To-day the Trader returned from the trading excursion in the south and with the boat filled with blubber.
This same day the wife of one of the soldiers gave birth to a daughter, to be christened on the 10th.
On the 15th another of the bedridden soldiers died, and in the evening another likewise.
On the 28th yet another of the soldiers died, likewise his small child, to whom his wife gave birth the 6th of October.
On the 30th the Governor celebrated the birthday of his royal highness Crown Prince Christian, to which occasion he had invited the council and officers of the colony.
FROM HANS EGEDE’S JOURNAL, OCTOBER 1728
. . . edicamus domino what i feel is a tree something with branches perhaps a birch something sprouting and growing the tiny seedcorn put inside me with a stick the seed-man put it inside me gently and with love and a bit careless that it found root latching on straight away with its claws digging in sucking my blood like a leech and growing in this treeless land there grows a tree inside a person and this person is me little titia ave maria gratia plena thus the nuns did teach me to pray but can a tree really grow inside a person
yes no?
domine jesu dimitte nobis debita nostra it is a good prayer it renders me calm it maketh soft the heart and doth tire the eye and cool the burning flesh i say it when i go to bed but a man it was who stuck the seed-stick in my soil-hole my earth-hole my cunt-hole my cock-hole my hole-hole flaming with lust i flamed bayed barked yelped growled with desire this is how we women are he quite cold and calm i remember so very well and calm and with kindness and caution and very slowly did he put it in and placed it well so that it might grow and grow it did tis growing now we women are like that we eat up what they give us lick their hands as grateful dogs it takes on a life of its own and wriggles out of us i saw it at the apothecary’s when one of the servants a young girl birthed a child how she bled the poor girl yet she lived and the child lived but they came and put her in irons and off they took her to the spinning house on account of fornication it was not a tree she bore but a bastard child and the apothecary was the lecher but was never put in irons he dribbled his tinctures and mixed his decoctions and weighed his coffee the same as before i don’t think it’s common to birth a tree but men can do so too i heard of a man who died of the consumption or so they thought but when he was dead they saw foliage protruding from his mouth and were given permission to cut him up and i think it was in france because such things are forbidden in denmark and there was a whole tree taken root inside him with leaves and branches the lot the roots had pierced his lungs and suckled his blood like an infant child or a baby lamb and they took it out and put it in the ground and put the man in the ground too until he rotted and became mould but the tree took nourishment from that same soil and grew to become a splendid tree though at first it was yellow and pale from lacking sun but then it turned green and i think it to be there still in a garden somewhere where it is watered and no doubt growing as yet how strange it is i know not if the tree inside me is the same i think it to be a birch perhaps the man lived on as a tree i hope my tree is green and fresh as the spring at home in köln ave maria gratia plene will i birth the tree or will they cut it out of me and plant it in the soil will i myself become a tree will god have me when i die?
up down?
yes no?
i will end in the ground no matter it is quite certain but who knows the answer to that other matter my falling sickness is nearly gone the tree has made me well or differently ill perhaps more fatefully so but i no longer froth at the mouth at least or bite my tongue gloria patri et filio et spiritui sancto as the nuns would sing between the singing lashes of the whip they say that lash i smile and lash i do they say that lash i am beautiful and so lash i am so lash lash happy i am in happy circumstances i bear a tree into a treeless world and that is at least something and happiness is delightful they say and the folk they say so too even though their faces are the faces of bleating goats
baa-aa-aa!
tis the goats
baa-aa-aa!
tis the old sheep
baa-aa-aa!
tis the lambs that shiver as if with fear though all have the faces of men i care not to look at them yet i cannot help myself i pull the door of the stable ajar and sure enough there they are i knew it sheep and goats standing there staring at me with stupid human faces someone must have swapped them around maybe it was master kieding he does so many strange things creeping about and examining sticking his finger in decent folk can it really be necessary to stick one’s fingers in a person’s every hole sniffs at their every opening he does and is amused by everything even death amuses the master kieding or perhaps the lieutenant it was he who did it first put on a goat’s mask and since then they’ve all had such woolly faces the officers the crew the clergymen in fact i find them appealing with sheep and goat faces woolly-haired skulls their sheepish grins they have no hooves for feet that would be someone else entirely but we shall not name him no we shall not speak of him libera nos a malo he can hear us you see he has long ears with hairs sticking out and piercing eyes and pupils in the vertical and then he comes all smarmy you called my friend? a smell of something burnt
forked tongue
goat-green eyes
billy-goat legs
the tree grows and grows i can feel it mr pors does not like it he scowls at me what are you standing there gaping for girl? i think perhaps he can see it? see what? you demented child do you think a person can stare down your throat and see it? maybe the other hole not the throat i can see it myself i look in the mirror i open my mouth a thin branch pokes up and green foliage i put my fingers down my throat and try to nip off a leaf only it draws back it is alive and aware of itself and of me and afraid but he cannot see it will not see it he thinks only about matters of his own he wants to be cut he lies in his bed come here dear his voice is thin as a thread his eyes as frightened as a sick hound i am so scant today it is the rheumatism he says perhaps the consumption i say consumption of the lungs and his eyes grow wide and afraid as a child’s do you think so? my father died of it i tell him it went to his bones he thought it was the rheumatism too but it was consumption of the bone and bad it was too he lay and would not leave the bed complaining all the time of rheumatism like you perhaps it is just rheumatism he tells himself to comfort his mind I need to be bled right away titia before it gets worse and i fetch the knife the doctor has shown me how make the incision here says mr pors and points to his arm at the elbow and skård enters from out of the shadows where he lurks all day and holds him from behind never says a word skård dear skård i cut through the skin the fat the flesh that swells about the blade the blood leaking forth quite black it is too and smells rotten i place the cup upon the wound I do as the doctor has shown me i warm the little cupping-glass over the lamp and place it on his arm it grips the skin it sucks the blood and is slowly filled and i cut myself so very slightly too for it makes me so delightfully still and calm inside
blood red red blood
oh he groans and turns his head to the side he closes his eyes clever girl now the other arm and i cut into that one too at the elbow and place the cup upon the wound oh yes he says yes oh yes now it will be better you’ll see and skård lays him down and mr pors he sleeps
kyrie eleison
i remove the cups when they are filled before they’ve gone cold and fallen off
christe eleison
i toss the blood onto the fire it crackles and spits and becomes as honey as syrup as tar a dark and charred lump of meat melting in on itself burning and carbonizing
kyrie eleison
mr pors is a sick man but skård is the sicker his insides are dry as parchment his flesh is tainted his eyes are as boiled egg-whites his blood as stringy as slime his guts but a mash of substance his head a goat’s head skård mr pors is simply mr pors but it is enough i will cut into skård but he wishes it not he backs around the table i after him with the knife he hits out at me get away from me with that knife girl it is a game we play for a person has only the fun they make themselves as they say i’ll do it when you sleep i tell him it’s for your own good you old fool
agnus dei
you stick your knife in me too i say he says that’s not a knife you silly girl if you stick me i shall stick you too and so we chase each other around the table get away from me girl he says and lashes out at me miserere nobis he lashes out again from below this time and strikes my arm and knocks the knife out of my hand it buries itself in the wall he pulls it out and puts it in his pocket quitollis peccata mundis i have enough in my pipe he says the best medicine there is i will have none of your cutting and slicing good old skård
man goat?
master kieding comes and prods at my abdomen he feels inside me can it really be necessary long fingers he has the master kieding expert fingers gentle hands indeed he says a child in the spring perhaps an easter child can you see it? i ask him and open my mouth no but i can feel it he says the child is thriving thrives well you must make sure to get some food inside you so to make it healthy and strong he gives me some herbs he has picked eat this and the child will be of sound health and go out and take in the fresh air i can go with you if you want he wants to marry me too have you ever heard the like but i will not be wed i hope he forgets all about it or else becomes sufficiently repulsed by me to dismiss the thought from his mind i will not be wed to such a finger-fucker it is a tree i tell him ah he says blessed are the fools beati pauperes spiritu for they shall inherit the land yes i shall plant a tree in a treeless land in a hundred years it will stand here yet and the men in the crew house have lost their minds their eyes shine red like chinese lanterns but when they die the light goes out at first it flickers then it is extinguished miserere nobis they chased one of the women and her child into the fjord dona nobis pacem she had stolen a loaf they stoned her and she ran down to the shore and drowned herself with the child they did not surface again the nokken did take them libera nos a malo johan bretel ended in the stocks for drunkenness and fornication and threats to the governor they pissed on him and kicked him and spat on him and now his eyes have no gleam in them his wife is left to spit blood and curses on the floor she too will die benedicamus domino the natives are strange i am afraid of them they are burning red one of them came to me in the other house deo gratias he lay with me he burned himself into me like a branding iron in snow fidelium animae misericordiam dei requiescant in pace he did not harm me it did not hurt or anything kyrie eleison it was he who put the seed-corn inside me christe eleison i have seen nothing of him since kyrie eleison though he would be welcome to come back and say hello i think christe eleison but the tree grows it grows and i become smaller and smaller and soon i will be gone completely and there will stand a tree to the memory of little titia kyrie eleison amen
///
Sise ‘Petticoat’ Hansdatter and her spouse, Johan Hartman, have moved into a dwelling hut in the style of the savages a quarter of a Danish mile north of the colony on land that slopes towards the shore. Sise is pregnant. Johan is concerned. He is afraid to touch her. She has crossed the sea with him. Now there is a sea inside her, with a ship and a little seaman on board standing quite alone on the deck and gazing towards a distant coast. No sea voyage is more perilous than this. The vessel may go down with mice and men at any moment. The brave little seaman may be washed overboard. Johan carries water and firewood to the house and scolds her if he sees her lift as much as a soup pot.
I’m not ill, she says with a laugh. I’m pregnant, that’s all.
I know what you are. All I want is to make sure it stays that way.
Once the bugger’s got a grip he won’t fall out, she says.
You never know. My mother lost three.
He is not sure whose child it is, though he knows it is not his. He has not been with her since they were married. And before that it was as her whoremonger, which is not enough to make any woman. At least as far as he knows. He thinks the father is most likely Pors. Pors it was who claimed the privilege of ‘the first night’. It doesn’t bother him. Quite the opposite. He considers it will give them some advantage to bring up the Governor’s child. As long as he’s willing to acknowledge it, of course. And anyway, a child is a child. Now, for example, they have been permitted to move into this dwelling. But he is saddened by Sise not allowing him near her in the bed. He has no desire to be with any other of the rotten wenches, though certainly he could. It is Sise he is married to.
He has obtained some of the coffin planks which he has used to clad the earthen inner walls, and he has lain his hands on a cracked window pane complete with frame which he has tightened with putty and put into the wall in place of the window of gut casing that was there before. The place is their home. It is dark, though well insulated by its thick peat walls. He has experimented with peat as a source of fuel, but it is impossible to make it dry in this weather. He has tried to prise some coal from Fleischer, though without luck. Fleischer would rather have the crew freeze to death than part with so much as a lump of coal. But now he has found that the shores are strewn with driftwood if only one travels far enough away. Great, heavy logs, and dry too, at least those which have lain long enough on the land. Their savage’s hut is small, no more than a hole in which to creep, but better by far than the unhealthy crew house where folk succumb by the day.
///
The Governor has announced that he will ride over the ice to the eastern side of the country and the people who are said to be living there. Time is of the essence, it is October. While there may not be snow for the moment, much has already fallen which has melted again, and according to Egede a lot more will undoubtedly come. But Pors will not be moved. Snow or not. We cannot let those Norsemen wait a moment longer. Egede is not happy at the prospect, yet agrees to go with him, together with his son Niels and his foster-son Frederik Christian. Moreover he invites Johan to join them. All are armed with muskets holstered in front of the saddle so that they may quickly be drawn if the Norsemen should resist being reformed. Egede’s own purpose is to visit some native settlements said to be frequented by the shaman Aappaluttoq.
That devil has been on the loose for too long, he says. It’s high time he were put in irons. If necessary, I shall shoot him down where he stands.
The morning dawns. They plod away over the island, each on his own mount, through the little pass and down the stony slope to the great harbour where the West-Vlieland lies anchored for the winter. Johan sees her from above. Quite still she lies, held on four sides by taut mooring ropes. The rigging rises up from the deck like a withered copse, the barrel of the crow’s nest high upon the mast. A shed stands huddled on the land, a dinghy drawn up on the shore. Not a person is to be seen. The world is darkened hues of grey: the sky grey as wet cotton, the sea grey as a knife’s blade, the rocks grey as shards of coal. But there, the little merchant flag flutters red and white atop a mast. Denmark. Egede, who leads the way, breaks into voice. Kingo. Morning Song.
On the other side of the valley is a steep ridge of rock, impassable to the horses. They veer left, following the valley bottom. Two horses have come along with them, without harness, and thus every horse of those left living is with them. The two are allowed to run as they please, the exercise will do them good, the Governor believes. One is the mare gifted to him by the King. Pompadour. He wishes it spared the exertions of carrying rider and pack. It deserves to be pampered. The two horses trot across the wetlands, clearly in high spirits, with fluttering manes and raised heads, together at the front as if leading a team. Pors is a good horseman, his seat is supple and erect, and yet relaxed, following the movements of his mount. Egede and his son are plainly unused to riding. They hump about in the saddle, by turns sitting and standing stiff-legged in the stirrups. Johan is more accustomed. He rode in the regiment and at home on the farm at Altona.
The loose horses have begun to wander. When they catch up with them they are standing grazing. Pors’s mare whinnies a greeting and tosses its head, the younger horses and their riders come charging along with the bog water splashing about their fetlocks. Pors digs his spurs in and gallops off. The others follow suit.
The land is either rock or wetland, an uneven ride. Everywhere, the matt, tin-grey sheen of ponds and lakes and soggy bogs. They ride in a line, Pors at the head now. The landscape is mute and vast, sinister. A raven follows them from above, angling great arcs in the sky, effortlessly airborne, with but the slightest quiver of its wings.
I am happy, Johan thinks to himself. He has wandered these plains several times before, but until now he has found them alien and inhospitable. Now, for the first time, he feels the land, for all its grey and sodden deadness, accepts him with some form of familiarity.
They come to a river and stride into its waters, the horses unhesitant. They cross and clamber onto the opposite shore with dripping coat tails. Further downstream the river narrows, yet is plainly deeper and with the pull of a strong current. They forge through an area of dense vegetation that reaches to the horses’ flanks.
Niels Egede rides at Johan’s side. They have allowed the other three riders to draw ahead.
Have you heard our governor is to be a father? says Niels.
Who with? Johan asks guardedly.
The mad housekeeper girl. She’s several months gone already.
I didn’t know.
He’s married as it is, I believe, Niels goes on. I wonder what his wife thinks of it.
Johan is indifferent to the Governor and his dallyings. He has enough on his mind with his own fertility, and Sise’s too, and with the consequences it will have for them both. A number of the women in the crew house are pregnant, and some have already given birth. But in each case they have been still-births, grey, reptilian creatures that poked their barely human heads into the world and then immediately changed their minds. His own mother died in labour and with much suffering when he was still a small child, though not small enough for him to have forgotten. Sise’s giving birth looms like a column of nameless horror in front of him, as yet blurred and ill-defined, though more distinct with every day that passes. A spring child. They must soon decide whether to remain in this land or return home with the ship in summer, an option already sanctioned by Pors. He will even be of assistance in finding them a place to live.
This country is another world, Johan says. The life here bears no relation to life at home.
God sees otherwise, says Niels. To Him there is no difference. It is the same world.
How is the jomfru at present? Johan asks. Is she as strange as before?
It seems to be up and down, though mostly down, says Niels. My father says it is quite normal for them to change with the phases of the moon.
Who?
The women.
Ah, them.
The mad ones, I mean.
I understand.
She is not so unattractive, the jomfru, Niels continues. And she is young. I am sure we can find a man who would want her.
Is the young lad there not her sweetheart?
Who? Frederik Christian? Well, he might not be bad.
Even if he does drink, says Johan.
Indeed. A madwoman and a drunkard, what could possibly go wrong. Though at the moment she is not mad.
But will the madness return after she has given birth?
My father believes her possessed. As you know, he sees the Devil wherever he looks. He believes her to have been poisoned by the false doctrine of the Antichrist.
What’s that?
The Pope in Rome. She grew up in a Catholic nunnery. But now that she is among Lutherans, my father believes she will correct herself in time.
How old are you? Johan asks.
Seventeen, says Niels.
Betrothed?
Me? Niels laughs. Betrothal’s not for me. I’ve known a couple of girls, of course. Native girls. But they are heathens. My father would kill me if he ever found out.
I won’t let on, says Johan. But tell me something. What is the story about that native boy and your father?
The story? He is adopted, I suppose you could say. My father uses him in his missionary work. There is nothing unnatural about it.
No, says Johan. But people talk about it.
People should mind their own business and refrain from poking their noses into matters that do not concern them, Niels replies, and spurs his horse into a gallop to catch up with his father.
They ascend a long slope and find in front of them a new valley with rounded sides, like a drainpipe in cross-section. A river runs through it. They can see how it widens into a delta on the plain. On top of the ridge where they stand are several small tarns. They dismount to allow the horses to drink and to drink themselves. The water is cold as ice and tastes of the bogland. He is quite sated by it.
A cold breeze causes the men to shiver. They pick their way down the other side. The descent is steep and perilous, with sharp rocks and slippery moss. They must dismount again and lead the horses by the bit, though still occasionally the beasts loose their footing, snorting nervously and continuing only with reluctance. The two loose horses refuse to follow and they are forced to leave them by the tarn and hope they can find their own way home. They reach the bottom without mishap and the five men mount once more and ride side by side across a stony plain in the direction of a bay where they have seen the outline of some peat dwellings. Presently they smell the stench of soapstone lamps which hangs thickly over the settlement. Egede rides flanked by his son and foster-son. They speak together. Egede is plainly instructing them. Pors quickens his horse and brings himself to the fore. His seat is as light as before.
At the settlement they are met by a handful of skin-clad men armed with bows. They are not especially friendly. Egede dismounts and with Niels and Frederik Christian at his sides approaches and begins to speak to them.
What are they talking about? Pors wants to know.
Johan can only partially follow what is said. Mr Egede is asking if they know of a shaman, whether he comes here.
What does he want with him? says Pors.
I think he wants to arrest him, Johan replies.
Arrests are my business, says Pors. And why on earth does he want to arrest a heathen?
He believes him to be putting people against the colony.
Against the Mission, more like, Pors mutters. Let them keep their faith, if that’s what they want. They’re happier in their natural state. I’ve never understood this urge to drag people to the church.
Egede’s conversation with the men seems mostly to consist of a number of questions and brief, dismissive replies. Egede becomes angry. He lunges at one of the men, managing to clutch the man’s ear and twisting it in his fist. The man emits a shriek. He falls to his knees in front of the priest and peers up at him pleadingly. Egede stands over him and speaks now quite kindly and paternalistically. He ignores completely the four armed men who stand scowling at his rear.
I don’t care to see this, Pors intervenes. What do you think you’re doing, Egede?
I’m doing my work, Egede snaps over his shoulder.
I hope you don’t force us to use the muskets. I want no bloodshed here.
Egede ignores him. Do not lie to me, he says to the man who kneels before him. I know he’s here.
A man comes towards them quite calmly, unarmed, naked from the waist up, an assured smile on his lips. He greets Egede.
Peace of God, priest.
So there you are, says Egede. I thought this would be where you were hiding. We’ve come to take you back to the colony.
The man’s smile is unruffled. He turns to Frederik Christian and says something to him in a low voice. It sounds almost like a reproach. The young man lowers his gaze and looks ashamed. He shakes his head several times. Johan cannot make out what is said between them.
As you see, I have brought him with me, says Egede.
You shouldn’t have done, says the man.
Do you not wish to see him, speak to him, be with him? If you come with us to the colony, you can do all of these things.
He must come alone to me, says the man. Then we will see what he chooses.
No, I cannot allow it. I don’t trust you.
Are you afraid, priest? Is your god not a strong god? Are you afraid that I am the stronger? That is a sorry god, priest.
It’s not too late, says Egede, his voice now surprisingly mild. It’s never too late. You are filled with hatred and bitterness. But hatred is your weakness. I wipe it from me as I wipe away the rain. God is love. It’s not too late to receive his love.
The man shakes his head. He seems to wince at the priest’s words. If God is love, then why has He taken my son from me?
In love He has taken him unto Himself, says Egede.
What are they talking about? Pors asks impatiently.
I don’t know, says Johan. I can only grasp the half of it.
Let the man in peace, Pors says to Egede. He’s not done you any harm. This isn’t the way I want to approach the natives, with such harshness. The King wishes us to show the people of his land kindness.
You mind your own business, Egede spits. You don’t know these people. Show them kindness and they’ll show you an arrow in your back. Treat them harshly, though, and they will come to heel. They are indeed a cowardly and wretched lot.
Cowardly and wretched, perhaps, Pors says, glancing at the four men with their bows. Though probably very good shots too.
The bare-chested man mutters some words, then leans quickly forward and blows into Egede’s face. Egede is enraged and loops a punch into the air in front of him, which his opponent evades skilfully, twisting his body to the side while standing firm with his feet planted on the ground. The four men are at once enlivened, they disperse and make themselves scarce.
Pors curses. The devil take that priest and all the world’s blackcoats. I ride out to find our Norse friends, and he goes and starts a war with some natives.
An odd silence descends. Niels smells the air. Apilerpoq, he says. Snow is on its way.
At the same moment, a wind comes down from the fell. The bare-chested one stands some few paces away from Egede and stares unflinchingly, not at Egede, but at Frederik Christian. Then he turns his head to face the wind and the flakes of snow that come swirling. Again, he mutters some words and the snow falls thicker and thicker. Within minutes they are in the midst of a snowstorm.
They seek shelter in the peat-hut, which is full of women and children and the old, perhaps thirty people in all, who receive their guests politely, make room for them on the benches and offer them boiled meat and fresh blubber. It is swelteringly hot and they must remove the greater part of their clothing. Pors and Egede hang their wigs under the roof, where they become sooted by the lamps. Native women massage their legs. Their smiling faces glisten with fat. Children crawl upon them. There is a ceaseless bustle of chatter and laughter, a chomping of jaws as they chew their food, a squealing and trumpeting of farts and a splashing of piss into night pots. Johan lies in the dark and stares at the mattly gleaming square of gut casing that is the window. He thinks of Sise back at the colony. He prays for her. He is certain she senses it.
They remain in the dwelling for three days. The armed men are nowhere to be seen, their shaman neither, though how he may have survived without clothing on his body would be a puzzle.
Dead he is most certainly not, says Egede gruffly. We shan’t be rid of him that easily. I ought to have shot him while I had the chance.
One of the woman complains to him of childlessness. She asks him for help.
What am I to do about your barrenness, woman? he says. Go to your husband, not to me.
The woman exposes herself to him. The light of the lamp flickers about her sex. Blow on it, she says.
Oh, blow off, you silly woman, Egede splutters.
But the woman begins to moan and to grind her hips. God blows on dead things and makes them living, she says.
Who told you that?
Aappaluttoq has spoken of it. He knows your stories. He has told us about Jesus as well.
Then he is worse than I thought, says Egede. The man is condemned to the torment of Hell.
Blow on it now, palasi, the woman insists. Look, here it is, blow on it now so that I may be given a child.
Cover yourself up, woman, Egede replies, his tone lighter now, if not a sign that he is about to laugh. I cannot blow and make you fertile. And even if I could, I would not. Ask rather that the Lord redeem you from this ungodliness, then perhaps I will hear you.
The storm howls outside, but the peat walls of the dwelling mean that they hear nothing. The horses, however, are out in it. They go in turn to see to them. But there is nothing they can do. The entrance is too small for them to be brought inside, and anyway there would hardly be room for five horses. They cover them with skins, but to no avail. When the storm is over, the five animals stand like pillars of salt, rigid with ice, stone dead. They trudge home with what they can carry from their packs. What took them half a day on horseback takes three days on foot. At long last they spy the ship, the West-Vlieland, its red and white merchant flag. Denmark. Some people of the colony come out to receive them. They were sure they had perished in the storm. The two horses they left behind, including the King’s mare, have returned to the stable.
///
. . . a malo the tree grows bigger and bigger with every day that passes i can feel the way my arms my neck my legs become treelike with bark ave maria gratia plena i thought i was going to birth the tree that it would twist its way out of me as a bloodsmeared child so that i might take it by the root and plant it in a place outside and watch it grow gladdened by my child as it dug its roots into this treeless land a triumph over the wilderness but the truth is the tree is me benedicta tu and i am the tree i shall never leave here for trees cannot go their own way or sail with ships what are you standing there gaping for? says mr pors he looks in my mouth is there anything in there hello! i see nothing why do you hold your arms out thus you’ve been standing there like a scarecrow this past hour say something girl he circles me and stares at me from all sides he slaps my face o maria sine laba concepta the nuns would sing when they whipped themselves no i can move again now i can speak but it comes back to me it always does i stiffen and become as a tree soon i am tree from top to toe come and cut me says pors
beati pauperes
i have caught a cold on my trip he says could you see anything in there? i ask we came to some savages he says a settlement we stayed there several days during a storm but the horses died my lovely horses now they are food for the savages did you see a man? i ask a red man? yes he was hardly red but i know what you mean he was there i saw him there were others there too proud heathens i rather liked them but the priest that idiot chased them away he looks at me with his big fearful eyes i must be cut he says it can wait no more nip it in the bud that i may escape the lung disease the consumption that i may escape death i don’t want to die in this land and i cut him and place the cups and watch the blood as it trickles
sanguis christis
a delight indeed he says more cups cup me about my whole body and so i place all the cups we have on him sancta maria he goes about the room clicking and clattering as the cups fill slowly with blood he looks a sorry sight afraid of death i don’t know i don’t think we’re all meant to die that we’re meant to stay up here
mater dei
he calls for skård i must be emptied skård and skård empties him and the cups they chink ora pro nobis oh oh he moans and skård shakes his thing his stick and spills his seed on the floor like onan you must not do so for it is a sin
libera me
skård wipes his hand on his trousers he sits down with his pipe mr pors retires to bed whimpering and moaning and coughing
libera me
release me i wish to be here no more i am hot he says i am burning i have the fever feel my brow his brow is cold you are ice-cold i say coldly you are cold as a corpse there is nothing the matter with you certainly you have no fever no i am sick i am dying he says i shall die without ever again to see my king my dearest denmark cut me titia what again? there’s no more cups then leeches he says fetch the leeches from kieding leeches are what is required and i go to the priest’s house and find the master kieding’s leeches and borrow them i put the brown molluscs on his chest they attach themselves and suck his sickly blood and swell with it ora pro nobis yes that’s better he says thank goodness for leeches i have placed a couple on my own forehead I have put them to suck the poison from my sickly mind and i have always been the same ever since the first time i bled and the nuns whipped me the first time blood-back blood-cunt cunt-blood back-blood i stick a leech up my cunt sancta maria mater dei she beat me the prioress herself with the birch with the whip and then she lashed herself and we wept together and prayed for satan to depart us libera nos a malo but it only got worse i frothed and foamed i arched my spine i pissed in my bed and the prioress birched and whipped first me then herself howling and crying she was but what good was it she should have used leeches i feel my thoughts begin to collect themselves and become clearer to me i feel the child move inside me most likely it is the leech which is sucking it out
agnus dei
a kick below my ribs it turns a somersault it is a child a real child not a tree! and soon it will be out why does no one tell me these things? mr pors is concerned now he calls for skård again and skård must do his job again libera me wipes his hand on his trousers that’s better says mr pors i think i may pull through only later he climbs out of bed and walks restlessly about the floor sighing and whimpering finding no peace he lies down again moans and groans i’m dying he wails fetch the master kieding and so i fetch the master kieding from the priest’s house the governor is ill i tell him what are these marks on your brow? he says air vents i tell him to let out the poisonous fumes and the third one is in my cunt he shakes his head dear jomfru titia what on earth am i to do with you and mr pors comes staggering towards us covered from head to foot with clattering blood-filled cups and writhing, squirming leeches cuts and wounds all over him he reaches his hands out to kieding and kieding emits a cry of dismay libera nos a malo what has the mad girl done to you? but mr pors recovers and becomes quite well again so do not come and say i did something wrong and now my thoughts become clearer and clearer to me as water from the purest spring as aquavit ora pro nobis i think it was the leeches that did it but the one inside my cunt i never found again or else it was the prayers which did their job libera me libera me libera me a malo libera me a malo libera me amen