there's no sweeter INNOCENCE than our gentle SIN.

UNTITLED




CHAPTER 1



The landscape is flatter than crispbread out here, he thought, though he could only glimpse it through a narrow opening in the blanket he had been holding over his head since at least three towns over. It had been raining since before Herning, a fine perspiration that clung to one’s skin at first, but suddenly the clouds had burst open above their heads and the coachman had blindly tossed Erik the woollen cover on his seat, muttering; for your head, pastor, because the postal wagons in these parts came without a hood. Besides the highly stacked sacks of mail themselves, these towers of letters and words, like the ruins of Babel almost, nothing served as protection against the wet gusts of wind as Erik sat in the back of the horse-driven carriage which was the only way to get from Herning and further into the dark depths of Jutland. Ironically, he was reminded of Rasmus who used to joke about the mainland over their cognacs – it’s basically unclaimed territory over there, dangerous jungle, heathens and all.

The last tree that grew taller than him and which the wagon had passed was an hour’s drive back. This was the farthest from a jungle Erik had ever seen, he felt quite convinced. Rather, this was barren land. In late November, the heath was a greyish shade of brown and completely shrivelled. The trees were more bush than pine, let alone the elegant beeches he was accustomed to from the parks and urban areas of Copenhagen. The trunks clung to the ground for dear life, almost bent over completely at the root.

The west wind showed no one any mercy, not this sad excuse for vegetation and not him, blanket folded over his head. Only more fabric to whip into his face, it seemed determined.

Where the material brushed over his nose and mouth, it smelled like dust and horse. Through the sliver in his makeshift tire, Erik looked around slowly, the parish of Hølling stretching out for miles, not a hill or a valley in sight. His father had warned him before he accepted his new position; you will find nothing but ignorance and heath out there, son. However, Erik had stubbornly insisted, ignorance could be remedied, and heath could be harvested.

If by no other decree than his own, this was where he was meant to be.

Albeit, of course, he had faith.

They arrived in Hølling half an hour later, the coachman helping Erik unload his luggage outside the rectory, a wide selection of heavy suitcases – filled with books, for the most part, as well as his limited wardrobe that very deliberately took up less space than his library. His priorities had been in favour of the logical. Even a small town like Hølling could support a tailor, whereas – according to his inquiries – a good bookshop wasn’t found closer by than Holstebro, a trading town through which they had passed at some point earlier. Meaning that currently, he could rely on getting properly dressed without issue, whereas his education was something he had to take into his own two hands.

His own two hands and four large travel bags, for now.

As a farewell greeting to the coachman, Erik handed him the woollen blanket, neatly folded and thoroughly drenched, inclining his head at him and that was how they parted ways, with a welcome efficiency. The trip here had taken enough time.

The rain, if nothing else, had receded. Nothing more than a fine drizzle clinging to his eyelashes once more. An elderly man emerged out of the rectory’s main building; it was a large farmhouse from the previous century, divided into three wings, the middle one expanded into a large staircase of more recent date leading up to the beautifully painted double doors. Although the greyness of the weather muted the colours, the deep shades of navy blue and brick red betrayed their own vibrancy. The man descended the stairs with a slight limp to his right leg, but otherwise appeared stately and proud. Unbothered by the weather, too.

Erik knew immediately who it was. “Pastor Frost,” he exclaimed and left his baggage behind to move over, extending his hand politely. “Erik Bertelsen, I believe you have been expecting me.”

The older man ignored his greeting, giving him a curt look-over before crossing the courtyard in the direction of the west wing. “You were supposed to have been here by two o’clock,” he observed in a heavy local dialect. Erik followed eagerly.

“Yes, I’m very sorry about that, my ferry was delayed…”

“Since you’re unmarried, you have been installed in these quarters,” Pastor Frost interrupted him, throwing open the door to one needlessly large sitting room with a view of what would no doubt be a pretty terrace in summer. As it were, Erik found himself standing amidst bare rose bushes, pine tree branches insulating their roots from the fast-falling temperatures of November. Inside, the room was fully equipped with furniture, even an antique-looking pianette along the end wall. Everything was newly cleaned, not a speck of dust anywhere, and the windows were still left at a crack to allow fresh air to flow through. Nodding absentmindedly, Erik glanced around, then back at the other man who had already turned away and was indicating the opposite wing with a tip of his hat.

“Irene Larsen lives in the east wing with her son as approved by the church council. They’ll move out when he turns fourteen and can earn a decent living on his own. She cleans and cooks in exchange for shelter.” The old pastor sounded not at all invested in the tragic story that must surely lie behind such an arrangement. Erik was unwittingly reminded of the Virgin Mary who, unlike Mrs. Larsen, hadn’t been offered shelter anywhere, but gave birth in a manger. The miracle of the Nativity. It would not have played out that way with any other woman, naturally.

“How old is her son,” he asked.

“Twelve. They’ll be out of here soon enough.” Pastor Frost nodded once, firmly, as if settling the matter by that singular gesture. During their initial correspondence, Erik had learned that the other pastor was a widower who had never remarried after the death of his first wife, although it was his civil prerogative, devoted instead to his calling and his parish, feared and admired equally. The latter a description the head of the church council, Mr. Pedersen, had provided in his acceptance letter where the whole town welcomed cand.theol. Erik E. Bertelsen to assist at their church.

Take heed of Immanuel Frost, he shall be as good a guide to you as he has been to us.

Looking on with some uncertainty as the elderly man slammed the door to the sitting room shut again with a loud bang, Erik suddenly found it difficult to imagine how he ought to begin his first letter home. Pastor Frost is a formidable man, if not in appearance, then in spirit, Father. Erik turned after his new mentor as the other man began walking back to the main house, his limp more pronounced now, the cold wind as merciless here as it had been in the carriage. Erik didn’t follow.

“I’ll tell the hand to come help you move your things inside,” Pastor Frost called over one shoulder, not breaking stride.

“Please, I can do so on my own,” Erik replied bravely, having to raise his voice or the gusts would eat every word.

“Suit yourself,” said Pastor Frost, letting the wind take what it wanted. Once he had ascended the stairs, he finally gave Erik one long look over the railing, then turned and went inside, not sparing him another word. Only a loud slam of the doors, as if cutting people off and keeping them out was customary to this place, these parts.

A formidable man, Father, Erik recited to himself, standing in the increasing onslaught of rain, a whole courtyard separating his luggage from his living quarters. A formidable new world.

He picked up the first of his suitcases, his theological library stocked away inside, and carried it half the distance before needing to put it down again for a spell, the dark falling all around along with the raindrops, growing fatter by the minute. Most likely after having played spectator to the first quarter of an hour of Erik struggling with the full array of his belongings, the hand came running to, whether he had been given the command or not. Together, they managed the rest of the bags before dinnertime, Erik thanking him with a sober gratitude that nevertheless still made the poor man quite awkward about receiving such praise.

“I’ll leave you to it, Reverend,” he said, bowing his head the whole way, yes, he all but reversed out of the door with his hat between his hands. From his bedroom window, Erik could glimpse him following a seemingly old and often-trodden diagonal towards the stables. Across the courtyard, the east wing looked abandoned as dusk fell between this building and that.

In his letter to Rasmus, Erik was going to write, not heathens, my friend, so very far from it.

Jutes, too, had faith. Time would tell what kind it was.


~*~


Whereas the sitting room through which he had entered was large enough to entertain ten to twelve guests, the master bedroom in the west wing was by contrast surprisingly small, evidently not meant to house permanent residents, but rather an arrangement for temporary visitors, people in need of lodging for a few days, a week at the most – or the narrow bedframe would surely get uncomfortable even for the most loving and devoted couple of spouses, however well-acquainted they might already be with each other’s private spheres. On his own, Erik would take up more than two-thirds of the mattress. His books, when laid out as he had done after the hand had left, sorted by subject, year and author, took up the whole space, easily, and some of the surrounding floor as well. Suddenly, he felt fortunate to not be the tallest man in any group. If he built a tower out of his chosen book selection, it would outgrow him very fast and perhaps that was the kind of foresight God had had with him.

Make the new pastor small enough to fit in the bed appertaining to his chosen place of work.

So many circuitous routes you are willing to take to avoid admitting you’re a little shrimp, he could hear Rasmus’ voice in his head, making the corner of his mouth curl upwards. It had never bothered Erik that he was rather short, that sometimes even ladyfolk would have to look down at him when they were making introductions at Copenhagen’s various socialite parties and balls. There was a humility associated with it that he adopted gladly. A tenderness.

Christ himself had been lowly in heart.

Erik reached for the nearest stack of books which was leaning wobblily against the top-right bedpost and picked up the two first volumes of Professor Vanggaard’s introduction to Ancient Greek grammar with one hand and the Greek-German dictionary that he had adhered to so religiously during his studies with the other. The dictionary weighed almost the same as Vanggaard’s work, despite being only one heavy, leatherbound tome opposite two almost equally thick, if not nearly as luxuriously wrapped ones. The knowledge held within couldn’t be compared, naturally. How lost he would have been without his grammatical tables and summaries, translating the New Testament into Danish as Luther had centuries earlier sat on his solitary loft and translated it into German. How conclusively stuck he would have been without the many columns of relevant words and phrases in not one but two foreign languages.

These books had been his first picks to accompany him here. What kind of pastor would he be, if he could not navigate the original texts in their original tongue? Certainly, he was a mouthpiece for God’s Living Word, but it had to be in his own interpretation or there would be no point, surely. Not to sound self-righteous, although he was not blind to his own human failings, but why should he have felt this calling if not to be heard, specifically.

With a look around the modest bedroom, the narrow bed and the whitewashed walls, the rough stone shining through in places, feeling the chill around his feet, although he had closed all the windows in the sitting room before retreating, Erik wondered if not Hølling, like Christ, had been placed in his path to serve as teacher and example both. Moving over to place the three volumes next to each other on the empty and terribly slim topmost bookshelf opposite the bed, he thought that while university had taught him Greek, working life would hopefully teach him more of the humbleness that would befit his slight stature.

And his position, too.

One brief moment’s consideration of the bookcase that could by no measurement contain all his books, the least important ones would have to pile on the floor with the mice, and he started putting up his Bibles, the most recent Danish translation last, then grammars in Hebrew and Latin, more dictionaries, a collection of biblical maps, commentaries – individual and comparative and, pulled from the third and fourth suitcases, his vast personal collection of poetry, because he had been forced to leave a third of his amassed riches behind in his parents’ apartment in Copenhagen. Most of the latter had to be lined up by the wall, however much is pained his heart. Thøger Larsen didn’t belong at his feet.

In the end, however, the bed was freed of its heavy burden and his clothes could be put away in the closet, only his Geneva gown left out to hang on a rack. It had taken a good half hour, but his hair was also finally dry again, his bangs fringing his eyes, so he had to push it back, repeatedly, while he stored away his travel bags in the corner of the shadowy room. His jacket was reduced to residual dampness as well at this point. Tomorrow, he would have to ask the hand to find a more fitting place for these things. The bedroom was too small for a man, truthfully, not to say four large suitcases of no use – and half of Alexandria’s great library.

He sat down on the bed, letting his eyes sweep across his new home. There was no writing desk in here, but he had noticed a beautiful oak one in the sitting room, fully equipped with an oil lamp, because one couldn’t rightly expect electricity in these parts, where even the postal wagons had to be instructed to go. Well, now he knew where he would be conduction his correspondences home, he supposed.

A great sadness overcame him.

Had it been a difficult undertaking, accepting a position in Jutland, so far removed from his family and friends, the life he had built around himself throughout his university years? Naturally there were aspects of that carefree existence he would miss dearly, but the clerical calling had been stronger – as it had proven several times since childhood, speaking at a volume to which his father had never fully been perceptive. It had invited Erik into his new-found, spiritual family when his own foundation of blood was cracking, and it had steered his step away from medical school, an altogether ill-fitting environment for him, although his father had been first very disappointed, then very insistent.

Erik’s devotion had simply been superior in its insistence. He had enrolled in theology at age twenty-one after only a year and half’s study of medicine, a time he personally believed to showcase his reverence and respect for his family’s patriarch, because he certainly did hate every moment. As Pastor Schmidt, his mentor at Trinitatis Church, had commented, Christ too started out a carpenter, but decided to heal. You began with the healing of the physical body and end with the healing of the soul.

Outside, the chime of a large bell could be heard ringing out across the courtyard, and Erik got to his feet, walking over to the window to look out. The hand re-emerged from the stables, walking next to a tall but otherwise plain-looking woman perhaps in her mid-forties, though of course, you didn’t guess at a woman’s age. They were accompanied by a lanky boy trailing behind, hat on his head; he was busy kicking stones in front of himself. The whole flock was headed for the main house. Erik frowned.

How many souls could there be to heal in a town of this size? How great was the task that he had been assigned? How great could it possibly be? They were farmers and workers out here, they lived simple lives. Would Erik be bringing the toil and the trouble from the capital with him, or would Hølling instead wrap itself around him like a calming blanket and settle all the unrest that at times troubled him? You’re hoping to be healed, Rasmus had said in farewell, Erik providing no response but to embrace him tightly.

There was a knock on the door. Erik turned away from the window, facing the maid who peeked inside, trying to hide her curiosity as she curtsied and said in a shrill voice, “dinner is served, Pastor Bertelsen.”

“I shall be with you momentarily,” Erik replied. She took longer than strictly necessary to close the door behind her. What would they gossip about in the kitchens tonight, one had to wonder. Vanggaard’s Greek grammatical introductions? Thøger Larsen on the floor? The life he had just put away between these old, cold walls was ultimately so foreign to theirs and yet somehow, they were expected to merge. To find each other.

The impossible.

You’re hoping to be healed, Rasmus had said, and you will find, my friend, that these people cannot heal you. The only one who can do so is yourself.

With a hard laugh against the other man’s shoulder, Erik had noted, I am not Christ, Rasmus.

A kiss to his temple and Rasmus had smiled, sadly, the same sadness that hung around Erik now, as if that was the true parting gift he had received before boarding his train, not the words: no, you would be kinder to yourself, if you were.

Always so observant, Rasmus Svensson. That was why he was the one who had stayed behind to further his name in academics, while Erik was here, as a practitioner of Christianity more than a scholar. Like that, roads would divert. The landscape around these parts was so flat, Erik could easily imagine the lines drawn in the sandy soil, one way and the other, perhaps doomed never to cross again, always to run in parallel.

Christ, at least, had been followed by the men he loved.