Danjel Andreasson, who, for the sake of his belief, had been exiled from his home, could now hold his Bible explanations wherever he wanted — in houses or in the open, on land or at sea. No sheriff would close his mouth, no minister would accuse him of being possessed by the devil. So he explained the Bible story to his fellow passengers: Keep quiet and be calm, Christ had said to the sea. And the waves subsided and the sea became calm, as an obedient dog crouches on the floor at his master’s command. All these horrible waves on the sea, all roaring waters and noisy winds, all could be compared to God’s creatures, who were allowed to bark and low and roar and bellow, but would instantly keep silence at their Master’s command. How then could a person who believed in the Saviour be frightened by a storm? Even in this little fragile, rocking ship, he could rest safely and sweetly in his Creator’s hand. The whole world rested in that hand, like a bird in its nest.
In a bunk near Danjel lay Måns Jakob and his wife Fina-Kajsa, the old peasant couple from Öland, and they were suffering much from seasickness. They lay on a worn old mattress with the straws pricking them like spears. The husband was the sicker, he shook as in fever and did not answer when spoken to, but only moaned. In his delirium he talked of the grindstone he was taking to his son in America. He thought it had been broken and was now useless. The grindstone worried him even now, in his delirious seasick dreams. The old man’s face was drenched with perspiration and lined with black runnels from the escaping snuff in his mouth, which Fina-Kajsa tried to dry off now and again with a piece of cloth. She was still clear in her mind, and waited on her husband, although she was weak and suffered much from seasickness.
Fina-Kajsa listened to Danjel’s explanations about Jesus on the ship in the tempest, and now she wished to talk to him. They should never have attempted the voyage, she and her husband, old and ailing as they were. When people had walked safely on land for more than sixty years, they ought to remain there for the rest of their days. She herself had wanted to remain on their farm, but something had got into the old man — he wanted to go; and their son in North America had written them persuasively. Now no one could tell if there would be enough left of their lives to last them to America. Måns Jakob’s condition was bad, hers was not much better. Hers was a worn-out rickety old body, she could feel she would soon lie there dead with her nose in the air and smell cadaver. What was the meaning of her going off to sea, old woman that she was, now to lie here and suffer? Was this God’s will?
If she were to face God the next moment, she would not be afraid: she could look God in the eyes, she had long ago confessed her sins to Him.
She listened for a while to the uneven breathing of her husband. A few words escaped him: “I wonder if the — grindstone — will hold together — all the way—”
In the old woman’s unwashed face dirt had gathered like seed corn in her wrinkles — from her sour eyes a yellow fluid ran. She lifted her head from her pillow, and turned to Danjel, who was sitting near the bunk with his Bible on his knees.
She wondered about that sea in Palestine, the one he had read of, the Galilean Sea on which the Saviour had sailed — it couldn’t be nearly as big as this sea, could it? Was it possible that the billows on Gennesaret were as high as these? Perhaps it was easy for Christ to perform a miracle on that sea, it would be nothing to still the storm on such a little sea. She wanted to know what Danjel thought: perhaps the waves on this North Sea were too strong, too overpowering for Christ, so that He would be unable to handle them. Otherwise she couldn’t understand why He hadn’t stopped the storm — so many had prayed to Him, it had been raging for hours. .
“God have mercy on you!” exclaimed Danjel in terror. “Are you prepared to die? If you don’t think God is almighty—”
“I am only wondering why He doesn’t help us — when we lie here and suffer so.”
“He has let loose the tempest for the sake of the unbelievers, because of the doubting ones.”
From Måns Jakob came a groan of anguish: “Fina-Kajsa.”
“Yes, my little man?”
“Some water—”
Fina-Kajsa picked up the water jug and held it to her husband’s mouth. She straightened the pillow under his tousled head, removed her kerchief and dried off the perspiration and snuff from his face — she had nothing but her headcloth handy. The snuff had mixed with the sweat into a slimy mass, her kerchief became wet and soiled, but she used it to dry her own face as well, as she turned to the Bible explainer. “Those who doubt?”
Danjel Andreasson was sitting close to the old people’s bunk, his Bible lay open on his knees, and he wanted to admonish the sick old woman who lay here suffering because of her disbelief. But before he could get another word across his lips the Bible fell from his knees onto the floor of the hold — he let go of Holy Writ in order to grab the bunk-boards with both hands, and a swaying sensation of dizziness cut through his whole body, from the top of his head to the heel of his foot. Danjel was suddenly lifted into the sky, and the whole hold rose with him.
What is happening to me, O Lord? The ship is losing her grip on the water, and with all her sails like wings is taking flight toward heaven! Dear Lord — is my hour near? Has it already arrived? Shall I, like Elijah, travel to Thee fully alive as I sit here at this bunkside and explain Thy word to this old woman? Dear Lord, is this ship the chariot Thou offerest me for my ascension? Yes, Thou art lifting me on high, I feel it — I am blessed — but I dropped Thy Word — Thy Bible. Forgive me, O Lord. I flee to Thee — I come!
But the ship quickly sank down again, and with her Danjel, and his soul and body. His heavenly flight led him back down to earth, he was not to follow Elijah. And on the journey downward he was suddenly seized with a cruel pain; at first it seemed as if his intestines were being strangulated, then as if they were all swelling up inside, as if they did not have sufficient space in their allotted place in his body. They were all crying to get out, to force themselves out. They craved new space, were relentlessly finding their way out.
He was at once overpowered: he fell, face down, on the floor, vomiting violently.
The ship was again sailing on water — the earth journey was resumed.
And next morning Danjel Andreasson lay in his bunk writhing in the unrelenting embrace of seasickness. When his agony left him for a moment, and his thoughts became clear, doubt and prostration assailed him. Then he stammered again and again, the same prayer. He prayed with trembling lips, prayed God for forgiveness for the greatest of all transgressions, the greatest of sins. With the remnants of the night’s vomit still in his beard — like many-colored roses and red blossoms — he prayed his prayer of mercy: O Lord, Thou didst push me down again, from Thy Heaven — O Lord, who can endure Thy presence?
A seasick man prayed, and the prayer came from one stricken by God.
The brig Charlotta sails through the great tempest which the Lord has let loose over the North Sea, in the path of the emigrants, this April of the year 1850. In the ship’s hold, in her narrow stomach, lies her living cargo, closely packed human beings strangled by the sickness that is caused by a ship’s swaying motions at sea — emitting all the sounds that witness the disease. The ship has only one stomach, but inside this one are many stomachs — healthy and sick, old and young, children’s and old people’s; stomachs belonging to converted and unconverted, sinners and repenters, good and evil. In all of them the pain digs deeply with her multitudinous talons — in all these wretched bodies are nausea and loathing.