The Black Cauldron

by William Heinesen

  Yes, there was plenty of reason for Mr. Skælling, the editor, to feel uneasy.

  And then, one evening, a trapdoor opened in the floor revealing the workshop of the Evil One himself!

  It was a Sunday evening. Mr. Skælling had spent most of the day working on a little reflective piece, part lyrical, part philosophical, for the editorial column, The Spectator. He had given the article the title of The Cauldron Boils On. He had at last put the finishing touches to it and taken it down to the print room; however, after supper he had decided that the title was scarcely suited to serious reflections of a moral and edifying nature. He must think up another title. This column was the apple of his eye, it was – as Mr. Licht the pharmacist had so aptly remarked – a little aperitif for the intelligent reader. There was a particular aroma to it, a fine, slightly bitter, aroma. Originally the idea had been that it should be good-natured and subtle, much in the style of similar exquisite little reflections in the conservative newspapers in the major countries. But times had gradually become anything but humorous, and the views expressed had followed suit. Therefore a change of title was an absolute necessity. Beneath the Storm Cloud, for instance. That didn’t sound too bad. And it would be best to make the change straight away.

  Mr. Skælling pulled on his galoches and went down to the print room and made the change. But just as he was about to go home again there was a strange, rather disturbing noise from one of the writing desks. It sounded rather like an alarm clock going off, but it was ridiculous to imagine that anyone would hide an alarm clock here. Mr. Skælling went across and examined the desk. Yes, in one of the drawers he found the works of an alarm clock. It was going. There were a few old books in the drawer, too, full of black finger marks. Werner Sombart: Krieg und Kapitalismus. In German! H. G. Wells: New Worlds for Old. And there was also a little pamphlet on the personality of Lenin, written by the world-famous bolshevik Maxim Gorki!

  Good God! The editor started trembling violently and had to go into his office and sit down. “Don’t panic,” he said to himself. “It’s no more than you knew beforehand.” Evil forces were at work here. It was well known that the works of a clock were a classic component of a time bomb. All that was missing was the explosive charge. All right. A good job that he had discovered this nest of scorpions in good time. He would now take the necessary measures. First of all, the typographer must be sacked and turned out. In general, the necessary measures had to be taken.

  But how? The more he thought about it, the more difficult the task admittedly appeared. If these devils really managed to establish communism throughout the world after the war, he would be sure of his bullet in the neck. Indeed, that might be his immediate prospect if he didn’t manage to put a good face on things. The bomb! It would doubtless be best to proceed carefully …

  Mr. Skælling started trembling again. He carefully replaced the works and the books, switched out the light and remained standing behind the exit door for a moment before opening it. He was shuddering with annoyance and nervousness. Good Lord … Here he had gone around feeling personally secure and neutral. And suddenly he was finding himself drawn inexorably down into something that might turn out to be nothing less than a political witches’ sabbath.

  Below the stairs leading from the print room a man was standing, aiming a pistol at him. He glimpsed other figures behind him, silent, watchful. Mr. Skælling was just on the point of shouting for help when, to his relief, he discovered that the revolver was a bottle which the man was holding to his mouth. So it was only a little group of thirsty men such as you can never avoid on a Sunday evening. Thank heavens for that.

  Nevertheless, Mr. Skælling did not feel totally reassured. He hurried home, indeed, he almost ran. He was almost knocked down by a car on the corner near Masa Hansen’s shop; the car stopped with a jolt, and a tall person dressed in a fur coat got out, followed by a silent dog. Mr. Skælling had some dim vision of wolves and Russian furs; with a hammering heart he stepped aside and positioned himself behind one of the pillars by the entrance, but the fur-clad stranger soon found him and shone a merciless beam from his torch on him. With a groan the editor raised both his hands: “For God’s sake, man …”

  “You’re not hurt, are you?” enquired the stranger. Mr. Skælling immediately recognised the voice; it was Consul Tarnowius, of course. Thank God, thank God, thank God. He could have thrown his arms round the consul. “No,” he said hoarsely, and burst into a teeth-chattering laugh. “I was simply so frightened, Consul.”

  “Yes, it’s this confounded black-out,” said the Consul in relief. “But I did hoot, you know, Mr. Skælling, I did hoot, quite loudly in fact, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but I was in such a hurry, I didn’t notice anything. I was lost in thought …”

  The two men shook hands heartily.

  “Actually, I’m on my way home bearing very sad tidings,” said the consul. “My son-in-law has been killed. He went down on a troop transport last night.”

  “Oh God, oh God,” said the editor, once more grasping the consul’s hand. “Please accept my sincere sympathy.”

  “Thank you, yes, it is very sad. We were all so fond of Charles Gordon; he was an extremely gifted young man. Captain Gilgud thought very highly of him indeed. Aye, but this was always to be feared. These are difficult times, Skælling, difficult times …”

  “Yes, difficult times indeed,” agreed the editor, shaking his head.

  He hurried home and flung himself in confusion on his settee.

  “You look upset, Nikodemus,” said his wife anxiously. “You’re not ill, are you?”

  “Not in the least. But make me a little toddy, Maja, there’s a dear.”

  He drank four toddies before going to bed, but even so, he had a bad night. He lay listening. A storm was brewing, and strong gusts of wind were sweeping down the mountain sides. A loose window pane rattled gently, sounding like a telephone ringing endlessly. Another rattle came from the clothes line outside in the yard. And then there was the sound of the big clock downstairs in the sitting room. That was all right. And furthermore there was his own pocket watch on the bedside table. All these four sounds were noted and deemed completely legal. But then there came a fifth sound … or was it perhaps only his imagination? No, there it was again … a little regular ticking like an alarm clock. There was no alarm clock in the house, not even in the maid’s room. The maid was an early riser and needed no alarm clock.

  “Are you asleep, Maja?”

  Mrs. Skælling awoke with a start. “What’s the matter, Nikodemus? There isn’t an air raid, is there?”

  “No, no, don’t worry,” intoned her editor husband, and explained things to her in brief. They both listened.

  “Can you hear?”

  “Oh, that,” laughed Mrs. Skælling in relief. “That’s only a death watch beetle.”

  “Are you sure? I’ve never noticed before that we have death watch beetles in the house.”

  Mrs. Skælling yawned. “Oh yes, there are lots of them, Nikodemus, especially in the autumn. And what on earth could it be otherwise?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Mr. Skælling admitted. He put out the light and lay back in bed. No, now he, too, could hear that it was not the ticking of a clock. The sounds were not entirely regular, and sometimes they split into two. It was some of these strange, fabled and invisible tiny insects signalling to each other. Amorous signals. So it was not a bomb, as he had originally feared in his excitement.

  He was just about to fall asleep again when there was the sound of loud knocking on the front door. Who on earth could that be? He got up quickly, put on the light and again woke his wife. It was two o’clock. The knocking resumed.

  “You could go down, of course, and ask what’s going on … without opening the door,” suggested Mrs. Skælling. “Or shall I?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll see to it. There might be a fire or something. Or a German invasion, who knows? Or … or a revolution.”

  Mr. Skælling sud
denly turned ghostly pale and felt his legs trembling violently. He tottered out into the vestibule and shouted: “Who’s that knocking?”

  “Jesus!” replied a deep, calm male voice.

  “What nonsense is this?” shouted Mr. Skælling plaintively. “Be off with you.”

  “He is coming,” came the reply. “Be prepared. He will be coming soon.”

  “Who was it he said he was?” asked Mrs. Skælling from the top of the stairs.

  “He said he was Jesus. What do you make of that?”

  “God!” exclaimed his wife, curling up in her nightdress. “Perhaps it was an omen, Nikodemus.”

  The house shuddered under a powerful gust of wind. It appeared a real gale was coming on. Skælling crept back into bed. He could not speak for cold and chattering teeth. His wife sat on the edge of the bed.

  “You don’t answer, Nikodemus,” she said quickly and tugged at his arm. “Are you afraid? Perhaps you ought to have opened the door, don’t you think?”

  Mr. Skælling shook his head, irritated, but his wife went on doggedly: “Yes, for suppose … suppose it really was He … ?”

  “What do you mean, woman?”

  Mrs. Skælling turned away and pressed both her hands to her face. “Oh, I’m so afraid,” she said. “Yes, for in a way we’ve both got so far from God. Yes, we have, Nikodemus. I’ve been thinking so much about it since reading that little book, you know: Only for Sinners.”

  A fresh gust of wind swept down from the mountain, howling around the gable, while huge hailstones began to thunder against the window.

  She turned towards him suddenly, and their eyes met in a mutual stare: “You’re frightened yourself, Nikodemus. Admit it. You always look as though you’re cold. And you’ve lost weight recently.”

  “These are unpleasant times,” admitted her husband, caressing her hand. He added, staring ahead with troubled eyes: “Incidentally, it’s strange you should mention that book, Maja, for Heimdal’s read it recently and been very taken by it. We were talking about it in the Club the other day, and Licht said, too, that he was surprised that the Oxford Movement had not reached us yet. But it will be coming, he thought. For it’s still going strong.”

  “I wish to God it would come,” sighed his wife.

  The explanation of the mysterious nocturnal visit came the following morning. Skælling was not the only one to have had someone knocking at his door; pretty well every house in the village had been visited in the same way, some by Simon the baker, some by Markus the mad boatbuilder and Benedikt Isaksen from the hospital; the three half-wits had divided the village among them: the baker had taken on the western part, the other two crackpots the eastern. In various places people had been furious at having their peace disturbed in this way: up at the police inspector’s the porter had had a chamber pot emptied on his head, and the boatbuilder had been caught and restrained by Tarnowius’s big and intelligent alsatian.

  It was the maid who brought this comforting news to Mr. and Mrs. Skælling when she gave them their morning coffee in bed.

  “It’s a very tangible kind of revivalism,” laughed Mr. Skælling bitterly.

  The three evangelists were not finished with their rounds. From Solomon Olsen’s office window the baker could be seen approaching. He was bare-headed; the wind and the sleet were lashing his ears; his sharp face was wet and blotchy; people who met him stopped and looked thunderstruck; startled faces were appearing in every window and doorway.

  Now the cuckoo was approaching Solomon Olsen’s store. Some employees came out and made to hold him back, but nothing came of it, and they stepped aside gawping and allowed him to pass. However, just as he was going inside he was stopped by Bergthor Ørnberg, who had hurried down from the office.

  “Just you restrain yourself,” commanded Bergthor. “You’ve no right in here.”

  “Oh, generation of vipers,” cried the baker so it resounded throughout the shop. “It will avail you nought to kick against the pricks.”

  “No, this really is going too far,” Gjowstein the chief clerk came to Bergthor’s assistance. “What nerve. You’re out of your mind. I’ll fetch a doctor, that I will.”

  Then Solomon Olsen’s voice could be heard from the staircase: “All right, let him come inside. Just you come in, Simon.”

  Solomon Olsen looked quite calm; his well groomed face merely expressed worry and compassion. “What is it, Simon?” he asked gently. “Is it me you want to talk to?”

  The baker swallowed a couple of times. He stared at Solomon, and his nostrils quivered. The office staff came down into the shop and congregated in a group at the foot of the broad, white staircase. People from outside came in droves, too, and soon the shop was full. Everyone was staring at the two men.

  Simon opened his mouth and made to speak, but it was almost as though the big, self-assured figure of the merchant robbed him of words.

  “You’ve deserted us,” said Solomon. “In fact, you’re working against us, Simon. But why? Were we not friends and brothers before? Why can’t we go on being that? Have you really thought properly about what you’re doing, Simon?”

  “Yes, I have,” said the baker in a thick voice, contracting his brows and nodding in bovine fashion. “And I’ve consulted the Scriptures. And there it says that no man can serve two masters, and that you’ve got to choose between God and Mammon. Do you remember that text, Solomon Olsen? And have you experienced the truth of those words?”

  “You know really perfectly well that I don’t place Mammon above God,” Solomon replied calmly. “I don’t worship Mammon in my heart; I worship God.”

  “Go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor,” replied the baker. “Or have you forgotten that text?”

  Solomon sighed and smiled a little wearily, glancing paternally at those gathered around him: “Yes, you can soon get the better of me, Simon, for you’ve always had the gift of the gab and your memory is quite incredible, but you know how bad I am at interpreting the Bible. I’ve got one thing only: I have Grace, for everyone who believes has Grace. But … let’s suppose that I sold all my possessions and gave the money to the poor. Then my firm would go to the dogs, and what then? It’s not the actual money that’s worth anything, Simon, it’s the firm; that provides us all with food and clothing and light and warmth. Isn’t that so? The talents God has entrusted to me … should I, like a wicked and slothful servant hide them in the earth instead of making them bear fruit in the Lord’s vineyard. I waste no money on fine living, indeed I don’t put a penny aside – that you know well. I put everything into the firm. And if we all did as you demand, what then? Then the whole country would soon be transformed into a desert.”

  The baker turned his head and looked warily at Solomon.

  “It would be better if it were like a desert,” he said hoarsely.

  Then he looked up and cleared his throat loudly. He had regained the use of his voice, and he raised his arms threateningly at Solomon and cried: “For in any case it will not be long before everything is a wasteland. It is but a brief while before the Lord’s day. And then what will be the use of running your firm? It gives neither you nor anyone else oil for your lamps. And that is the one thing needful. Jesus took up His own cross … if you want to be His disciple, then take up your cross and follow Him. But that is the problem: None of you takes the Word of Scripture seriously. You only pick out what you can use, what can sooth your consciences and lull them to sleep. But read. Read Matthew 24. Read the Book of Revelations. Read Daniel and the other prophets.”

  “I know you are a serious man,” said Solomon warmly. “You’re probably a far better man than I. But you are not one of the humble, that you are not. And perhaps you are even a little arrogant. Aren’t you, Simon? When you are so severe on others, what about yourself? Judge not, you know.”

  “As for me,” replied the baker, showing his teeth in a sort of smile. “I will also demonstrate my faith in deeds.”

  Solomon stretched out his hand to him:
“All right, but let us part as friends and not as enemies, Simon. We have surely both got our faults, but through our faith we have both received the gift of Grace and the promise of redemption from our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Let us try to reach an understanding again. Let us meet in Capernaum chapel, as we have done so often before, Simon. Let us talk things over there.”

  The baker turned away. His face contorted, and he shouted in a husky voice: “No! We shall not stretch out our hands to each other as though everything was back where it once was. For the day will come, and come soon, when the Kingdom of God has conquered the prince of this world.”

  The strange smile reappeared on the baker’s face. And suddenly a wild light flashed in his eyes, and, foaming at the mouth, he shouted: “You are making a grievous mistake if you think your soul is saved, Solomon Olsen! You will soon learn that from the Lord’s own mouth when He reveals himself in the clouds. For, as it is written: the merchants of the earth shall weep and mourn; for no man buyeth their merchandise any more.”

  Simon looked around in the big shop. Pointing at all the shelves and cupboards surrounding him, he went on: “Yes, that is just what is written: The merchandise of gold, and silver, and precious stones, and of pearls, and fine linen, and purple, and silk, and scarlet, and all thyine wood, and all manner of vessels of ivory, and all manner vessels of most precious wood, and of brass, and iron, and marble, and cinnamon, and odours, and ointments, and frankincense, and wine, and oil, and fine flour, and wheat, and beasts, and sheep, and horses, and chariots, and slaves, and souls of men.”

  The baker turned once more towards Solomon Olsen and shouted in a strong voice, while he raised both his hands in the air: “Woe unto you. The fruits that thy soul lusted after are departed from thee, and all things which were dainty and goodly are departed from thee, and thou shall find them no more at all.”