The Black Cauldron

by William Heinesen

  Ivar’s lips curled down in a sarcastic smile: “And then, when those two monkeys had gone, Joab Hansen says: ‘Now I’ve just about made myself a criminal for your sake, Ivar; just to spare you; you know, you could have got three months or more in gaol for getting rough with the police.’ ’All right, what do I owe you?’ I ask. ’Nothing,’ he says. ’You don’t owe me anything.’ So I gave him all I had got left on me, a bit more than 500 kroner. He shouted out that he’d said he didn’t want anything, but I could hear how pleased he was by the tone of his voice.”

  Ivar gulped down the smoke and blew it out with a short sigh: “I don’t give a damn for any of them. It was Joab Hansen himself who ought to be in the cooler. And Opperman and the whole crowd of them. I’m sick of it all. The war and the whole lot. Ugh!”

  They went on board the Manuela.

  Lying on the floor down in the dark cabin they found something that looked like a bundle of dirty rags. It was Jens Ferdinand the typographer, dead drunk and breathing noisily through his mouth.

  “Poor devil,” said Ivar. “Come on, we’ll put him up in the bunk for a bit, and then we can get him home when it goes dark.”

  Ivar unscrewed the top of a bottle of Cluny.

  “I’m just dying to get away from this bloody hulk,” he said. “I ought to have a big ship. A trawler for example. An armed trawler. Or a torpedo boat.”

  Frederik laughed, but Ivar became serious: “I damned well ought. Why do we have to flap about in these hopeless old tubs? Surely the Faroe Islands are in the war. It’s a lot of bloody humbug that we’re supposed to be neutral. We’ve been hijacked, turned into slaves, as Jens Ferdinand says. And he’s right. We think we’re being paid pretty well, but there are others getting five times, even ten times, as much just for staying at home and giving us orders. Opperman’s taxed on a net income of 175,000 kroner, but Joab Hansen swears he makes at least three times as much in his wholesale business in addition to what he earns on his two tubs. And Solomon Olsen’s a millionaire several times over. Oh well, that’s no concern of mine.”

  Frederik felt a little despondent. It was not like Ivar to talk in this way. He had changed recently. Since that affair with the girl in Aberdeen. He could obviously not get over it. Frederik tried to think of something encouraging to say.

  “I suppose the war’ll be over one day,” he said.

  “What then?”

  Ivar yawned. His yawn ended in a sullen grin, and he started humming to himself:

  All flesh, it is but grass,

  The prophets all did say,

  This earthly life will pass,

  whenever comes the day.

  Frederik breathed a sigh of relief. That was more like Ivar. He was his old self again.

  Ivar rubbed his eyes and said sulkily: “I don’t think life ashore’s good for us, Frederik. It weakens you. I felt it as soon as I left the ship this time. I was all weak at the ankles. I was scared. I was suddenly scared! Scared of the sea, scared of the Germans. And when I saw those men working for the British, building the new road across the isthmus I was envious of them because they have their work on dry land, and still earn good money. No, it’s not good for us to be in port, Frederik, we lose our strength … like fish out of water.”

  Ivar stood up straight and stretched his arms. “But a dram’s good for you, even so,” he said and gave Frederik a benign look.

  He broke into song again:

  A fiery dram, a glass of ale

  Our loyal friends shall be,

  Where’er we go, where’er we sail

  All o’er the rolling sea.

  Frederik joined in the refrain. Yes, Ivar was his old self again after all. He was all right again now.

  Frederik hesitated and seemed ill at ease: “By the way, Ivar, I met my half-uncle today, you know, the watchmaker, and he asked me to go round to see him this evening at six o’clock. He’d got something important he wanted to talk about. I managed to get out of him that he wants to lease a ship, and I have a feeling that if we can agree on things he wants me to skipper it. Well, I don’t know, but … suppose that’s what it is, Ivar?”

  “You go and have a talk to him,” said Ivar. “Pontus the Clock has plenty of money, and it would be like him to fancy gambling a bit. Besides, he’s half daft and he needs someone else to do his thinking for him. Aye, Frederik, if you get the chance, then take it; you’d be crazy not to. But don’t make any promises before you’re sure he’s not up to tricks and that you’re not going to be swindled.”

  They both got up and went out on deck.

  The sharp smell in Pontus Andreasen’s watch and fancy goods shop put Frederik off; there was a curious ingratiating, feminine scent emanating from the pink perfumed cotton wool in the boxes Pontus used to package his brooches. It brought with it memories of confirmations and engagements. And in Pontus’s little office there was the acrid smell of paraffin stove and medicine.

  Frederik could still hear Ivar’s words ringing in his ears: “Make sure he’s not up to tricks.” He listened cautiously to what the watchmaker had to say as he chewed away at his dead cigar. Yes, Pontus was half daft. He had the gold bug. Frederik felt a little sorry for his old half-uncle, this man who had spent half a century toddling around in his little jeweller’s shop, and now was suddenly overcome with a desire to be a shipowner and wholesaler. He had always wanted to have a go at this, explained Pontus, but his wife had been very much against it, for she was of a cautious and timid nature. But since she had passed to a better world last summer there was nothing more to hold him back. He had money, over 100,000 kroner. And admittedly, there weren’t any ships for sale at the moment, but there would be sooner or later. For the time being he had leased a schooner for two trips.

  “What schooner’s that?” asked Frederik.

  “It’s the Admiral, belongs to Thæus Mortensen from Sandefjord.”

  Frederik looked upwards and breathed in deeply. “The Admiral,” he said, and nodded. “That’s a big ship. But it’s an old hulk. I suppose you realise, Pontus, that it’s over fifty years old. But otherwise they say it’s not a bad ship. Though for some reason or other it’s never been a lucky ship. As far as I know, Thæus has only ever lost money on it, and if he didn’t have his other two ships, there’s no knowing where he’d be. How much does he want?”

  “A lot,” said Pontus, rubbing his striped thighs. Pontus always wore a black jacket and striped trousers. “A lot. Twenty thousand a month.”

  “Then you’ll be lucky if you break even,” said Frederik.

  Pontus’s face contorted ready for a sneeze, but he managed to prevent the explosion before it occurred. Frederik recalled this from earlier days; Pontus had always been bothered with sneezing, and he was an expert at stifling a sneeze before it came into the open.

  “I’m not interested in breaking even,” Frederik, he said. “It’s got to give a profit. A big profit. If they’ve not had any luck with it so far it’s because they’ve always had that impossible brother of Thæus’s, Luke, as its skipper. It’s Luke that’s unlucky, not the ship. I know Luke only too well, he’s far too old and cautious by nature, and he’s daft into the bargain, Frederik. They can all get round him and kid him into believing anything they want. I’m a sly old fox; I know people, believe me. But I believe in you young folk, Frederik. It’s lads like you and the chap from Angelica Cottage who bring the money in. It’s true! Just think on that the other skippers Thæus has are all young men. It’s like the Spitfire pilots, they’re only young men, too. It’s only Luke who’s old and incompetent. The ship’s good enough. Aye, I know there’s supposed to be a ghost on board… !”

  Pontus’s long, broad front teeth were bared in a smile beneath whiskers so stiff they looked as though they were frozen; he did, indeed, look like an old fox. An unpleasant light was flickering in his yellow eyes. Scratching himself violently at the back of his neck, he added: “I know it’ll work, Frederik. I’ve already got a splendid offer from Stefan Sveinsson. The Adm
iral’s going to get first look in at Effersfjord provided I’ll sail thirty fish workers up there as passengers. You know there’s a terrible shortage of labour up there. The ship will get straight into the quayside and get the best cargo. Sveinsson has given me his solemn promise. He’s a fine man.”

  The watchmaker leaned forward as he got up, and stuck his thumbs into the armholes of his well-worn waistcoat. “But I’m glad you’re producing all your objections, Frederik, that’s what it should be like. Let’s hear all the pros and cons. Not that it’ll make any difference; I’ve made up my mind. I’m not a young man any more, and I’m a widower, without children. I can’t take my money into the grave with me, and I don’t want my in-laws to get their hands on it. But you’re related to me, too, Frederik. No … I’ve said enough. But now I’m determined to have a flutter. Why should I sit here alone and twiddle my thumbs when I have money to take a chance with?”

  Pontus sat down again, wriggled his chair closer to Frederik’s and suppressed another sneeze. “You know,” he said in a low voice, “I’ve been dying to gamble in fish ever since the war began. I’ve missed out on one chance after another, just for the sake of peace and quiet. You know what Kathrine was like and you know what a terror she could be. It’s infuriated me no end to see even men without a penny to their names growing rich on fishing. Just look at a man like Consul Tarnowius – he used to be on the verge of bankruptcy, and now he’s rolling in money, so much so that he’s been able to build himself a palace! With towers and a swimming pool and a palm court and the lot! Or what about Olivarius Tunstein, that wretched cobbler – he owns the Gratitude now. And he started by hiring a worn-out old suction dredger.”

  “Yes, I don’t know how he managed it,” admitted Frederik.

  “How? It was criminal. But so are so many other things, and people get away with anything and everything, for there’s no respect for law and order any longer in this country, or anywhere else in the world for that matter. So Olivarius managed to pull it off and made a packet out of it. All you need is nerve and determination.”

  “But that was when you could rely on market prices,” Frederik protested. “Things are a bit different now. There’s more fish on the market. People are more interested in quality. Solomon Olsen made a big loss the other day on the Kitty; it took a cargo of saithe to Aberdeen. There was nothing wrong with the fish, but there was just no market for black-jacks, and the whole lot went for a song…”

  “Yes, but the Kitty,” exclaimed Pontus, pointing his index finger triumphantly. “The Kitty’s got Ludvig Næss as its skipper, and he’s an old ’un of fifty-nine. What did I just say?”

  “The Kitty’s had many a good trip,” said Frederik pensively.

  Pontus moved his chair back to the desk. His face was flushed, and the hairs projecting from his big nose moved to and fro indecisively. But suddenly he tossed his head and gave Frederik an icy, disdainful look: “I see; you’re obviously not interested. Good Lord. If you’re happy as leading seaman on Opperman’s filthy little tub, then for God’s sake stay leading seaman. There are dozens of others who’ll be all over me to get a chance on the Admiral.”

  Frederik flushed. “I’ve not said I won’t, Pontus,” he said. “I’ll let you know this evening.”

  “Thank you so much, that’s extraordinarily kind of you,” said Pontus, getting up and executing a stiff little bow.

  Frederik got up, too. He tried to look Pontus in the eye. But the little man turned away from him and said in a biting tone: “Listen, Frederik, you needn’t bother to come back. No, that you don’t, you conceited fool.”

  Frederik shook his head. “All right, but … I didn’t want to tempt providence, Pontus.”

  Pontus suddenly swung round. His eyes were screwed tight with contempt, and his front teeth were bared. “I knew you were a cissy, Frederik,” he snapped. “I just wanted to give you a chance, seeing we’re related. But now you’ve lost your opportunity like the simpleton that you are. Do you see?”

  “Don’t take it like that, Pontus,” said Frederik with a little smile.

  But Frederik’s composure simply made the old man even more furious. He kicked open the office door and drove out Frederik as though he were a steer. The shop was still filled with the oppressive, acrid smell of crowded parlours and sweating ring fingers.

  10

  Engilbert had had another remarkable and disturbing experience. It had occurred early in the day up in the Angelica Bog. As usual, it was misty here, and today the mist was so dense that Engilbert lost all sense of direction and looked for the fox farm in the totally wrong place. Then, when he started off for home again, he could not find a part of the hillside sloping downwards. Whichever way he turned it seemed to lead upwards. Finally, he sat down on a stone to collect his thoughts – and it was then things started happening. A little way off the figure of a woman appeared in silhouette through the mist, a woman carrying a peat basket on her back. She was big-boned and supple, rather like Thomea, and at first he was sure it was she and called out to her. The woman paused, but then continued on her way, without hurrying.

  Engilbert called out again. The figure stopped once more. But then she was swallowed up in the mist.

  He swung his creel up on his back and hurried towards the spot where the figure had appeared. “Thomea,” he shouted. He was convinced it was the girl from Angelica Cottage, and that the approaches he had made to her the previous day must have provoked her to come up here in the hope of meeting him. Perhaps she had seen him when he was on his way up and had invented some errand up there in the bog. The Angelica Cottage folk had their peat up there.

  Before long he caught sight of her again; the mist lifted a little, and there, in a lighter patch, he glimpsed her smoke-grey figure; but she seemed to be on a higher plane, as though she had detached herself from the earth and was hovering there in the mist. He called out. The figure stopped and was once more on the ground; he thought she beckoned to him and he had to admit to feeling a little mystified. It was Thomea, and yet it was not Thomea. Perhaps it was a wood spirit. Suddenly she broke into a run, and he set off in pursuit. He got so close to her that he could hear her breathing, but then, suddenly, she vanished.

  “Thomea,” he called gently. “You’ve nothing to fear from me. Why do you run away?”

  She must have hidden somewhere nearby. He shouted again: “Hallo! Whoever you are!”

  There was no answer. No sound except the lapping and trickling of the water in the bog. The mist became thicker, and he had no idea where he was; there were a lot of big, mossy boulders here, and the ground was damp; here and there there were murky little pools between patches of venomous-looking quagmire. He started searching among the boulders and came across the black entrance to a cave yawning between two cliffs as high as houses. He peered in, reached in with his arm; it was a sizable cave, perhaps the one they called the Troll Child’s Cave. Yes, now he suddenly recognised it: it was the Troll Child’s Cave. He shuddered, overcome with a mixture of lust, fear and bad conscience.

  “Thomea, or whoever you are,” he said cheerfully and soothingly. “What are you hiding for?”

  He put down his creel and groped his way uneasily into the cave. It was big and wet, with water dripping from the roof and trickling across the floor. She was there. Suddenly he had her in his arms and was aware of her warmth and the smoky fragrance of her clothes. She complained gently, but made no serious resistance. He could not distinguish her features here in the darkness; his hands explored her face. Yes, they were Thomea’s features; this was Thomea, a real, living being. He went on to explore her neck and breast, grasped her hands and thrust her arms aside; then he forced her down in the slime on the floor of the cave. She moaned and made more determined resistance, forced her knee up in his abdomen, exerted her elbows until she succeeded in extricating one hand and forcing it up against his chin. She was strong, this woman, but with a great effort Engilbert managed to tether her free hand. A wild desire had surged through
him; he pressed her deeper and deeper into the mud, forced her knee aside and thrust his foam-covered tongue in between her lips and teeth. She part groaned, part whimpered, pressed her elbows down into the mud and managed to raise herself a little; but he was too strong for her, he grunted in triumph as he once more pressed her down in the squelching mud.

  But suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his tongue. He let out a howl, but he smothered it in a roar of laughter: “Are you biting me, you devil? I’ll teach you.” By way of punishment he struck her at the temple and once more sought her mouth, but now she bit him again, and now it was as though she was biting to save her life, her teeth sank into his lower lip; she bit like a terrified mare, ruthlessly, until she drew blood. He howled with pain, lost hold of her wrists, felt a merciless blow from her knee against his abdomen which left him gasping for breath.

  And suddenly he was overwhelmed by an undefinable fear; he felt weak, was on the point of tears, let her throw him aside without offering any resistance, hoped to the bottom of his soul that this monster would leave him in peace, while, to his horror, he realised that she had not had enough: he felt her furious fingers in his hair, she thrust his face down in the mud, kneed him in the side, rolled him over in the muddy cave. No Christian woman could behave in this way … they were the actions of some evil troll. It suddenly became clear to him that he had been tricked by some power with evil intent, tempted into some snare of mortification. Never in his life had he been exposed to anything so demeaning. He had a nightmarish feeling of being paralysed, of being unable to escape from this alien creature. Then he felt her demonic fury moderate. She released her grip on his hair; her fingers glided down over his cheek, it was almost as though she were caressing him. Yes … with a mixture of fear and amazement he felt that she was caressing him now, and her breathing told him she was weeping. It was uncanny … the troll woman was weeping and carrying on, but only for show, of course; he suspected she might be up to new tricks, but suddenly he regained his strength, got up with a start and crawled like some four-legged creature out of the cave, fled for his life and realised he was running downhill.