Post-Anton, like all other two- and four-legged creatures on the Örlands, knows what this is about—the pastoral examination, which means that the pastor could obtain the post of incumbent vicar of Örland parish. Cecilia and Hanna, the organist and the verger, have all seen how he sits and reads and reads and writes and writes. For once the entire population of the Örlands is in agreement. It is senseless that such a good priest should have to be grilled by the high priests in Borgå before he can apply for a post he is clearly cut out for. There are not many passengers, and he manages to exchange a few words with Post-Anton before they reach the Mellom islands.
They speak of the lovely weather and how long it may last and about his travel plans. Anton is familiar with Åbo and Helsingfors, but Borgå is an exotic place where the bishop resides and where the diocese’s well-being is decided for better or for worse. Anton knows there is an ancient cathedral there, like a shell around the bishop’s exalted person, and the pastor tells him about the chapterhouse, which is from the Swedish time. His thoughts are fully transparent, and finally he cannot restrain himself from asking, “How do you think it will go?”
He laughs as if it were a game of some sort, and I smile as well, and I say, “I’m sure you’ll do fine on your examination!” But I have my own interest in the matter, for I am used to seeing seaways in my mind but think very little about the way things are on land. I saw him stand there waving to his wife and daughter as if he already longed to be home, so I don’t know why I also saw another woman, of a kind he should not meet. For heaven’s sake, I cannot tell the pastor to “Watch out for fallen women” like a fortune teller in a tent. No, God forbid. But there’s someone there who’s a real stone in his path. What can I say?
“But there will be headaches,” I say. “You must be prepared for that. I don’t have such powers of divination that I can tell you what’s going to happen, but this much I can tell you from experience, that there are things which do not go as planned. There are stones on a person’s path. If you are prepared for that and can avoid them, you’ll be fine.”
It is painful to see how uneasy he becomes. I should have said nothing. “I am as well prepared as I can be,” he objects. “I have train and bus timetables and I’ve booked lodgings in Borgå. Brought my alarm clock so I’m sure to wake up. What could go wrong? Even if the boat should have engine trouble, I have so much leeway that I should get there with time to spare.”
“Yes, yes,” I say. “All of that will be just fine. Pay no attention to what I think, but when things get difficult, it’s generally about people. For women, men; for men, women. You know a lot of people in Finland and who knows who you’ll run into?”
“I’ve arranged things so I won’t see anyone until after the exam,” he says. “But then it will be a real circus. I’m prepared for that.”
“Good,” I say. “Then everything’s as it should be and everything will be all right.”
It’s late when we get to Mellom and dark as pitch, but who should be standing on the pier to meet us but the Mellom priest. It’s nice of him, and our priest is really, really happy to see him.
“Well I’ll be! What are you doing here?” he shouts. “In the middle of the night!”
“Of course I had to be here to wish you luck!” the Mellom priest says. “It’s not every day the island deanery gets to send one of its own to the Inquisition!”
That’s the last I hear, but I can see that they stand there chatting and then the pastor asks me if I think he’s got time to run up to the parsonage for a few minutes before the steamboat arrives. “Yes indeed,” I say. “It would be a major miracle if it sticks to the timetable now that they’ve got the fore hold full of animals on their way to the slaughterhouse. You can safely take it easy for an hour. If it does come I’ll send Kalle up to warn you.” He leaves his suitcase in the waiting room but takes his briefcase with him, though it’s equally heavy.
The priest from the Örlands sits at the Mellom parsonage surrounded by goodwill, drinking tea and eating a cheese sandwich. He has his own sandwiches with him, but the pastor’s wife at Mellom says he should save them. “Oh, the days we’ve spent on those boats in our time!” she exclaims. “And what an awfully long time it takes! And we’re only going between Mellom and Åbo, whereas you’re coming from the Örlands and going all the way to Borgå. You’ll be happy to have those sandwiches tomorrow morning.”
So there he sits keeping them up in the middle of the night, drinking tea and being grilled in a very friendly way by Fredrik, who is an expert on the pastoral exams, which he passed with the highest marks. He thinks Petter sounds collected and sensible and is convinced that the exam can only go well. Of course he’s nervous, and it’s understandable that he takes his leave relatively soon and says he feels easiest down at the pier where he can hail the boat himself. Now he’s feeling on top of the world and thanks them for their hospitality and good luck wishes.
When he’s gone, Fredrik stands at the window looking out, although his wife has gone to bed and repeats that it’s late, middle of the night, soon the wee hours. Yes, yes, and finally the steamship arrives, seriously delayed. He can see Petter in his mind’s eye, frozen, shivering, sick of waiting, nervous. And he was so happy that I came down to meet his boat!
No one can see a ship approach in the darkness, its side lanterns glowing, its bridge lit up, without feeling yearning and sadness and, at the same time, strong, unalloyed excitement and expectation. Change, in short, although even as a child he had learned to be suspicious of the change that was the very breath of life for his inconstant, unstable father. Now he’s on his way, be it to sink or swim, and after the cathedral there will be a whole series of stimulating get-togethers and a visit he’s been looking forward to in particular—to Mona’s home and the Helléns, where he can talk to his heart’s content about all Mona’s wonderful achievements and about Sanna and Lillus.
As the ship thumps across Delet Bay, he manages to get an hour’s sleep on a sofa in the smoking saloon, but then it’s time for all the landings in the Åbo archipelago. The moment he falls asleep, he hears the change in the engines as the ship nears land, the footsteps of heavily burdened crewmen, shouts between the ship and land, bumps and blows as the ship hits the pier. Then loading and stowing, shouts and orders, new passengers who come in talking loudly and slamming doors. He has to sit upright on the sofa in case it gets crowded. On and on, a long series of repetitions through the far-flung archipelago.
He can smell Åbo from as far away as Erstan, and when they approach the river, the fumes they encounter are suffocating to a man who has lived undefiled in the fresh sea air of the Örlands. Åbo reeks to high heaven, but at the same time he has to go out on deck and look at the city, which is large and mighty and clamorous. The shipyards work around the clock building ships to pay the war reparations to the Russians. The vessels in the docks will all go east. Farther up the river in the mechanical workshops, men are welding, grinding, and scraping. Slowly, skilfully, with dignity, the Åland II approaches its berth. Above the trees, he can see the tower of the cathedral where the clock strikes nine as the giddy, sleepless passengers stagger ashore. The calves and other young animals in the open hold look around with eyes that are used to seeing greenery and twitch ears that are accustomed to a gentler kind of noise, not knowing what awaits them as the slaughterhouse truck backs up to the edge of the quay.