Last Stories and Other Stories (9780698135482)

by Vollmann, William T.

  She still kept a few kroner hoarded up, thinking to spend them in America; but all at once it came to her to approach Captain Gull, who had appeared so sprightly and kind back at home. Perhaps money would save the Pedersons. Instructing Ingigerd to guard what remained of her property, Kristina ascended to the deck. She found the master standing smilingly at the bow, while the helmsman dismantled the wheel. Before she could speak, he laid a hand upon her shoulder, and once again it came to her how fine he was.— Still you refuse to trust in me? was all he said. Have faith, Kristina; everything will come out for the best.

  Too soon, they reached their next narrowing. Ice-walls rose ahead like terraces of frozen waves, riddled with electric-blue cracks.

  It’s my duty to go this time, said Reverend Johansen. And I’d like to leave three things behind for your help, but the captain informs me there’s only room for one. So choose, dear friends!

  But quickly, please, said the purser. We’re coming to a particularly narrow part.

  What are the three things, reverend?

  Faith, hope and charity, of course. Now, I can’t help but wish you’ll choose faith—

  Hope, said Kristina, and nobody contradicted her.

  So be it, said the reverend, and withdrawing a sky-blue jewel from his waistcoat pocket, he slipped it into her hand, perhaps because he liked her best. It was a lovely stone which reminded her of the many-ledged glacier wall above the milk-blue sea.

  He was smiling at her. Gazing into his face, she murmured: Did I choose wrongly?

  Well, from my own selfish point of view, hope was the easiest to give up. I wouldn’t be much good in my vocation without faith, and charity comes in handy just now—

  All right, sir, come along! said the purser, and the two tall sailors grabbed the doomed man under his arms and heaved him over the side. He sank instantly. His killers sat down with their mates. Slipping their oars into the crutches, they began to pull, so that the blue terraces on the dull white glacier passed slowly by.

  A broad low cave now opened in the wall of whitish-blue ice-teeth, and with uncouth gestures the nameless helmsman guided the rowers in. Down went the Hyndla, far beneath the bottom of the greeny-grey sea.

  As you can well suppose, the emigrants’ situation had become as narrow as the square entrance to a turf-roofed mound, all square inside. Remembering his old nightmare of suffocation, Øistein found himself in need of unceasing efforts (not unlike a rower determined to go forward) to keep his horror at bay. Sometimes the nausea in his throat or the cold wet constriction in his chest grew indistinguishable from panic, and when the last children still remaining began to scream, goggle-eyed like the old wooden-carved gods, he was tempted to violence, just to quiet them, because their cries bore the timbre of his own soul’s desperate voice, the useless wailing of life itself when death’s fingers close about our throats. Gasping in deep moldy draughts of darkness, he reminded himself that there was no hope in any event, so that to act ignobly could not purchase him a single extra breath. He had sought to persuade the other passengers to keep watch night and day upon the deck, so as not to be tricked anymore, but they were too terrified to creep abovedecks, even the Sigvatssons, from whom he would have expected better help. The last of the Suldal men concealed themselves beneath some planks, hoping to be forgotten, but they too disappeared. Well, after all, even the narrow passage must reach an end. Determined to retain his evenness, Øistein reminded himself that in every ancient barrow, so it was said, one must worm-crawl through the entrance tunnel, but once inside, it grew possible to stand, and perhaps even with outstretched arms remain unconfined by the dank dome of darkness overhead. Perhaps the passage would be like that. Chewing a plug of tobacco, he comforted himself with the parable of the thread within the needle’s eye. He surrendered as well as he was able to the Lord’s will. But what helped most of all was Kristina’s strength for him, and her need. They had married until death. Well enough. He would not be so cowardly as to let the earth cave in on him first, so that his wife must die alone.

  11

  Now the sailors set to their oars, which were actually spades, of course; and the Hyndla proceeded like a millipede through the dark earth. Actually it was not as dark as one might have imagined, the ceiling being thick with glowworms, which gave the Stavanger people comfort, reminding them of when racks of head-skewered brislings and of herring like long silver jewels illuminated the old days of the canneries. Well, never again would they hear winches and chains bearing that treasure of silver tins. No, this narrow passage was not the pleasantest place, but it would surely end soon enough; and even now there was something merry in Captain Gull’s flittering blue eyes. So they sailed blackly under the worm-stars, and the loudest thing they heard was the singing in their own skulls. Einar Sigvatsson whispered into Kristina’s ear the rumor that trolls had been heard coming on board in great numbers, but she turned away, declining to listen. From time to time the cook opened the harness cask, from which he fed the crew a meat of salted dead men. The passengers for their part had almost nothing to eat; most of their food had been cached on that island in the dark lake. Beside his wife Øistein sat quiet, clenching his fists. His horror and terror of asphyxiation kept fingering him, in much the same way that in the sagas that blind and treacherous prisoner-king Rörek continually explored his cousin, King Olaf, to find out whether he were armored; for what he wished above all was to stab him. In this situation, Øistein, who yet half believed in the treasure beyond price which Captain Gull had promised him, sometimes found it helpful to row along with the sailors, not least because, good son to his father, he hated idleness. But presently anxiety for his wife arose in him, so, laying by his oar (at which the sailors shot him wolfish grimaces), he returned into the darkness where the passengers lay, and there was Kristina with her hands across her breast, silently praying, the drops of sweat on her face as richly silver as the hordes which once came to light in the dark water back in the days when the nets rose up full. Again her beautiful desperation strengthened him.

  There were hardly any passengers left. Einar Sigvatsson remained, with his youngest son Arnvid, but his wife and daughter and all his brother’s people had been taken, with ogres and trolls now snatching people right and left. Katrina felt very sad about little Ingigerd, but most likely the child was in heaven. Einar appeared half crazed. Øistein said to him: Now we know for certain that they mean us ill, so I propose that we attack them before they thin us out again.

  Einar answered: That’s all right for you to say, because you have no children, and your wife could get through life without you, but some people prefer not to leave their dependents alone in the world.

  Then Kristina said: Let me go and speak again with Captain Gull, which everyone approved, even Øistein, because it postponed the moment when something must be risked.

  So once more she crept forward, and there stood the captain, looking as ready and cheerful as ever, although most of the crew had disappeared, and just then the purser leaped headfirst over the side, burrowing greedily into the earth. As Kristina had borne him a grudge ever since the death of Reverend Johansen, this sight caused her less horror than one might have expected; and in any event she had come on business.

  The master inquired how she was, and she could not but reply that she was well. Something about him put her at ease, as if even now matters must come out for the best. Aside from Øistein, he was the only one whom she now could see and hear without some sensation of distance. He smiled at her, and his blue eyes sparkled. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he remarked: Sooner or later, my good woman, emigrants discover that patience is better than hope. Because when hope is gone—

  But I still have that, said Kristina, confidingly drawing out the blue jewel that Reverend Johansen had bequeathed her.

  May I see it? he courteously inquired.

  She placed it in his hand, and for a moment he closed his fingers around hers. Holdi
ng the lovely stone close to his eyes, he studied it for an instant. Then he blew on it, and at once it turned black.

  Counterfeit, said Kristina dully. Who would have thought . . . ?

  Not at all! laughed Captain Gull. But it was perishable. I’ve preserved it for you, in a less brittle form. Don’t thank me. We’re through the worst, my dear! Go encourage the others, for I’ve got much to do.

  When he returned the stone into her hand, she discovered that it had grown heavy and cold. Nothing could be accomplished by complaining, so she slipped it into her pocket and crept back into that tight and chilly coffin where the last passengers lay, and all of them as utterly white as halibut-flesh. She had little to tell them; their voices came faint in her ears. The matter of the jewel confused and in some measure discredited her, so that it seemed just as well left locked up in her breast. Einar kept praying aloud with his son. When she offered to share the last piece of flatbread, they would not take it. She could barely hear her own husband, who whispered something about this villainous Captain Gull, whom I hope to see hanged in chains.

  Now came footfalls, and to avoid turning into figures of bygone people scrimshawed on cracked ivory they fell silent and lay very still. As usual, it was no use. This time, instead of sailors it was trolls who threw back the lid and reached in. They bit people’s heads off and ate them right there. Then they went away, and only Øistein, Kristina and Einar were left.

  They lay in silence until they heard someone coming. Desperately Kristina seized her husband’s hand. He could feel the blood pulsing in her fingers. For his part, dread tightened down upon him like his dead father’s great vise, the diameter of whose screwthreaded cylinder exceeded a grown man’s clasp; for a moment it comforted him to remember those hand-planes and pulleys, the staves steaming, his father smilingly tightening the iron hoop on a new barrel, then shaking hands with Mr. Kielland’s father, with the wooden-wheeled cart of crates, baskets and sacks all lashed down tight. Øistein encouraged himself: My father was never afraid of anything.

  He stared at Einar, who kept watching him as if he were the sort who steals Bibles from a church.

  Again the lid creaked back, and they saw the last worm-constellations overhead in that moldy dirt. Captain Gull bent smilingly over them. Remembering that pale face which had watched their embarkation from between the pairs of triple panes of their old home, Øistein could not decide if there were one or two of those specters. What could he do but clench his fists?

  From here on out, said their master, we’ll only have room for two passengers. I’ll return for your decision.

  The instant he turned away, leaving their prison open, Einar rose up with an old-time ryting-knife* and attacked Øistein, who, expecting this, immediately struck him down with punches. Trolls gathered around, howling with laughter. Making use of their acquiescence, Øistein, who had not been wounded, began to drag Einar toward the railing.

  Help me! he shouted at Kristina.

  No, she said. I refuse to murder.

  He shouted: Would you rather it was I?

  Just then Einar got to his knees and stabbed Øistein in the thigh. The trolls applauded. Enraged, Kristina thrust her knitting needle under the man’s ear. He fell more permanently, and the couple heaved him over, but not before they helped themselves to his ryting-knife. He had little time to rest, for the instant he landed, a greenish-grey hand burst out of the dirt and snatched him away.

  The ship was neither more nor less than a large casket now, sliding down across the dark dirt by itself. The sailors were long gone, while the trolls leaped on and off the bowsprit as easily as walruses, and presently dove down into the ooze until not even their hairy feet could be seen. Øistein stood motionless. His good wife took his hand. She had come to resemble her mother, who in her last years grew stooped from carrying too many buckets, and grey-faced from malnutrition. Now for a long time the Pedersons stood clasping hands, and Øistein’s heart grew hard and cold to anticipate the passage’s next narrowing. He whispered: When he comes—

  Turning toward them, Captain Gull gently said: If you, Kristina, and you, Øistein, do not yet hate each other and yourselves, then you cannot continue on with me.

  Oh, yes, Kristina assured him, patting her husband’s hand. We hate each other.

  At this the master laughed, and then, one by one, removed his eyes, which until now the Pedersons had never realized were made of glass. He flung them up into the air. Two ravens swooped to swallow them.

  The captain’s eyesockets were a trifle horrible, to be sure, but so many peculiar things had already happened that Øistein and Kristina made no remark. Besides, Stavanger people have no time to be squeamish.

  Now he was removing his face like a hood. When they perceived his true appearance, it seemed to the Pedersons somehow right, which is to say in accordance with his true nature—but if so, why had they not much sooner perceived what he was? A case may be made that the Hyndla’s passengers should have seen through the captain at the outset, but I disagree, for the face of death, whenever it remains unveiled, is customarily concealed by the living. Six feet of earth, and then we turn away! Oh, but we know—or should know—but why bring little Ingigerd to nightmares and tears? True love defies “reality” for as long as it can—and besides, Captain Gull had always been such a pleasant old gentleman!

  Until then, Øistein and Kristina had been prepared to give up everything simply to get through the narrow passage. But they declined to give up each other.

  Well, said the skeleton, are you ready to decide? At this stage I like to invite the last pair to gamble—

  The Pedersons knew what to do. Øistein gripped Einar’s ryting-knife in his right hand, while in her left, Kristina held her cousin Eyvind’s awl, whose end was as sharp as a marline spike. While the skeleton cocked its skull in a soothing grin, no doubt supposing itself still in command, they rushed over the railing and leaped straight down, Kristina comforting herself with the words of Christ, Whoever seeks to gain his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life will preserve it. This must be the end. Truth to tell, she felt much the same way that she used to on those black January mornings in Stavanger when she had finished making her husband’s breakfast and must now go out into the miserably cold streets if she were to arrive at the cannery on time. As for Øistein, he likewise expected the trolls to tunnel up and devour them right away. They had not very far to fall. And so they struck the dark moss-riddled ooze.

  Strange to say, perhaps because they had consigned themselves to the soil of their own volition, they did not sink; nor did any wound-eager entities wriggle evilly up. The coffin kept speeding away at a good pace, as if it were still somehow a ship under benefit of tailwind, and the skeleton stood motionless on it, watching them. Soon they could no longer distinguish its dark eye-holes.— What became of Captain Gull? I myself ask this after every funeral. Reader, you might suppose that he turned into a seagull and flew away, for his purpose was completed this time; he had brought the monsters their prey, and could now return to fetch more, such being the weird which had been cast upon him; how disappointed he felt at the Pedersons’ escape is another matter of which I feel uncertain, being unadept at reading the facial expressions of skulls. But there is no purpose in my going on about him.

  Well, said Øistein, what now?

  It’s too far to go back, replied his wife.

  Yes—

  Then we’d better dig.

  And with Cousin Eyvind’s awl she began to bore them a crawling-hole. Øistein did his best to help. Feeling hard up in the clinch, as the saying goes, he kept muttering: No hope for it, no hope . . .— You may be sure that by now they both were homesick enough for the fish-perfumed grey cobblestones of Stavanger, but emigrants cannot take great account of sorrows and difficulties; they must keep right on; and so Øistein cleared away the dirt that his wife so magically loosened, while she for her part kept digging st
raight down, almost cheerfully as when she used to help her mother carry the family’s dirty clothes to the pond behind the Domkirke; sometimes the melodies of choir practice would reach them as faintly as if elves were singing from under a mountain, and then she and her mother would cinch up their skirts and wade into the cold water, soaping and scrubbing, chatting at first, until they grew too chilled to speak; and other women and children dirtied the water all around them, so that one could not expect to get one’s underdrawers much whiter than grey, which success being accomplished, Kristina and her mother walked shivering beneath the yellow-leafed trees, through the mucky meadows, circling the long steep spine of the Domkirke’s roof, fronted by its twin turrets, silent now, commanding the grove around it, beyond which the first hints of wooden-house multitudes peeked here and there, loud children weeping and fighting, outhouses stinking; although Stavanger hardly went much farther than Sølvberggata in those days, the walk home seemed to take forever, especially with the wet laundry so heavy, and they had to descend nearly all the stony narrow windings of Finklamauet Street to the house where they lived in those days, when her father was a herring fisherman and liked to be near the harbor; by then they would have warmed themselves into a sweat, and if her mother were cross she would stride on ahead as rapidly as the longhaired witch who bends her face toward the earth, while the girl struggled not to be left behind, but if her mother were in good temper she might tell the adoring child a story, for instance about the great fire, which broke out on Breigata Street and ruined more than two hundred homes; Kristina had been born before then, but of course she could not remember it; and by now they were nearly home, ahead of them the white sails shining in the silvery harbor, so her mother sent her with three copper coins to knock on the diagonal door cut under the corner of the neighbor’s house, and buy eggs and perhaps milk or carrots, then rush straight back to help cook supper: herring, of course. What was there to do but work, and never complain? The last shall be first and the first shall be last, said her mother. Before she was forty-five, she profited the coffin-maker’s shop.