us who has come and from where and
what they have brought with them.'
'How many children shall we have?'
'Oh, very many. After this one, many more.'
And Johanne fell silent and looked into the fire and he saw how her hand stroked her belly and did not know if she was conscious
of it.
She became nervous as her time approached. 'Thank the Lord that you will be here still, that you will not be gone to sea.'
'You are a sailor's wife, you must know how to do without me.'
'Not for this. For this I want to know that you are here.'
'It is your doing, not mine. I can be of no assistance.' So vulnerable she looked when he said that, but he was out of his
depth. 'I am a man, you understand. I know nothing of all this.'
He wished she would not make this demand which was beyond him.
'Well, I can call on Kirsten Pedersdatter if you like, if it is necessary.'
And he went to see Mistress Pedersdatter that same day and she gave him herbs to calm her, and when he asked if there was
not something else, she gave him also a strange white stone that Johanne must wear on a string about her neck. It was egg
like and rattled as if it had a loose piece inside and she said that it came from an eagle's nest. He paid much for the stone
and did not know if his money was well spent. She took the coins in her clean white hands and smiled then to assure him that
the words to follow came free of charge. Her smile was odd because of the length of her teeth in her narrow face, as if she
was a very old horse, but her eyes were warm as chestnuts. 'See that she eats well. You don't want to have her pine away.
See if you cannot get her some good greens, the darker the better, and red meat, liver; such dark foods will make her strong.'
'Will you come to visit her? You could speak to her and that I'm sure would help.'
'You would be wasting your money to have me there now. Wait and have me when you need me.'
And he went back to Johanne and she prepared her own tisanes, and he bought food at the market and she cooked it. What she
needed was a woman, he saw, and felt then brutish and inadequate. Hans Jakobsen, though he was so talkative in his shop, was
silent at home, far away. He tried to ask Johanne once if it had always been so, if her father had always sat like that at
nights, silent in his chair, and let her play her games about him, even when she was small. Johanne had looked puzzled at
his question and said of course, but wasn't it always thus, didn't every man like thus to quietly mull over all the words
of the working day? So that, he saw, was how she had learnt the stillness of her evenings, those long evenings when she rustled
and stitched and moved only to feed the fire; how she had learnt the appearance of self-reliance that, in all but this question
of her pregnancy, gave her a presence beyond her years.
'Stay with me.'
He was about to go out, to the market and to the harbour. He had his hat and coat on and was tying his boots. That memorable
winter had not let up although it was February; the cold had seemed only to intensify with the winds that swept in on them
these last few days from the Baltic, that howled in from iron skies and drove even the skaters away indoors.
'Please stay.'
'Come on, girl. I'll only be a short time. And your father's in the shop.'
She was looking pale, now he thought of it, but that might be due only to the biting cold, which whistled in through the cracks
in the shutters and through the door as he opened it.
When he came back she was leaning forwards across the bed, her face held in tightened hands, heaving with silenced pain. He
dropped his things and went to her but could not touch her; a person in pain is so alone. He held her only when the spasm
was gone.
It was too soon, she said. She knew that something was not right. Kirsten Pedersdatter had told her the day to expect, the
time of the moon.
'You cannot be sure, Mistress Pedersdatter could be wrong. She is no physician after
what they have brought with them.'
'How many children shall we have?'
'Oh, very many. After this one, many more.'
And Johanne fell silent and looked into the fire and he saw how her hand stroked her belly and did not know if she was conscious
of it.
She became nervous as her time approached. 'Thank the Lord that you will be here still, that you will not be gone to sea.'
'You are a sailor's wife, you must know how to do without me.'
'Not for this. For this I want to know that you are here.'
'It is your doing, not mine. I can be of no assistance.' So vulnerable she looked when he said that, but he was out of his
depth. 'I am a man, you understand. I know nothing of all this.'
He wished she would not make this demand which was beyond him.
'Well, I can call on Kirsten Pedersdatter if you like, if it is necessary.'
And he went to see Mistress Pedersdatter that same day and she gave him herbs to calm her, and when he asked if there was
not something else, she gave him also a strange white stone that Johanne must wear on a string about her neck. It was egg
like and rattled as if it had a loose piece inside and she said that it came from an eagle's nest. He paid much for the stone
and did not know if his money was well spent. She took the coins in her clean white hands and smiled then to assure him that
the words to follow came free of charge. Her smile was odd because of the length of her teeth in her narrow face, as if she
was a very old horse, but her eyes were warm as chestnuts. 'See that she eats well. You don't want to have her pine away.
See if you cannot get her some good greens, the darker the better, and red meat, liver; such dark foods will make her strong.'
'Will you come to visit her? You could speak to her and that I'm sure would help.'
'You would be wasting your money to have me there now. Wait and have me when you need me.'
And he went back to Johanne and she prepared her own tisanes, and he bought food at the market and she cooked it. What she
needed was a woman, he saw, and felt then brutish and inadequate. Hans Jakobsen, though he was so talkative in his shop, was
silent at home, far away. He tried to ask Johanne once if it had always been so, if her father had always sat like that at
nights, silent in his chair, and let her play her games about him, even when she was small. Johanne had looked puzzled at
his question and said of course, but wasn't it always thus, didn't every man like thus to quietly mull over all the words
of the working day? So that, he saw, was how she had learnt the stillness of her evenings, those long evenings when she rustled
and stitched and moved only to feed the fire; how she had learnt the appearance of self-reliance that, in all but this question
of her pregnancy, gave her a presence beyond her years.
'Stay with me.'
He was about to go out, to the market and to the harbour. He had his hat and coat on and was tying his boots. That memorable
winter had not let up although it was February; the cold had seemed only to intensify with the winds that swept in on them
these last few days from the Baltic, that howled in from iron skies and drove even the skaters away indoors.
'Please stay.'
'Come on, girl. I'll only be a short time. And your father's in the shop.'
She was looking pale, now he thought of it, but that might be due only to the biting cold, which whistled in through the cracks
in the shutters and through the door as he opened it.
When he came back she was leaning forwards across the bed, her face held in tightened hands, heaving with silenced pain. He
dropped his things and went to her but could not touch her; a person in pain is so alone. He held her only when the spasm
was gone.
It was too soon, she said. She knew that something was not right. Kirsten Pedersdatter had told her the day to expect, the
time of the moon.
'You cannot be sure, Mistress Pedersdatter could be wrong. She is no physician after
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