Pjølle shrugged his shoulders, glanced at Mr. Skælling and said with a rueful smile: “Damned if I know what’s worst.”
Mrs. Schibbye rubbed her nose in recollection while she excitedly rocked to and fro in her chair: “I’ll never forget the first time the Fulda had sold its catch in Aberdeen and I got a telegram telling me the stupendous price. I thought of those words, whoever it was who said them: ’You woke up one morning and were famous!’ 60,000 kroner net profit. It was incredible … after having been as hard up as we really were after the Spanish Civil War had ruined the market for dried cod. Yes, I must admit the Fulda was a good investment – what do you think we’ve earned on it, Pjølle?”
Pjølle had a crafty look in his eyes. He shook his head as he took a sip from his glass. “How the hell should I know? Five hundred per cent?”
“What on earth are you talking about, you fool? That’s nowhere near. Your health, Mr. Skælling.”
Mrs. Schibbye gave a short laugh and shuffled elatedly, but she immediately composed herself and looked serious again, adding as she thoughtfully refilled Mr. Skælling’s glass: “But of course, touch wood. How long is all this splendour going to last? It seems the ships are all disappearing, one after another. Sometimes two at a time. There’ll be none left in the end, and then we shall be in a pretty mess.”
Mr. Skælling was noticeably flushed when he arrived home for supper shortly afterwards.
“Good Lord! It’s obvious where you’ve been,” his wife laughed. “How has she taken it?”
“Like a man, of course,” Mr. Skælling laughed. “Thank goodness, I saw my opportunity to sidle off before she drank me quite under the table. Oh, but never mind, Maja … It’s people like Mrs. Schibbye we need at this difficult time, strong, determined folk who don’t lose their heads but remain at their post whatever befalls.”
6
One of the few not to have seen or heard anything of the air raid was Engilbert Thomsen. On the other hand, however, he had been undergoing another strange experience. It started with his falling into a sudden and unconscionably deep sleep and dreaming that he was fighting with a horse, a short, ungainly, very shaggy horse that was trying to bite out his heart – a task in which, moreover, it finally succeeded, though without causing him any pain or other injury; using its long teeth it ripped his blackish red heart out and disappeared with it. Long after it had vanished from sight he could hear it cachinnating in the distance.
Darkness was falling when he awoke. He remembered his dream and had a distinct feeling that some spell had been cast on him. He felt as though something alien had entered into him so that he was no longer quite himself. But he had retained all his understanding and powers of observation, and now he was very curious to see what else would happen.
Poised above the jagged black horizon a dark red moon was sinking. Hell Water lay like a pool of blood; he went down to it and gazed into its mirror-like surface, and there he could clearly see the shaggy little horse that had taken his heart; it was galloping off and disappearing into the distance, and through the din from the fox cages he could hear an almost human laugh issuing from it. Then he saw other strange visions in the waters of the lake: a flock of red sheep wandered in, whatever that signified, and then other animals appeared: a huge cow with long horns, and two smaller cows, and then some animal with six legs. But it was even more bizarre once the moon had gone down, for then he could make out shapes like human beings, nebulous and bluish-green, twisting in a slow dance across the surface of the lake; he could see their pale hands and faces, but he was not afraid of them.
Finally the figures glided out into the darkness, and the lake lay black and forsaken. For a long time Engilbert sat deep in thought. He felt a great urge to go over to Angelica Cottage and find Thomea. He would go to her and simply say: “Here I am, Thomea. Why have you cast a spell on me so I see visions? I am in your power – what more will you do now?”
Up in Angelica Cottage the grown-ups were gathered at supper. A floral cloth was spread on the table, and there was a brand-new paraffin lamp to provide the light. The children and Alfhild had gone to bed. Old Elias lay awake in his alcove. He had been washed and given a clean shirt and lay staring into the room with tired, wondering eyes. Thomea took out the map of Europe so that Ivar could show them how the war was progressing.
“Aye, aye,” Elias said. “But there’s a long way to go yet. At least another winter. Don’t you think so, Ivar?”
Yes, Ivar, too, thought it would take another winter.
“But winter can be a bad time,” the old man shook his head. “Bad for you, Ivar. Gales and darkness, no lamps, no lighthouses. I don’t know how you manage.”
“The darkness is our best friend,” said Ivar with his mouth full. “And storms the next best.”
Elias smiled despondently: “Foolish the man who decries fair weather,” he said. “So the old proverb doesn’t hold any longer. It’s a topsy-turvy old world. God help us.”
After supper the seamen lit their pipes. They sat for a while and chatted with Elias while the womenfolk went to and fro. Frederik took out a bottle of wine and poured it out liberally in glasses and cups. Magdalena drained her glass in a single gulp and did her best to persuade Liva to taste the wine, too. “A glass of port won’t do you any harm,” she said. “Do let’s have a bit of creature comfort.” She refilled Thomea’s and her own glasses, lit another cigarette and blissfully exhaled the smoke. Liva maintained a stubborn refusal – she neither smoked nor drank. Magdalena had had both snaps and beer with her meal, and her eyes were becoming glazed.
“You’re lucky here, you lot,” she laughed merrily. “Heavens above, but you’re lucky. You ought to appreciate it a bit more. Over in Ørevík last year’s whale meat was about all you could buy – and that had gone off. Do you think we ever got a smell of beer or snaps or wine? No, it was off to bed at nine o’clock every evening and then up at six again for the next day’s grind. And even then you were slaving away for others for next to no money. Cheers, Frederik.”
“Cheers, Magdalena,” Frederik gratefully returned the greeting.
Magdalena bent down and whispered in his ear: “I like you a lot, lad … you don’t say much but you’re nice to be near.”
Magdalena sat down beside Liva and put an arm round her shoulders.
“And you’ve gone and joined the sect,” she said in a reproachful tone.
But suddenly she took her sister’s hand and clutched it to her cheek. She whispered fervently: “Liva … you’re not angry with me, are you? I’m just talking a lot of nonsense, aren’t I? I know you’re going through it … perhaps more than I’ve ever done, you with that brooding nature of yours. Poor kid, poor kid.”
Magdalena sighed and got up. “Ugh, this place is so thick with smoke I can hardly breathe. I think I’ll go outside and have some fresh air.”
Before long Ivar and Frederik took their leave. They had to go back to their ship. It was a dark evening, and there was no moon. Half way down the hillside they stopped for a moment and had a dram from a hip flask.
Ivar said in a low voice, “You know, Frederik, … being on dry land … in the dark. It’s good for the soul, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s good for the soul,” came Frederik’s reply from the darkness.
Liva still had her unopened letter on her.
She hadn’t wanted to open it until she could be undisturbed, but now she couldn’t wait any longer. She took her pocket torch and clambered in through the gable end of the barn. Here, right up under the ridge of the roof, with her heart hammering with anxiety, she opened her letter.
As soon as she saw Johan’s familiar handwriting and the final words, “Yours for ever”, she burst into tears and had to put the letter down for a moment. But then she steeled herself and read it. Yes, it was as she had feared, perhaps not quite so bad, but almost. Johan was still running a temperature and had to stay in bed, and there was some question of an operation – though he had to “get
up enough strength” first.
She switched off the torch and stayed in the pitch-dark barn until she began to shiver with cold.
Engilbert had carried out his decision to take the bull by the horns and go straight to Thomea. He would not complain or ask her to lift the spell, only talk to her and come to an understanding with her. He respected the strange girl’s mighty knowledge of the occult, and although he had now had a taste of her mysterious powers, he was not afraid of her.
Like all other houses, Angelica Cottage lay in total darkness; the only glimmer of light to be seen came from the north-facing cowshed window. It would be very convenient if it turned out to be Thomea out there in the cowshed, so he could meet her out there on her own. He peered in through the crack of light. Yes, it was her. She was milking a creamy grey cow; her thick black hair looked doubly black against the cow’s light belly. Her arms were tanned a dark brown, as were her bare legs. There she sat, brown and black and with an abundance of hair, and an overwhelming desire arose again in Engilbert’s breast and took away his breath. He waited until Thomea had finished milking, and then he suddenly opened the door and went inside.
“Sshh, Thomea,” he said hoarsely. “I must talk to you. Something strange has happened to me today. You must help me, Thomea.”
Thomea got up quickly and stared at him, open-mouthed.
“I’ll go again straight away,” whispered Engilbert. “Just one word, Thomea. But no one must see us…”
He went across and extinguished the lamp, but while he was doing this Thomea saw her opportunity to slip out. He heard her utter a little stifled whine as she opened the door. It was amazing that this big strange woman could move so quickly. Engilbert felt flustered. Aha, perhaps there was magic at play here, too. He groped his way around the dark stable to find the door, and in the darkness he again glimpsed the thick-set little horse that had eaten his heart. At last he found his way out. But out in the open it was just as pitch dark, with not a star to be seen, not a glimmer of light from the blacked-out village. Finally he located his creel behind the stable and swung it on his back. He felt tired and weary, and hungry and thirsty, too – he’d better see about getting home.
That was easier said than done, however. He picked his way step by step along the narrow, uneven path. Far below him the darkness was seething with the din of machines, the hooting of horns, the sound of hammer blows, the barking of dogs and singing of all kinds. But suddenly a great, slightly luminous figure sprang out of the darkness, the figure of a woman wearing a grey scarf, and if he was not very much mistaken it was Thomea. He paused. The figure paused, too, but then suddenly vanished. And now he could hear light footsteps on the path behind him, and a voice calling his name. It was Liva.
“You’re out late this evening, Engilbert,” she said as she shone her torch down on the path. The beam fell on a cluster of grey boulders looking for all the world like a group of women huddled with their heads together.
“Liva,” said Engilbert. “Do you know your sister Thomea can work magic?”
“Of course,” replied Liva as though sharing a joke. “She knows all kinds of ways of treating warts and tooth-ache and nightmares.”
“That’s nothing,” said Engilbert. “But, Liva … she’s done something to me so that I keep falling into a magic sleep and having visions.”
And then he quickly added: “Not that I’m reproaching her, Liva, don’t think that for a minute.”
“No, of course,” said Liva. “It must be lovely to have visions.”
“Perhaps not exactly lovely,” said Engilbert. “Though interesting, I must admit. But I’ll be coming up one day soon to talk to her about it. I think I can learn something from her, and perhaps she might be able to learn a thing or two from me, because I’ve had some experiences, too, Liva.”
“Yes, do come, Engilbert, you’re always welcome.”
Engilbert was close to Liva on the narrow path, and he caught the scent of her skin and her hair. He sighed and said: “Liva, you are so beautiful. And what about Opperman … is he head over heels with you? And how do you manage to keep clear of the soldiers, Liva?”
His hand fumbled for hers in the darkness; he caught hold of her arm, pressed it and said in an emotional voice: “You are doing right, Liva, you’re keeping to the straight and narrow path, you’re a steadfast lass in spite of all the temptations lying in wait. Promise me you’ll go on like that, my dear; I’m talking to you as a fatherly friend.”
Engilbert gripped her arm more tightly. Suddenly he stopped, threw down the creel and fell on his knees before her, flinging both his arms round her knees.
“Stop it, Engilbert. What are you doing?” she said.
“I am kneeling before you,” said Engilbert. “For you are beautiful and pure, steadfast and wise, and I am only a poor, striving soul. Don’t be afraid of me, Liva. I give you my blessing.”
He suddenly pressed his face firmly against her lap, got up quickly and picked up the creel, held her hand tight and said in an anguished voice: “Goodbye, Liva, you my young life, may bright spirits guard your path now and to all eternity! Wish me well, too, Liva; it will give me strength on my way … !”
“May Jesus be your shield and your defence,” said Liva. It sounded like an invocation in all its earnestness. Liva disappeared into the darkness. Engilbert remained there for a moment, feeling refreshed by the young voice wishing him well.
Liva went down to the mouth of the river. She was on the verge of tears as she held Johan’s letter to her cheek. “O Lord God … Johan, Johan,” she whispered, “My darling, my poor dear.” She did not switch on her torch, but groped her way forward to the half completed house and with a sigh went in through the unfinished doorway into the cellar. There she stood for a while amidst the acrid smell of mould and cement. Tears forced their way through her closed eyelids, and she allowed them to flow, but she made no sound.
There was a rustling sound in the darkness, cats, she supposed, or perhaps rats scuttling about. No, there was someone there. Now she clearly heard the sounds of breathing and a brief giggle, followed by a “Sshh!” A couple of lovers, presumably. Lovers in this house of sorrow. Aye, why not, life had to go on. But it was scandalous nevertheless, scandalous. She flushed with indignation; she tiptoed out again, walked some way up along the river bank and sat down sobbing in the grass. A light flickered in one of the unglazed window niches down there. Someone was lighting a cigarette.
Liva felt a dark desire to give in to her sorrow; she pictured to herself Johan’s emaciated face and his straw-coloured hands. Before long – perhaps next year, perhaps even this year – he would be dead. She saw herself, dressed in black, walking behind the coffin, and she heard the pastor’s words: “For dust thou art …”
And then, what?
All that was left was to wait until Jesus took mercy on her and relieved her of her sufferings. But that could take a long time. Alas, her wait might last a whole lifetime, and wouldn’t she finally forget Johan, then? No, never, never. But at the very end, when she had grown old? But she wouldn’t grow old. The world wouldn’t grow old. The last days were approaching, that was her hope, and that had become her firm belief. The waiting would not be long. And who knew, perhaps she would die before Johan. She felt an urge to pray to God that it might be so. Or even better: that he would let them both die at the same time.
She had talked to Simon the baker about these things. You must not think so much about your earthly love, he had said. Of course he was right. But they were harsh words. It was as though there was no place for them in her thoughts, no room for them in her heart. For she did not care to be where Johan was not. She wanted to stand before her Judge and Saviour arm in arm with Johan. Together they would humbly bow before His everlasting altar, and He would unite them for all time. It was indeed strange to think of. But in any case it was beyond human understanding.
Liva had an uneasy feeling that at the bottom of her heart she bore Simon something of a grudge. It w
as wrong of her, it was ungrateful of her towards the man who had given her the faith of the mustard seed, the most priceless gift anyone could have, indeed the one thing needful. She would seek his counsel openly and honestly, as she was wont. He would understand and forgive her. She pictured to herself his calm, gaunt face with its unflinching gaze. Simon was different from all other people, he was stronger, truer, totally filled with God’s spirit and justice.
Someone lit another cigarette down in the ruin. Once more her breast was filled with resentment. What she ought to do was to dash down and turn the impudent lovers out. Yet that would merely be foolish. But at least she could go down to River Cottage to see Sigrun and ask whether she had ever seen the like. Sigrun would back her up all she could. But no. Liva preferred to imagine that it was a young couple out together for the first time. The young man was in love and embarrassed, and lighting one cigarette after another was all he could think of …
She got up with a shudder. She felt the need to go down to River Cottage and have a talk to Johan’s sister. Sigrun was a peculiar woman in many ways, and you could often get mad with her, but this evening it might be a good thing to be stirred up a little.
Sigrun was not at home. Her brother, Jens Ferdinand, was in the kitchen polishing his shoes. He looked as though he had just washed and spruced himself up. It suited Jens Ferdinand to be in his best clothes. His face was really quite handsome, more handsome than his brother Johan’s, though with that trace of stiffness in his features that was characteristic of a hunchback. But his voice was not distorted, as was so often also the case with hunchbacks. Jens Ferdinand’s voice was deep and firm.
“Good evening, Liva. Come in. Sigrun will be here shortly.”
Jens Ferdinand grasped her hand and held it in his own for a long time. He smelled strongly of alcohol, and his handsome dark brown eyes were a little bloodshot.
“It’s lovely to see you, Liva,” he said lingeringly. “Lovely. Yes, honestly, who else has a future sister-in-law like you?”
The Black Cauldron Page 4
