We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [233]
And Anton made a discovery. He found that the same strange rush he used to get when, as leader of the Albert Gang, he left the battlefield with the usual bruises and cuts from arrows, clubs, and spears, he could get again now, from shoeing a horse. He felt as if a great sail had filled with wind and unfurled with a snap inside the uncharted darkness of his head. When he first got his glasses, he thought he'd never again feel the triumph of having power over others. But now, power over people had been replaced by power over objects. When he saw the results of his handiwork, he felt a new kind of triumph. He felt like the upholder of the world.
"Precision is the soul of mechanics, and he who masters mechanics masters much more besides," the blacksmith said. He was a well-read man and fond of expressing himself in philosophical terms.
Anton had found a new course to steer.
Finally it was Knud Erik and Vilhjelm's turn to stand in the church and be confirmed. As they opened their mouths to sing, they stared at the black-hulled model ships hanging from the ceiling. That was their future up there. They sang, as generations had done before them, the old hymn dedicated to the sailing profession, which Pastor Abildgaard had loyally taught them: a hymn about their own fragility, and that of a ship's timbers, and the strength of God:
The cruel sea shall be our grave
Be Thou not by our side.
Mid raging wind and crashing wave
And lightning's flashing sword,
Your word can calm the surging tide.
Be with us now on board!
Knud Erik glanced furtively at Vilhjelm. He hadn't expected him to sing. He hadn't so much as opened his mouth during confirmation classes. But now he was singing, and his stammer had vanished, as if somehow the hymn carried him over even the hardest words. He didn't seem aware of it himself, but Knud Erik noticed it, and it changed his view of hymns.
But if God had worked a miracle, it wasn't a permanent one. On the way back from church Vilhjelm stammered just as badly as ever.
We didn't know it, but we were the last. Our children would never stand in the church and sing that hymn, or stand on the deck of a schooner, at the mercy of the elements. They'd travel to every corner of the world, but they'd barely see a sail. Everything was happening for the last time these days. The sails would be set for the last time. The harbor would be packed with ships for the last time. And then Frederik Isaksen's predictions would come true: for us, there would only be the worst voyages, the most inhospitable coasts, and the roughest seas.
But we were young. We didn't know that. For us, everything was happening for the first time.
THE SAILOR
THE FIRST MATE on board the Active didn't tolerate weakness, and when he beat you, he meant it. He'd use a clenched fist, and he'd hit you where it hurt most. But Anker Pinnerup wasn't a strong man. Ravaged by rheumatism and booze, he was a thug with no muscles. In his late forties, he was nearing the age when a sailor goes ashore.
Pinnerup was known as the Old Man, a nickname normally reserved for a ship's captain as a tribute to his skill and experience. In Pinnerup's case it wasn't a compliment, but a reference to his fast-approaching decrepitude. A sharp, clean-shaven chin protruded from his thick gray whiskers like the upended bow of a ship sinking in a sea of waste and dereliction, and this minimal shave was his only concession to personal hygiene. Beneath his filthy,