I write, then, to offer you a place alongside me, to rout out its particular evils. Many of the issues arise from a segment of the local population, endemic here in Finnmark – a transient community termed Lapps. They are somewhat akin to gypsies, but their magicks deal in wind and other weather. As mentioned, legislation against their sorcery is established, but weakly enforced.
You being an Orkney man, I do not need to tell you of the peculiarities of weather or season that come with a place like this. But I will warn you the situation is grave. Since the storm of 1617 (you remember it made even the Edinburgh papers: I myself was at sea and it was felt as far as Spitsbergen and Tromsø) womenfolk have been left to themselves. The barbarian Lapp population mixes freely with the whites. Their magicks are no small part of what we must move against. Their weather sorcery is even sought out by sailors. But I believe that with you, and a small number of other capable, God-fearing men, we can beat back the darkness even in the ever-dark of winter. Even here, at the edge of civilization, souls must be saved.
You would of course be remunerated for your efforts. I have it in mind to set you up in a sizeable dwelling in Vardø, close to the castle where I will have the seat of my power. Five years here, and I would write you a letter of recommendation fit for whatever endeavour you would wish to undertake.
Perhaps keep this offer close to you: I have no doubt Coltart would sniff it out, but he is not the sort of man I am in need of.
Think on it, Mr Cornet. I will await word of your response.
John Cunningham (Hans Køning)
Lensmann over Vardøhus County
By the time her nephew is born, Maren’s own body is becoming something she carries effortfully, with pity and something like disgust. It is hungry, disobedient. When she stands, it is as if there are bubbles between all her bones, and they pop in her ears.
Grief cannot feed you, though it fills you. They have been ignoring that, but when Kirsten Sørensdatter asks for permission to speak at kirke, a clear six months after the storm, Maren sees it finally in the loose skin about the woman’s jaw, and in the tributaries of Mamma’s veins standing proud from her arms. Perhaps the others do too, because they straighten from the slump of their sermon-listening, watch her carefully.
‘It will not change with more waiting,’ Kirsten begins, as though picking up a conversation. Her brow is pulled down over her small blue eyes. ‘Our neighbours have been kind but we all know kindness has its time. We must start carrying ourselves.’ She straightens: something clicks. ‘The ice is gone, we have the midnight sun, and there are four boats fit for sea. It is time to fish. We need twenty women, perhaps sixteen. I am one.’ She looks about her.
Maren expects some of the others, Sigfrid or Toril or perhaps even the minister, to say something, to raise an objection. But he is thinner too, and he had precious little weight to lose. It is sense, what Kirsten says, however briefly she chooses to say it. Maren’s hand goes up with ten others. As she lifts it, she has the same lurching sensation that comes with leaning into the wind, and feeling it lessen just as you find your balance. Mamma eyes her, and says nothing.
‘No others? This is crew enough for only two boats,’ says Kirsten. Eyes drop and the women shift in the pews.
•
They thought it was decided. But though the minister raises no objection in the kirke, Toril arrives at the next Wednesday meet with news that Pastor Kurtsson found his voice, and has written a letter.
‘How clever,’ says Kirsten, not looking up from her work: she is making a pair of sealskin gloves, for helping grip the oars, Maren guesses.
‘To the man who is soon to take over Vardøhus,’ says Toril, and even Kirsten stills and looks up.
‘The fortress? Here?’ says Sigfrid, her eyes shining at the gossip. ‘You’re sure?’
‘You know of another?’ snaps Toril, but Maren can understand the question. The fortress has stood empty for her entire lifetime.
Beside Maren, Diinna and Mamma have stopped working too. The three women are salvaging an old net, Diinna resting it upon her lap beneath baby Erik in his cloth sling. She brings her head down so close she looks like a mother bird feeding her young.
It is impossible to forget the last time the three of them worked on mending together, and the needle feels spiteful. Maren places her hand on the fine thread, so as not to lose her place. Dag’s mother, Fru Olufsdatter, has set out benches along the edges of her cook room and they sit around them as though they are ranged about the lip of a square boat. The firelight sets the floor unsteady.
‘We will have a Lensmann there, Hans Køning. He is under direct orders from King Christian, and will be making great changes, Pastor Kurtsson says, with new strictures on kirke-going.’ Toril looks directly at Diinna. ‘And he is looking to settle the Lapps and bring them to God.’
Diinna shifts beside Maren, but holds Toril’s gaze.
‘He will not manage it with men like Nils Kurtsson,’ says Kirsten. ‘That man couldn’t bring a beast to pasture.’
Diinna snorts, and goes back to her sewing.
‘Pastor Kurtsson has told me his next sermon will be to stay you,’ says Toril, narrowing her eyes at the top of Diinna’s head. ‘The Lensmann will not think fishing proper.’
‘He isn’t our Lensmann yet. And propriety doesn’t feed us,’ says Kirsten. ‘Only fish can do that. I’ll not be minding what a Scotsman thinks of it.’
‘He’s a Scotsman?’ Sigfrid’s eyebrows rise. ‘Why not a Norwegian, or a Dane?’
‘He was in the Danish fleet for many years,’ says Kirsten, eyes on her needlework. ‘Cleared the pirates at Spitsbergen. The King himself picked and placed him at Vardøhus.’
‘How do you know this?’ says Toril.
Kirsten doesn’t look up. ‘You aren’t the only one with ears, Toril. I speak with the sailors who come to our harbour.’
‘I see you do,’ says Toril. ‘It is most indecent.’
Kirsten ignores her. ‘And whatever Pastor Kurtsson decides to mumble at us this Sabbath’s Day, I shall not be able to hear him over the grumble of my stomach.’
Maren stifles a laugh. If it had been anyone but Kirsten who had put forward the idea of taking the boats, they should not have entertained it. But she has always been a certain woman, stubborn and strong, and on Sabbath’s Day Pastor Kurtsson’s mouthful of lukewarm warnings do nothing to stop them. He has had no reply from the Lensmann, and so Kirsten insists they go ahead.
•
Instead of the Wednesday meet, eight of them gather at the harbour’s edge. They have lost a few of their volunteers following news of the letter to the Lensmann, and will only take one boat after all.
The women are dressed in their dead men’s sealskins and caps, hands unwieldy in thick gloves, oars standing higher than their heads as they regard the jumble of mended nets, unintelligible as the tangle of hair Maren pulls daily from Mamma’s fish-spine comb.
‘Well then,’ Kirsten claps her broad hands together. ‘We need two between us. Maren? Help me.’
Though her hands are large, they are more skilled than Maren’s, whose fingers chafe and catch on the thin weave of the nets. It is a good day, the sky light but clouded, free of the biting cold they have spent so many months living with pressed against their bones.