The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

by Aitken, Martin, Leine, Kim

  Yes, he says. The wind must have got up out there. They sail at some speed.

  Where do you think they are bound, Morten?

  Her voice is altered. Has he kissed her? He is unsure, but he must have done, a fleeting brush of the lips. It is why she calls him by his Christian name.

  Oh, all sorts of places, he says. Tranquebar, Serampore, Canton, Godthåb, the Gold Coast. Most likely they are merchant ships to our colonies.

  It’s so hard to grasp, she says. There are people out there on the ships. Now they are here. And in a few weeks or months they will be in a foreign place we have never seen and never will. Is it not strange to think?

  Certainly, he says. Strange indeed.

  And some of them will perhaps never return home, she says. Is that not true?

  Indeed, many perils await these seamen. They put their lives at risk so that we may purchase our porcelain and cotton fabrics and coffee, and spices to put in our cakes. They are brave, one has to admit.

  But how exciting it must be, she says. I am sure it is all worth it, even if one were to end at the bottom of the sea, though not until the journey back, of course, after having seen the world. If I were a man I would be the captain of a ship. You smile, Magister, she says, offended. Why may a woman not harbour such dreams?

  Why indeed?

  If my intended husband should get the idea of journeying out into the world to make his living in the colonies, I would go with him.

  He says nothing. He ought to speak now. A better opportunity will hardly arise. She has played the ball into his court, a cautious, loose ball that comes rolling gently towards him and stops at his feet. And still he says nothing. He stands beside her with her arm tucked under his own and looks out upon the water. He senses the dense, sweet smell of lavender, and this time it is no hallucination.

  They continue along the shore. They are silent. She has let go of his arm. She has distanced herself ever so slightly. He wishes he had brought his pipe, for then he would know what to do with himself.

  Your mother will be worrying soon.

  About what, Magister? My virtue? I am sure it is in safe hands in your company.

  He looks at her. She walks on, faster all of a sudden. With every stride she sinks further into the sand. It is plain that she struggles to keep up her pace. She hoists her skirts slightly and he sees the twist and spring of her step in the yielding sand, her ankles as they are raised and brought forward in turn. He wants to say something. It vexes him that he has no aptitude for quick and humorous remarks. Something by which the mood may be turned again. A series of poor jokes passes through his mind only to be rejected. He is silent.

  And then she runs, away from the shore, into the scrub, towards the road. He sees the flap of her white dress between the trees. She calls out and he tries to catch her words. She glances back over her shoulder. He runs after her.

  Miss Schultz! He cries and can tell by his voice that he is annoyed, but also anxious. Be careful!

  Of what does he warn her? Wild animals? Robbers? Thugs?

  The woods are unsafe! he shouts.

  He listens. A branch snaps. Leaves rustle. He runs, finds tracks in the earth, but cannot see the mistress Schultz.

  He is uncertain as to where he might be, in which direction the shore is or the Dyrehavsbakken and the spring. He must have run further than he thinks. Deep into the woods. He has become alarmed by his own words of caution, and imagines poachers and wild men armed with knives. If she lies injured somewhere the guilt will be his alone, no matter what might have happened. He stands still, hears the blood rush inside his ears. He takes a few steps and a wood pigeon flaps suddenly into the air in front of him. Before he is recovered from the shock, he sees some­thing white in the corner of his eye. It is she. He runs after her. She laughs out loud, an echo among tree trunks.

  He can see her legs amid the flutter of her dress, and what he sees are legs of flesh and blood, not merely tulle skirts and fragrance. His own move at a steady pace. She is a drum roll, he a march. He comes nearer. How troublesome it must be, he thinks, to run in a long dress through a wood. How absurd! Women are not built for the wilderness, at least their clothes are not. If she were dressed like a man or a Hottentot she might perhaps be quicker than he. But she is clumsy as a peacock among the trees. He runs faster now. She glances over her shoulder and lets out a shriek, then a shrill laugh, and bares her teeth in spite. Her arms flail, her hair falls loose. He sees her galloping feet beneath the hem. His breathing is steady. He knows he can run still faster and catch her up whenever he chooses. And then he will do what is to be done. He senses he is erect, his member slapping the fabric of his breeches as he runs. The wild animal is he, robber and thug armed with a knife, he ought to have warned her against himself. He is no longer timid and she senses it and thus her laughter is now tinged with anxiety.

  They come to a clearing in the wood and she bounds through grass that reaches to her midriff. He increases his speed, leaping onwards with long, elastic strides, and catches up with her almost immediately. He grips her arm and twists her around. She struggles, howling with laughter, spluttering with rage. He forces her to the ground. She kicks at him, lashes out with her fists, spitting and giggling and thrashing as he climbs on top of her. And then she is calm. Her bosom is like a bellows, but she is stiff and tense. She stares at him with eyes that are barely human. He releases everything, groping and fondling, tearing at the fabric, hearing the rip of seams. Flesh comes into sight, then more. He dips down, kissing, licking, slobbering, and she observes him with curiosity. He feels her hand at his neck, fingers worming in his hair. He kisses her and she turns away. She squeals a protest, but he pulls her back by her hair, kisses her again. He senses her muscles relax beneath him, her body become soft and womanly once more. He is certain she can feel his erection. But does she know what it means? They remain lying for a moment, gasping into each other’s faces.

  You are a pig, Magister Falck, she breathes. I knew this was what you were after. I knew it all along, have always known it. And then she rolls aside and in a single movement pulls her dress up over her head and is in her underskirt in the grass.

  The betrothal is proclaimed from Vor Frue Kirke a week later and thereupon announced in the Adresseavisen. For the time being, Morten remains in his lodgings. He mentions nothing to his betrothed about Egede and his plans for him, as indeed he mentions nothing to Egede about his engagement. He enrols at the seminary in all secrecy. He writes a letter to his sister informing her that he is to be married. Only a fortnight later he receives a reply with an invitation to spend the rest of the summer with his betrothed at the rectory in Nakskov. He realizes that every occurrence, and every decision he makes, cancels out the next.

  They board the packet boat on a windy day in July and are blown through the Øresund and out into the Smålandshavet. Abelone is seasick. He sits at the bulwark with her and supports her brow as she empties her stomach into the waves. For this reason they lodge frequently on the way, at inns in small market towns, in good, separate rooms paid for by the printer. After a week they arrive by mail coach in Nakskov, where his sister receives them with sobs of joy.

  It soon becomes plain to Morten what is happening. The reverend pastor Johannes Gram, Kirstine’s husband, places his hand upon his shoulder in a friendly gesture that is quite unlike him. Morten knows him as an introvert who says nothing more than is absolutely necessary. He possesses the solemnity of the former, now deceased pastor, his father, though not his fiery temperament. He is in the habit of rehearsing his sermons in part to the audience of his family and becomes offended should they pose too many questions or put forward comments of a less than wholly positive character. Now he chatters away. He calls Morten his dear colleague, dearest Magister and beloved brother-in-law, and invites him to drink wine with him in his study when Morten would rather walk with the ladies in the woods. He has noticed an envel
ope on Gram’s desk, with the printer’s name on it. A sudden suspicion prompts him to enquire: Do you know my future father-in-law?

  Gram pushes the letter hastily away beneath some papers. Morten finds he exudes an unpleasant and sickly smell, and he shudders at the thought of the man lying naked with Kirstine in the night.

  The printer Schultz has been most kind, says Gram. He has sent me a copy of Martin Luther’s sermons, which are as good as unprocurable.

  The brother-in-law picks a volume from the shelf behind him and hands it to Morten. As he is about to leaf through its pages, Gram removes it from his hand and puts it back in its place.

  It is a very precious work.

  Of course.

  Let me fill your glass, my dearest Magister.

  When they have drunk most of the decanter, Gram says Come, dear colleague, let us go for a drive. I have something to show you that you may find of interest.

  They go outside. An open carriage is brought forward, drawn by a single chestnut gelding. A young stable boy stands and adjusts the harness. Gram climbs aboard. Morten does likewise and sits beside him, facing forward. The carriage sets in motion, a wide arc over the cobbles and through the gateway, and oscillates gently along the road between the fields. Morten feels the sour wine slosh in his stomach. At the perimeter of the rectory’s land he sees two women dressed in white, strolling side by side along a path. They turn and look out from under the brims of their hats as the carriage passes them by and a cloud of dust swirls in its wake. They wave with their parasols. Morten and the Reverend Gram raise their hands in greeting and return their waves. Even at a distance of several hundred feet he can see that the ladies look solemn.

  They are getting to know each other already, says his brother-in-law with a chuckle. Most likely they complain about us.

  Yes, they are delightful indeed, says Morten, adding in a moment of sudden inspiration: Two of the three women I love most dearly.

  Gram turns his head and looks at him enquiringly. And the third?

  My mother.

  Aha. Hm. Yes, of course.

  It is mid-afternoon. They drive with the sun on their right. Gram does not say where they are going and Morten does not ask. He tries to picture the map of Lolland and to place the carriage, the Reverend Gram and himself upon it. There is no water to be seen anywhere and no sea breeze to be felt. They must be in the middle of the island. The gelding has chosen a casual pace to which it adheres without variation in bends or on slopes. Morten sits in a slipstream that smells of horse and pollen from the warm fields. The landscape is monotonous, mostly cultivated, broken only by a rather large number of passage graves and tumuli that seem to comprise the only raised areas of ground. Gram tells him that his father, God rest his soul, worked all his life to persuade the manor owners to reform their agriculture and convince the suspicious farmers that it was in their interests to keep abreast of progress. Now drainage has soon done away with the last of the island’s bogs, large areas of fallow land and pasture have been cultivated, woodland and scrub cleared, and improved cereal types developed. It is good farmland. For the same reason, they are no longer plagued by biting and stinging insects as in former times, and epidemics have thereby become seldom. Leprosy has not been seen in generations. Most of the farms have moved out of the villages, plots have been joined, the farmers enjoy prosperous circum­stances, have become independent, thinking Christians, no more the darkened slaves of medieval superstition as in olden days, and soon the Stavnsbånd, that last relic of former aristocratic rule, will be lifted by royal decree.

  Morten nods during his brother-in-law’s lecture. Gradually, it occurs to him that he is listening to a sales pitch.

  A person can lead a good life here, Gram concludes, adding with somewhat cryptic reflection: providing he has the aptitude for happiness.

  They enter a small market town and arrive at a large pre-Reformation church in red stone, a cathedral almost. Gram jumps down from the carriage. Morten follows.

  This parish has been vacant since the winter, when Magister Pade left us, says Gram. Let me show you the church, beloved brother-in-law.

  Together they approach the edifice that towers before them. The stable boy goes off to find the warden and presently an elderly man appears with a bunch of keys. He bows deeply to the two priests, then they are let inside. The interior of the church is enormous; there must be room here for a congregation several hundred strong. The gallery for the use of the finest families comprises a row of white-painted cubicles with gilded frames and small entrance doors upon which are inscribed the names and monograms of the noblemen to whom they belong. However, the overall impression is one of decay, dilapidation and aban­donment. The pulpit is placed on high, under the white arches of the ceiling, so that the congregation must lean back their heads in order to see their priest and thereby demonstrate their Christian humility. Gram nudges him forward, encouraging him to take a closer look. To reach the pulpit one must open a small gate into something that resembles a sentry box and then clamber up a steep staircase that is almost a hen-coop ladder. The wood creaks and yields under his weight. It smells ancient. He hopes the stair is not pre-Reformation too, though it feels as if it is. Then he emerges into the vast space and looks out upon its empty pews and organ gallery, as well as the face of the Reverend Gram turned towards the heavens, coloured faintly green by the light that falls from a stained-glass window. It is a face of aggressive expectation. Morten becomes aware that he is expected to speak, to test how the acoustics of the church inte­rior will receive and modulate his voice. He imagines all the faces when the church is full, the ordinary members of the parish in the pews, the finest ranks upon the gallery.

  What should I say? he mumbles.

  The Lord’s Prayer is always an option, his brother-in-law replies from below in a voice that is loud and clear.

  He opens his mouth, then closes it again, mute as a codfish. The text that each and every person in the kingdom is able to speak in their sleep, has vanished from his memory.

  Very well, says Gram, once he has climbed down again. Let us inspect the Latin school at the back.

  His brother-in-law is kindly disposed to him that evening as they sit in the living room of the rectory with Abelone and Kirstine. Gram tells the ladies of their excursion into the neighbouring parish. Only now does it occur to Morten that they have visited Rødby Kirke and Latin school.

  Some days later he is finally able to spend time alone with Abelone. They have all gone by carriage to the narrow spit of land that reaches out into the Langelandsbælt and which the locals call the Elbow. Morten and Abelone walk arm in arm along the shore. Kirstine sits behind them among the shrubs and reads a book, protected from the elements by her white garments and shawl and a wide-brimmed, veiled hat. Her husband naps under a parasol, a pair of thin legs protruding beneath a large belly. He has consumed a solid lunch of pie, cheese, sweet ham and no small amount of wine.

  The strait is grey in colour, with occasional stabs of sun from an unsettled sky. Rain clouds come and go without releasing their contents. By evening, when the air cools, there will be a downpour. Across the water lies the island of Langeland. The fields of Spodsbjerg are plainly visible to the eye, flax-coloured panels bordered by stone walls and hedgerows. A number of sails can be seen, ships on their way to or from the countries of the Baltic.

  What a marvellous view, says Abelone.

  Indeed, says Morten, accommodatingly. It is a beautiful spot.

  Do you think you can live here, Morten? It cannot be beautiful all year round. Your sister says that in winter it is quite a harrowing place.

  I imagine, he says, and laughs. It seems your father and my brother­in-law, the Reverend Gram, have already found a living for me.

  Is it not what you want? What we want?

  Certainly!

  Finding a living is no easy matter in our day.

&
nbsp; This is true.

  Johannes Gram is a man of influence. If he lets a word drop to the provost, you will doubtless be given the parish.

  Yes.

  Have you other plans, Morten? Have we other plans?

  No. I just find it all so, I don’t know, so real. So sudden.

  Things happen so quickly sometimes, says Abelone, absently. Such is the way. I feel I am years older since the spring. But I am glad. You have made me happy. Are you not happy, Morten?

  I am, he says. I am happy.

  I love you, she says.

  He half turns towards her with a smile and pats her hand. He reminds himself that he must remember to say something similar at some appro­priate time, without making it sound false or like an automatic reply. I love you. Hm, a difficult sentence indeed.

  They return to the others. His sister, too, has fallen asleep and lies with her book at her breast. Ants crawl on her hand, which lies flopped in the sand. He crouches down and sweeps them away without waking her.

  In the evening he reads aloud for them, a German translation of Rousseau. Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains! The words receive sarcastic comment from the Reverend Gram. Kirstine makes apologies and retires early on account of feeling indisposed. Abelone follows shortly after, leaving him alone with his brother-in-law. A tall grandfather clock stands ticking against the long wall. Gram brings them glasses and a decanter. They get drunk while hardly exchanging a word. Morten reads his book, his brother-in-law Luther’s sermons.

  This Rousseau may be inserted in a certain orifice, as far as I am concerned, Gram eventually proclaims, and staggers to his room.

  Luncheon in the great dining room some days later. It has been raining since the excursion to the Elbow and they have kept indoors, reading and playing cards. Gram’s ageing mother has arrived home from a journey to Altona to visit an old female friend. She is an affable woman who, in season and out, cheerfully allows her son to bite off her head. At one point during the meal he abruptly clatters his cutlery down upon his plate, rises to his feet and bellows: Mother, you are the dullest person I know! I am ashamed! And with that he marches to his study and does not show himself for the remainder of the day. It is a scene that repeats itself with variations during the days that follow. The reason for their difference is a mystery to Morten, who notes only that seemingly innocuous, everyday remarks invariably cause his brother-in-law to explode.