The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

by Aitken, Martin, Leine, Kim

  And then silence again. Is it done? Experience tells him that it is never done, that there is always more to come. He remains seated and kneads his stomach, digging his fist into the saggy flesh, systematically following the garland of intestines. Nothing happens. The colony’s privy is situated on a promontory a short distance from the warehouse buildings. Beneath him, lapping waves lick the slime of faeces from the rocks. An icy wind wafts his behind, causing his genitals to contract. It feels pleasant, and a short exposure is most probably even healthy. Thank you, Lord!

  Magister Falck, is that you?

  He stiffens. The voice comes from the cubicle next door, on the other side of the partition.

  Mr Kragstedt?

  I thought it sounded like your voice, says the Trader. Are his evacu­ations pleasing?

  Indeed, Falck replies. Most pleasing.

  I saw you come running from the colony house. Have you attended to my wife?

  Yes, she wished to converse with me.

  Excellent, Mr Falck. You are such a helpful person. I, too, wish to converse with you and have waited some time. I almost have the impres­sion the Magister has been avoiding me.

  Certainly not, Mr Kragstedt. I have been busy with a number of matters. A priest has much to which he is compelled to attend. As a matter of fact, I was intending to come and see the Trader this very after- noon.

  Well, then, Kragstedt says. And now here we are, each on his own perch.

  Indeed, says Falck.

  I trust my wife offered him a little pick-me-up?

  The Madame is most generous.

  Yes, she is quite exceptional. Did she confess her sins?

  No, she did not ask to confess. Her soul is pure.

  Oh, come now. There is always something, surely, says the Trader, no longer sounding quite as convivial. It is a simple fact of life, Magister, that sins accumulate faster than dung in a cowshed. A person must muck out in the mornings.

  Perhaps the Trader wishes to confess his own sins? Falck ventures, the same attempt at malicious irony that failed in his earlier confrontation with the smith.

  The Trader ignores him. I often get the feeling the Magister knows my wife’s secrets better than I do myself, he says.

  There are matters a person can only confide to a man of the cloth, says Falck. It is a pastor’s job to bear such burdens, that they do not come between spouses.

  Hm, the Trader grunts. Falck hears a rustle of clothes behind the partition, the rattle of buttons and buckles. As I am sure the Magister realizes, his carrying on with the prophets ought to result in proceedings.

  I see, Falck says to the wall.

  You have incited the natives to revolt against the Trade and His Royal Majesty’s trusted representatives.

  It was not my intention to do so.

  You have disregarded your duties as a priest, the Trader thunders.

  Yes, it is true. Falck groans as a new deluge departs his rectum. Yet he senses a light in Kragstedt’s anger. It occurs to him that if the Trader really did intend to put him in chains he would not be issuing this tirade while seated on the privy, nor would he have kept him on tenterhooks these past two weeks.

  You have been a poor example to Danes and natives alike!

  I cannot argue with the Trader.

  So what do you suggest we do about it, Magister Falck? He hears the glee in the Trader’s voice and feels deeply relieved. His excrement runs like thin gruel.

  My fate is in the Trader’s hands, he says, releasing a sigh. What will you do with me?

  I can think of any number of things, including wringing the honourable Magister’s neck.

  Indeed, he says, and finally feels himself to be purged. I am certain I have deserved it. Thank you, Mr Kragstedt.

  But a man in my position cannot always do as he sees fit.

  Of course not.

  And therein lies the difference between me and the Magister. I take my responsibilities seriously.

  Indeed.

  A silence descends for some seconds behind the wall, a tantalizing silence. The Trader would probably prefer to be argued with so that he might fulminate some more, but Falck will not give him the satisfaction. Word has it from our bishop, says Kragstedt, that the Mission station here in the colony will be closed down in the autumn.

  Closed down? Falck exclaims.

  By royal decree, says Kragstedt with ill-concealed contentment. The Mission’s activities will be curtailed along the entire coast. Which is to say that whatever else may happen, the Magister will be returned home by the next ship.

  A storm of conflicting emotions rushes inside him.

  Does the Magister understand what I am saying?

  Yes. I understand. At least, I think so.

  Since your connection with the Trade will be terminated, I find it best that we settle our accounts today. I shall wait for him outside.

  The planks of the floor creak, the door of the adjoining cubicle opens and slams shut. Falck remains seated. His relief is short-lived. He is not to be put in irons, and yet he is greatly in debt to the Trade, a matter which financially may have him enchained for a considerable number of years to come. He realizes that Kragstedt has made sly use of his threat of arrest, the fear and anxiety Falck has borne within him this past fort­night, and his subsequent relief at the threat being lifted, as a means of softening him up in order to claw back his money.

  Exactly how much he owes the Trade is a matter of which he has no conception. All he knows is that the debt has accumulated over six years and that he has long since lost control of it. A disgraceful circumstance of being called to the Mission in the colonies is that all expenses accrued by virtue of the office are accountable wholly to the missionary himself. He ought to have kept his own ledger in the years that have passed, but has never got round to it. He considers himself to be a practical man, not a bookkeeper, and the very sight of a ledger causes his vision to blur. He has shirked the responsibility, has received groceries on tick, tobacco and aquavit, to begin with also coffee and tea, wares that are not a part of the normal provision. But for the last two years the Overseer Dahl has refused him credit and he has had to make do without such items, which are a small, yet comforting, luxury of life in the wilderness. He fears the reason has to do with the size of his total debt. There may be a ceiling, some astronomical sum, of which he has now fallen foul.

  He gathers a handful of moss and wipes himself, then studies the result with interest. Indeed, there is blood. Good! With blood there is cleansing. He gauges the amount to be the equivalent of a minor bloodletting, something he often performs on others, but never on him ­self. He pulls up his drawers and lets the cassock fall around his legs. Stepping outside, he sees the Trader standing on a rock some distance from the privy, his brass-buckled boots planted firmly apart, hands on hips.

  Jørgen Kragstedt looks cheerful and contented, he thinks to himself and wonders whether it will be to his advantage. The Trader has not yet changed into his commandant’s uniform, is still in his working clothes, a worn leather waistcoat with buttons of tin, a linen shirt and a homespun coat. His head is bare, his brown hair gathered tightly at the neck in a little pigtail, an appearance which lends him an air of civil authority that Falck finds more foreboding than any wig. The Trader is a picture of raw strength and physical health, and the situation seems to become him well. His double chin rests gently upon a white scarf. He looks down at the pastor with a smile as he clambers up to join him.

  Falck straightens his back. He stands close to the Trader, but one step below him, due to the slope of the rock, something Kragstedt most likely has anticipated. The situation makes him think of his father, who he has seen stand before the sorenskriver in Lier on many an occasion. He can see the remnants of the Trader’s last meal between his healthy teeth. Going by the smell of him, and the stains on the front of his shirt,
he has partaken of smoked salmon and a rich meat soup, probably containing good and solid dumplings.

  Falck senses his stomach rumble. What are we waiting for? he hears himself ask, a faint echo of the enterprising Morten Falck of old.

  After you, Magister, says the Trader, and sweeps out his arm.

  They descend from the rock, walk past the whipping post and enter between the buildings at the harbour. The Trade office is located in one of the warehouses. For a brief moment they stand and look out to sea. The Trader believes the ship will cast anchor in the bay within twenty-four hours. The natives have gone out in their kayaks and boats, he says. And they are never wrong.

  Overseer Dahl rises politely as they step inside. He greets Falck rather formally, making him fearful that dreadful circumstances are about to befall him. It is plain that the Overseer has been expecting him. He is shown a chair and sits down on it. His mouth is dry. He looks around the room, but sees neither shackles nor chains.

  Dahl picks up a thick ledger from the desk and opens it. He licks his finger and skims through the pages. Then he turns the book round and indicates a column.

  Here.

  His finger runs down the page and turns it over. Years, dates and sums of money flash by as though in a tombola, page after page of entries and figures, and then his finger stops and stabs at the bottom.

  And here.

  Falck bends forward. He squeezes his bad eye shut and stares at the figure. It is worse than he had anticipated, though not quite as bad as he had feared. Neither shackles nor chains, at least not yet. Only the debt.

  One hundred rigsdalers? he says, looking up at the Overseer, then at the Trader, who has remained standing. One hundred rigsdalers exactly? Why not one hundred and seven or ninety-five? How can it be explained?

  The exact figure was slightly larger, as the Magister may ascertain by examining the account, says Dahl. Mr Kragstedt has instructed me to round the figure down to the sum mentioned.

  Easier to remember, says the Trader. The Magister has been given a rebate for the sake of old friendship.

  Perhaps Magister Falck would like to be alone in order to study the figures for himself, Dahl suggests politely.

  He turns the pages. I don’t understand, he says. These are ordinary goods for which my contract stipulates I should not be charged. Butter, bread, oats.

  And nor has he been, says Dahl, not until a certain limit. However, purchases in excess of the ordinary provision must be paid for, as the Magister would know if he cared to study the terms of his tenure.

  All these extra rations have gone to the needy, he protests. As the Overseer will be aware, times have been hard, there have been shortages, and since the Trade has declined to take any responsibility at all for the hungry, the Mission has donated small amounts of oats and butter in order that they should not perish.

  How very touching of the Magister, says Kragstedt drily. I am sure he will receive his due rewards in the next world, but this is a business, not a charitable institution, and neither is it the gateway to Heaven. He chuckles at his wit and the Overseer emits a cackle. Oats and butter cost money, and in the final account, Magister, it is all the property of His Royal Majesty. I take it he would not steal from the king and share the spoils with anyone who happened by?

  I was unaware it had to be paid for, Falck replies meekly. These are provisions for charity. I find it unjust.

  The instruction is quite unambiguous, says Dahl. Moreover, the tariff for luxuries has gone up.

  What tariff? What instruction?

  A copy has been put up on the wall of the store, says Kragstedt. It has been there a whole year. Has he not seen it?

  No, as a matter of fact I have not. I am not in the habit of reading the Trade’s announcements. I must assume they concern neither me nor the Mission.

  Oh, but they do, Magister. Indeed they do. Dahl, would you be so kind as to show Magister Falck the instruction and the tariff? It seems he has been too busy to take note of them.

  Certainly, Mr Kragstedt.

  But Falck cannot tear himself away from the columns of figures, now that he sits with them at his disposal. He flicks back and forth through the pages, studying entries for aquavit, tobacco and coffee going back years. The ledger is an almanac of excesses for which he is now being held accountable, on top of the help he has provided to the needy out of the good of his own heart. There is something not right about this account, he knows it. He sits bent over the columns. He feels himself grow warm under his wig, removes it and puts it down on the desk. He sees the lice come crawling from among the white powdered horsehair. He runs his hand through his own hair. It is damp with sweat.

  This expenditure, he says. I admit that it may be excessive, but much of it must surely fall under the old tariff?

  Correct, says Kragstedt. If the Magister had settled his account earlier, the old tariff would have been considered valid. But now the new one has come into effect, and therefore his debt has risen accordingly, and with retroactive effect. Wholly in accordance with the instruction, of course.

  And this column here, Falck says. What is this?

  Interest, says the overseer.

  Interest! He tears at his hair. What interest? At what rate?

  The rate according to the tariff, Dahl replies imperturbably.

  I don’t understand it, he says, turning the pages. It cannot be right. I intend to submit a complaint.

  Very well, says Kragstedt. He’s within his rights. Nevertheless, he shall have to sign to the effect that he has been made cognizant of the account and has studied it, if not accepted its validity.

  The Trader dips a pen in the ink pot and hands it to him. The Overseer considers him inquisitively with the trace of a grin. Voices can be heard outside, laughter, running footsteps, heavy boots dancing a jig on the quayside. Probably the cook and the smith. Laughter again. Kragstedt and Dahl exchange glances and a smile.

  Here, says the Overseer, and places his index finger where the signa­ture is required.

  No, he says, and pushes the pen away. I wish to initiate investigations first.

  What investigations, Magister Falck? Kragstedt looks at him in puzzlement.

  Furthermore, I wish also to speak to you, Mr Kragstedt, of certain matters of a personal nature. Concerning the Trader’s wife.

  Kragstedt retains his composure. If he does not sign, I shall have to consider it embezzlement of public money. I would be compelled, no matter how reluctantly, to have the Magister arrested.

  It would not be the first time.

  Think it over, Magister, Kragstedt implores. This can only cause him further problems, besides the ones he has already brought upon himself. If he signs this document, I shall give him my word as a gentleman of honour that he may continue to live well and without accrual of further debt until his departure. Gratis and with full access to all shelves of the warehouse. What do you say?

  He dips the pen once more, tapping away the excess ink against the edge of the ink pot and handing the quill across the desk, eyebrows raised in a question mark, face lit up in a smile.

  Be good and keep your honour for yourself, says Falck. It is my right to ask for some days of respite.

  He looks up at the Trader, who stands pensively on the other side of the desk. His thumbs rest in the waistband of his breeches, his paunch full and heavy.

  I dare say, he replies. In which case, naturally, I must take my own precautions.

  Falck senses the terror creeping up on him. He expects at any moment to hear the sound of shackles and chains. What on earth have I done? he asks himself. Why am I so stubborn? But instead he hears the voice of the Trader:

  I have something in my possession that would seem to belong to the Magister.

  Kragstedt steps up to the shelf and finds a folder, which he opens. It contains a stack of papers full of writings and drawi
ngs. He flicks through them and chuckles. He holds up a sheet with a sketch of a naked woman. Falck feels himself at once grow cold.

  Not bad. The Magister is a proper artist.

  How . . . ? Falck blurts out, only to choke on his words and remain silent.

  We found this journal, as we might call it, among the Magister’s things when we collected him up the ford. If I am not mistaken, this would be his mistress so lovingly portrayed here. The Trader hands the paper to Dahl, who studies it with a smile of acknowledgement before handing it back. This journal makes very interesting reading, Kragstedt says. Wouldn’t you say, Dahl?

  Very interesting indeed, the Overseer echoes.

  The Magister’s college and Professor Rantzau himself will no doubt find it both instructive and titillating, says the Trader.

  Falcks says nothing. His arms rest like lead upon the desk.

  The Trader cannot resist twisting a knife in the wound: Such a shame about your mistress, Magister.

  She was not my mistress, he mutters under his breath. She was my wife.

  The Trader appears not to have heard him. It was your good friend the smith who found her last night. It seems she jumped from the cliff, unless someone pushed her. It grieves me on your behalf, Magister. I know he was attached to this unfortunate person. The Trader does not appear to be grieved at all, neither in voice nor appearance. Rather, he would seem to be in his element.

  Falck sits with his head in his hands. Outside, the sun appears in a fleeting glimpse. A shaft of its light creeps on to the desk and illuminates a column of the ledger, then fades away and leaves the paper grey. It is all over, he thinks to himself. Everything is over. The only thing he wishes now is to come away to the Mission house and close the door behind him.

  He clears his throat. I want my groceries back. Good bread, pork, oats, a jug of ale, aquavit. My catechist, Bertel Jensen, must also be provided for.

  Of course, says the Trader promptly. Overseer Dahl will make sure he gets what he needs. The Magister can carry it all home with him once he has signed.