Free The Prophets of Eternal Fjord by Kim Leine Martin Aitken

in their seats, eyes veiled with fatigue and the blasé aspect of the city dweller. But Morten is attentive. He notes everything: the pretty mistresses in the other carriage with their mother Madame Schultz, and the young men who ride by, the suitors, pert backsides bobbing in the saddle as they issue their courteous greet­ings. At the gate, acrobats and other entertainers perform; punch and ale is served; wives go about and sell pastries and confectionery. Schultz splashes out on punch to all his men, including Morten. He drinks some of the sugary liquid. It fizzes like fresh ale and goes straight to his head. Shortly after he finds himself bawling along to one of the printer’s raucous ballads. The printer smiles at him encouragingly. He pats him on the knee. Morten turns his head and looks at Miss Schultz. He is about to propose a toast to her, but thinks better of it. Instead, he calls upon the print workers to drink in honour of Madame Schultz and her sister, who also wishes to take the country air. He stands up in the coach, swinging his mug. Smiles and good cheer, sunshine and laughter. He plops back onto his seat and promptly falls asleep.
    When he awakes they are out of town. The carriages make slow progress. They are in the middle of a procession stretching as far as the eye can see. He realizes the printer is talking to him.
    Has the Magister visited the spring before?
    No, I did not know of its existence until the printer was so kind as to invite me. We have our own little spring back home. They say its waters have healing properties.
    You must drink a cup, says the printer. Spring water is without a doubt healthy for both mind and body. It cured me of the melancholy of youth.
    Morten nods. He notes, too, that the printer now addresses him as an equal. It is exactly what they say of the spring at home. I remember I drank from it as a child. However, I believe it is now silted up.
    But the Magister is a man of science, says the printer, and, moreover, a theologian of the modern age. Does this notion of healing springs not run counter to both?
    Not at all, he replies. Partaking of water from a spring can be nothing if not healthy for a person who has spent a long winter inside the ramparts.
    The printer laughs. He is satisfied. Morten realizes he is being assessed. He hopes he has said nothing inappropriate during his brief intoxication at the city gate. Schultz leans forward. What is more, he whispers, they say the spring of Kirsten Piils Kilde can make the secret wishes of young people come true.
    I shall bear it in mind, says Morten. Absently, he wonders if the printer’s words are a subtle hint. His head feels heavy. He jumps down from the coach to follow along on foot for a while. The mistresses Schultz and their mother smile down at him. He lifts his hat and bows. Presently he climbs aboard again.
    The printer complains about the dullness of their route. He would prefer to go by Strandvejen, which affords splendid views across the sound on one side and to the woods on the other. But Strandvejen is in poor condition, he is told, potholed and broken up. The driver suggests they go by way of Gentofte and Ordrup and pick up the coast road a little south of Klampenborg. He knows an occasional shortcut where the traffic will be less. The printer approves the plan, out of consideration for the ladies’ behinds, he says. Madame Schultz turns and scolds him. Tsk, I shall have to wash his dirty mouth! She laughs. The girls roll their eyes and fan themselves excitedly.
    Morten dozes, but wakes again as they reach the point at Hvidøre. The coach turns north along Strandvejen, which indeed is pitted with holes. The driver growls a command to the horses to slow them down. Morten looks out across the glittering Øresund. He looks at the ships, their sails flapping lazily in the slack wind, the dismantled fleet that lies packed together further south. On the other side of the water