Barbara (30 page)

The wind dropped suddenly. They were in the shelter of the wall of water; it hung over them so they could see the green daylight through it; the oars complained bitterly against the rowlocks. Then the boat rose and reared until it was almost upright.

They were surrounded by a prolonged rumble as if of thunder. Pastor Poul felt a rush of icy water against his thighs and was blinded by the foam. The furious profile of Koltur and the Konufjall, like some gigantic organ issuing steam and foaming clouds, was the last thing he saw. He felt a scintillating, icy pain and a delight as though of immeasurable quantities of splintered glass, and he thought: Is this the end? And he went on to think, relieved and free, that this was what it was like. And at that moment he saw the prow rise defiantly out of the water and saw all the men with the sea pouring from their beards.

They tore the lids off their food boxes, tipped the contents out and started to bail as though possessed. Samson bailed out with such energy that the water formed something like a thick jet out from the boat, and when a young man from Sandavág complained, “Jesus, we are finished. And all for this,” Samson even had time to shout: “Shut up, you chicken, and keep bailing.”

And they all bailed and rowed and bailed again like mad. Even the law speaker bailed, little though his body equipped him for it, and Pastor Poul also found a tin with which he could bail. The water washed around their legs; flatbread, legs of lamb, knives, sheaths and other equipment from the boathouses floated about, but the boat, which for a moment had rested as though dead, came back to life; the prow rose and again attacked the waves, and the law speaker now told them for God’s sake to row and they would soon be out of danger. It was not long before they escaped the current, just as a fresh chalk-white wave burst into flower and spread right over the black waters.

“Oh, you were scared this time,” laughed Samson putting his hand gleefully on the shoulders of the young man he had been scolding. But a farmer by the name of Justinus, who was one of those in the boat, spoke in a quiet and very subdued voice when he said to the law speaker: “I thought we were going to be wrecked this time.”

“So did I,” replied Samuel Mikkelsen. “Lambatangi is a terrible place.”

“God won’t take us until He is ready for us,” commented another.

But Pastor Poul noticed that the same melody continued to circulate in his head. It had been there all the time. It was a minuet. He remembered it from the day when the Frenchmen had danced on Tinganes.

A shower came on and hid all the mountains and inlets. The boat struggled its way along the coast of Streymey. Like a fly on a tarred stick.

The breakers on the submerged rocks near Velbestad shone through the dusk as they finally reached the place. The waves were breaking right up into the grass, and there was no possibility of landing there. The law speaker tried to approach the coast in various places, but had to give up. They could see there were men on the shore shouting to them, but they could not hear them. They spent over half an hour at this place, and it gradually became quite dark.

“I can’t see any alternative now but to try to make it to Kirkjubø,” said the law speaker.

This expression “try to make it” had an ominous sound. It was something you only attempted when you were in serious trouble. To land twelve men on a spot where no one ought to have been did not appeal to the mariner Samuel Mikkelsen. And what about their mission! What would the people of Kirkjubø think of them splashing around here like monkeys on such a stormy day – the law speaker himself! – in order to row a desperate parson whose wife had left him? Would it not be better to wait for the west flow and a calm sea and then to raise the sail and hurry home with both current and wind behind them? No, there was nothing else for it. This poor man had to be put ashore somewhere on Streymey, otherwise he would surely go out of his mind.

It was two miles by water from Velbestad to Kirkjubø, still directly against the current. The law speaker’s men rowed, groaning on their oars, biting their teeth and pulling back in their seats with all the weight of their bodies. And the boat had to be bailed all the time. The veins stood out on Samson’s forehead. He made one more attempt: “So sailed… the heroes… of… Norway”

But his voice was hoarse and his eyes lifeless. They rowed on in silence. Only a minuet continued to play in the parson’s inconsolable mind. Then – far into the evening – the law speaker suddenly turned the boat into the shelter of Kirkjubø Holm. Through the darkness, they could just make out where they were – the great farm and the ruins of the cathedral. Soon, the boat was safely drawn up ashore, and Samuel Mikkelsen and his men, who were all wet, went quietly to the farm, almost as though they were a little embarrassed.

The Kirkjubø farmer received them with generous hospitality and immediately explained to Pastor Poul that in former times this had been the seat of the Bishop of the Faroe Islands. He pointed to the great cathedral, the empty windows of which stared out at them, black and eerie. But Pastor Poul had no sense for antiquities; he refused even to dry his clothes, and he scarcely had time to have a bite of food. The farmer did not believe he was serious in his intention of reaching Tórshavn that evening in this dreadful weather and with night approaching. But the law speaker quietly drew the farmer aside and told him that there was no point in talking to people when that madness was upon them.

That madness – the farmer understood that. Aye, what was that woman not capable of bringing about! Now, today she had almost been the cause of twelve men’s deaths; there was no getting away from that. The Kirkjubø farmer pulled at his white beard. He said nothing. Nor was that necessary: men like Samuel Mikkelsen and him could well exchange thoughts without saying anything.

However, there was no discussing this: if Pastor Poul insisted on reaching Havn that evening, he should be provided with a good guide. The farmer sent his best fell guide with him. They had to go across the fell known as Kirkjubøreyn, the Kirkjubø Ridge. For, there were no rivers in flood there, no bogs and no marshes.

They started on their way shortly after this, both carrying small horn lanterns, the dim ring of light from which glided across greensward and rock. Pastor Poul walked quickly, hurrying restlessly up the steep path. Only on reaching the most difficult passages on the steep mountain side did he let his guide go first. A minuet was playing constantly in his mind, though he was not aware of it; he was not thinking; he was only longing. Short of breath to the very extreme as a result of the steep climb and constantly being interrupted by hindrances, he moved on still with this melody playing in his head. It became the theme of his suffering; it led him on; and like a sleepwalker he clambered over the cyclopean rock faces up to the edge of the great, rock-strewn expanse.

“Now we must make sure that we don’t lose sight of the path,” said his companion, “Otherwise we shall be in trouble in this darkness.”

The path was an insignificant trodden track that twisted its way over gravel-strewn surfaces and between piles of boulders. The guide wanted to go forward carefully, taking note of each tall cairn they passed, but Pastor Poul was running ahead all the time, and they only found each other again thanks to the light from their horn lanterns. Then it happened that the minister’s lantern was blown out by the wind. This was in the middle of an open area strewn with huge boulders. Pastor Poul did not immediately notice his misfortune; he merely went on, grim and dull. Then he heard his guide shouting and saw him swinging his lantern. He had obviously clambered up on some boulder. Pastor Poul turned around and made for the place, but the light suddenly disappeared. The shouts continued, and Pastor Poul also shouted. But he ran as though he was lost. And in this way the two men wandered around in the pitch darkness of the evening, each with an extinguished lantern, hopelessly shouting for each other among great boulders and smashed rocky fastnesses. The sound of their voices blew away in the powerful gale. They did not find each other again. But Pastor Poul followed the course that his sleepy mind prescribed for him, and he walked and he fell and he got up again and tramped on through jumbles of stone and great rocky screes without being able to see a hand in front of his eyes.

Once, when he had reached a smoother region, he suddenly heard a strong, constant whistling sound. Slowly, this great, sorrowful sound penetrated his consciousness; he stopped, and the fear that he had so far not felt, gradually emerged in his heart. He ran for some way, but he could still hear this sound of seething sorrow to his left. When it became a little lighter, the moonlight turning the clouds white, he saw he was standing beside a mountain lake. Its waves were hurrying towards the desolate, stony shore and breaking against it. This was something living he had found here in the desert: a troubled lake, and its sole passion was isolation.

He hastened on; it grew lighter and lighter; a half moon was rushing through the clouds, and in sharp, hesitant patches of light, Pastor Poul could see where he was: in the midst of a congealed ocean of boulders with great waves, mighty breakers of rocks and foam of receding gravel. And the stones were laughing at him and the cliffs had such terrifying shapes that he was gripped by panic, and he ran as though for his life.

He ran for a long time. But finally it was downhill on softer ground, and when he stumbled he no longer hurt himself, but immediately felt the moisture seeping in through his clothing. He waded through sumps and at last found himself outside a lonely house in which candles were burning. When, breathlessly, he knocked on the door, he suddenly heard the minuet in his head again and it dawned on him that it had been going round and round in his mind all the time he had been running and groaning and complaining and – who knows – perhaps howling.

As soon as he was inside, he asked if he was on his way to Tórshavn, but the words stuck fast in his throat. For around him in this hearth room he saw nothing but appallingly ravaged or crazed faces, all gaping and staring foolishly at him.

“God help you,” finally said one man with a face as white as chalk. His voice was unreal in its melodiousness. “God help you,” he repeated. “This is the lepers’ hospital. The Argir hospital.”

“The lepers’ hospital,” exclaimed Pastor Poul and sank to his knees.

“Yes, sir, the lepers’ hospital,” came the words from a man squatting like an animal and eating from a trough of food. There was a foul smell in the room that caught his breath. It was like a nightmare.

The pale man with the melodious voice said he would go a little way with the minister. The river was not easy to get over this evening, so he would show him the best place to cross it.

“There’s a play on in Tórshavn this evening,” he said. He seemed to know everything and spoke at great length in his gentle voice. They met someone in the dark. “He’s one of the inmates,” he explained. “They are allowed to wander around out here, but they are not allowed to go indoors near other people.” And he explained that it was no fun for him to be counted among the inmates. But no one would have him at home although he was only slightly ill.

He went on talking, full of knowledge and melancholy until they came to the rushing Sandá river, the rushing waters of which were swirling there in the moonlight.

There, Pastor Poul thanked him for accompanying him and managed to cross the river in safety.

His heart started to beat violently, for he was now quite close to Tórshavn. He could already see the odd light, and yes, now he was to see Barbara again. He could think no further than to that event. She was presumably at the play… so he would not even be able to talk to her. Breathlessly, he went on his way. And the minuet!

He went past the first houses and remembered the afternoon only five months ago when he had run past here with Barbara. Everywhere was closed and deserted. Nýggjastova was dark, too; no one was at home. Pastor Poul tramped on through Gongin with his dead horn lantern.

But in the Assembly Hall there were festive lights and a crowd of people. The first thing he set eyes on as he entered was the judge, who with an earnest face was stroking his violin and playing some gentle music. He was sitting towards the back, and somewhere else at the back there were several others standing and laughing, including Gabriel, big and heavy, wearing a bright red dress coat. And Pastor Paul gradually realised that all this was something he somehow recognised, but he was on the point of dropping with fatigue and from that murderous beating of his heart. Of course, this was
Holberg’s Jeppe of the Hill
, and Gabriel must be Baron Nilus. For in a huge bed in the middle of the floor lay Andreas Heyde, carrying on something dreadful and saying in a drunken voice, “Surely I am dreaming? Yet I think not. I will try to pinch my arm; then, if it doesn’t hurt I am dreaming, and if it hurts, then I am not dreaming…”

At that moment, Pastor Poul caught sight of Barbara in the midst of the crowd. She went out of the hall, and he thought she was running away from him and went after her. But she stood waiting for him in the entrance hall.

“But my dear,” she exclaimed. “Are you mad? Are you completely mad?”

Her voice was on the point of tears, so tender was she. She felt his torn, wet clothing and stroked his cheek. “Are you completely mad?”

“Barbara, I’ve come… to you,” stammered Pastor Paul in a broken voice.

“Have you come to me?” She spoke as though to a child, and delight began to bubble up in her voice. “But how on earth have you got here in this weather? Dearest Poul. Walked from Kirkjubø? Are you mad?”

She took a firm hold on his arm: “Come on. Come home, my dear.”

And she twisted her hand down into his and clutched it and patted it tenderly with her other hand and led him through Gongin, supporting him and being close to him with all her body, time and time again, glancing briefly and shyly at him, radiant with joy. But Pastor Poul still bore the extinguished lantern in his left hand.

She got him into Nýggjastova, lit candles, helped him out of his clothing and gave him something to eat, doing all this silently and willingly, eager to serve him, such as he had never seen her before. It was a source of great comfort to him. But while he ate slowly and as though sleep-walking, he had nevertheless to ask her: “Do you love – him?”