The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (56 page)

How long have you lived here?

For many years. Ever since we moved from the old colony, I'm sure you remember it. The time your father died.

And the priest, do you see anything of him?

Oh, that was all a long time ago, she says. We are too old now to keep remembering it.

I am not too old, he says. Is he still alive? It was not he who gave the sermon today.

They say he is up at Godhavn, visiting his friend the inspector. Yes, he is alive, the old sinner.

He nods. I will pay him a visit when he comes home.

You do that. But it is by no means certain he will know you. He has become an old man.

Dear Mother, he says, rising to his feet and kissing her.

My sweet Bertel, she replies, and strokes his cheek. Mother's little pastor. You were always my cherished one. I thought you were dead.

I thought so too, he says. But now I feel alive again.

He sees the sloop come sailing from the north, its square sail taught in the wind, like a knarr of the Viking age. He has been in the colony for two weeks; soot is etched into his skin; his body is speckled with tiny burns; he has become lean yet strong. He stands in the doorway and takes in the mild sunshine and the cool breeze of the ford, when he sees the priest clamber on to the quayside. He hurries to put on trousers and a shirt, then goes down to the warehouses. The new arrival straightens his back. He supports himself by a walking stick.

A small man with thin legs, bulging belly and the beginnings of a hunched back, a deformity that pushes his head forward and compels him to look upon the world along the vertical axis, from bottom to top. Bertel recognizes him immediately, the way he recognizes his own face in a mirror. The pigtail that hangs down over the collar, the mousy grey coat with its small pockets of white napped leather, an abundance of silver buttons and buckles, gold braid that seems almost to spill from the button­holes. Under the coat, which hangs open at the front, he wears a red suit, buttons sparkling at the fly. Between the breeches and his boots a few inches of chalk-white stocking are visible. Yet the body and the clothing do not match. The garments look like they have been pinned together hastily by a tailor.

He cocks his jutting head to the right and to the left beneath his tricorne hat, fox-like eyes narrowed, as though on his guard. The wooden jetty creaks; it sounds like it might collapse under the priest's misshapen form. He turns stiffly and barks something to the crew. Travelling chests are unloaded onto the quayside; two of the men carry them off. The priest watches them and must twist his entire upper body in order to turn his head, which sits firmly upon its stubby neck like a toad's.

This man with the silver buttons remains standing for a moment, as though his legs are too stiff to move. The wind lifts the tails of his coat. He adjusts his hat, then proceeds unsteadily along the quayside, passing closely by the man with the blackened face who cannot stop looking at him. Peace of God, the priest quacks. He sees that his mouth droops to one side, small and bloodless, pursed into a sour expression. He sees the pale skin and the liver spots, the narrow eyes, the sly look on his face, the crooked matchstick legs that seem to be in peril of breaking under the otherwise inconsiderable weight of the waddling body above them.

Is this how I shall end up looking? Bertel muses.

The next day he hands in his notice and purchases new clothes for his wage, washes himself with soap, a by-product of the blubber-boiling, has his hair cut and is shaved by the colony smith, and approaches one of the town's three catechists.

Nej
, says the catechist, addressing him in Danish. Not a chance. Oxbøl will not take on anyone new, at least not a man. This latter comment would seem to be a joke; a grin flashes across the man's face.

But the priest is surely available to speak with? he enquires. If one should have need to confess?

Confession is every Sunday, first public, then personal. But the old missionary hardly works any more. The catechist studies him warily. Does he belong to the parish?

My name is Bertel Jensen. I am a catechist myself. I need to speak to the reverend Pastor concerning a private matter. A matter of the soul.

Your soul is as much a concern of the new priest as of the old one, says the catechist rather more kindly.

The soul in question is that of the Missionary Oxbøl himself.

The man looks at him with a wry smile on his face. In that case you should go to the rectory and ask to speak to him. I cannot help you.

The rectory is a singular, whitewashed building four windows in breadth and boasting two chimneys. A palace. In front of the house stands a flagpole. He pauses and looks up at the flag. It flutters in the wind like a trout wriggling in the current of a stream. The flag is red and white, the flag of the Danes. It feels odd to be here again after so many years.

A young girl opens the door. She leans idly against the frame and looks him up and down with bedchamber eyes. Her long hair hangs loosely down one shoulder. She has been braiding it.

I must speak to the Missionary Oxbøl.
Palasi
. Is he in?

Who should I say is calling? she enquires, studying him still, a calcu­lating look in the face of a small girl.

Bertel Jensen. I am family to the missionary. Tell him I am the son of Martine. He will understand.

Is he expecting you?

I imagine so. I'm sure he has been expecting me for years.

She goes off to find him, leaving the door ajar. He pushes it open and steps inside, stands for a moment in the dark hallway he explored as a boy. Two doors lead off to the rest of the house and a stairway to the first floor. He hesitates, then reaches down and smooths his hand over the wood of the lowermost stairs. He decides on the door to his right.

His memories of his years at Holsteinsborg are few. His mother was taken into the priest's employ at a young age; she prepared meals and cleaned for him. By the time winter came they were living together as man and wife. She had another man, Jens, but the Missionary Oxbøl told her she must choose between them, either the priest or the unchristened hunter. She chose the priest. This she told Bertel many years later.

The priest was a handsome man in those days, she said. And I was young and foolish. But then you came along, my boy, and something good came of it all.

He tries to recall the time he lived at the rectory with his mother and the missionary. These planks and walls and ceilings, each creaking door, the windows offering a singular aspect on the fells. All of these things make it return to him. He used to sit in the kitchen of the missionary's house and read a book his mother had found for him. Always he was afraid the priest would appear. Now and then he would hear his voice from some room in the house, or the sound of the stick he rapped against the wall to summon his servant girl. Then he would know to remain seated and not to go anywhere until she came back.

In the evenings the priest would produce his lute and play and sing. Bertel would sit in a corner of the parlour and make himself invisible, until he was sent out. But his mother was there; it was she for whom he played, for want of a better audience. He still recalls the hesitant twang of the instrument, fingers scraped against the strings, the priest's woolly voice singing the laborious and incomprehensible verses. Bertel never put his hands on the instrument. He knew instinctively he would be punished by the priest's cane.

He remembers an exchange between the priest and his mother, on the other side of a door that stood ajar. He must have been eight or nine.

I am a Christian person.

Indeed. It was I who christened and confirmed you, as I am certain you remember.

Not only have you taken my man away from me and saddled me with a bastard child, you have turned my home into Sodom.

Your home?

No more. I am leaving now.

Then farewell, said the priest. Take your bastard with you.

When Bertel was older he asked her about it and she told him it was because Oxbøl brought home with him the tender young girls who were under his instruction and slept with them. It was a weakness of many priests, not to mention traders, smiths and carpenters, and other good folk besides. It was their distraction in return for working in a land that destroyed their health, and that was why there were so many Greenlanders with pale faces. Like his own.

He hears a distant chatter of women's voices, laughter, children crying. It seems to come from all quarters, but the sound is disembodied. There are no women to be seen, no children. It is as if the house has been emptied. Apart from the man in the chair. But even he seems like a ghost.

He looks at him and sees himself, his sister, his son, his niece. The face is freckled, pale and twisted; its eyes stare at him, as blue as water, a mouth that haltingly seeks to form words, perhaps a prayer for help.

Yes? he says and steps another pace forward.

A clock prepares to strike, but makes no further sound, merely ticking, ponderous and uncertain. The ubiquitous women's voices have a calming effect on him. He knows who they are. Family.

The old man groans, a foot scrapes the floor in agitation, his head rocks.

Is there anything I can do to help, Pastor Oxbøl? He stands looking at him. He is beginning to realize what is wrong with the old man.

The priest jumps up and down in his chair, gripping an armrest to support his weight, the knuckles of his left hand whitening. He gobbles madly from the corner of his mouth.

What is the matter with him? Is he ill?

He extends a hand and the old man snatches it. Now they are bound to each other. Oxbøl thrusts himself back into his chair and then appears to relax slightly. A dribble of saliva runs from his mouth to stain the white frill of his shirt.

Do you know who I am, Priest?

Oxbøl looks up at him. His gaze is firm. He seems to be fully aware.

I was one of the children of your parish. I wanted to meet you and see how you are.

A muscle tenses on one side of the priest's face, another relaxes; together they form an expression of what seems to be at once idiocy, doubt and bewilderment. His jaw begins to tremble, tears well in his eyes.

Don't cry, he says and withdraws his hand. Don't be a child.

He does it all the time, a voice says in Greenlandic.

He turns round. A woman has entered the room. Behind her follows the young girl, whose hair is now plaited. He approaches them. The old man's hand reaches out, claw-like, grips his wrist, and when he pulls away the hand and arm follow. The old man sits tilted at an angle and looks like he is about to slide to the floor, yet he does not release his grip.

The woman comes, bends over the priest and pries open his hand.

My name is Bertel Jensen, he says, rubbing his wrist. I come from Sukkertoppen.

The woman considers the old man and lets out a sigh. This is the second time he has been like this. They say the third time is the end. Have you told him who you are?

I told him I was a child of his parish, now come back to look in on him.

A visitor, Lauritz! the woman announces in a loud voice.

The priest gives a start. Tears begin to roll down his cheeks. His eyes dart this way and that.

Take no notice of his crying, it means nothing, the woman says. Or else it means anything at all. He might be glad or disgruntled or hungry. Or he might need the pot. How lucky you are, Lauritz, to have a visitor, she says to him.

The priest's arm twitches and his whole upper body follows suit. Convulsive sobbing contorts his face.

Look how glad he is, says the woman and pats him hard on the cheek.

Well, says Bertel. I'd better leave. I just wanted to see him one last time.

No, stay and eat. There is soup on the stove.

The soup is rich and salty, thickened with oats. He cuts off chunks of seal meat and puts them in his mouth, devouring them with spoonfuls of soup and fresh water. The women and children watch him as he eats. Pale and freckled.

We know who you are, they say. Do you know us?

He nods.

But why have you come?

I wanted to see him one last time.

Did you come to see him die?

I suppose. Why are you all here?

The same reason. If he will die at all. He is strong.

He stays in the priest's house with the women and their children. In the parlour the old man lies in his filthy cot or else sits bound to his chair. He calls for them by beating on the floor with his stick. If he does so too frequently, they take it away from him, in which case he begins to howl or thrash about so violently as to cause himself to fall. Then they give back the stick. Bertel sits with him sometimes. He tells him about the life he has lived; about Sofie, who has gone away; the boy who died; his sister, who cannot find peace in life and who remains unchristened; and about her daughter. The priest appears to understand what he tells him and seems eager to pass comment. Clearly he is unused to remaining silent. Bertel likes to torment him somewhat. I do not believe there to be a single one among your descendents who does not despise you, he says. That is why they are here now. They are waiting for you to die. The priest weeps, his jaw trembles, he rocks backwards and forwards. But his eyes are enraged.

The priest will not die. He regains some of his mobility and begins to rise from the alcove, casting his wet underclothes to the floor and bellowing out for the women to come, as though to make their ears split. They go to him and wash him, scrubbing his body as he stands leaning against the table, putting clean clothes on him. They tie him to the chair with leather straps, so as to prevent him from getting up. Several women must hold him down; he lashes out at them, lunging fists as quick as serpents, but his attendants merely laugh and force him back into the chair. On a couple of occasions he manages to loosen his bindings; they hear a thud as he falls over and find him lying in the middle of the floor, bleeding from a gash in his head, bleating like a goat.