The Black Cauldron
Page 19
She paused in her reading and was lost in thought for a moment. She couldn’t really understand the meaning of the words: “so that ye cannot do the things that ye would.” But then the explanation came: “And they that are Christ’s have crucified the flesh with the affections and lusts”.
Magdalena appeared in the doorway.
“Couldn’t you lower your voice a little, Liva, when Thomea’s not well,” she whispered.
“Yes, of course,” replied Liva and was again lost in thought. She felt tired and ill at ease. She could not pull herself together, and merely sat looking at the black letters. Could it really be thought that Jonas was not one of God’s children, but the unscrupulous instrument of the Devil? If only she could get an answer to that question so that the air could be cleared again.
The answer came that evening. It was unexpected and shocking.
Benedikt had used as his text the parable of the barren fig tree. It was not a rousing address, and neither was it followed by any acts of witness. Nor was there any life in the hymn-singing. Contrary to habit, Simon sat idly, with his head bowed, occasionally stroking his forehead as though deep in burdensome thought, then sitting up and looking at the congregation. Nothing more came of it, and it looked as though it was a meeting without power or fire.
It was not until after the final hymn that Simon got up. His weary eyes sought a specific spot in the room, and he spoke in a mournful voice: “Yes, it is you, Jonas, it is you to whom I’m about to speak now, while we are all gathered together. It has pained me to hear of your wicked actions and your betrayal of us who trusted you. For not only have you sinned in the body … if only that were all! But you have committed the deadly sin of offending … not only one of these little ones, as the Saviour says, but four … aye, perhaps more, but we know of four with certainty. Three girls and a married woman. Two of them have returned to us after I talked to them and prayed together with them. But the other two will not return. You have poisoned their souls, Jonas. And you have poisoned our work to spread knowledge of the Kingdom of God now in the eleventh hour. Because of you many will turn their backs on us together with these two souls who are now so obdurate; indeed, not only will they turn from us, but they will turn from Jesus Christ and the living Word of God. No, you shall not flee! Stop him, Benedikt; he mustn’t be allowed to go. Stop him.”
Jonas had made for the door, but Benedikt had taken up a position there together with Morten the shoemaker. Jonas was very pale; a confused smile trembled in his youthful apostle’s beard; those closest to him drew back as though from someone infected with illness. Finally, he was left standing quite alone.
Simon took out a pocket handkerchief and, with a sigh, wiped his brow. He looked terribly weary, almost exhausted. There was a pause. Then, in a strained voice he continued: “Now I must ask you, Jonas, what you have to say in your defence. I am deeply distressed. And I have felt uncertain and perplexed. But now I know that I am doing Jesus’s will … in the name of our almighty Lord and Master.”
Jonas stood staring at his feet. Not a sound passed his lips. His hands were trembling violently. Liva turned away; she, too, had begun to tremble. All the congregation was trembling, as though in expectation of something horrifying.
“You … you’re a filthy old swine yourself,” Jonas suddenly burst out. “That’s what I’ve got to say. And now let me get out of here. Right?”
Then he turned threateningly to Morten the shoemaker. “And as for you … what are you? A disgusting old beast, a malicious devil … you’ve been in prison for beating your wife. What have you got to say to that? Let me go, you swine, or I’ll have the police on to you. We’ll get to the bottom of this mess, I’ll see to that. A crowd of bloody fools that you are. A randy crew, the whole lot of you … You think of nothing but getting your paws on each other…!”
Jonas’s face had become totally contorted; wicked and offensive words poured from his lips; his language became more and more vulgar and profane; it was clear he had entirely lost control of himself. But not a voice was raised in protest. Simon sat in silence. Morten and Benedikt stood speechless and upright at their post by the door. All eyes were turned towards Jonas in silent horror, no one spoke against him; he was allowed to go on to the bitter end; his expressions became more and more provocative and coarse, more and more ridiculous; finally, there was nothing but explicit words for parts of the human body.
And suddenly the obscene torrent of words ceased. He looked around, his eyes rolling, and exploded in a short, ghastly, impotent laugh that ended in a long drawn out howl like that of a dog. Then he crouched down as though about to jump. But no leap came; he merely remained crouching down on the circular area that had been cleared around him, pulling the most astonishing faces in every direction. It was dreadful to behold; several of the women were battling with tears, and Tørnkrona, the tailor, hissed in a low voice: “It’s awful. It’s awful. He’s got the Devil.”
And without getting up from his crouching position, Jonas slowly turned towards the tailor, stretched out two claw-like hands towards him and hissed back: “Yes, I have Satan. See. See. I have Satan. I’m his emissary Beelzebub. I am come to sow my evil seed among you. I shall destroy you. I shall bring the darkness of Hell upon you… I shall …”
He flung open his coat and clutched at his groin.
“Selah!”, Benedikt suddenly shouted in a loud voice, and from up where Simon was sitting came the reply: “Selah!” And Selah! the shout came also from Selimsson, the photographer, and the greying little book-keeper Lydersen sprang up on to his bench with unexpected agility and raised his arms towards the ceiling, shouting: Selah!
Selah! Selah! The room was filled with the sound, like a choir singing in unison. Liva was carried away by the strange movement and added her voice to the others: Selah! Selah!
And then the inevitable happened. Jonas fell to the ground, as though struck by one of the many vocal arrows. He remained there, prostrate. A few convulsions ran through him; his buttocks rose and fell as he appeared to be seeking a comfortable position. His bizarre movements could not fail to remind the onlookers of an act of copulation. The shouts died down, and there was a deathly silence again, and now the fallen man, too, was quiet; his head slumped heavily forward, and his forehead struck the floor with an audible thud.
“Oh, he’s dead,” wailed Tørnkrona. “You die from that sort of thing.”
In the ensuing breathless pause Simon began to pray, in an earnest, low voice. He prayed in gentle tones for Jonas’s soul; in a humble voice he implored God to free this soul that Satan had so clearly overpowered and drawn to himself. Let Thy healing light shine upon it, and cleanse it by Thy almighty power,” he prayed. “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil …”
When the prayer was ended, something again happened to make all faces set in speechless amazement … Jonas … Jonas slowly got up. He was grey and pale like the flour-covered floor of the bakery, and there were dark red spots of blood in his nostrils. Staggering and with trembling arms outstretched he approached Simon and knelt before him.
“Forgive me. Forgive me,” he whispered, exhausted.
It was some time before Simon answered him. He stood there with his eyes closed and his hands folded. The movements visible in his face showed that he was consulting his conscience and God.
Finally, he replied in a deep and joyous voice: Selah!
Selah! replied Benedikt. Selah! Selah! – the words bubbled gently through the room, amazed, freed, redeemed. And the bubbling thickened of its own accord into a loud, resounding hymn:
Take hold your lamp, oh timid heart,
It lights the way so clear,
Bids evil from this world depart,
For now the night is near.
2
Liva was sitting on the deck of the little steamer the Kittiwake, which was chugging its way northwards through the foggy autumn morning
. There were only a few passengers on board, and she was the only woman. She was up near the cargo hatch, wrapped in a thick, black blanket and resting her back against the warm funnel casing. It was Kristian the Beachman, the skipper, who had suggested this place to her and given her a bale of cotton waste to sit on. Her travelling-rug had been a gift from Opperman; he had sent it aboard to her at the last moment together with a box of sweets and a little card bearing the words: “Happy journey. Loving wishes. M. W. O.”
Liva felt some relief at having got away and put the Cauldron at a distance. She was glad she had stuck to her decision, although a lot of people had tried to dissuade her on account of the dangers arising from the war. Only last week the little steamer that usually plied this route across the open sea had been attacked from the air; it had been strafed with a machine gun and had only reached port with difficulty. But after receiving Johan’s last letter she had felt it was important she should visit him and talk things over with him.
The long letter she had sent to Johan immediately after Ivar’s funeral had upset him. Perhaps it had been unwise of her to try to put him in the picture concerning all this trouble with Opperman and his wife. In any case, she must have expressed herself in an unfortunate way. But now, once she herself had had a talk with Johan things would presumably iron themselves out.
Liva enjoyed inhaling the fresh sea air and for a moment she felt as though outside time and back in her childhood. Occasionally you could be relieved of all worries and concerns and merely feel you were alive … simply feel your own body, be aware of your pulse beating, of your hair feeling cold or cool on your head … for a moment you could enjoy pressing your hands together and curling your toes up tight against the soles of your shoes, filling your lungs with air, yawning, as though there were nothing else but the very fact of your existence. She surrendered to this desire for reflective contentment, snuggled down in her blanket, and could not help smiling at the sudden confusion when she left this morning.
Magdalena had gone aboard with her, but then Simon the baker had turned up as well, and Magdalena had left without saying good-bye. And just as she was taking leave of Simon, Opperman’s little parcel had been handed over the railings by his new errand-boy, Frits … Simon himself had fetched it and passed it to her without any idea of where it came from or what it contained.
And then the boat chugged out of the narrow fjord, and the houses and streets of the village slowly slipped by … and up on the hill in front of Masa Hansen’s shop Magdalena stood waving her handkerchief … and there was someone else waving, too: Opperman. He was up on his roof terrace dipping his flag. Oh, it was just like him, the silly little man. And yet, you couldn’t really be angry with him; he was too childish and ridiculous for that.
And then the village had disappeared in the smoke and mist of the distance and no longer seemed real; the long fjord rolled up and became invisible, and in time the coastal mountains also melted into the blue distance, and there was nothing but the chugging of the boat and the desolate ocean.
Liva amused herself by imagining that she hadn’t really left, but was still going about in the now vanished village, while the girl sitting here and keeping warm in the new travelling rug was someone quite different … a good friend, for instance. And then, for that matter, we could pretend that it’s a quite different time, she thought. Let’s pretend it’s three years ago. And there is Liva, and it’s Sunday evening, and she is wearing her new maroon coat, looking forward to the dance that evening … yes, just imagine, not the least bit bothered. And of course, what happens, but that she meets a good-looking, sturdy young man, a newly-returned mate with a weatherbeaten and perhaps rather self-assured face beneath his cap. He is together with his sister, the telephone operator, and his younger brother, who is a hunchback; Liva used to go to school with this brother, and knows him well.
“Hallo, Liva,” he shouts gaily. And: “Hallo, Liva,” shouts the mate. “My word, you’re a big girl now and …” Here he used a word she didn’t know: cheek or chick or something like that.
Aye, what an evening it had been. It was in March, just after sunset. A few long clouds as fine as cotton threads were visible in the cold sky … Who could ever forget them? Jens Ferdinand suggested that Liva should go home with them and have a cup of coffee. She felt very shy in front of the big, self-confident Johan, but filled with a kind of sweet unease. He was handsome and fun-loving and amusing; he poured out some genuine Portuguese port wine and passed round cigarettes in a silver case. There was an air of foreign ports and lands about him. He used his cigarette lighter to light the lamp. She could remember his great flickering shadow on the wall and the tattoo on his hand. What a brown and strong and safe hand it was. What a happy evening it had been. And the following days and nights. Yes, this was happiness, earthly happiness, a poor, temporal and ephemeral happiness of the kind that doesn’t last, but is treacherous like quicksand …
Liva stared out across the grey ocean and far out to the east saw a silver streak playing on it and reflecting the sun. This was Johan’s sea. What a fate for a man like him to be in a stuffy hospital ward and wait. Wait for what. For death, presumably.
Death. That little word was sharp like a splinter of glass on the tongue, but it couldn’t be spat out, and neither could it be swallowed. It was simply there. It hurt. Nevertheless, deep down you knew better. Christ was stronger than death; He had triumphed over it and trodden it underfoot. Earthly life was full of everlasting misunderstandings, of sin and disappointment and affliction, but life with God was pure and unsullied and lasted to all eternity. There, death had lost its sting; there, souls were united in joy and peace and praise.
Liva felt the cold air against her face and the pricking heat in her back. The sky had begun to turn a greyish red in the east, and the gulls following the boat suddenly had wings of violet. The sea, too, had turned to a downy gentle lilac shade. For a moment Liva felt thrilled with the deep, inexpressible happiness of a believer, that happiness that transcends both joy and sorrow. And deep down in her heart she felt a humble gratitude towards Simon, whose preaching had awakened her to spiritual life and in such a wondrous way given a meaning to her life, indeed to her life and her death. She felt bound to this strong man with the unbreakable bonds of the spirit. She felt proud to have been permitted to fight at his side for the Kingdom of God. At first she had been afraid of him and believed him to be hard and implacable. But it was as though she knew and understood him better after that day when she had met him on the road after the funeral and discovered that he, too, could have his moments of weakness and despondency, when it takes enormous strength of character to overcome doubt and sin and enable you to control all the wickedness within you.
Johan was up. He was sitting fully dressed in a deck chair in the corner of a small veranda, and in front of him stood an elderly nursing sister, excitedly gesticulating with her hands. Johan’s cheeks and forehead were a hectic red. He was in his Sunday best and smelt of soap and brilliantine. The nurse directed an offended look at Liva and tossed her head as she withdrew. Liva guessed that it was without this nurse’s approval, perhaps even without her knowledge, that Johan had got up. They were not alone. In the other corner of the veranda there was an elderly man with a dry, parchment-like face, looking around with a ferocious stare.
Johan got up and took Liva’s hand. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I was worried in case anything should happen to you on the way. Did you have a good journey?”
“Yes, lovely,” said Liva.
Johan bent down and started adjusting the chair. “I want the back up a bit more,” he said. “Otherwise I shall almost be lying down. It’s such a stupid chair…”
“Let me help you,” said Liva. “Look, like this. Now you can sit up.”
The unknown man in the corner made a sound as though he were battling against an outburst of laughter. Liva looked at him nervously, but he was sitting as before, staring ahead with piercing, protruding eyes.
“You needn’t bother about him,” said Johan without lowering his voice. “He always sits like that. He’s not right in the head. He’s old and deaf.”
He spoke in a strangely monotonous tone, in short bursts. “Thank you for coming,” he said again without looking her in the eye.
She moved closer and took his hand. “Dearest,” she said, trying to catch his eye. “Of course, I had to come … so that you can see for yourself that …”
She shook her head with a little smile. That ridiculous affair with Opperman seemed so distant and irrelevant now. It was hardly worth wasting words on.
Johan looked away and nodded and closed his eyes. His hands were cold and damp, and under his thick mop of hair his temples were beaded with sweat.
“You don’t doubt me, do you?” asked Liva, holding his hand tight.
Johan answered slowly and without opening his eyes: “I’ve thought so much about you, Liva, and about us two. Aye, I’ve not thought of anything else, day and night.”
The old man in the corner was subjected to a fresh attack of laughter. Liva started involuntarily. “Johan,” she whispered quickly. “Why don’t you look at me?”
Johan opened his eyes, but he still avoided her gaze.
“Aren’t you going to ask how I am, Liva?” he said in a low voice. “I’m a bit better. The doctor thinks I’ll soon be well enough to manage that operation. And if I get over that, then … ! You know, there are quite a few who’ve made a good recovery after that operation. And I’ve got faith in it, Liva. I think … in fact I feel quite sure I’m going to get well again.”
He quickly added: “You understand … I’m saying all this to you because it’s so important. I mean, it’s important whether I get well again or not, isn’t it? For it’s not fair that you should go and wait for me if it’s all going to go wrong … I wouldn’t ask that of you, Liva. You mustn’t go and wait for a hopeless case.”