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composed in his mind a letter of apology home to his father. He has neglected his theology. Not until this last half year has he studied systematically. But for his probationary sermon in Vor Frue Kirke, where he speaks for Professor Swane and a select congregation upon David’s Psalm 43, he receives a laudabilis , the highest mark possible. His performance surprises not only his examiners, but also himself. He has felt a man’s gaze upon him, a very old man seated in the front row, with grey-blue eyes, angular hawk nose and a smiling, vivacious mouth that seems to repeat and chew upon each word he hears. He does not know who this man is, but his presence has a stimulating effect upon him and after a while he addresses only him. Afterwards, they are introduced. He is Poul Egede, pastor of Vartov and bishop of Greenland, son of Hans Egede. Moreover, he is principal of the Seminarium Groenlandicum, a position he has inherited from his father.
    He bows deeply before the bishop. An honour, he mumbles.
    Has the Magister considered joining the holy mission? Egede enquires, sizing him up with lively, aged eyes.
    The thought has occurred to me, says Morten. Are there prospects with the Mission?
    In Greenland, says Egede. He reaches out and squeezes Morten’s upper arm tightly, then smiles and retracts his claw-like hand. You are Norwegian?
    It is the first time a person of his status has addressed him informally, as an equal. He tells him where he is from. Egede asks him about his family and his plans for the future, and he tries to hide the circumstance that he has no plans whatsoever. He thinks to himself: This is a sign. He agrees to consider entering the seminary as alumnus the following autumn. Heartily, Egede wishes him a pleasant summer and wags a finger at him to indicate he does not intend to forget the matter.
    Somewhat dazed after the examination, the unexpectedly excellent mark and his conversation with Egede, he leaves Vor Frue Kirke and wanders out of the city by the Vesterport gate. He walks and walks. A shower passes and drenches him. He dries out. He feels the grit beneath the soles of his boots, the wind blowing in his face, full of the smells of stables and the fresh aroma of cut grass. He has no idea where he is. He asks a man with a horse-drawn cart. Rødovre, learned magister. He is still in his vestments. He removes his wig, sits down on a stone by the road and watches the swallows flitting above the field, twisting sharply in the air, ascending towards the heavens. He feels the blue consume his eye. He is content, yet empty. His divinity studies are completed. The letter of apology to his father need not be sent. What is he to do with himself? He has devoted no thought to the matter.
    Curtains of rain approach from the west, a thunderstorm rumbles and crackles, the wind bends the trees. He walks back and the weather catches up with him. The dirt track becomes a mire, soil washed from the fields. His ruff collar wilts and the potato starch runs in rivulets down his cassock. And yet he feels himself free. On his return home he takes off all his clothes and drapes them over the furniture. He lies down naked on the bed.
    Greenland?
    Midsummer’s Eve, 1785. Two coaches trundle through the city, one in front of the other, each drawn by hired carthorses with blinkers and rattling, creaking harnesses. The coaches arrive at the Nørreport gate and must wait a whole hour to come out into the countryside. Many respectable families have felt the urge to take the air outside the ramparts.
    Morten Falck sits in the same carriage as his host. The printer has lit his clay pipe. He calls out greetings and lifts his hat to other families in other coaches. He is in an excellent mood, recalling excursions of his youth, handing out pamphlets of cheerful ballads and prompting the others in the carriage to sing along. With them are some of the men from the printing shop. They sit leaning back