“That’s good enough. But what are the bells saying, abbot?”
The fishermen who have gathered about them are already prepared to laugh—the same undying jest is always repeated.
“Will you tell no one about it?” says the abbot, in a deep voice, slily winking his eye. “Pope’s a rogue! Pope’s a rogue!”
The fishermen laugh merrily.
“This man,” roars the abbot, pointing at Haggart, “is my favourite man! He has given me a grandson, and I wrote the Pope about it in Latin. But that wasn’t so hard; isn’t that true, Mariet? But he knows how to look at the water. He foretells a storm as if he himself caused it. Gart, do you produce the storm yourself? Where does the wind come from? You are the wind yourself.”
All laugh approval. An old fisherman says:
“That’s true, father. Ever since he has been here, we have never been caught in a storm.”
“Of course it is true, if I say it. ‘Pope’s a rogue! Pope’s a rogue!’”
Old Dan walks over to Khorre and says something to him. Khorre nods his head negatively. The abbot, singing “Pope’s a rogue,” goes around the crowd, throws out brief remarks, and claps some people on the shoulder in a friendly manner.
“Hello, Katerina, you are getting stout. Oho! Are you all ready? And Thomas is missing again—this is the second time he has stayed away from prayer. Anna, you are rather sad—that isn’t good. One must live merrily, one must live merrily! I think that it is jolly even in hell, but in a different way. It is two years since you have stopped growing, Philipp. That isn’t good.”