“What do you mean by that?”
“One must repent and do good works, there is no other protection against evil.”
“So how did Obram’s niece die then?” whispered the bailiff, his eyes glinting with curiosity, as if he was setting the dignity of rank aside and simply asking the Scottish preacher to explain how things worked.
But Sloan simply listened. He had also attended the burial, but the churchyard was full of people and from where he stood he could not see what actually happened at the gravesite. However, he had heard that Frú Gerd had refused to take the bailiff’s outstretched hand.
And it was true. The highest legal authority in the land had been publicly scorned.
By the time he had reached the cemetery gate at the funeral, Hjøstrup was convinced he had nothing more to do in this country; rather, he did not understand why he had ever sought a post in this anachronistic hole.
The hatred in Frú Gerd’s eyes had been so dreadful it bordered on disgraceful. It was not his fault if that occult deviant had lightened her husband’s weight by two testicles.
Yet there had been no compassion in the eyes of the other funeral guests either. The lack of a proper respect to authority was frightening. Right now everyone seemed to hate him. That was the truth of the matter. It was mob hatred he was up against, and there was no protection against such mass emotions.
“Of course, you have no idea how the girl died,” Hjøstrup said, answering his own question.
He looked out the window while he talked. A daffodil bed was already sprouting in the yard and the first currant leaves were beginning to unfurl. He said it had occurred to him that death was an independent entity on par with God and the Devil. Sometimes healthy bulls died. Sometimes ships with 200 men on board sank, or a fire might consume an entire neighborhood. But what did God have to do with it? Or what difference did it make to the Devil whether or not a flower survived?
Sloan disliked these words, and did not know whether the bailiff was being serious, or whether he was simply thinking aloud. If they had been some other place, in the meeting house or perhaps in his own home, then he could have told the bailiff that there will come a day when Death and the Devil and human sinfulness would vanish like dew before the sun. But to instruct such a high official in his own office, that was not something he could do.
Now Hjøstrup smiled, and his smile was pleasant and encouraging. He said that he had almost forgotten Sloan’s errand, but that the preacher could have half an hour with the Sorcerer of Geil.
He took a piece of paper, dipped his pen in ink, and after he had written some words, he blew on the text and then handed Sloan the paper, saying he could show it to the guards at Skansin.
Sloan thanked Hjøstrup for the sign of goodwill and they bade each other good day.
The three weeks during which Tóvó waited to sail to Denmark saw friendship arise anew between himself and Laurits á Bakkahellu. Though a better word might be understanding. Laurits saw how harshly the sentence had affected his childhood friend, and although Laurits could seem callous, if not to say small-minded, he had long comprehended that Tóvó had fought for his life, and that was the heart of the offense. A poor man had lifted his head too high, and although Laurits admired that kind of pride, he could not express those thoughts, certainly not in a workplace whose highest authority was Hjøstrup. For his part, Laurits did not have anything in particular against the bailiff, and he was not paid to have an opinion of the man. His post at Skansin put bread on the table. Nothing more to say.
Sometimes he let Tóvó borrow his pipe, and occasionally he loaned him a copy of the Dimmalætting to read. Now and then he said something amusing and there was usually a barb to it.
One day Laurits said he had heard that the Workers Union was about to announce a special musical evening featuring a castrate from Oyndarfjørður who planned to sing The Ballad of the Missing Jewels.
He also told about a spring day when the people of Nólsoy were leading their cows to the outfield, and a heifer had fallen into a bog from pure spring fever.
Tóvó knew the story well, but he liked hearing tales from his father’s hometown.
Several attempts were made to drag the cow out, but the mire simply closed around the large body, and the poor animal sunk deeper and deeper. Some told the creature farewell, others suggested cutting the cow’s throat to put it out of its misery.
One bright mind from the Stovu house came up with the idea of running home to fetch a half-pint flask of brandy. One, two, three, and he was back, tipping the flask into the cow’s mouth and letting the brandy flow. Cows have several stomachs and, therefore, longer intestines—indeed, some claimed a cow’s intestines were four times the length of its body—so it took a while for the strong drink to make it back and forth through the animal’s system. What happened next was exactly what the bright mind was hoping for: The cow cast its head, gave its body several good heaves, and suddenly looked like it would free itself. If fact, it practically flew, and when it landed, its body was half on dry ground.
Laurits also said that he was the cupbearer at Napoleon and Henrietta’s wedding, and that Hammershaimb, the provost on Nes, had come to Tórshavn to marry the couple. Everything had to be so damned Faroese, no Danish pastor was allowed to show his face. Nonetheless, Pole died two and a half years into their marriage, but that was another story.
At the wedding banquet, Hammershaimb told the strange story of a black ox, and it did not surprise Tóvó that this story also came from Nólsoy. Hammershaimb said he had heard the story as a boy in Havn.
It was during the autumn, and the sheep had been driven home for the winter. When they returned for the cows, they looked for the ox but it was nowhere to be found. The next day they searched again, but with the same result. The animal probably fell to its death, nothing more to say.
Around Christmas time, though, some men were out fishing east of the island. The day was bright and still, and suddenly they caught sight of something large and dark moving around the rocky beach at the foot of a cliff. They drew in their lines and rowed toward land. Maybe it was a large seal or a walrus taking advantage of the glorious weather to sun itself. However, as they neared the beach, they saw that the dark shape was the ox they had lost in the autumn.
How it had gotten to the beach at all was a mystery. The beach was as big as a good-sized field and it was backed by vertical cliffs rising fifty fathoms up. An agile man might have been able to make it down from the edge, but certainly not without a rope, and the animal could not possibly have gotten down that way. There was also no food. The black beach was surrounded by a wide belt of whelk and limpet shells, and kelp and reddish seaweed rocked on the water’s surface with the gentle surge.
The real question, though, was how the men were to get the ox home. The ox also seemed so tame, which in itself was suspicious. They did not dare take it on board. They could tie down a sheep, to be sure, but hardly a large animal weighing 500-600 pounds. No one dared say the word sorcery, even though it is what they were all thinking. And it also seemed the ox understood human tongue. Its large brown eyes followed whomever was speaking, but there was no trace of a raging bull there. If anything, its eyes appeared questioning.
After debating the matter for a while, they finally decided to slaughter the ox. They cut its throat—its blood was more black than red—and then dismembered the body.
No one back home was pleased by the catch, but you ate what was put on the table. The strange thing about the ox was that its meat tasted more like fish than beef.
On the evening Sloan came to visit, Laurits showed the preacher into Tóvó’s cell. Then he stepped outside so they could speak privately.
After Sloan had greeted Tóvó and taken off his hat, he asked if he could sing a psalm, and Tóvó had nothing against it. Sloan said he had written it himself, and with his beautiful voice he sang:
Trust today, and leave tomorrow,
Each day has enough of care;
> Therefore, whatsoe’er thy burden,
God will give thee strength to bear,
He is faithful!
Cast on Him thine every care.
The song had several verses, but the words “God will give thee strength to bear” seized Tóvó’s heart and he thanked Sloan for singing it. However, he did not believe Sloan had come just to sing a psalm to him.
Tóvó was suddenly reminded of the stories his great-grandfather used to tell of the mysterious Jóvóvamaður, the half-human, half plant creature that lived up by Svartifossur. He had never given much thought to how the Jóvóvamaður might look, but if he resembled anyone at all, that person would be Sloan. What with his huge white beard and wild white hair, he resembled a light-colored bouquet of flowers; Tóvó smiled at the thought that, in place of legs, Sloan’s trousers might contain roots. Tóvó was delighted that the visit had triggered a warm childhood memory. Nonetheless, he asked why his guest had come.
Sloan told him that seventeen years ago a terrible thing happened in Fraserburgh. The preacher Ronnie Harrison was found murdered, but the killer’s identity remained a mystery.
Tóvó replied that he was familiar with Ronnie Harrison. In 1858 the man had killed his friend, Jóakim Nolsøe. At the time, Ronnie was sailing aboard the Glen Rose, and in the autumn of ’58, the ship had put in at Tvøroyri with a man suffering from gangrene on one arm. Since Tóvó was a servant to Doctor Napoleon Nolsøe back then, he knew the particulars. While the Rose lay at anchor, the men on board started drinking. Jóakim, who had delivered water to the ship, participated in the festivities. Later, he and Ronnie rowed to land, and went to the old Royal Danish Trade Monopoly’s boathouse.
Jóakim was a sodomite, Tóvó said, and so was Preacher Ronnie Harrison. That was why they came ashore together, and it was not the first time they had been to the old boathouse together.
Sloan crossed himself, but Tóvó told him to calm down. The world was an ugly place, he said, and human bestiality knew no limits.
“And that is the message you can take to Hjøstrup.”
Sloan winced. “Do you think that Hjøstrup sent me?” he asked.
“It wasn’t so long ago that Hjøstrup told the same story you just did,” Tóvó replied.
“I asked Hjøstrup for permission to visit you. That’s all we discussed. Nothing more.”
“So it’s pure coincidence that you and the bailiff brought up the same subject?” Tóvó asked.
“I have no idea why Hjøstrup would be interested in Ronnie Harrison,” Sloan replied.
“And I suppose you also didn’t know that Ronnie Harrison was a sodomite? I’m not interested in small talk. You have to be honest with me.”
“Perhaps I should have been clearer,” Sloan said. “But first I’d like to ask you something, and I hope you’ll answer my question.”
“The first time I came to the Faroes was in 1865. For a few years I sailed between Scotland and the north islands, and also all the way up to Iceland. When we built Salin here in ’79, I saw you and thought, I’ve seen that man before. I saw him in Fraserburgh in 1867.”
Tóvó nodded.
“And since then I’ve feared you.”
Tóvó felt his forehead burn. There was only one single person who knew that Jóakim had been avenged. In a letter to Pole, which he had sent from New York the summer of ’69, Tóvó wrote: He is avenged, he who died in the Temple of the Flesh. His avenger is neither pleased nor proud, but at peace.
If the letter still existed, then Henrietta Nolsøe had it in her possession. However, Tóvó could not believe she would let anyone else read the letter, or rather letters he had sent Pole over the years. Even if someone else had seen the letter, how would that person know who the avenger was, or what the sender meant when he wrote Temple of the Flesh?
“It’s good to lighten one’s heart,” Sloan said.
“True,” Tóvó replied. “So I guess, that said, I could ask if you were ever a victim of Ronnie’s advances.”
The question surprised Sloan. He was so used to hearing others confess their sins that he himself had mostly forgotten the art of confession. Still, he answered that few had mourned Ronnie Harrison.
“But I also want to say something else,” Sloan continued. “I’m convinced that the sentence you’ve been given is unjust. I’m not saying that to comfort you, but because I know what happened. Unfortunately, I can’t say anymore. People turn to me in confidence and their words are hidden here.” Sloan put his hand to his heart. “However, I might add: The sentence also harbors a kind of involuntary justice. That’s the extraordinary thing! Because the punishment you’ll undergo in Denmark is actually for the murder of Ronnie Harrison!”
“I’ve had the same thought,” Tóvó said.
“That means you’re a repentant man,” Sloan said. “And he who repents is no stranger in the Lord’s house.”
Sloan kneeled and began to pray. Tóvó also kneeled, but he was silent. And he remained silent after Sloan had finished. It was not until Laurits could be heard unlocking the door that Tóvó took his guest’s hand, thanked him for coming, and asked him to send his greetings to his cousin.
PART FOUR
The Fools’ Narrow Way
OVER NEW YEAR’S in 1988-89, when Karin was staying at Eigil’s, they told each other a number of secrets. Karin said exchanging secrets was the essence of love.
Eigil was charmed by these words. He had never dared to speak so openly. Of course, he had read things that were just as charming or perhaps even more beautiful. But to see the fire in her eyes and watch her lips form the words, exchanging secrets is the essence of love, that endowed the words with a life of their own, so they took root and bloomed in the half-light.
One unexpected thing to seize Eigil that week was one of his reoccurring Dusty Springfield binges. Dusty’s voice belonged to the music of Eigil’s solitude, when he was craving depth of feeling, or for what was unfolding between him and Karin.
He owned an LP and two EPs, which she released in the latter half of the 60s; he had bought the records while he was studying accounting at the Handelshøjskolen in Copenhagen.
Karin was just a kid during Dusty’s heyday in the 60s, and by the time she started listening to music and paying attention to names, Dusty’s time was already past. Not that that bothered Karin too much. She thought Dusty’s most unusual characteristic was not her voice, but rather her enormous beehive hairdoo. She did not say that to Eigil, however.
One night, Karin woke to the sound of Dusty’s voice. The door had come open, and her voice crept into the bedroom together with a gray light. Karin tiptoed to the door and glanced down into the living room where Eigil sat listening to “You Don’t Have to Love Me,” again and again.
He was naked, and when he stood up to reset the record player’s arm, she saw how truly powerful his body was. His shoulders were thick and muscular, and his back was incredibly broad.
When he returned to his seat, Karin saw that he was crying. His shoulders shook and for a moment he buried his face into his hands.
The sight frightened Karin. It felt overwhelming to see a man, whom she had essentially just met, sit there crying. And she did not go down to him. There was something awkward, yes, even repugnant about his tears. And besides, it was not fitting for a grown man to sit there blubbering to the sound of a backcombed 1960s slut.
Eigil told her that he had discarded his plans for a book on Faroese cultural history, and was now devoting all his time to a novel about the Faroese measles epidemic of 1846. He was also trying to work in some of his own family history into the book. Both during the epidemic, and in the years that followed, his great-great-grandfather Nils Tvibur had demonstrated some personality traits that were worthy of all praise. Nonetheless, Nils Tvibur had not been a good person, and, truth be told, Eigil sometimes suspected he was more like his great-great-grandfather than he knew.
Karin asked if he was being serious, and his answering shrug angered her.
“Why do you think I’ve spent nearly a week with you?” she asked. “Why do you think I answered your letters for almost half a year? I care about you, that’s why. Don’t say that you’re a bad person, that kind of talk scares me. All it does is push me away.”
Karin paused a moment and then almost shouted: “Is that what you’re doing now? Is this how you’re thanking me for a week in bed?” Eigil struggled to explain what he meant. He said that his Sumba relatives were characterized by a rather pathological brutality. In saying that, he was not trying to make himself seem psychologically interesting, it was simply that he worried about what things his genes might be harboring.
He told Karin that his mother was mentally fragile and that he did not know for sure who his father was. He had a suspicion, that was all, and that suspicion occupied his mind quite a bit in the third and fourth grades.
He had asked his mother about his father, but she did not give him a satisfying answer. She said that Jesus Christ was his father, just as He was father to all children on earth. Another time she told him that the only father who counted was the one who put food on the table. The rest were good for nothing.
And that was an answer Eigil could live with. Sometimes people asked him who his father was, and he could earnestly call Ingvald his father, and say that he worked in the Bókhandil printing house.
The third or fourth grade was also when Eigil was viciously bullied. A punk named Evert, Evert hjá Tannlæknanum, was the ringleader. The boy was an excellent soccer player, and had a big mouth; one of his gang’s favorite pastimes was to chase and tease the big, clumsy boy with the Suðuroyar dialect.
Eigil complained about them to his mother, said he wanted to change schools, that the bullies would not leave him alone.
His mother gave him a piece of sound advice: an eye for an eye. That was what Sterka Marjun did when her father tried to exact revenge after she married against his wishes, and that was also what her sons, those giants the Harga Brothers, did when they fought the sea-raiders. Kristensa told her son to wring blood from the dentist’s shitbag son, and the rest would take care of itself.
The Brahmadells Page 21
