The Black Cauldron

by William Heinesen

  And then, almost unawares, he had concluded another deal and earned 5000 kroner net on it. And he had put all this money into tracts.

  This idea of tracts had become a major preoccupation with Pastor Fleisch. Tracts had their own silent but effective manner of working. And especially now, during the war, when no newspapers or periodicals came to the islands and the lack of reading material was very noticeable indeed, now was the right time to launch his tracts. While the businessman rests, his advertisements work, says an old proverb, and in the same way it could be said that while the priest rests, his tracts work. Yes, even when he is dead the tiny sheets with their small print will live on, live their own life, these tiny Noah’s doves. This was not a bad idea for a collective name for them: Noah’s Doves. He was filled with gratitude for that idea. No publisher’s name, nothing like “edited by Pastor Johannes Fleisch”. No, nothing but Noah’s Dove. And then a vignette of a flying dove carrying an olive leaf in its beak. At the same time it would symbolise the living Word which would remain unchanged even if the entire world should be destroyed in these terrible times … !

  Five thousand kroner would provide at least 200,000 tracts. Pastor Fleisch was looking forward to getting home and quietly making a start on the task of choosing suitable passages from the Bible and composing his texts on them. He imagined a swarm of white sheets drifting down from heaven, all this free and anonymous reading matter filled with blessings, this noiseless snowfall in the hearts of men … no, not snowflakes, but seed corn … millions of golden seeds … riches … riches.

  “How far have we got?” – half asleep he heard Liva asking and Simon replying: “I think we’ll soon be close inshore.” “Oh, already,” thought the pastor. “That means I must have been asleep … for hours, at that.” He felt thoroughly refreshed after his sleep. The boat was not pitching so much now, the swell was broader out there in the open sea where the current was not so strong.

  For a moment it went pitch dark. Kristian appeared on the stairs and asked breathlessly: “Is Jens Ferdinand here? No, I thought not. But then he’s disappeared. Aye, he must have fallen overboard, Simon.”

  Liva got up quickly and pressed her hands to her lips: “Jesus Christ.”

  In a trice both Kristian and Simon were up on deck. Liva went after them. The sea was an intense blue, and the sun was shining on the wet deck.

  “Well, of course, I oughtn’t to stay down here,” thought Pastor Fleisch. “But on the other hand, there’s nothing useful I can do, and if I’m seasick I shall only be a burden on the others, so …”

  For about an hour the boat circled the area where the misfortune had occurred, sailing back in the direction from which it had come, further than was really reasonable; but then at least they had done what they could. The thin officer led the search and made eager use of his binoculars. But it was all to no avail … Jens Ferdinand had disappeared, and there was no trace of him.

  Then they continued the journey southwards.

  “I can’t reproach myself for having been careless,” said Kristian the Beachman, forcing his mouth into a wan smile. I asked and implored him to come down below deck or go up into the wheelhouse. And yet for all that: the weather is not so bad that a man could be washed off the stern without further ado. Far from it. Either he’s been leaning out over the gunwhale and lost his balance … or he’s put an end to himself.”

  The baker nodded in sombre agreement. “What’s happened to Liva?” he asked uneasily and went down into the cabin. Liva was lying with her face buried in her travelling rug. The heaving of her back and shoulders betrayed her sobbing.

  “Yes, she’s taken it terribly to heart,” said Pastor Fleisch. “And good Lord, first her brother, then her fiancé, and now her brother-in-law. I’ve never known tribulations like this. Poor child, poor child.”

  He sighed and shook his head. His joy in not being seasick was now completely wasted. Rather seasick, he thought, than this.

  “He was an unhappy man,” whispered Liva when she finally managed to stammer a few words after her sobbing. “I know. And … and what now, Simon?”

  With trembling fingers she started fiddling with her travelling rug, gasping for breath a couple of times. “I’m so afraid … that it’s some kind of punishment … for mocking the word of God this morning.”

  “What do you mean: mocking?” asked Simon. “Did he mock the Holy Ghost, perhaps?”

  “No, not exactly the Holy Ghost,” said Liva. “But … but the name of Jesus Christ …”

  “Jesus will forgive him that,” interrupted Pastor Fleisch unexpectedly. “He Himself says …”

  Simon beat him to it: “And, whosoever shall speak a word against the Son of Man, it shall be forgiven him; but unto him that blasphemeth against the Holy Ghost it shall not be forgiven.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Pastor Fleisch. “These are the words that are supposed to have brought so many people to the verge of despair. But it is as though Jesus takes a broader view when He Himself is concerned, isn’t it?”

  The priest sought to catch Simon’s eye, but Simon was concerned only with the girl. He heard him say in a whisper … that is to say not intended for the ears of others: “If he has sinned, Liva, we will atone for his sin. You will understand that later, when the time is come.”

  “Atone …” thought the priest. “We poor, miserable sinners, we can repent, certainly, but atone for the sins of others?” He considered interrupting: “Excuse my saying so, but there is surely only one person who can atone.” But he refrained and contented himself with thinking: “A splendid example of what Simmelhag means by theological dilettantism. And yet … before God we are all dilettantes, even you, Simmelhag, when it comes to the point … don’t you think?”

  “Dilettantes, dilettantes,” sighed Pastor Fleisch to himself, with his hands folded across his stomach.

  At that moment there was an ear-splitting explosion; the boat heeled over violently; there was the sound of wood-work being smashed and the immense noise of water rushing in. And Kristian’s voice from the poop: “Up on deck, up on deck, we’re sinking.”

  Liva clung to Simon with a shriek; she heard his voice close to her ear: “Fear not, nothing will happen to us. I know.”

  But at that moment everything went pitch dark, and it seemed to her that both of them were whirled with irresistible force down through a rushing, seething gorge … down, down … until at last they could feel their feet against the bottom. Then, slowly, they rose up again, the light dazzled her eyes … she was in the stern of a little, four-oared dinghy being rowed by two soldiers, Napoleon the Beachman and the NCO. Two arms that had been seeking to shelter her against something damp, let go their hold … they belonged to Kristian the Beachman. Just behind Kristian sat Pastor Fleisch with a black leather fur cap pulled down over his ears. Simon … Simon … where was he? Yes, thank God, he was there, too. But how strangely pale and distant he looked. He was sitting leaning forward with his eyes closed. He was in shirt sleeves.

  “Are you cold, Liva?” asked Kristian, holding her closer. “We didn’t manage to get your travelling rug with us, but the coat’s more or less dry, isn’t it?”

  Liva now discovered that she was dressed in a man’s brown coat … it belonged to Simon. The engineer was sitting just opposite her, shivering hard, his working clothes soaked through. The dinghy was pitching its way slowly forward over the great rollers. Slowly, slowly … and sometimes it was as though they were enclosed in a courtyard of looming waves, but then they were lifted up as though on the ridge of a mighty roof and caught a glimpse of nearby towering rocks rising up towards the sky.

  Suddenly Liva felt as it were an electric shock, terrible and painful, shooting through her breast: the thought came to her that Johan’s coffin, too, had gone down with the ship.

  All at once she noticed that she was inordinately cold. And so, presumably, were the men all round her. They looked withdrawn and desperate, presumably unable to talk for cold.

 
Now it was time for others to take a turn at the oars; the reliefs took over, one at a time so as not to bring the boat out of balance. She noted an ice-cold hand on hers; it was Simon; he was terribly pale and serious; his eyes searched deeply in hers, but his glance was strangely lacking in warmth, as though he had something to reproach her for.

  Kristian, too, had to row. “What about you, now, Liva?” he asked. A fair-haired young soldier, who had just settled in the engineer’s place, stretched out his arms, eager to help: “Let me. I’ll look after her.” Liva and Kristian both shook their heads energetically. “I’ll be all right,” said Liva and in spite of the cold and the hurt she felt a brief hint of a laugh in her breast. She heard Pastor Fleisch say: “Here, my child, here … see, like this.” And resist and shake her head as she might, she slipped backwards into the priest’s comforting embrace.

  “You’ll see, it’s going to be all right,” were Pastor Fleisch’s comforting words. “We are not far from land, and we’ve got some strong chaps on board. Thank God those soldiers were travelling with us.”

  The priest’s voice sounded so nice, comforting like the voice of a father.

  “You didn’t see much of it at all, did you?” he prattled on. “No, for you fainted, and perhaps that was a good job for you. For it wasn’t nice, no it wasn’t nice at all. They couldn’t launch the lifeboat, and we were expecting the worst, up to our waists in water … no, not you, for that friend of yours, Simon, he carried you in his arms, he held you above the waters.”

  “Was the ship torpedoed?” asked Liva.

  “The lieutenant doesn’t think so, because a torpedo would have blown the boat to smithereens, and so would a mine, but that’s not what happened … it only sprang a leak … otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting here now. No, he says that we strayed into a minefield, and there was an explosion somewhere near us.”

  Pastor Fleisch took the young woman’s hands and pushed them down into his shaggy coat pocket. “There, that’s better.”

  He was thinking to himself: “Good Good, she’s young enough to be my granddaughter.” He felt he would like to do something for the poor child. Give her something. A thousand kroner, for instance. Or, if nothing else, the old illustrated Bible with Albrecht Dürer’s woodcuts and those beautiful pictures by Raphael and Leonardo da Vinci. It would be a beautiful present for someone interested in religion. The book had cost 175 kroner. But that was in 1929. At present-day prices it must have been worth between 500 and 800 kroner.

  And he continued thinking to himself: “We’re making reasonable, but rather slow progress. We’re almost certain to make land before it gets dark, or perhaps we might be picked up by some ship or other before that. And just think that I’ve not been seasick. Not even when I’m not lying down. And not in this nutshell of a dinghy, either. It’s an ill wind, as you might say, a bit of good luck in the midst of all the ill fortune. Aye, aye, you’ve got to be grateful for small mercies in a situation like this. And then you were bright enough to put two sets of woollen under-clothes on this morning, besides your leather waistcoat. And then, thanks to the long rubber boots you’ve not got your feet wet at all.”

  The twilight was far advanced by the time the castaways finally reached the tiny village of Nordvik, which was their immediate goal.

  Down on the jetty a crowd of astonished villagers had gathered. A huge red moon had just appeared in the mountain pass above the village. It was like a wondrous dream to see the reassuring grass roofs of the houses and the careless rings of peat smoke rising from the chimneys in the copper-gold moonlight. Two women, one oldish, the other young, took Liva by the arm and led her quickly up through the stubble fields.

  “Wasn’t it dreadful?” asked the younger woman, but the other hushed her. “Wait to ask later. You can see how worn out she is. Now we’ll see about some good hot food for you, you poor thing, and some dry clothes.”

  Up in the farm everyone was soon busy; a fire was lit in the best room, woollen clothes were warmed by the stove, scalding milk was poured into mugs and cups. The girl had helped Liva out of her wet clothes, changed every garment on her and wrapped her up in a big woollen shawl that smelled warm and smoky.

  “Ha, ha,” said the pastor, giving her a friendly pat on the back. “You’re a real farm girl all of a sudden now, eh? Aye, that’s better than drifting around in the dinghy, isn’t it?”

  In broken English he addressed the officer, nudging him vigorously: “The mermaid’s a farm girl now, how do you do.”

  The pastor was in high spirits, almost frolicsome. But in the midst of it all he suddenly folded his hands and began to pray in a controlled and serious voice. Liva’s eyes sought Simon … yes, there he was, over by the door, still pale and distant and with a frozen expression in his face. Why is he avoiding me? she thought in torment. She heard the pastor’s voice: “And then, heavenly Father, we pray for those who are not among the saved … for the two brothers who stayed behind … and for the young woman who was so close to them, and for whom the events of this day have been such a heavy blow …”

  A cold shiver ran down Liva’s head and back, and she shamefully had to admit to herself that neither Johan nor Jens Ferdinand had been in her thoughts now, only Simon. The rest was so strangely distant, a thing of the past. A terrifying thought arose within her: “Were you really bothered about Johan, since you have already been able to forget him?” She was filled with an indefinable fear. The thought continued to pursue her. Tears came into her eyes. Why is Simon avoiding me? What has he to reproach me with ?

  “You look awfully pale.” The girl gave her an encouraging nudge. “Haven’t you got warm yet? You’re not going to be ill are you? Perhaps you’d better get to bed.”

  Liva shook her head. “I’m feeling perfectly all right now,” she said, with an attempt at a smile.

  “You can’t be all that surprised if she’s pale, Helga,” said the elder woman, the farmer’s wife, reprovingly. “Just think what she’s had to go through today.”

  Liva felt a caressing hand against her cheek and suddenly began weeping uncontrollably. Why does he look at me like a stranger? Why is he angry with me? These were the questions which went through and through her.

  Helga took Liva to her bedroom in the attic. There were several big bottles in the bed, each filled with warm water and stuffed into woollen socks.

  “Where are the others going to sleep?” asked Liva.

  “The pastor and the officer are sleeping here in our house,” said Helga. “The four sailors from Kingsport are going to sleep at my uncle the teacher’s, and Martin the skipper’s going to put the soldiers up. Are you feeling better now, Liva? Wouldn’t it be best if I sat with you for a while?”

  “No, there’s no need at all … I’m quite all right now, and it’s so lovely and warm here.”

  “Well, in any case, I’ll be sleeping in the next room,” said the girl. “So if you need anything, just knock on the wall.”

  “Thank you so much, Helga.”

  Liva felt uneasy and watchful; all weariness seemed to have been blown away. She had no control over her thoughts. Detached sentences came unexpectedly to her and made her start: “You’re a whore, I said. Yes, that made you open your eyes. – As far as I’m concerned, you’re no better than a tart. Understand?” – and Simon’s strangely distressed words: “I was afraid of the cross, Liva. We, too, have a duty to sacrifice our lives. – If he has sinned, Liva, we will atone for his sin. You will understand that later, when the time is come.”

  She bored her face down into her pillow and whispered: “Yes … you and I, we two, were to keep each other company. You said it yourself. We shall fight the last fight at each other’s side, you said. So why are you avoiding me? Why do you hate me? What have I done to you?”

  “Perhaps it’s only something I’m imagining,” she sought to console herself. But the worry and confusion did not diminish. She sat up in bed. The floor and walls in the little attic room were tiled in moonlight. She cautio
usly got up from the bed and tiptoed over to the window. Moonlight across shaggy grass roofs. Black, defoliated trees, strange, in this north-facing windswept place. The old twisted trees cast angry shadows in the moonlight. And there was the neighbour’s house, the teacher’s house, where Simon was staying. In front of this house, too, there was a big garden. Suddenly she caught sight of a solitary figure down there among the trees … and it was Simon, there was no mistaking him.

  Quickly and silently, she got dressed. Helga was out on the landing.

  “Liva,” she said. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “No, thank you very much,” replied Liva and ran down the stairs.

  There was a gate in the fence between the two gardens. Liva tore at it, but failed to open it. The figure on the other side turned round. Yes, it was Simon. She whispered his name; he hurried across to the gate.

  “Simon,” she said. “Why are you angry with me?”

  “I’m not angry with you. Why should you think that?”

  “You’re avoiding me.”

  She sought his glance, but he looked away and said slowly and warmly: “Yes, Liva. I am avoiding you. For there is something between us that should not be. That’s why I am avoiding you. It’s because of what there is between us. Do you understand me now?”

  “No, I don’t understand,” said Liva accusingly. “There’s nothing between us. Do you hear, Simon?”

  “There was even before I left,” Simon went on. “I knew it, but I deceived myself. I said to myself: You’re going because God wants you to go. Because you need her. Because He had chosen her to stand by your side. But then, after all, it was Satan…”