and tells him, in almost a jovial tone, that he will now do something to make him well. Then he proceeds to tap his fingers against his back, investigating, inch by inch, the resonance of the lungs.

  Here, he says, indicating an area, is where the evil lies.

  He picks up his copper instrument and a small hammer and turns the point to the place in question. He instructs Bertel to hold the boy firmly, a superfluous instruction insofar as he is unconscious, then taps the point in with the hammer. The boy whimpers. Bertel thinks the sound is like the call of a seal.

  Falck kneels down and puts the copper pipe to his lips. He begins to suck, then abruptly removes his mouth from the instrument. A murky fluid drips into the pot. It smells sweet and sickly.

  Look, he says, almost enthusiastically. There we have the mischief!

  The pus runs slow and thick. Falck must speed it up by sucking on the pipe. He spits and rinses his mouth with water. The pot fills. Sofie empties and returns it. All three stand in silence, staring at the matter as it flows. And then it ceases. Falck withdraws the pipe a little, then inserts it again at another angle. The boy emits a hollow whimper, but remains still. The fluid begins to trickle again; this time there is more blood in it. Falck repositions the instrument a number of times, sucking and spitting, before finally he withdraws it completely. He instructs Sofie to dress the wound. Then they turn the boy over onto his other side.

  He must lie with the sick side down, Falck instructs them. In that way we allow it to settle and the good lung to work most fully.

  Should I give him salt? Bertel asks.

  I fear we are beyond salt, Falck replies. My advice is to pray for him. He gathers his things. Send for me if anything happens. I shall be at home.

  The boy does not wake that evening. Bertel sits up all night with Sofie. They listen to his breathing, which at first is lighter and more eased, then later a succession of protracted gasps. Sofie cannot stand it and goes outside. He hears her sobbing on the step and feels angry. He wishes she would not come back, that she would simply go away and disappear.

  He must have slept a little, his chin resting on his chest. When he looks up he sees the boy’s clear, inquisitive gaze. Sun slants into the room. The boy is very pale. He must have lost a lot of blood during the priest’s operation.

  Are you awake?

  The boy swallows. He says nothing.

  Do you want something? Some water?

  The boy looks at him in bemusement.

  He fetches a cup of water and lifts the boy’s head. His lips part slightly, but the water runs out onto the pillow.

  Shall I read something for you? Bertel asks. He picks a book at random and opens it.

  No, thank you. Clearly articulated.

  Bertel takes his hand, but the boy draws it back. He stares without abatement at his father, the same inquisitive gaze.

  Madame Kragstedt sends her love, he says desperately.

  The boy does not react.

  Your good friend, Haldora.

  The corners of his mouth quiver slightly. Perhaps it is a smile. Then his eyes close. He sleeps.

  The priest does not present himself. Bertel asks Sofie to look for him, but she cannot find him anywhere. Presently, his sister comes. She relieves him at the bedside while he goes to the wreck to find the priest in his berth, stupefied by drink. He goes home again. The boy passes away quietly, shortly after eight in the evening.

  With a sense of alleviation he sits down at the table, opens the writing set from Madame Kragstedt and writes: Jens passed away peacefully in sleep some short time after the Trader’s bell rang eight p. m. He was my best friend on earth. Now all fear is past.

  He remains seated and skims through the boy’s book. Outside, the fire-watcher sings: At the hour of midnight was our Saviour born. Between the pages lie small scraps of paper on which he has written with a pen from his set. They must be passages from the book, Bertel thinks to him self. He reads them, one by one. Darkness falls. The fire-watcher sings: The clock has struck three! It becomes light: Black night departs and day begins to dawn. The hours pass. He reads the boy’s notes. He hears the smith: Jesu, Thou Morning Star! He hears the colony bell strike the hour. He hears the priest’s cow as it lows. He hears the people talk, and life go on. Next to him lies the boy, with marbled skin, as stiff as wood. He wonders if it is true that he is now in a better place. It does not feel like it. It feels as if he is simply gone forever, and that he will never see him again.

  The boy is buried beside his cousin. Bertel performs the ceremony him self. He buys wood from the Trade and joins the coffin. He puts the boy inside it, folds his hands, combs his hair. He reads at the grave and casts the soil. He stands alone, mumbling over his Bible in the sunshine. The women – Madame Kragstedt, Sofie and his sister – form the three other corners of a rectangle around the grave. They stare in silence down into the hole, and he considers that like himself they are consumed and mortified that life at any time may be consigned to a hole in the ground, and are filled with guilt that the boy should lie there instead of any one of them.

  When he lies beneath the covers that night with his back to Sofie, she tells him that tomorrow she will be leaving. If you’ve anything to say, say it now.

  The next day he goes down to the blubber house and strikes the priest’s cow hard on the temple with the smith’s hammer. Its legs buckle beneath it. It tosses back its head and jerks its limbs. He places his boot upon its muzzle, then strikes again. The cow is still.

  He pretends not to notice Sofie as he returns to the house. She is packing her things, placing them in large bundles by the step. At the shore some natives are making ready a kone boat. He lifts his kayak from the frame and puts it down in the grass. He goes inside and puts on his kayak coat. He glances around the room. There is not a single item he wishes to take with him.

  Sofie looks at him enquiringly when he comes back outside. He walks straight past her, lifts up the kayak and carries it down to the shore.

  His sister comes running. Where are you going?

  I don’t know.

  Are you coming back?

  He looks at her. I don’t think so. Perhaps.

  We have lost the most precious thing of all, she says. But we still have each other.

  Give your priest my greeting, he says.

  Then he climbs into the kayak and paddles out towards the open sea.

  Question: What is the human soul?

  Answer: The spirit that is united with the human body, such that the body is enlivened and by the soul’s influence may conceive of such things that are outside the body and think upon them.

  The Ninth Commandment

  The Taasinge Slot (1792–3)

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

  ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house.’

  What does this imply?

  Answer: That we should fear and love God, so that we may not by any strat­agem attempt to obtain our neighbour’s inheritance or home, nor acquire the same under the pretext of justice; but to be sub servient in preserving the same in his possession.

  Morten Falck has discovered that a person may simply let go. Life makes no claim upon a man, but trickles away through the orifices of the body and is gone. It is easy.

  In the captain’s cabin of the Taasinge Slot, where the horizon inclines in the portholes like the seasickness and where half the planks have been broken up, he sits and allows his beard to grow. He writes letter
s to Kragstedt, to Haldora, to his sister in Nakskov, to the Missionskollegium in Copenhagen, to his parents at home in Lier. Do not believe what you hear, my dear Kirstine, and forget me not! With peace in my mind I go to rest. I have been happy and am now reconciled. Your loyal and devoted brother, Morten Falck, former Priest of the Mission, the Colony of Sukkertoppen.

  The widow takes care of their dispatch, or at least assures him of it. She comes to him daily. She sits on the cot and is bored. She considers him with curiosity. He offers her aquavit from the keg, but she declines. What do you want from me exactly? he asks.

  I like to look at you, she says. You look strange, Priest.

  You enjoy watching me die. That is what.

  She gives a shrug.

  So much has happened. Bertel’s boy is dead, Sofie gone away, Bertel himself vanished. What has become of Bertel? he asks. Your brother.

  No one has seen him since last autumn, she says. Most likely he is dead, the lucky fellow, and sitting with his boy at this moment at the table with Abraham and the others.

  He grasps what she tells him and understands that he ought to be saddened, perhaps to cry, at least to say something priestly concerning the colony’s state of total disintegration. But he feels nothing and remains silent about it.

  And Roselil? he says after a while. Is Roselil dead too?

  Your cow is dead, she says. I’ve told you many times. It was almost a year ago. Someone hit her on the head with a hammer.

  Good, he says. I am glad to hear it. Roselil has gone home. We are all going home.

  The Trader had it cut up and salted the meat for the winter.

  Then she lives on, he says. Does she not, in a way? He looks up at her as though for confirmation, but she shakes her head.

  One day she comes with letters. A ship has arrived. One is from his father to tell him his mother has passed away.

  He puts the letter down. It falls on the floor. My mother is dead, he says.

  She’s lucky, says the widow. Dying is not easy.

  Yes, it is, he says. Just look at me.

  You’re not dead. You just smell bad.