We have for some time neither seen nor heard anything of Apaluttork, nor in any other way perceived his persecutions. Lord, allow him now peace in his soul, if he will not turn to you and seek forgiveness for his malice, that he may find a merciful and proximate end, and we be relieved of him. Amen.
FROM HANS EGEDE’S JOURNAL, OCTOBER 1728
The cannon outside the governor’s residence splutter hoarsely. Long live King Frederik the Fourth!
Frederik Christian became ill following a trip with his foster-brother Niels. The two youngsters had been out all day in a boat in rain and sleet and had come home soaked to the skin and shivering with cold. He lay in the parlour in Egede’s rooms and lingered between life and death, and in a clear moment he heard Egede say to his wife: I pray each day that the Lord will let him live, for He it was who gave him to me, and so it is my wish that He allow me to keep him. These overheard words of his foster-father gave him strength, and he was able to rise from the straw of his makeshift bed on the floor and drag himself to the table where the family were seated while Egede read to them from his sermons. They stared at him in dismay, as if he were already a ghost. Still, they gave him the plate of porridge he asked for, and he forced himself to eat it. After that, he slowly recovered.
So, you didn’t want to miss the King’s birthday, Egede had said, looking at him with eyes which glowed with tenderness.
This was the beginning of October. In just over a week the birthday was to be celebrated. They had only recently moved into the great colony house, the Governor at one end, the Egedes at the other. Between the two dwellings, within the elbow of the two wings, lay the mission room, as if it were a buffer between religious and temporal powers. The house smelled of tarred, moist timber. There was a hammering and a sawing from morning till night, and the mason was still at work slapping mortar into the joins of the outside walls.
Now the cannon sound again. A toast to King Frederik!
He was confirmed in the summer. Fourteen years old. Now he was a man. But what else was he? The small number of other natives who had been baptized were all dead. He did not belong either to the Danish Christians. But he knew that Jesus loved him. Egede kept telling him so. Otherwise, being a Christian, one of the chosen, could be taxing indeed. The past two years he had assisted the priest with his missions, travelling about and reading for the natives, taking part in the services, instructing parents who wished their small children baptized, endeavouring to explain to them about grace, about suffering and guilt, about prayer, forgiveness, and life in Heaven. Most of it was lost on them, he knew. They wanted only what was tangible to them, they wanted rattling good stories, and they wanted everything here and now.
The life of the heathen as he remembered it was full of fear and darkness. Now it was no longer within him, but without. The Devil. Or perhaps more simply his native father.
His father, the shaman and Egede’s arch-enemy, always lurking about and wanting him back. He believed Egede had stolen his son away from him. He had threatened Egede with a harpoon, only for the priest to wrench the weapon from his hand and strike him to the ground with his fist. Since then they had seen little of him. But he knew he was there somewhere, that he was watching him. It was worst when he was away on one of his own trips and thus more vulnerable. Egede, with his brute strength and fearlessness, would not be there with him then. Always when he crawled inside the house of a savage he would scan the room to see if he was there. He was afraid of him. Egede had said that the shamans were in the pay of the Devil. They were damned, condemned to Hell, and they knew so too, for which reason they had nothing to lose.
Can they not even be forgiven by the Lord’s intercession? he had asked.
Can the Devil find forgiveness? Egede had replied.
He had decided what he would do if his father appeared while he was on his own. He would hold up his crucifix and bid him be gone in the name of Jesus. What would happen then? Would his father fall down dead? Would he go up in smoke?
It was a burden to have a father so condemned.
Jesus was a strong, older brother. He looked after him. He followed him everywhere. Frederik Christian dreamt about him often, as he had nightmares about his father. They would be standing facing each other, flaming both, Jesus in a dazzling white light, his father glowing red. As far as he had understood, Jesus and the Devil were sort of brothers. Archangels, one fallen to the earth where he caused as much nuisance as he could until the final reckoning, the day of judgement, when he knew he would lose. He wanted the Christians to fall with him. He wanted to pull as many as possible down with him. Egede had told him all of this.
I contend with him too, Egede had confided in him. Every day is a fight against evil. We must be wary, never believe ourselves safe, never become complacent. If we do, he will sense it.
What will happen to the Devil on judgement day? Frederik Christian asked.
He will be enchained, my boy. For a thousand years, then to be set free for the final reckoning.
I don’t understand, he said. Why set the Devil free?
No one knows, Egede replied. It is a mystery. Perhaps it is because the Devil is God’s son and that God loves him despite everything, no matter that he has let him down. But in the end he will of course kill him.
A thousand years, said the boy. That’s a long time.
Compared to eternity it is nothing, said Egede. You must learn to think from the perspective of the eternal, my boy. As I have learned. That is why we say: Prepare thyself for death. Death is eternal. Life is but an ill-smelling fart compared to eternity.
But is it not a sin to long for death? Those who commit suicide cannot go to Heaven.
It is a sin to long for death. It is not a sin to long for eternity. This is what we call a paradox.
The cannon rumble, once, twice, thrice. A toast to His Majesty! A drinking bout is going on in the governor’s residence. It began this night and will continue for at least another day and night. Everyone is drunk, even Egede. And Frederik Christian too. He has found a medicine to combat his angst. A small glass containing a clear liquid. The Devil cannot be in such a small glass. Surely not?
He had no idea if it were even possible for him to be saved. There was so much he did not understand. Charged with teaching the natives, he found himself compelled to learn more, for they asked him so many questions that left him at a loss. And when they sensed his uncertainty they would exploit it immediately and begin to dig into the matters he had failed to understand. But he could not keep on asking Egede. He was afraid his foster-father would think him stupid. As such, his questions were left unresolved and he felt himself even stupider. It was a vicious circle.
The crew held him in little esteem. They called him ‘Two-Kings’ on account of his double name. It was not kindly meant. The natives too looked askance at him, to them he was Qallunaajaraq – the little Dane. He wore Danish clothing, linen trousers, smock, a long coat and a three-cornered hat of which he was exceptionally fond, given to him by one of the officers.
Egede would often beat his children, including Niels. But he never laid a finger on Frederik Christian.
Why does he punish you and not me? he asked Niels.
He must like you better, his foster-brother replied.
No, said Frederik Christian. That’s not it. It is because I am unlike you.
Think yourself lucky.
But I want him to beat me.
God’s truth, you are indeed an odd one, said Niels. I can hit you if you want. And he struck him on the cheek with the flat of his hand.
I would prefer him to do it, said Frederik Christian, rubbing the sting.
The cannon expel their fire into the night. Long live the King! Frederik Christian sits on top of the wood box. He has pissed in his trousers. But he doesn’t care. He feels himself pervaded by love.
The Governor has ordered salutes to be fired on the hour for the next twenty-four hours. But the bombardiers are drunk too, they lose track of time and no sooner have they fired one salute than they are busy reloading for the next.
It was the late afternoon of the King’s birthday. The sun was descending. It looked like it was dissolving, its red disc melting into the boiling sea. It was the maddest of sunsets, and quite unnatural, illuminating the clouds from below with deep and blushing hues that shimmered outwards and upwards, filaments of orange, yellow, green and violet. The colony folk observed it with a blend of awe and terror. Several burst into tears, but most simply stood, silent and stunned. Such a sky was surely an omen, most likely of something bad. When eventually the twilight came and the stars appeared with their cold and dependable twinkling, it seemed like a relief. The people went back inside, to eat and drink some more.
The colony’s officers, the three men of the cloth, the Trader, the Paymaster and the colony surgeon Kieding, were seated around the table. Frederik Christian sat by the stove and thought of how long he would be allowed to stay up. Titia gave him a plate of food. He tried to follow the conversation. The sunset was not mentioned.
Another salute rattled the panes.
Those cannon are more surely in the service of Bacchus than Mars, Egede commented.
Gunpowder and spirits are the only things of which we have an abundance, said the Commandant Landorph.
Another salute, the third time in that hour. The three Greenlanders who were seated by the door, helpers in the trading company and invited by Pors, jumped in fright. The Governor instructed Skård to pour them aquavit, which however they declined, preferring to drink water. They guzzled the food and sat there looking out of place.
For goodness’ sake, drink a toast to your king! Pors boomed. It is your duty.
Timidly they put the glasses to their lips and sipped, spluttering the contents into the air and convulsing into fits of coughing, much to the merriment of the Danes.
Quite as I remember my own first dram, exclaimed the Paymaster Fleischer, his foxlike face split into a grin.
It’s good for the health, Pors explained to the Greenlanders. Good medicine. Drink now, my friends!
He raised his glass towards then, only for them to shake their heads.
Then give them ale instead, said Pors. Skård! Ale for our native friends.
The manservant came shuffling in his slippers with frothing cups he handed to the three men. They eyed the ale suspiciously and hesitantly tasted the froth.
Skål! Pors bellowed. Drink now, dear friends. Do you think I would poison you? I order you to drink the toast of the King.
He got to his feet and stepped over to them, clacked their cups against his own, and now each swallowed a mouthful.
That’s more like it, said Pors. But I shall not be satisfied before you have drunk up. Skål!
The cannon thundered a reply.
Look, they drink indeed, said Landorph.
All heads turned to see the Greenlanders reluctantly down their ale.
Indeed, said Fleischer. Now the Greenlanders drink. The Governor has at last loosened them up. About time too.
Skål, O innocent babes of the land, Miltzov slurred, raising his glass. Until recently I was as you and did not drink. Now you are like me and do drink. Skål!
All the men followed the priest’s example. Skål, noble children of this splendid land!
I feel confident we shall get on well now, Fleischer commented, his narrow eyes peering at the other men. If there is a single thing I’ve had against the natives here, it is that they will not share a dram. Once they drink, they are on our side. Nothing is duller than drinking on one’s own.
First ale, then the aquavit, says Pors. Let them be drunk. Skård, the bottle!
Skård entered with the bottle and replenished the glasses of the three men by the door. They drank obediently, and without coughing.
There, you see. Now you have learnt an important lesson, said Pors. Already you are half-Danes. When you return home, be sure to take some food back with you so that your people can see how abundantly you have been plied. And here, he continued, take these pocket knives, one each. Yes, go on, take them. They are a gift from the Governor Pors. Give my regards to your families and tell them they are from the Governor. And drink up! Drink up, innocent children of God, and you shall be toasted and saluted on your way!
The cannon sounded again. Shouts went up from the battery, the bombardier and his men calling another toast for the King.
Skål for the colony of Godthåb! said Pors.
Skål! said the men.
Skål for Denmark!
Skål for the King!
And for the Queen!
Which one of them?
The Queen of Sheba!
Skål for us!
///
I am Aappaluttoq, the Red One. I go my own ways. It was me who made the red sunset. It’s not difficult. There are many things much more difficult than that. And as the people stood and stared, enthralled and terrified, I stole inside the house of Egede. I lay down in the priest’s bed, next to the Madame. Is it you, she said. Such a long time since I saw you last. I’ve been on a long journey, I told her. I’ve been with the King, he sends his regards. Listen to the cannon, she said. How they rumble. They’re having a party, I said. They’re getting my son drunk. The poor boy, she said. What have we done to him? You’ve ruined him, I said. I am sure we shall pay for our sin, she said.
I lie there for some time, talking with the Madame. She enquires about all manner of things, and I tell her about our land. Later, she writes it down in her secret diary.
But now you must go, she says. Go, before my husband returns. He cannot bear the sight of you, and if he found you here beside me in the bed, he would surely depart his senses.
He has already departed his senses, I say. Perhaps they would be returned to him if he came in and found us. But it is easier to make the sun go down than to bring your husband to reason. So now I shall leave you. Goodbye, Gertrud.
Goodbye, my friend. Kiss me before you go.
And I kiss her dry and wrinkled mouth.
///
But who is that seated on the wood box with nothing to drink? Pors said. Skård, give the young man a cup of ale and then a glass of the aquavit. If we are to carouse, then let us carouse, and all men be equal in it! We shall make no difference between great and small, heathen or Christian.
Frederik Christian was handed a foaming cup of ale. This was the first time, he had never drunk alcohol before, and he glanced at Egede to be certain he had his permission. But Egede sat hunched over the table in deep conversation with the physician. The three natives were already into their second glass of aquavit and looked the merrier for it too. If they can, then I can also, he told himself. And if Egede does not like it, then he can beat me. He guzzled the ale Skård gave him, belched and handed him back the empty cup. A small glass of aquavit was placed in his hand, and he downed that too. It felt like swallowing a glowing ember that slid but slowly down his throat.
His eyes water, but he ignores them. His glass is replenished. A clock ticks, it sounds as if it were muffled. The air thickens around him. He feels like he is submerged under water.
The cannon pound. Or perhaps it is something inside his head that pounds. He drinks. A warmth festers and gurgles inside his stomach like a sulphurous pool. It spreads through his body like ripples from a stone tossed into a pond. Such a heavenly state. He sees his hand as it puts the glass to his lips, he feels the weight of the aquavit inside it, downs its contents and bites off a piece of the bread on his plate, feeling the way it is chewed apart in his mouth, dissolving into a delightful mash. Bread has never tasted as good.
Not to speak of my digestion, he hears Kopper say, tossing his horselike head. It’s gone to pot completely.
It is indeed a vast country we have placed under the Crown, says the Commandant Landorph.
Too vast, perhaps, says Fleischer.
I must run to the latrine a dozen times a day.
Though quite how vast we do not know. No one has yet sailed around it.
The crew house is awash with shite.
Then keep away from it, says Fleischer. No one’s forcing you.
They are swine indeed, says Miltzov. They empty their bowels on the floor.
I’ve heard it said it’s joined with Spitzbergen.
They can’t hold on to it. They’ve all got the dysentery. Coming out both ends, it is.
And my feet, Kopper complains. My feet are swollen from all the dampness and cold. I need help to pull off my boots in the evening.
Iceland, more likely, says Pors. Spitzbergen’s an island.
Iceland? Fleischer says.
Yes, says Pors. I’ve heard there to be a ribbon of land from Iceland’s north-western tip reaching towards Greenland.
The place is filthier than Copenhagen, says Miltzov.
And that’s saying something. The Øster quarter is a pigsty these days.
That’s where they’re from.
Then I’m sure they feel at home.
It is indeed a splendid country once you get to know it, says Egede. Though I concede that first impressions may belie it.
Can’t keep a thing inside me, says Kopper. It runs right through.
Those first impressions have now lasted half a year, says Fleischer.
I think we are joined with America, Landorph opines.
Life is but a joke, says Kopper. A poor one at that. I’m certainly not laughing, that’s for sure.
A skipper by the name of Jens Munk sailed to the far north, says Egede. He believed there to be a passage between the two lands. But no one has found it yet.
A joke? says Fleischer.
Nearly all of them perished. The scurvy, it was.
They say all these lands are joined at the top, says Lange. What says the Lieutenant to that theory?
Full of ambition and grand designs, says Kopper. And then death comes along and makes a joke of it all. Vanity, as the poet says.
I have no opinion on the matter as long as no one’s been up there to see and returned home to tell of it, says Landorph.
You’re in good humour today, Kopper, Fleischer says, his foxlike eyes looking askance at him. Normally I’d say you were as sour as vinegar, but today you’re grumpy at worst. Let’s drink a glass together.
I don’t d-drink, Miltzov hiccups. I’ve g-given it up.
Skål, dear colleague, says Lange.
I intend to cross the land as soon as possible, Pors declares. To explore its nature and geography.
It will be a long expedition, says Egede. The ice stretches to the horizon in the east.
Piss and shit, says Kopper. That is what we leave behind us here.
Enough of such filth, says Egede.
The cannon boom. The Greenlanders cheer.
Besides drunken natives, Fleischer adds. Look at them, they’re well away.
And the boy, says Landorph. Your native page seems to be drunk, Egede.
Indeed, look how he grins, says Fleischer.
Egede looks over his shoulder and sends his foster-son a tender smile. Let him enjoy himself, he says.
And now it’s raining again, Kopper observes.
All fall silent and listen to the rain lash the panes. A wind is getting up.
Back to normal again, says Fleischer with a sigh. I was getting worried there.
A toast to King Frederik, says Pors. Long live the King!
They rise and lift their glasses. The Greenlanders too leap to their feet. They do as the Danes, bellowing out a skål and sweeping their arms towards the window. At once the cannon pound.
What on earth has happened to the poor lad? says Miltzov.
All eyes turn towards the wood box. Frederik Christian has slid to the floor and has fallen asleep in a pool of urine. Egede staggers towards him and pokes him with the toe of his shoe. He shakes his head regretfully.
That first time, says Pors dreamily. To fall asleep in one’s own waste. How sweet the sight. I remember it like it was yesterday.
Yes, his innocence has now been taken, says Miltzov, downing another aquavit. I myself have given it up.
Looks like it and all, says Lange.
You are a one to talk, you d-drunken pig, says Miltzov.
A toast to young Two-Kings, says Fleischer. Long may he live!
The cannon thunder. Frederik Christian sleeps with a smile on his lips. Egede has laid his coat on top of him.
///
He remains in the governor’s house for some days and is again deathly ill. But the Governor mocks him. That kind of sickness soon passes over. Do as I do, take a hair of the dog that bit you.
He gives him a cup of strong ale, and it helps. But Titia keeps him beside her. He lies in her bed and snuggles up. She draws him close, strokes his hair, sings for him and murmurs prayers in Latin. He feels safe. Now and again he gets out of bed and wobbles across the floor to in turns relieve himself and fill a cup with ale. But the jomfru calls him back to her and pulls him down into the bed. She is like a sister. She kisses him, but does not interfere with him, unlike the tarts in the crew house who put their hands down his trousers to grip and fondle his cock. She tells him of the Immaculate Virgin, of the nuns who brought her up. Hers is another form of Christianity, an unlawful one, which Egede calls papism. If he only knew that his son lay here, being spoonfed with saints and popes, the Virgin Mary and the seven sacraments, he would perhaps kill him with his bare hands. But the jomfru speaks of other things too. She tells him about the world, about elephants, the planets, the round earth, the moon and sun. These are things she has read about during her time with the nuns who whipped her until she bled.
Why did they whip you?
They whipped themselves too. It is their way of driving out evil.
Are all Christians so? he asks.
God loves you. Therefore he punishes you.
Not me, he says sadly.
You must sin first. Then you shall be beaten.
Can I not be loved without first having sinned?
No, my child, Titia says lovingly.
It sounds demented.
Blessed be the demented, she says. We are all demented, though some more than others.
You must be the most Christian person of all in the colony, Titia.
After some days he is compelled to leave her. Egede has been asking after him. They are to go into the fjord to missionize.
Still in the land of the living, I see, says Egede, and places a tender hand on his shoulder. A little drink once in a while can only gladden the heart, as Luther said. Whoever drinks beer, he is quick to sleep, and whoever sleeps long does not sin. But you must learn to drink in moderation, boy. You will learn it in time.
Egede does not beat him. He is even kinder than normal.
They sail to the various settlements inside the fjord for a week or so. They work together, side by side. Egede preaches, Frederik Christian translates. And he reads for the children. Egede is pleased with him.
They return to the colony. Pors wants him in the house, to be his new manservant. Skård has become strange of late and will only sit in a corner all day puffing on his pipe. He carries water, he cleans and tidies and helps the jomfru keep house. The jomfru is tired. She is pregnant, she tells him. Her body feels heavy.
Who has made you pregnant?
The Devil, she sniggers. But you must tell no one, for they will come and throw me on the bonfire.
He knows the jomfru is not quite right in her head. But she is good to him. They lie curled up together in the night, and she always makes sure he is covered up so as not to shiver in the cold.
Often there is drinking in the Governor’s parlour. The colony council meets on Saturdays, and afterwards a number of the men stay behind, eating and drinking into the night. The more they drink, the coarser and more spiteful they become. They tease him about being the jomfru’s sweetheart, they get him drunk and make him take off his clothes and lie with her as they stand by the bed cheering and jeering. She opens her legs willingly and allows him inside her.
It doesn’t matter, she whispers. Do with me what you want.
But Pors does not care for it. It is filth, what you are making the boy do.
He throws him out and will not have him living there any more. He moves in with the Egedes again. Egede has heard of his escapades. But he does not beat him. He moves in on the first floor, where he lives with the two young clergymen. He instructs them in the Greenlandic language and gives them advice as to how best to speak to the natives about Christianity. They take notes and enquire as to all manner of matters. They are very kind to him. He eats with the family downstairs. Aquavit is not consumed in Egede’s end of the house, at least not when he is there. Madame Gertrud keeps a bottle in a cupboard, though under lock and key.
An epidemic has broken out in the crew house. A handful are dead within the week. He assists at the funerals. He drags corpses from the feculent house that stinks foully of rotten flesh. The dead stick to him like tallow. It can barely be washed away. The male corpses reek abominably, a heavy and uncompromising stench. The women’s smell is sour, yet rather lighter, while that of the dead children – a number of the woman have given birth since their arrival here – is acrid and pungent, tearing at the nostrils like pepper, and yet fleeting. The men are the worst. But for some reason he prefers the men. They do not bother him as much, even if their odour is unbearable.
The carpenter asks him to help with some jobs that need finishing in the governor’s house, skirting boards, panels, windowsills. The jomfru is there. But it is as if she does not know him. She sits rocking in a chair, observing them with a half-baked grin on her face and looks like she has not been washed in a long time, her hair is unkempt, and stale spittle and remains of food are stuck to her lips. Infested she is too. He sees the lice crawl upon the down of her cheek. Her eyes gleam with the piercing clarity of madness. Skård sits in a corner smoking his pipe.
The Governor is satisfied with their work. He asks the carpenter to make some furniture, for several of his chairs are no longer serviceable. They work from morning till eve in the stable building where also a foundry is housed and where there is shelter from the incessant rain and wind. They sit in the warmth, amid the sickly sweet smell of sheep and goats as they hammer and saw, carving intricate patterns in the wood, working with full focus like musicians practising a difficult piece of music. He likes the slow, meticulous nature of the work, and the carpenter too is a quiet and amiable man.
He feels the most dreadful urge to drink. But no one offers him anything. When the crew eat in the evenings, he reaches his glass out when the bottle is passed around, yet he is ignored.
No more for you, young sot, they say.
If a man’s to drink, he must learn to drink in moderation.
The priest ought to give you a dressing down.
He should give you a good hiding.
But he won’t.
You’re his pet.
He wouldn’t touch a hair on your head.
What is it with you and the priest, boy?
All he can do is smile. He is an enigma to them, and he likes that it is so. But they are not fond of enigmas. Enigmas make them spiteful. They say you behaved like a savage when you were drunk.
Did I? I can’t remember. You behave like savages too sometimes.
There’s two ways to behave like a savage, they say.
A right way and a wrong way.
They laugh at the notion.
You are a native, they say. You can’t take it. You should be ashamed.
But they will not let him drink ale either. Only water.
He steals into Egede’s rooms when there is no one in. He tries to prise open the cupboard where the aquavit is kept. Eventually he loses patience and breaks it open. He takes out the bottle and drinks what is in it as he stands. He staggers upstairs and collapses into his bed.
Egede will not beat him, yet declines to pray with him. It is painful to him.
///
The following Saturday, after the council, the Governor announces that there will be a display of fireworks. The weather is clear and still. The bombardier and his men have been at work all day. A couple of hours after darkness they commence the display. A crowd, a hundred and fifty strong, is gathered on the open ground in front of the colony house, Danes and natives alike. Dancing fire, Bengal lights, bangers, fire fountains, spinning Catherine wheels spitting their sparks in every direction, rockets whistling upwards, pausing, exploding silently above, their sharp reports following within the second, as they bleed their coruscations into the sky. The natives watch with polite and indulgent interest, as if they are used to the sight and have seen it many times before. The crew, considerably reduced in number these past months, stare at the colourful sparks with weary indifference.
The Governor orders a salute:
A toast and a salute to the Grand Chancellor Holstein!
!!!
To the Royal Equerry Danneskjold-Laurvig!
!!!
To Count Sponnack, Commandant of Copenhagen!
!!!
To the President of the Treasury Chamber, the Baron Gyldenkrone!
!!!
The War Secretary Revenfeld!
!!!
The Secretary Møinichen!
!!!
The Ministers of State!
The Admiralty!
The Commissariat-General of the Army and Navy!
To all our generals and admirals!
To the Royal House, Their Majesties and an endless line of royal family members by name!
And finally to the advance of the Grand Greenlandic Design!
To the Imperium Daniae!
!!! !!! !!!
The cannon boom, and to Frederik Christian’s ear they say:
Døden!
Døden!
Døden!
Death, death, death.