Father Brown in the Arctic

Father Brown had nothing like the famous Chestertonian character. He was quite young yet, he was not an Englishman, and his face absolutely did not remind the Norfolk dumplings. If it remembered something, it was the wind and the sea of the Aran Islands. A place the priest-detective would have found uncomfortable, but he was nostalgic about it. Especially since he was sent to a far and unheard-of Catholic parish beyond the Arctic polar circle. And especially since he got run off the track.

Up to that point, it had been a tranquil and interesting journey. As far as a sea journey from China to California, and then to Alaska, could be "tranquil". There had been some problems only when he arrived in Anchorage. Because of a misunderstanding, the local Catholic priest was not at the harbor to greet him. As a matter of fact, he was not in the town: he met him only after a week.

The local priest was sure he would have arrived a week later. In the meantime, the almost penniless father Brown had been forced to ask for help to the other priests of the town, who had a defect: they were all Protestants, and maybe, they thought that there was some war still raging against the Church of Rome. Or at least, they seemed willing to fight that war. Or even to start it...

The only person who helped him was the only non-Protestant priest he had found. He has seen at first sight that the other man was a priest, and that he was not a Protestant, since he wore a black robe, and not a clergyman, but he had not the appearance of a Catholic priest either. The other priest had seen at first glance that he was in a bad situation, and he had proposed him his helping hand.

"You are not a Protestant, are you?" father Brown asked, just to be sure.

"Oh, God forbid!" he said with a baritone voice and quite a melodramatic tone. "I'm Orthodox!"

"Oh... that's a problem!" father Brown said.

"Why?"

"Because I'm a Catholic. A Catholic priest. We are not in good relations too, are we?"

The other priest had shrugged.

"You are a man who needs a help. Come with me!"

So father Brown was hosted for a week by the Orthodox priest. He was one of the few ones who took care of the small Russian community who had remained in Alaska when the region was sold to the United States, some years before. Of course the priest was not exactly rich, but he was very kind and caring with a man who, by his point of view, was just another heretic. He just loved a bit too much to talk about the good old days when Alaska was a Russian territory ("in 1849, northern California was virtually Russian, do you know?" he asked. Indeed, father Brown did not...).

And when the priest saw the very embarrassed, very human glances that father Brown, unavoidably, addressed to the quiet beauty of his wife, he did not get mad at all. He shook his head, with an indie-red smile. thinking about the foolish Catholic rule which had banned the marriage of priests, and patted father Brown's wrist with a hand.

"Do you see?" he said. "if you were one of ours, instead of following the Pope of Rome, you could marry a good nice girl, as I have done. Maybe a Russian girl too. You would be less lonesome, and nobody could think bad about you..."

From the professional point of view, it was a bit of a pettiness: a priest who tried to convert another priest... But they were among men. So father Brown smiled, vaguely moving his hand, and the priest renounced to pouring lemon juice in an open wound...

Yes. Facing the likely end of his life, father Brown could not help asking himself, whether it had been worthwhile to renounce to that too. Not only the sex. The company of a woman. The warmth of a woman...

Sure, he would have left neither widows nor orphans. This was the only advantage, the only real reason for it. To renounce to a family, in order to be always ready to help other people. Even if "to help other people" meant to reach those God-forgotten lands, to sit in a sledge driven by a half-Inuit and half-drunk, to get off track after some miles, and now, to walk in the snow, bound to...

Bound to where?

How far was the village he had to reach? Was he going in the right direction?

And if not?

Father Brown was getting used to the idea that his pilgrimage on this earth was coming to an end. Without pain, likely. The cold would have killed him before the hunger. Yes, white death. Something like a big headache, a stronger and stronger wish to sleep... And Goodnight to everybody...

That's why he had kept his mind busy recalling all his life, since his childhood days. But now that exercise was over. He quickly had to find something else to do. Very quickly. The cold and the tiredness had started to spin him quite giddy. For a moment he had thought to have seen Our Lady. A quiet, smiling Our Lady, with a white vest, a pale blue veil on the head, and the face strangely similar to the Orthodox priest's wife...

To pray? Of course, he knew lots of prayers and hymns. But he thought it was not the time yet. He had to resist, if he wanted to have a chance to survive, not to give up thinking about Heaven. But, the hymns...

Why not? To sing! Let the polar bears and the arctic foxes listen how a real Irishman sings, before they can eat him! He recalled the jokes of the seminary: "My Lord! Inspire to this animal some Christian feelings!" said the missionary facing a lion. "My Lord, bless my food!" said the lion... Funny, ain't it?

"Sé mo laoch, mo ghiolla mear ..."

Father Brown smiled, guessing how many seals or bears would have turned their heads in surprise, hearing him singing. And singing in Gaelic language! Father Brown did not speak Gaelic so much, but that song (only partially Gaelic, in the version he knew) was the only legacy of his grandfather, besides his stern anti-British point of view. A point of view that father Brown had inherited without asking the benefit of inventory.

That's why his superiors had wisely thought not to let him in Ireland, where he could have caused trouble with the British authorities, and had made him a missionary. "Promoveatur UT amoveatur": promote to remove, typical Catholic tradition. Firts he had been "promoted" to China, and then, down there. Where very soon, likely, the British empire would have lost a fierce, although very undervalued enemy...

"Grief and pain are all I know.

My heart is sore, my tears a flow.

We saw him go... our buachaill beo.

No word we know of him, och on.

Sé mo laoch, mo ghiolla mear

Sé mo Chaesar, giolla mear,

Suan nà séan ni bhfuaircas féin

O chuaigh i gcèin mo ghiolla mear,

A ghiolla mear, ghiolla mear.

A proud and gallant chevalier,

A high born scion of gentle mien,

A fiery blade engaged to lead

He'd break the bravest in the field.

Sé mo laoch, mo ghiolla mear

Sé mo Chaesar, giolla mear,

Suan nà séan ni bhfuaircas féin

O chuaigh i gcèin mo ghiolla mear,

A ghiolla mear, ghiolla mear.

Then we'll sing his praise as sweet harps play,

And Proudly toast his noble fame.

With spirit and mind aflame,

To wish him strength and length of days..."

Before father Brown could sing the last refrain, he saw a man behind a low mound of snow. He had a gun in his hands, but he was not lying in wait, all the other way, he was doing all he could to be seen, waving his hands (and the gun) and shouting something, likely in Inuit language... On the other hand, an Innuit lying in wait, in that situation, would have been an inconvenient redundance...

"Hello!" father Brown said. The Inuit seemed a bit perplexed, almost disappointed, but if he would have heard a Gaelic greeting, he would have understood it even less...

"Hello..." he answered.

At least he spoke English, father Brown thought: better than nothing.

He explained to the Inuit his dire situation, and the Innuit invited him to share his food. He was clearly a hunter: what else could a man do there, in order to make a living?

Indeed, right between the mound, there was a lot of skins and furs. The Inuit had to be a master of his trade, or a lucky man, or both. Maybe some seals or other animals had escaped a sad fate thanks to father Brown's song, but the Inuit did not mind about it: he had got enough stuff. His sledge was more than half-loaded already. He could go in advance

"Don't you want to go to sell your furs and skin?" father Brown asked.

"Furs and skins can wait. Man cannot" the Inuit winked.

Father Brown wondered why the Innuit had winked, and then he felt stupid. Of course, why... The Inuit had the happy face of a man who thinks about a woman waiting for him...

"You have a wife... right?"

"Right! A wife who counts for two! Not so stupid, to be a woman! She seals, works, better than my mother did! I very happy about her!"

"Is she nice?"

"Nice, young... You will know!"

"Me?"

"You! Now we go home! You will know!"

"But I can go to the town! Give me some food and I will go! I don't want to bother you any more!"

"Town far away. You cannot go by feet. Me no food for you to get it. Soon we home. You will know".

Father Brown's knowledge of the mores of the Inuits was lesser than the Inuits skill with the English language. But father Brown knew one thing, for sure.

And he knew he could not escape that thing.

Unless he was willing to go to the town by feet.

Town far away. No food to get there. Not by feet.

The Inuit had set up the sledge for the journey back home, and he was showing to father Brown where he could stay, over the skin and the furs.

Father Brown complied.

The Inuit's wife was out of the Igloo when she saw some movement in the distance, and when she was sure it was his husband, she started to jump, wave her hands and shout with joy.

The Inuit waved one hand, answering her shouts and laughing. He had explained to father Brown that he had married her one month before. Of course, there were no kids yet, but, judging by how the Inuit and his wife hugged and kissed each other just after the sledge stopped near the Igloo, they would have come very soon... Where there is love there is God, father Brown thought.

But this could not solve his problem.

After many smiles and mutual soft stuffs, the Innuit introduced father Brown to his wife. She bowed a little in front of him, looking in his eyes, with a smile, and greeted him in an almost perfect English.

"She wanted learn!" laughed the Innuit looking at the surprise on father Brown's face. "She always ask me: how say this, how say that! She almost better than me, now!"

Father Brown nodded. Of course, the Inuit hunter considered the wish of his wife as a harmless thing, just a feminine curiosity. No reason for not to make her happy, teaching her what he could about the language of the "white men". To trade with them remained his own, masculine deal...

After a while, it was the time to eat something. The meal was very silent, but the Innuit and his wife exchanged many meaningful glances. And many smiles.

That night, what had to happen, happened. Father Brown heard the Inuit who moved as a bear to come over his wife, and, as an educated person, he turned his back to them and pretended to keep sleeping.

The woman talked to his husband, in a sweet but reproaching tone, maybe recalling him that there was a guest, and it was not polite to embarrass them with their intimate plays. But he answered, laughing, and after a minute, father Brown heard the unmistakable sounds of sex. The soft moans of the woman, the panting breath of the man and the rumours of the furry blankets and of the other parts of their bed.

"Well, it's logic!" he said to to himself. They were man and wife, they loved each other, and the fact that their marriage had been blessed by some old shaman instead of being celebrated in a church did not made their act of love any more beastly or less human.

Of course, in a normal situation he would have had to talk to them about the Christian concept of marriage, but then, there, what could he do? To start a rough and ready catechism? Or maybe to jump on his feet and to shout 'repent now, you sinners'? God save all of us, no... A deplorable excess of zeal, ain't it? How many times had he heard that catchphrase about himself: 'excess of zeal'. To exceed once again? Death before that!

Besides the fact that he had another problem. A problem of his own.

And he spent all the rest of the night, thinking about that.

The problem punctually came up the morning after. Father Brown woke up when the Innuit had already eaten something and was going to go to the town to sell his skins and furs.

Father Brown stood up and ask him to wait a bit: he too wanted to be in town as soon as possible. But the Inuit shook his head no. First, he had to carry a lot of merchandise, this time there was no place for a passenger. second, father Brown had risked to die with cold, and now he was still too weak for a journey by sledge to the town. It was even very cold outside the igloo. Too much for a tired white man.

"No worry! Tomorrow I carry you to town! No disturb!" the Innuit said, smiling. Then he left the Igloo, and left father Brown alone with his wife.

His wife was THE problem. And she was even the real reason why he had left father Brown behind, with that strange smile.

Father Brown recalled those long nights on the steamboat who was slowly heading from San Francisco to Anchorage. In the cabin next to his one, two men were talking about what they expected to find out in Alaska. They spoke a broken English, but without any foreign accent, so he inferred they were two white, likely Anglo Saxon men. And of course they were speaking about women too. And father Brown couldn't help to listen.

They exchanged the addresses of some "public houses" they had heard about, with the various kinds of girls they knew there were there, and then one of them had mentioned the strange traditions of the Inuits about "hospitality". Strange and very attractive, especially for those who had not taken a vow of celibacy.

Unfortunately, he had taken it.

And now his "problem" was looking at him. And it was smiling.

"Do you want to eat?" she asked. But she was not offering him just food, judging by his eyes.

"Yes, please!" father Brown said. At least, it was a delay. Not so long. She instantly gave him a bowl with something edible inside. She gave it to him with two hands, as a offer. And always smiling.

"Don't you eat?" asked the priest.

"I have eaten", she answered. "Eat it. It's good. It makes men strong!"

"It is good, indeed", father Brown said, before to blush when he got the message about the men's strength. The Inuit's wife smiled even more.

He ate all it was in the bowl, slowly, without saying a word, always feeling the eyes of the young woman over him. She was nice. Large mongolic face, black calm almond eyes, black long hair, a thick body, or maybe it was the way she was dressed. Even inside the Igloo, the temperature could not be too high...

Father Brown had felt some trouble inside, even looking at the Orthodox priest's wife. She too was beautiful, of another kind of beauty, of course. Blond hairs, blue eyes, Slavic face, with something Asian too. And a nice smile, when he thanked her for the food she gave him.

But in that case, he knew she was miles away from the thought to betray his husband with him. Her smiles were just kindness and good manners.

And even so, absolutely unwillingly, she had struck a chord in him. Was it really just appreciation of God-given beauty, or was it pure desire? "When a man looks at a woman with desire, he has committed adultery with her in his hearth already"...

But now it was not a matter of "hearth". That nice young woman was ready to commit adultery with him. Physically. And with the approval of his husband!

All right, he thought. It is a trial. Of course, I can't do anything with this girl. I'm a priest. Apart from anything else, I'm a priest. And I am ready to resist. The only point is how not to offend her, and his husband too. Of course he is wrong thinking that he MUST give me his wife, and I MUST accept her. But he has saved my life, he is a good man. He could shoot me dead and let me somewhere out there. Who could know what he did? I was dead when the sledge of that drunk mongrel -may God have mercy on him- fell off track. It's a miracle that I have found him, and he has taken me here in his house...

So no, I will not commit sin with this girl, but I will not offend her and his man. I have just to find a way to do it...

The girl waited patiently the end of his meal, took away the bowl and come closer to him.

"Do you have a woman?" she asked.

"No, I've not..." Father Brown answered. Of course not... But how to explain it?

"It's a long time you are... alone?"

"Oh... yes, a long time..." A lifelong time, indeed...

"I want to be... with you... Want you?"

Maybe to get the message home a bit better, she started to undress. She did it as if it was the most natural and obvious thing in the world. Father Brown gasped. Her body was nice as her face, if not nicer. Not so thick as he had thought, but healthy. Of course, that place did not belong to too much delicate creatures... Her breasts were swollen, quite small but firm. How many times did she do it with a "guest"? Father Brown recalled that Inuit proverb he had heard from the other cabin. If you lend your sledge, it will get broken. If you lend your dogs, they will be tired. If you lend your wife, she will come back just as she went away... Yes, she did not look like "worn by use" at all...

Father Brown sighed and moved. He put his hand on the naked arms of the girls. She had a warm, tender skin. And she was looking at him, in his eyes, calmly, with a clean coscience. It was just "hospitality"...

"Listen... Your husband expects that we... laugh together?"

She nodded. "Laugh". It was not such a bad word to define the physical act of love... Father Brown had learnt this too that night on the steamboat. After all...

"Because he thinks... this is what he has to do to a guest, right?"

"Right!" the girl nodded. "You are a guest. I must laugh with you!"

"And you... do you want to do it?"

"You are a nice man!" she shrugged. "Why not?"

Yes: why not? Oh my God... let's go ahead... but how?

"Well... I cannot do it..."

"Why?" the girl said, her eyes open wide. "Have you a... disease?"

"Oh, no..."

"Are you tired yet? Do you feel weak? I can wait!"

"No...It's not that..."

"Do you... love the men? I've heard someone does..."

"Oh, surely not!" shook his head father Brown. For God's sake!

"Then... Then you DON'T like ME!" wailed the girl. "You only like the women of your people?"

"No, you are beautiful... Really... "

"Oh!" smiled the girl. She felt father Brown was saying what he was thinking. And his evident embarrassment when he said it had convinced her even more. She felt tenderness for him. It was the same embarrassment of his man, the first night they had "laugh" together. That man, that bearish man, big and tall, capable of stabbing a walrus to death, that night, almost did not dare to touch her... "But then... why not?"

"Well... Do you know what a promise is?"

The girl heard him with attention, but even with perplexity. Those white men were really strange. She had avoided to use what Inuit women normally used to wash and comb the hair, or to take care of their skin, because she had heard that, strangely, white men disliked those things, seal grease and the like (in an Igloo, you use what you can). But that promise was even stranger.

"You really never... laughed with a woman?"

"Never. I had a girlfriend, when I was young, we kissed each other, sometimes, but... never!"

"It's sad! But... Did you choose to live so?"

"Yes. I have chosen."

"But... To WHOM have you promised that?"