Free The Prophets of Eternal Fjord by Kim Leine Martin Aitken Page A

the hostile coast, at once threatening and enticing, the same clouds drifting over its hills as swept across Denmark only a short while before. Morten thinks upon the matter drowsily, his head nodding slightly this way and that, until his thoughts become a muddle. The nature of the earth is conveyed to the mind, he thinks to himself, whereupon the mind reflects upon the earth, which in turn rises up once more into the mind, and so on, an endless sequence of matter and spirit. A chatter of voices and peals of laughter from the carriage in front, a snorting of horses, hooves clack­ing on cobble, the rattle of traces, gulls screaming out across the sound. Morten straightens up. He wipes drool from a corner of his mouth and looks about. They have arrived.
    Singing, they drive through the red gates of the Dyrehaven, the royal hunting grounds to which Copenhagen’s public in its yearning for nature has been admitted since the days of Frederik V. Here, too, they make slow progress due to the sheer number of carriages. Eventually, the driver stops and begins to unload. The party jumps out and finds a spot close to the spring, where they spread out their blankets upon the grass and hand out the contents of their picnic baskets. The printer and his wife seat themselves. Schultz sends his store man to find them some coffee, which in his opinion is as beneficial to the health as the waters of the spring, not least when it contains a splash of aquavit. His daughters gather round them, three daisies in the grass. They pester their father so that they might be allowed to explore. Please, Daddy, dearest Daddy, we shan’t go far. Only if they keep to the area around the spring, says the printer, and only if they are each accompanied by one of his men to look after them, armed with a cane. The fairground of Dyrehavsbakken is a den of pickpockets and tinkers, Jews and Gypsies and scoundrels of the dark, and the bailiff in Kongens Lyngby and his appointed officers meant to uphold the peace have already drunk themselves silly, I shouldn’t wonder, Schultz opines gruffly, in which state they will not be of use to anyone.
    Morten bows to Abelone. Miss Schultz, allow me to perform the duty of accompanying the mistress and ensuring her safety.
    Abelone exchanges glances with her mother and receives a nod. The Madame coos and instructs her to take care. Her sister, who is seated at her side, seconds her caution. Abelone rises and crooks her arm under his elbow.
    They stroll about and watch the entertainers, the jugglers, the sword swallowers with their flaming breath, the Turkish percussionists, the buxom female singers who play the harp and stringed instruments and display their sumptuous cleavage. Young Jews with shaved heads wander among the throng with trays folded out at their midriffs, from which they peddle Dutch cigars, percussion caps, blacking and fuses that may be ignited and thrown to fizzle and crackle under people’s feet, making them dance with fright. A tightrope walker clad in a leotard performs dizzying tricks high above the ground. More than once he would seem about to fall and the audience gasps, some scream. Miss Schultz grips his arm, puts her hand to her mouth, her eyes fixed upon the figure in the air. Morten is inattentive to the tightrope walker and watches instead a thief at work, emptying the onlookers’ pockets. When he comes nearer their eyes meet. The boy stiffens, observes Morten with a canny, measuring eye. Then his pretty lips part in a smile. He bows with an elegant sweep of his hand and vanishes. Morten watches him go. His mouth fills with the greasy taste of sperm.
    Abelone looks at him, her cheeks blushing. Magister Falck, she says, are you unable to stomach such excitement?
    Er, no, he squeaks, and runs a finger inside his collar.
    You’re not unwell, I hope? she says. You look so pale. Have you seen a ghost, Morten?
    I could do with some