No, but there is one established middle-aged man, married but childless: Andreas Portman, ordained at a mature age after earning a laborious Bachelor’s degree in Theology. High points for persistence, but a dubious pass on his exams. Raised in an agricultural community and thus able, presumably, to speak to the Örlanders as a fellow farmer. In need of an appointment, which arrives along with an enthusiastic introduction by the bishop himself: a singing congregation in an enchanting island landscape, everyone’s mind open to the Christian message after the tragedy the parish has suffered. A rich domain, a wonderful opportunity to make a lasting contribution. A brand-new bridge facilitates communications between the church and the community—no risk of a repetition of the recent tragedy. The widow and her children are still living in the parsonage but will move out before the autumn. They have a right to live in the house, but some arrangement can certainly be worked out for the summer. There are attic rooms, for example, and the new priest and his wife can undoubtedly be accommodated there.
Portman, slightly suspicious, looks up the Örland Islands in his atlas, where they are not found. Too far out to sea from the perspective both of the mainland and of Åland. Hmm. On the other hand, a place where he can count on being left in peace from academic sophistries for much of the year. A place where the priest is an absolute, unquestioned authority, the obvious leader of the parish. A private little kingdom. A sphere of operations entirely under his control.
Not worth raising objections, much wiser to accept the appointment humbly from the bishop’s hand. Grant me, Lord, to be thy obedient servant, a shepherd according to thy commandments.
And on the seventh of May, when Berg has confirmed his candidates and completed his duties on the Örlands, acting pastor Andreas Portman arrives with his wife and his goods and chattels. Both over fifty, with heavy bodies and stiff limbs. I feel sorry for them, for it won’t be easy to stand comparison with the young couple that came ashore here three years earlier, slim and smiling, the dead man already a legend. It will never be like it was with the Kummels, people are saying already, in advance, and there is distrust and antipathy before anyone has seen even the tips of their noses. They don’t seem to be unaware of all this themselves, for they look unhappy, morose and shivering in the morning chill. “Well, well,” he says when I show him the church when it appears. “Cold,” he says. “Like a desert.” He doesn’t say that it’s beautiful, and never reflects that it’s the gateway to heaven.
You can’t help thinking back. The reception committee back then, eager and expectant. The arriving couple delighted. Today, the dead pastor’s wife has made breakfast, and the organist and the verger have come to welcome them and help them store their things in the shed, where they’ll remain until the widow has gone. Those meeting and those arriving look at each other while we dock. Laboured goodwill, a sense of loss that strains the smiles of the organist and the verger. She, the widow, has her little girls with her and she occupies herself with them, but then she walks over to the railing and wishes them welcome, quite heartily.
Goodwill, but such distress. The verger starts to say something, but Portman interrupts. “Later! Right now we need to be a little methodical and get these things ashore. Careful there!” Like ordinary day labourers, Kalle and I and the organist and the verger stand there taking orders and lifting and carrying. “Careful!” comes from Mrs Portman as well, as if Kalle and I hadn’t spent half our lives loading and unloading freight. It’s the sort of thing that gives you a malicious desire to put down a box just a little harder in hopes of hearing the faint tinkle of broken glass. We’re happy when everything’s unloaded and we can start the engine and get away. But we’re there long enough for me to hear that it’s the dead vicar’s wife, not the Portmans, who thanks the organist and the verger for their help. And when she invites them all in for breakfast so they can get to know each other, Portman says, “Oh, we’ll have time for that later. Right now, what’s important is to get ourselves inside and get our bags unpacked.” The organist, who has already taken several steps towards the parsonage, turns around, looking hurt and uncertain. Then he says, “Goodbye, then,” to the widow and goes towards his dinghy pulled up on shore.
The verger remains where he is, almost choking on all his unused words, but he’s then ordered to carry up two suitcases before he goes home. I can see from his back how deeply wounded he feels, and I wonder how in the world their collaboration is going to work. Although I don’t often go to church, I know that things go badly when the priest and verger don’t get along. The numbers on the hymn board squeak more than usual, and the gate in the altar rail sticks when the priest goes in and out. The weathervane on the roof of the church already squeaks so loudly we can hear it all the way down on the dock, and what that means you can work out for yourself.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
WHAT WAS TO HAVE BEEN their fourth summer on the Örlands becomes their first. For Mona, the first in a long life of perennial loneliness. For the girls, the first they remember, in an existence where Papa has always been dead.
This summer, too, there are a quantity of guests, people who feel sorry for the widow, who must do everything by herself and needs company and comfort. This means that in addition to her preparations for the move, she must also feed and house visitors. With the Portmans in the parsonage, this is no easy task. She no longer has the use of the attic rooms or the office, and in the kitchen she has to make space for Mrs Portman to prepare meals. They have worked out a schedule that keeps them out of each other’s hair as much as possible, but all the extra coming and going accentuates the Portmans’ feeling that they’re in the way, and consequently they’re consumed by ill will and rancour and wish to heaven that Mona and her crowd were all out of the house.
Lillus is afraid of them. Mama has taught them just to say hello and go on about their business, but Lillus can’t manage that. “Waah,” she howls the moment he looks at her, for Portman is in direct touch with the abyss in Lillus where the howling lives. Sanna looks pained, curtseys, and says “H’lo” and at the same time, “Quiet, Lillus!”, dragging her along through the kitchen and out onto the steps. Outside they can live, if they stay away from the paths the Portmans use. They never appear near the cow barn, so they can hang out there, and in the cow pasture. It’s a relief to be out of the house, but even though Sanna is wise far beyond her years, she has a hard time figuring out the Portmans’ movements in order to keep them from looking at Lillus. Because she howls as soon as they do, and then Mama gets angry.
Mama is always angry. She has so much to do and never has time for everything she’s planned, even though she’s at it from dawn to dusk. They’re going to move to the Helléns, but not yet, so Sanna doesn’t have to think about that. Mama gets everything done that needs doing, but there’s so much to think about, and it’s good that Sanna can help by keeping an eye on Lillus!
Apple and her calf will go to slaughter in August. Goody will go with them to the Helléns and live in the cow barn there. The sheep and the chickens will be auctioned, along with the equipment from the cow barn. The congregation has divided the haymaking, which has now been hauled away from Church Isle. The barn is empty, and may never be filled again, for the Portmans do not intend to keep cows. They will buy milk from the parsonage crofters and rent out the pastureland. It’s a crying shame, but perhaps it’s only right that the vicar’s animal husbandry should be eliminated now that he himself is gone and his survivors are about to live out their loss in another place.