The Prophets of Eternal Fjord by Kim Leine Martin Aitken Read Free Book Online Page B

for summer, can you, Pastor, when the lark twitters and a person can go wherever he wants? Then I’ll be able to travel again with my people and sleep in the woods.
    What about me? says Morten. Can you see my future?
    I can see a whole lot of strange people dancing in the fells. Not Christian folk, though. They don’t look like Christian folk. Black and dirty they are, but they’re your friends and you’re dancing with them. And I can see fire.
    Fire?
    Flames and balls of fire. The pastor’s a man who likes to play with fire. But the fire doesn’t touch him. He comes out of the fire without so much as an eyebrow singed.
    The boy has finished eating. He has drunk three mugs of ale. Now his chin drops to his chest. He begins to snore, shoulders drooped, his body slides back against the wall. Morten sits a while and studies him. Then he tosses some marks onto the table and walks home. It has begun to snow.
    He does all that is expected of him. He goes to the lectures; he pores over his Latin and Greek and Hebrew, and reads his works of theology. He teaches his boys at the Vajsenhus. He courteously acknowledges Miss Schultz when encountering her in the courtyard. She looks at him as though she were waiting, as if she has prepared something to say to him if they should meet, but he does not take the time to converse with her. The printer clearly imagines that Morten is pining away with unrequited love for his daughter. He pats him sympathetically on the back and says, My dear theologicus, give it time, give it time, for all things come to he who waits. Morten nods and does his best to look like a valiant suitor. The truth is, it is merely a role he takes upon himself. He thinks only infrequently of the young mistress, although he knows he ought to devote himself to her rather more, that it would be the natural thing to do. But the young mistress is so pure and untainted. It is hard to imagine that there is anything else beneath her skirts and underskirts than more skirts and underskirts, and much that is pleasant to the smell.
    He realizes he has an unopened letter from his sister. How long has it been in his drawer? He can hardly remember when he received it. Perhaps a few weeks before. Since then, his mother has written and told him of his sister’s plans, of the happy news. The ceremony will already have taken place. He knew it even when he sat before the boy in the drinking house. He prises open the seal without tearing the envelope. A long letter, several pages, with writing on both sides. My dearest brother Morten, by the time this letter reaches you . It sounds like a suicide note, a thing one might write with the noose hanging ready from the hook in the ceiling. It is a farewell, and the noose is around her neck. The priests stand ready, one at her side, the other at the altar, and the church bells chime. He puts the letter aside without reading to the end.
    A week later. The same day of the week. The same snow, though somewhat milder. The boy sits in the same drinking house as before. He seems unsurprised when Morten sits down opposite him at the table.
    Evening, sir.
    Good evening, my child.
    The boy flashes a wry smile.
    Does he come to have his fortune told again?
    No, not for that. Morten purchases two mugs of ale and shoves one of them across the table. He looks more awake today. He has an odd twitch about his eye. What is it? Sarcasm? A muscular spasm? And that mouth! It is the mouth he has returned for. It is a riddle, a question unanswered. And Morten does not consider himself to be a person who leaves any question unanswered.
    Thanks, says the boy, and raises his mug to drink.
    You remember me?
    You’re my benefactor. You gave me money.
    That’s right.
    But it was a lot. You’ve got more owed.
    Well, we’ll see about that. As I said, I haven’t come to have my fortune told.
    I can show you something you’ve never seen, says the