To-day the council was assembled to examine a diatribe, uttered by a sergeant in the presence of many others, the nature of which arguably was encouraging of mutiny among the soldiers. Other such utterances had previously been heard, though without then giving rise to action, it being said apparently of the Governor and myself that we were to be the first to be done away with. The greatest malice seemed to issue from the slaves who have been brought here, whose words excited the others too, though from such common folk one can expect little else, and if the good Lord had not consigned the majority of them to their sick-beds, they would without a doubt have carried out their wicked design. Therefore, to our precaution and safety, we were compelled to equip our lodgings with muskets. It was indeed regrettable that we, who on our excursions far outside the district may safely lie down to sleep among wild savages and heathens, could not be sure of our lives when being among our own.
FROM HANS EGEDE’S JOURNAL, JANUARY 1729
Stop that, Pors says to Titia. I cannot abide to see it.
She is seated at the window eating flies, snatching them in flight with the swiftest swipe of her hand and consigning them to her mouth, smiling secretively as she swallows. She seems not to hear him, but follows one of the buzzing insects with her eyes. It bumps heavily, lazily against the pane. Her hand darts out and grabs it. Pors winces. He knows there are no flies. It is the middle of winter. But he sees them nonetheless. Her madness is apparently catching.
I don’t know if you’re mad or just pretending, he says. Are you mad?
No reply.
Is it because you wish to be sent home with the ship? Is that why you pretend to be mad?
Mad people do not exist. Or rather, there is always an element of play-acting in those who are mad. If only one could stop them from acting like madmen, they would be normal. He is certain of it. But the jomfru insists on her madness. He is up to here with her and feels he must soon marry her off. But who would wed such a lunatic? Egede’s native lad would seem the only candidate. He for his part would only benefit from stepping away from his mentor. How nauseating it is to see the way they can barely be parted, as if they were a pair of sweethearts. If Egede knew what is said about them, he would surely get rid of the boy like a shot. But now he will think no more about these matters. Now he will go out, he will ride and feel himself free.
He engages Skård to assist him with his boots and spurs. He removes his wig and hands it to the manservant, and Skård shakes it vigorously with abrupt and repeated snaps of his wrist. Clouds of lice-infested powder puff into the air and descend slowly towards the floor. He tosses the wig onto the bed and helps Pors be combed, his pigtail tightened. This done, he shuffles back to his chair at the window again and lights his pipe. At one window the lunatic Titia, at the other the geriatric Skård. Has he even uttered a word since we arrived in this land? Pors wonders. Why can’t people just be normal?
He steps outside, stands on the rock and gazes out over the colony. My realm, he thinks to himself. Imperium Daniae’s furthest province. Boglands of the stiffest sedge, dark rock, inky sea, fog, the salty air, a few scattered peat-huts of the natives, with smoke spiralling up into the dampness. He wonders if the Roman generals felt quite as lost as he at their outposts, for example Britannia? Hardly. They knew what had to be done. He imagines England as it must have been back then. A foggy Albion. They drove the fog away with the sword and established a Roman civilization there that has held to this day. And then they went home and were appointed to the Senate to live a sumptuous, toga-clad life steeping in hot baths. It is in reach for me yet, he tells himself. Privy counsellor, perhaps. I am not yet old. But senator sounds better. I was born fifteen hundred years too late.
From the shore comes a malodorous whiff of kelp, like rotten meat. Everywhere is still. Ominously still.
He descends to the stable and saddles Pompadour, the white mare given to him by the King, patting and scratching her, talking to her gently. Pompadour stamps the floor and whinnies. She seems almost to be laughing.
Yes, I know, he says, scratching the soft spot under her muzzle. You know what’s happening, don’t you girl?
The King seems to have a penchant for mares, he thinks, and smiles to himself, for His Majesty is fond of the womenfolk too. A man should never ride a stallion. It is against nature.
Emerging from the stable, leading the horse, he finds Landorph to be standing there.
What now? His foot is in the stirrup already, his hand on the saddle horn.
The crew are grumbling, Governor.
You don’t say. As long as a dog is growling it won’t bite.
They’re threatening mutiny, Your Excellency.
What are they dissatisfied about, the swine?
Landorph hesitates. He looks at Pors as if he were not right in the head. The living conditions, Governor. They’re dropping like flies.
Flies, Pors mutters, reminded unpleasantly of Titia. Which of them growls the loudest?
Peter Hageman, one of the convicts. He has threatened to shoot both the Governor and the Pastor. He has broken into the stores and stolen a musket. Took some spirits with him too.
And he is not in irons yet?
He has gone off somewhere. My men are out looking for him. Maybe he’s hiding out with some of the natives, in one of their dwellings. But the Governor should be alert riding about up there. He should take a firearm with him.
I shall.
Glitker! the Commandant barks at a man who happens to be passing. Bring the Governor a musket!
He straps it to the saddle.
Shoot him down if you see him, Landorph says. We could do with weeding out amongst those bandits.
Thank you, Lieutenant Landorph. Dismissed!
The latter utterance is a barb. As the colony’s highest ranking military man Landorph is of rank with the Governor, who is the principal civilian. He responds with a grimace of offence and a casual, unmilitary wave of his hand.
Goat, Pors mutters to himself.
He jabs his spurs into Pompadour’s flanks and proceeds through the colony, spattering mud and slush. As he comes to the priest’s residence, Egede abruptly steps out in front of him. The native lad is with him as usual, like the shadow he casts on the ground. The horse rears up in fright at the sudden sight of the black-coated man and his attendant, and Pors must cling to her so as not to be thrown from the saddle.
What the hell’s the matter with you, man! he shrieks. You frightened the life out of the horse.
I wish to speak with the Governor, Egede says, regardless.
I haven’t the time.
It will only take a moment.
Pompadour is agitated. She turns about on her own axis, whinnying and snorting, Pors working the reins to keep her in check.
Then say what it is.
It’s about the jomfru.
Yes?
It has come to my ear, says Egede in the stiff and methodical way he has of proceeding through his sentences when speaking with Danish officers, that she has expressed a desire to be baptized.
As far as I know she’s already baptized.
Indeed, but as a Catholic. And, as the Governor well knows, Catholicism is false doctrine and worship of the Antichrist in Rome. His temper increasing, his language departs more and more into the Norwegian. The Devil wipes his arse with papist certificates of baptism.
Pors glances from Egede to Frederik Christian, then back at Egede again.
All right. So you will baptize her then, Egede?
Most certainly not.
Pors looks down on the priest with incredulity. Egede looks up at him in anger. The boy is silent and expressionless at his rear. And I thought you were friends with Titia, Pors thinks to himself. Sweethearts even. You should defend her against this lunatic priest. But then I suppose he has the power over you.
Such is the matter, Egede continues. Let her come to me and I will tie a millstone about her neck and throw her in the fjord before I will declare her baptized in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Egede cackles at his declaration, though without sign of amusement. The girl is possessed, he goes on. Positively reeks of papal gut gas. It is a disgrace. We cannot have such a person to go about the colony. She unsettles the parishioners.
Parishioners?
The crew, the public. They believe her to be a witch and want her to the pyre.
She may be rather peculiar, the Governor admits. But possessed by the Devil? A witch? What was Egede thinking of doing with her, apart from drowning her in the fjord?
We must perform an exorcism, Egede replies. The sooner the better.
An exorcism, of papism or diablery? Pors enquires, amused by the priest’s profanity and wondering if he can propel him into some more.
It’s all shite from the same arse, Egede obliges.
Well, the Governor says ponderingly, I don’t suppose it can do any harm. Perhaps it will help. Tonight at six, he says. The mission-house parlour.
The priest and his young assistant remain standing and watch him as he rides up the hill. Pors senses their stares in his neck even when they have vanished from his sight.
Now, my love, he says to the horse. Now perhaps we may go for a ride, you and me.
Outside the smithy a man sits staring dully into space. Pors brings Pompadour to a halt.
Who are you?
Hans Wiencke, says the man, looking up at him with wide black eyes, and in each of his vacant pupils Pors sees the image of himself and his mare.
Why are you sitting about doing nothing?
Ik bin kraank.
Has the surgeon seen to you?
He shakes his head.
Then go to the Master Kieding and get something to make you well.
Daanke, Herr Gouverneur, the man says. His head lolls onto his chest as if he has fallen asleep.
From the crest of the hill he notices a piled-up structure of discarded building materials, driftwood, a broken wheelbarrow and other such things. He sees some men come dragging what remains of a rowing boat.
What are you doing with that boat here? he barks. Who has given permission for it?
They let go of their burden and draw themselves upright, wretched, meagre and hollow-faced, a darkness hanging about their brows in a manner that reminds him of the sleepwalker.
The boat’s rotten, Governor, one of them says without looking at him.
I can see that. But I’m asking who gave you permission to drag it up here? And what on earth are you building here, a Babel’s tower?
A bonfire.
For what purpose?
For burning.
Who gave you permission to burn the colony’s building materials?
It’s only some rotten planks and the like.
Was it Landorph?
They shrug.
I will not see any bonfire here. Carry it back immediately to where you found it.
All right, Governor.
Now!
They grip the boat and begin dragging it back to the colony again.
As of tonight, I am relaxing the alcohol ration, he shouts after them, though they stagger on without looking back.
Now, surely, there will be no further impediment to his ride? He feels a near-painful urge to jab the spurs that the horse may extend itself and he feel the wind in his face. But now, predictably, a man comes running from the crew house.
Governor, Governor!
He recognizes him. It is one of the sergeants, a Norwegian by the name of Kinck. His face is a grin.
Come, and the Governor will see something hilarious.
I haven’t the time. Can’t you see I’m out riding?
But it’s a sight for sore eyes, Governor, I can tell you. Kinck doubles up and can barely stand for mirth. Pors’s curiosity is awakened.
What is it?
It’s terrible, the sergeant says with a splutter. I promise, the Governor has never seen the like.
Then show me.
Kinck leads him to the crew house. An increasing commotion reaches his ears from inside. A fight. Are they at each other’s throats in there? he asks.
I’ll say, Kinck replies.
He dismounts from Pompadour and steps to the door. Momentarily blinded by the sudden dimness of the light, he at first sees nothing but animated shadows. He narrows his eyes, blinks. The noise is infernal. He hears laughter and whooping cries, shrieks and curses, the crack of splintering wood, bodies thrashing about in the sewage that lies several inches thick on the floor. The stench is abominable, he can barely breathe, so intense and material, so despicably human a smell as to be almost delicate. He steps further inside and sees now that the figures he saw were women, all naked and covered in filth. They look like they’re playing a game of tag, swinging each other about, pulling each other by the hair, falling onto their backs with their legs splayed in the air, the slop and swill of human discharge spraying to all sides. Beds have been tossed about, most of them appear to be broken. Armed with lengths of wood, the women lay into each other, ducking and turning, hitting out, losing their footing, slithering about the floor, scrabbling blindly, leaping to their feet, shaking the filth from their frames and launching into new, screaming attacks.
Good heavens, he blurts. Are they murdering each other?
It’s a game of longball, says Kinck.
Longball?
Lavatory longball. They use the planks of their beds as bats.
And what do they use for a ball?
Erm, says Kinck.
Something foul slaps against the wall above his head. He ducks and steps back towards the door. Ah, I see, he says.
Some people have all the fun, Kinck sniggers.
He goes back outside and fetches the musket, returning to fire a shot into the ceiling. The deafening report prompts the women to halt in mid-movement. They gape and blink at him with wide eyes in their filthy faces. Their bare breasts are dripping with swill. Their faces are beaming, insane smiles.
Order! he roars. Get this filth washed away at once. And put some clothes on!
One of the women steps towards him, unrecognizable behind her dirty mask. Immediately, others follow suit. He takes aim at them with the musket, but already fired it is of no use. The women come closer, still armed with their lengths of wood, their broken planks, the sewage sloshing about their bare feet. He senses the stench undulating towards him and steps backwards, retreating out through the door, Kinck likewise, slamming it shut and bolting it behind him. The women inside protest screechingly and pound their fists on the door.
Turning, he sees a small crowd has gathered at the residence. He groans and rides over, dismounting once more, still with the musket in his hand. No one notices him. They are gathered around one of the men, he recalls the name to be Johan Bretel, another of the former inmates, now standing shouting on the steps of the house. Like the others, he too is emaciated, his face grey as ash, lips tinged with blue, eyes radiant with the fever, he punches the air feebly to lend force to his words.
We want food! he shouts.
Yes! the crowd shouts back.
We want fuel!
Yes!
We want better living conditions!
Yes!
Down with the masters! the crowd shouts.
Down with the priest!
Down with the Governor!
No! Bretel shouts, holding up his hands to stop them. We want no mutiny, no rebellion. Governor? He turns to Pors, whom he has now seen. We are good working people and good soldiers too who are loyal in service to the King. We wish to carry out the work we have been asked to do in this cold land. But we are hungry, Governor. We are dying from cold and sickness. Our women have lost their minds. We live worse than the rats that scuttle in the hovels of Copenhagen. Even the savages have it better than us. Is this reasonable, Governor? What use are we to you if we all kick the bucket?
Pors hands the horse’s reins to Kinck and climbs the step slowly, turning to survey the score of men who have gathered there. He sees how shabby and wretched they look, and cannot decide whether to laugh at such a woeful assembly or to sigh in empathy.
He clears his throat. Good Danish men! I will give you what you ask me for.
Liar! one of them shouts.
Paper admiral!
Your mother’s a whore and your father a lecher!
When? someone else shouts. When will you give it to us, Pors?
Today, he improvises, feeling himself perspire. Immediately. Go to Fleischer and tell him I have given you permission to fetch the coal and food you need.
We’ll get nothing from Fleischer, says Bretel. Not an ounce. He’d sooner see the lot of us dead than give up a pound of flour.
I will increase the spirit ration, he says. I will double it. And tonight we shall put on a celebration with fireworks.
We don’t want your fireworks and salutes. We want better living conditions.
We want the witch! a voice shouts out.
Give us the witch!
On the fire with her!
He manages to duck the first stone. The second strikes him in the chest. It is a small stone, he can barely feel it. What impacts on him is the realization that they are turning on him.
I’ll have you all hung! he bellows, but his words are drowned out.
The witch! The witch! The witch!
Suddenly the air is thick with missiles, with stones and peat. A number of the men are armed with spades and hoes. They congregate upon the step, and now they are joined by others who come running. As if in a dream, he sees that the newcomers are women, naked women with eyes glaring wildly in their filth-caked faces. He sees them come spilling from the broken windows of the crew house, slitheringly birthed through the small opening to land howling in the shards of glass which lie strewn upon the ground, scrabbling to their feet and now running towards the residence with sewage and blood spattering from their flailing hair, their flapping breasts as flat as flatfish, squalling their oaths at him. At once, a gusting wind sweeps through the colony, and moments later it is followed by rain, small, stabbing droplets which nonetheless can do nothing to dampen the tempers of the angry crowd, rather the opposite in fact. He no longer hears what they are shouting, and sees only the pale and smeared faces as they come closer, brandishing their spades and hoes, and he backs away, step by step, until he finds himself with his back pressed against the door.
A cry goes up: There she is! The witch!
He glances to the window and is horrified to see Titia’s face, elevated above him, in a halo of raindrops.
Get away from the window, Titia, he shouts, waving her away with his hand. Get back, you silly girl!
She seems not to hear him, but stands motionless, expressionless, as if she were an image let into the pane.
Stones and sods of earth hurtle through the air, and now someone swings a burning torch. It is one of the women. She looks like a heathen deity, naked and covered in slime, the torch raised above her head. I’m burning the whole bloody colony down, she shrieks. I’m going to tramp through the ashes in my bare feet!
Johan Bretel, the agitator and speech-maker, steps towards her, he speaks to her, seemingly come to his senses, endeavouring now to calm the incensed throng, and in particular the mad, torch-brandishing woman. But she will not be placated, the sparks spit from her waving torch and Bertel must duck so as not to be set alight. Pors remembers the musket to which he has clung this entire time. He raises it now and aims it at the madwoman.
Get back! he shouts. Get back, or I will shoot you down, woman!
His words merely incite her further and she is before him in two strides, cloaked in her nauseating haze of burning pitch and human effluvium. Her mouth opens to reveal her swollen gums, and to expel a most diabolical cackle.
Shoot me! she bawls. Shoot me now. Don’t think I’m afraid of your bullets!
At the very moment her words are uttered, her throat is torn open, blood, gristle and filaments of flesh fan to her chest, her mouth gaping as if to splutter some final round of invective while still able, yet not a sound is emitted, and she sinks to the ground. Deftly, Pors swipes the torch from her hand. Shots ring out, and barked commands. The crowd is dispersed, its members scattering in all directions, pursued by soldiers with bayonets lowered. Within seconds the area is emptied, only the Commandant Landorph remains, ascending the steps now to Pors. He removes the torch from his hand.
Is the Governor unharmed?
You took your time.
Better late than never.
Where is my horse? Kinck, where are you? I want my horse!
///
At last. He is away from the colony. He rides over the moor at a gallop. It is raining, but he doesn’t care. He feels the enormous power of the horse between his legs, the heavy hooves thudding over the rock and the boglands, in their slipstream a cloud of atomized water. He stands in the stirrups with knees gently bent as they cut through the weather that seems so increasingly cold, its rain now lashing, and yet he relishes the feeling of washing everything away: Titia, Landorph, the crew house and its filthy women, the uprising. Crags loom out of the mist and vanish again. He lets the horse choose its way and gives himself up to their wild and rolling flight through no man’s land.
He has been riding a couple of hours when he pulls Pompadour up and dismounts. He gasps for breath. The horse trembles, steamed up and excited. Its teeth snatch at the grass, keen, scrunching tugs. Pors surveys the landscape. They are flanked by dark, wet faces of rock. He has no idea where they are, whether he has ridden in a circle or a straight line. It matters not. Nature is good and quiet.
He hears the sound of trickling water and leads the horse towards it. A stony shore. No tide line. He dips a finger in and tastes. Fresh water. He kneels and slurps up some mouthfuls. He feels the horse tug on the rein, and when he draws himself upright a man is standing there with a musket aimed at him.
Governor. What a surprise.
Who are you?
Don’t you know your own people?
Ah, yes. Peter Hageman. I recognize you now. So this is where you’re hiding. Are you intending to shoot me?
I don’t know, says Hageman. Now that I’m able, it doesn’t seem to matter any more.
My life has already been threatened more than once today, Pors replies wearily. I’m beginning to tire of it.
Hageman slings the firearm onto his shoulder. Has the Governor anything edible on him?
I’ve a bottle of aquavit and some bread.
I don’t suppose he would mind sharing some of it with me?
Why should I share with you?
I’m starving to death. I’ve not eaten in several days.
All right, he says. The world has already come apart. Come and sit down here. But give me that musket first.
Hageman hands him the gun. Pors fastens it to the saddle and takes out the bag of bread and the bottle of spirits. They seat themselves on a flat rock. Pors breaks the bread and hands one half to Hageman, who attacks it greedily. They drink some swigs from the hip flask. Hageman soaks his bread with aquavit and stuffs himself. For a while they sit in the driving rain and gaze out across the water.
Where does the Governor come from? Hageman asks.
The area of Thisted, says Pors. The name of the village is Sennels.
A farmer?
My father owned a farm but fell into debt and was forced to sell. I have another farm up there now, with a tenant.
A gambler, was he? Your father? Hageman says with a smile.
I have no idea what was the matter with him. Something must have been wrong for him to lose the place. I myself entered the military at an early age, though I never did well. I could never agree with anyone. And then I was called to the governor’s position here.
So it goes, says Hageman with a laugh. Have you any kids, Governor?
I am the last of my family. And you?
I fathered a whoreson that died. Apart from that the same as you, Governor. Last of the family.
Sad, says Pors.
The hip flask passes between them. Pors listens to the fine patter of rain on the water.
Snow in July and rain in January, he says. Everything is back-to-front.
What would the Governor have done with his life if he’d been able to choose? Hageman asks.
I should like to have bred horses, he replies pensively. Horses are the most beautiful thing I know. He knocks back a swig and hands Hageman the flask. And what about you? What would you have been had you lived in a world of choice, a world in which everything was back-to-front?
Then I’d have had myself a postal station. With food and drink to serve to travellers. Out in the country somewhere. A nice little house with an upstairs and downstairs, a good stone house, no timber frame. I’d brew my own beer and my wife would be cook. There’d be a little field on the south side of the place where we could grow vegetables and keep some animals, and my wife would be beautiful and curvy, and her name would be Jensigne.
Such detail, says Pors.
When I get home I’m going to go to Hamburg and start again, says Hageman.
Let’s drink to it, says Pors. Skål, for a future of fine dreams come true.
They empty the bottle. Afterwards they return to the colony together, Pors on horseback, Hageman loping at his side. They are soaked to the skin by the time they get back.
///
Down at the blubber house he catches sight of Landorph and some soldiers who are keeping guard. He dismounts.
Have tempers settled?
It’s all forgotten now, says Landorph with a sly grin. He points to the door of the blubber house. Pors steps forward. He hears voices from inside, perhaps even song? He pushes the door ajar. Landorph stands behind him.
A sight for sore eyes, don’t you think? says the Commandant.
The great copper has been filled with water and the air is boiling hot. The women are washing themselves, half-obscured by steam. Pors looks as they scrub each other, seated naked on the bench, doused with bucketfuls of steaming water, rubbing under their arms, their breasts and crotches, combing each other’s hair with their fingers, squashing the lice between their nails. Several are indeed singing. They turn their heads towards him in the doorway and smile at him dreamily.
What have you done with the men? he asks.
I’ve got them mucking out in the crew house, the Commandant replies. That should be punishment enough. And I’ve ordered them to fetch the wood they’ve collected for their witch’s pyre and use it in the stove instead. The place might even be habitable by the time they’ve finished.
///
At six o’clock he appears in the mission parlour with Titia as agreed. Egede is there already, alone, in black cassock and ruff. He glares at the jomfru harshly, lips tight about his mouth, and begins immediately to interrogate her with Bible and catechism. She answers him sensibly. Pors has instructed her not to take refuge in any Catholic mumblings, and indeed she is able to suppress all Latinisms and papisms. Egede fixes her in his rigorous gaze, though otherwise would seem to be appeased. Then his hand dips into his coat and like an illusionist he produces a large crucifix and hands it to her. She takes it without hesitation.
Do you renounce the Devil and all his deeds, my child? Egede asks.
I renounce the Devil and all his deeds.
Do you believe in God the Father almighty?
I believe in God the Father almighty.
They proceed through the Creed, questions and replies. Egede wanders about the small parlour. Now and then he glances gaugingly at Titia from the corner of his eye. She sits staring straight ahead, her gaze like glass. Pors senses it is a matter of minutes before she breaks down and begins to rattle some madness from her, and then they will be back to square one.
Where were you baptized? Egede asks.
In the Skt. Laurentii kirke in Herlev, says Pors.
What was the priest’s name?
Tived, says Titia. His name was Tived.
But you were not confirmed until the age of seventeen?
No.
Why not?
I don’t know. I don’t suppose it was up to me.
With rising anxiety, Pors sees that she has stiffened and holds her head immovably while tightening her jaw. Signs, as a rule, that an attack is on its way.
Perhaps poor Titia has been through enough today, he says. Can we not continue on another occasion?
If the Devil appeared to you, Egede says, unperturbed by the interruption, what would you then do?
I would tell him to be gone in the name of Jesus, Titia replies.
Would you indeed? Egede retorts mistrustfully.
A tremble appears in the corner of her mouth. Pors halts Egede in his wanderings about the floor.
Titia and I thank him for his patience, but I’m afraid we must now retire.
Why the hurry all of a sudden? Egede wants to know, and stares at him.
There has been trouble in the crew house, an uprising amongst the folk, a witch-hunt if you like, and my own person has been physically assaulted. I have ridden about the wilderness half the day, I am soaked, exhausted and hungry. Let us now agree, my good friend, to break off these investigations and perhaps resume in the course of the next few days.
Very well, but there shall be no baptism, Egede replies. I cannot allow it. It is a matter of conscience. Conceivably it might be granted at some later time, much later, though only after a course of the most thorough instruction. That, or else it must be attested with the proper documents that she is indeed baptized already. These must be written off for to her family, a matter which of course may take a while indeed, years in fact, and in the meantime, well, who knows what can happen?
Pors has gripped the young Titia by the arm, he lifts her now into the upright and leads her to the door. The priest watches them as they go, but says no more.
He drapes the jomfru over his shoulder and scurries around the side of the house with her, flings open the door and flops her down onto the bed. It is just in time. Her eyes roll like billiard balls and a thick froth wells from her mouth. Skård comes shuffling. He mutters some words and bends over the girl, holding her arms tight until the seizure is past. Pors takes off his still wet clothes and drops them in a pile on the floor. Where’s Sise? he says. Who is to attend to my clothes? But Sise Petticoat is there no more. She has moved back to her peat-hut where she lives with her man. Now he must make do with Skård and Titia, the one more useless than the other.
At last she is pacified and Skård may attend to him. He drags the great washtub out onto the floor and fetches water from the blubber house, twenty paces from the residence. When eventually the tub is filled, Pors immerses himself, sinking into the water, sensing himself become embraced by a great warmth, and immediately he falls asleep.