Midnight Sun Insiders
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Following the Herring

"Go to Hell, Ivar!" shouted Jens. The epithet leapt from his throat and cut through the sound of the Volvo marine diesel below his feet. He swore in English a language he felt carried emotion better than his native Norwegian. He unleashed a few more curses culled from American movies, letting the words carry away his anger. When his hands stopped shaking, he stabbed at cell phone buttons until the aggravating message was deleted. With that behind him, he turned his experienced senses to the wind and waves around him. A flock of gulls wheeled above, screeching taunts at him, while below the herring swam unaware of the angry fisherman plotting their doom.

A barely detectable pattern of water and sky told Jens that he was at the right spot. He put the engine in neutral, stepped through the narrow hatch and dropped down a ladder to the main deck. A fresh breeze loaded with the smell of salt and sea life and far-off lands ruffled his short blond hair. His practical haircut outlined a square head that sat on square shoulders attached to strong arms hardened by work. The wool sweater and work pants that he always wore on the boat enlarged his stocky frame, making him look shorter than his full two meter height.

Jens rubbed his hands and leapt into the work of fishing. That was the difference between his brother Ivar and him. Ivar would never know the satisfaction of working until his shoulders ached and his hands burned where the net cut into them. He would never be able to hold up his head at the dock as the result of his hard work was lifted from the fish hold.

The difference showed in their hands. Jens lifted a coil of rope with strong callused mitts covered in weathered skin. Ivar protected his slender hands with rubber gloves while he cut fish in the cannery. In the evenings, he moisturized the skin, trimmed the nails and cut the cuticles as perfectly as a big city manicurist. Jens' hands belonged in the small, hardworking village of Lansbyn. Ivars' hands were made to hold menus in Bergen or Oslo. Ivar would leave Landsbyn in a minute if his hand to mouth finances ever permitted him to scrap together bus fare. Once, Jens loaned him a stake from his carefully saved hoard and drove him out to the station. Ivar returned a day later with empty pockets and a bill for a new suit.

 

 

Jens worked his way across the deck, checking the gear. The bright green nylon net was smoothly wrapped around a big drum on the stern. The cables and winches that would maneuver the net and its catch were clean and well oiled. The engine that drove the pumps and generator and would bring the catch home at the end of the day rumbled in the engine room below. The sun lay low on the horizon as it had through the morning. There would be plenty of light through the long summer day for several sets that would fill the hold. Then, he would make the long trip across to Denmark to sell his catch. He was not looking forward to the trip, but what choice did he have? He could not go to the cannery back in Landsbyn. Not after Ivar’s shenanigans.

Jens pushed back thoughts of Ivar, the problems he caused in the past and the difficulties to come. The current moment took all his concentration. He tossed the end of the net over the rail and flicked a switch that sent the net off the reel into the sea. The sound of the machinery drowned out the calls of the seagulls, now barely able to fly in excited anticipation. The payoff for flying so far from shore was coming. A few older birds perched on the rail where experience told them the net would appear with its load of struggling herring. As the net lifted them into the air the frightened fish would begin a frenzied wriggling that would send a few of them over the edge of the net for a moment of freedom before the waiting gulls snatched them up.

The gulls knew that in all the miles of open sea, Jens would put his nets in the tiny fraction where the fish gathered. The previous owner of the boat, Old Johansen passed on generations of fishing folklore before he died, leaving the boat to Jens. Jens didn't think about the improbabilities of his profession as he guided the boat in a tiny circle around the featureless spot where his knowledge and intuition told him he would find the fish. Slowly the net closed and Jens went back to the winch. A gentle boiling on the surface and the impatient diving of the gulls told him that his skill once again led him to the right spot. The winch strained against the weight of the full net as it rose, shimmering silver from the sea. Jens expertly maneuvered the giant tear drop over the fish hold, timing the swing just right to dump the fish into the dark chamber. Not bad, he thought. Two more like that and he would have all the fish he needed. The thought came unexpectedly, fully formed before Jens realized his mistake. He quickly set the net again, trying not to think. But the old superstition came true and the net came up half empty. The seagulls teased him for taunting the gods with his pride. Feeling silly, he began to perform the ritual that Old Johansen taught him as a young boy. He hopped on one foot and drew runes on the rail with his finger while the net spooled back into the water. Apparently appeased by his performance, the gods granted him two more good sets, enough to fill the hold.

The operation had taken the rest of the morning and the afternoon. The sun squatted on the horizon, like a rich man lingering over his evening brandy. Jens set the autopilot for Jutland and got a start on the endless chores required by the boat. The trip would take three hours and leave him far from home for the night. Back in the pilot house the message light on his cell phone flashed. Ivar, no doubt, pestering Jens for the hundredth time about the inquest in the morning.

Jens ignored the insistent message light. He would deal with that in the morning. Meanwhile he needed to find a new place to sell his fish. The buyer at the cannery made that clear with laconic efficiency. "Nei," he said simply, when Jens called for the day's prices. Neither he nor his brother would be welcome after Ivar's break in. It was just as well. Ever since the new owners from Oslo took over, he had been looking for a reason to stop doing business with them. He didn't like the gleeful greed that drove the business. Over the last three years, he saw fish prices fall, wages drop, working conditions reduced to barely legal and the dock left to rot. Under the circumstances, his banishment was just fine.

When the deck chores were done, he sat back in his comfortable captain's chair and inhaled, drinking in the smells of sea and diesel. Outside the pilot house window, the sea stretch to the horizon in endless possibilities. He daydreamed of long voyages to fascinating places. His hand moved to the autopilot. A little change of course and he could leave Ivar, the cannery and the boredom of his small village behind. But where would he go? How could he leave the place where his family had lived for generations? He would miss evening in the Røkesild Tavern, the familiar foods, Sundays at the cemetery where he had visited his parents since he was seven years old. His hand slipped back from the autopilot as the Jutland shoreline came into view. He double checked the chart to confirm his course and looked up the number penciled in next to the port he was headed towards.

"Dag, this is Jens Olaf on the Harmonisere." There was a silence on the. "I have a load of herring to sell," Jens added helpfully.

"The Harmonisere, you say? You're not one of our usual trawlers." Jens took a moment to translate the Danish.

"I'm an independent." The word was the same in both languages, but the pronunciation was different enough to make understanding come slowly.

"You've come all the way from Norway, eh? How many tons of herring do you have?"

"My hold is full," declared Jens purposely vague.

"I see," said the buyer. He paused a moment before quoting the price they were paying for fish.

"You must be mistaken," Jens protested. He countered with an offer that would at least pay his expenses.

"Prices are fixed," stated the buyer. His voice softened for a moment. "Hey, are you the same Harmonisere that used to fish the fjords up near Bergen?"

"I spent a few seasons up there."

"I remember you. I was up there years ago on my father's boat, the Torsk. He retired years ago."

Jens grunted. So many good fishermen were rotting on the beach these days.

"Those old boats just don't make money anymore. You should get on a trawler. An experienced guy like you could be captain in a few years. That's where the big money is."

"What would I do with all that money?"

"You could retire in a few years and live in a big house in Italy."

"But I like fishing."

"OK, then you could buy a little boat and go fishing."

Jens looked around at his boat and shook his head. Apparently, they had a surplus of irony in Denmark. "Hey, what about buying my catch?" He asked.

A hard edge crept into the buyer's voice. "Listen, I'm real sorry, but I just can't handle any small boats. We have three ships coming in tonight and I have to have them unloaded and out of here before morning."

Jen slammed his fist into the console. "What am I going to do with all these fish?"

"Sorry. You should really think about getting on a trawler." The connection went dead, cutting off Jens' cursing.

 

Jens glanced at the chart and traced the long coast looking for a likely port. The chart showed a small marina about an hour up the coast. He could just make it before dark and tie up for the night. If he could find someone who understood his Norwegian and his Landsbyn accent, they might direct him to a local buyer. Maybe he could sell the fish from the dock the way Old Johansen used to do. There might even be a Danish sign in the hold somewhere - Fisk til salg. Old Johansen believed in being prepared. Jens was working out a fair price when a large cloud of black smoke exploded out of the exhaust stack. The boat slewed to the left as the sound of the engine gave way to stark quiet.

 

Jens cursed, in English of course, as the boat drifted. This is what you get for owning a boat, he fumed. No matter how well you care for the equipment, no matter the hours of cleaning, oiling and replacing worn parts, the sea mocked you. Salt water seeped into hidden places, bringing rot and corrosion, vibrations loosened fittings, metal fatigued, ropes wore out. You kept ahead of everything you could see, but there was always something you couldn't see, waiting for the most inconvenient moment to give up and leave you helpless.

Jens reached the limits of his stockpile of English curses, expletives and blasphemies before he thought of the checklists drilled into him by Old Johansen. First, check for immediate danger. There was no smoke or other sign of fire. The current was slow enough to keep from drifting on to the rocks. The bilge alarm was not warning of incoming water, but he would have to check that. Good. Time to go to the engine room and evaluate the problem. Out on the deck, he pulled up the engine room access panel and stepped down into the tiny space. The smell of burnt oil made his eyes water and choked his throat. Jens squeezed his eyes closed and reached towards an electrical panel just inside the hatch. Like a blind man in his own kitchen, Jens found the right switch and flipped on a powerful exhaust fan. In moments the smell cleared and Jens bringing back all of his senses. The fuel and water tanks showed no sign of leaks. Extra oil and spare parts were all in place on low shelves along the sides of the cramped chamber. In the middle of the space, the engine sat silent and useless.

The blocky metal lump showed no obvious signs of failure. The belts were in place and properly tensioned, no wires were broken or missing, and no hoses were kinked or split. That was bad news. It meant the problem was not something he could easily fix and get back underway. He sighed fatalistically and turned to the block. Working forward to back, he stopped his scan at cylinder number 3 where a large ragged hole gapped at him. A fleck of paint loosened by what ever made the hole, curled up and fell when Jens touched the hole. As he climbed out of the hold, he calculated the thousands of Kroner needed to get the engine running. Off to the west, a few clouds, underlined with streaks of rain, raced across the North Sea as if late for an appointment.

Jens wasted no time cursing the coming storm. On the port side of the wheel house he found the length of wind rope he bought from a Finnish con man when he was a child. The Finn had convinced him that the three overhand knots tied in the meter long bit of hemp rope were tied by a wizard in the face of the fierce winds that blew into Finland from Russia. All he had to do, said the con man, was untie one of the knots and he would have all the wind he needed to sail out of any trouble. Jens eagerly handed over his pocketful of kroner and ran to Old Johansen with his prize. The old man laughed and hung the useless token in the galley to remind Jens not to believe everything he heard.

There was no wind in the rope, there was something better. Jens flipped a knot over a notch behind the red running light and pulled the rope, opening a hatch to reveal an ancient outboard motor. Jens pulled the outboard from its storage locker and quickly checked its vital signs while the growing wind ruffled his hair. The outboard was old, but well cared for. Before being packed away, all the oil and fuel were drained and every vulnerable surface was greased to prevent corrosion. Jens quickly mounted the motor on the stern, scraped off the grease, checked the magneto, spark plug, hoses and linkages and before connecting the fuel line. The first drops of rain splattered on the deck as he primed the carburetor and pulled the starter cord. It took three tries before the engine gave a feeble cough and seven more pulls before there was any sign that it would really start. Jens kept pulling until the motor began to make a tentative noise. More adjustments settled the noise into a steady, eager scream that Jens hoped would get him to port.

The clouds rolling in left a narrow channel to the south for the late summer sun to shine through, lighting a path to the Danish coast. The bright light directly ahead seared his eyes so that dark patches swam around the wheelhouse when he turned to check the chart. He rubbed the spots away and stretched his arms to pull the tension out of his shoulders. On the chart he plotted a half a centimeter of progress. The remaining distance showed that the feeble power of the outboard would not keep him ahead of the heart of the storm.

The storm hit about ten minutes after the sun went down. Rain pelted the deck while the wind rolled the little boat from wave to wave. Jens turned into the wind to stop the dangerous rolling and to make sure he didn't get any closer to the rocky shore in the dark. There was a bit of coffee in the galley that had boiled down to a thick bitter brew, but that still had enough kick to keep Jens awake through the short summer night.

By morning the rain and wind stopped, leaving low clouds lined up over the distant shore. The cell phone jarred Jens to attention, but he gripped the wheel tighter and stared at the sea. It was certainly Ivar, complaining that he had missed the inquest. Well, bror, you are on your own this time, he thought. It was the first time in the 30 years since their parents died that Jens wasn't there to bail out his reckless brother. From the time when 8 year old Ivar stole Henning Rottson's bicycle to his affair with Mrs. Fromm last year, Jens had picked up after Ivers' messes. Maybe it was about time Ivar learn to take care of himself.

 

A few houses dotted the grey coastline, but jagged black rocks, guarded by white capped waves kept him away. The outboard screamed bravely, promising to carry him slowly, but surely, as far as he needed to go. According to the chart, he would hit a port in about 10 miles. If he didn't hit an adverse wind, he would be there in a little over 6 hours. Then he would shut down the noisy outboard and enjoy a few hours of sleep before figuring out what to do next. His half closed, sleepy eyes almost missed the slim figure waving at him from a rough dock that appeared as he rounded a short spit of land. The figure resolved into a woman wearing a light summer dress. Jen's acknowledged her wave as she wrapped her arms tightly around herself against the cool sea air.

She stood patiently for fifteen chilly minutes while the outboard nudged him close enough to call out, "Is this your dock?"

"It belongs to our group," she answered while Jens slowed the outboard to a quiet idle and cupped his hand around his ear.

"I have a problem with my engine. May I tie up?"

"Everyone is welcome," answered the woman. Jens eased the throttle forward and jockeyed the wounded boat up to the dock. After a few efficient maneuvers, the boat bobbed obediently in place while he handed a mooring line to the woman.

"I'm called Jens."

"I'm Mette," she replied, brushing a blond curl away from a perfectly proportioned face that showed a few fine lines around her eyes. Jens patriotically thought of the beauty of Norwegian women, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of a single example that he would put up against this Dane.

"I have some herring below. Would you like to join me for breakfast?" Jens quickly looked at the deck, stunned by his boldness.

"That would be very nice." Mette stepped over the rail with more confidence than expertise, stumbling onto the deck where she caught the arm Jens put out for her. His face glowed red at her first touch as if he were instantly sunburned. He pulled his arm back and pointed at the hatch to the galley. Mette smiled at his awkwardness and led the way below. She took a seat at the cramped mess table and said nothing while Jens fussed in the galley.

With a bachelor's sloppy efficiency, he loaded herring on plates, tucked a loaf of dark bread under his arm, scooped up a handful of silverware and deposited the meal on the table. Mette arranged the items into neat place settings while Jens found two spotless glasses and a bottle of clear liquid. "Aquavit?" It was a question, but he was already pouring three glasses. "For breakfast?"

"I always have a glass at the end of a voyage."

Mette smiled and gestured for him to pour. "Is there someone else?"

He stopped pouring and stared at the half full third glass. Mette listened to the waves lapping the sides of the boat while she waited for Jens to recover. "This one is for Old Johansen," he said, finally filling the last glass. "He taught me to fish and to drink aquavit." Jens passed Mette a glass, took one for himself, said, "Skål," and tossed back the fiery liquid. Mette followed his lead, but added a pinched expression to the end of the ceremony. After the empty glasses hit the table, Jens held up the bottle with a questioning gesture.

"No thank you. When I was little, I used to go to the shop to walk my father home from work. We would always stop in a little bar by the Strøget so he could get a drink. He always said, "One drink was for going home. Two drinks are for going to the devil." don't you think that is a nice story?" She spoke Danish, but he understood her as if they came from the same country.

"Yes, that is a nice story," he said quietly. As was his custom at home, he drank Old Johansen's glass.

The couple sat facing each other over the tiny table where Mette relentlessly loaded herring onto dark bread and from there to her mouth. Jens refilled her plate and she broke off another chunk of bread from the loaf. The meal passed wordlessly, until a voice came through the port hole above them.

"Hey, Mette! You in there?" A bearded face poked through the port hole, infusing the cabin with the scent of marijuana and chocolate.

"Yes, Mads. I'm here." Her look apologized to Jens. "The engine isn't working."

The face disappeared from the port hole. A moment later, the sound of sneakers hitting the deck launched Jens from the table. He rushed to the hatch, but by the time he hit the deck, a scruffy looking kid wearing blue jeans and a tee shirt with Che Guevara's face on it was disappearing into the engine room.

"Hey! Stay out of there!" he shouted after the kid.

"It's all right, Jens," Mette said from behind. "Mads is a genius with engines."

Jens felt soothed by Mette's voice, but the thought of some kid clunking around with his engine was too much to bear. In two long steps he was at the hatch, ready to haul the kid out by his unkempt hair.

"That's a sweet diesel you've got there," said the kid coming out of the hatch. "A '87 right?" Jens nodded confirming the year he replaced the old '49 that gave up the ghost right after Old Johansen had. "Nice. I'll get my tools."

Before Jens could take in what was happening, the kid was gone and Mette was at his side.

"Mads will take good care of your boat," she assured him.

Mads thumped a bright red toolbox on the deck while he a two other kids disappeared into the engine room. "Hey man, can you hand me a 9 millimeter socket?" Mads called out from below. Jens opened the toolbox to find a neatly organized collection of wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers and a few tools he didn't recognize. The 9 millimeter was in a neat row of sockets in the second drawer. Jens attached it to the driver and handed it down to Mads, who commanded his squad through an efficient disassembly of the Volvo. Jens frowned when a bolt slipped into the bilge, listening to judge the quality of the young mechanic's cursing. Instead, Mads calmly fished in the oily water whistling a vague rendition of a 60's rock and roll song.

In less than an hour, the engine was stripped down to an arraignment of parts cleaned and laid out on a towel on the deck. Mads was cataloging the parts that needed to be replaced while Jens' mood sank. He would have to order the parts from Norway, leaving him stranded here for days.

Mads stood up smiling. "That's a beautiful diesel, man. You sure now how to take care of machinery." His face shifted to a scolding expression, "I don't know what you did to get such bad karma, but you are going to need a new cylinder." He ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a lungful of air. "It won't take long to fix. Maybe two or three hours."

"But, the parts," said Jens, pointing at the towel.

"No problem, man. We'll cannibalize them from the bus." He pointed inland where one of the kids was already driving a brightly painted bus down the hill toward the dock.

Jens scratched his head. He had never heard of such generosity. Even in the little village of Landsbyn, people's willingness to help a neighbor only went so far. He looked up the hill where happy children were playing under the loose supervision of kids who were peeling potatoes. At the house more kids painted the north wall.

"You know," he said slowly, "If you folks like herring, I'd be happy if you'd take whatever you like from hold." Mads smiled and took Jens' hand.

"That's cool, man."

Mette beamed at the offer and kissed him, sending him into shock while she ran up to the house and back. She returned with a crew carrying baskets. The baskets were soon full of fresh sparkling fish. "Take as much as you like," encouraged Jens. "It's no good to me."

Mads thanked him and went to the bus to get the parts he needed. Jens looked around at the crowd that flowed in and out of his boat. He twisted around trying to see everything at once, an admonishing finger raised to scold anyone who might endanger his boat.

Mette gently lowered his hand into hers and said, "Perhaps you would go for a walk with me? Mads has everything under control here."

Jens looked from the team of mechanics, to the chain of basket bearers, to the woman. The impulse to follow her anywhere pushed aside a lifetime of concern for his boat. He didn't recognize the voice that agreed to the walk, or the weathered hand that wrapped itself around Mette's. The couple drifted down the dock and up a narrow path that followed the shoreline.

They set off with Mette playing tour guide. "We all live in the big house on the beach," she explained, pointing to the little house set back from the beach and surrounded by a sloping lawn that needed to be mowed. "It's like a big family, you know?" She told him how the group had left Christianshavn in Copenhagen to escape the encroaching pressure of the city with its tourists and government controls. Jens tried to fit the stereotype of a hippy to her simple clothes and pleasant figure. She wore no beads, no flowers in her hair. She was washed except for a trace of garden dirt under her fingernails. Her eyes were focused, unclouded by the effects of drugs. She smiled at his prejudices, filling him with a desire to kiss her. He pulled her to a halt, flustered by her smile that waited patiently while he fumbled with various approaches.

He had just solved the problem of what to do with his nose when his cell phone rang. His face flushed red as a knot of anger gripped his stomach. He whipped the phone from his pocket, nearly crushing it when he stabbed the answer button. After a brief pause to listen to the voice on the other end, he unleashed a torrent of heavily accented Norwegian, randomly punctuated with English that would make a New York dockworker blush.

Mette turned discreetly and wandered towards a small stand of beech trees, humming quietly to herself. She was tracing a circle around a large tree when Jens snapped the phone off. He puffed out his cheeks and pulled them back in like a bull in the arena. Slowly, Mette's humming dissolved his frustration. When he settled, she came back to him and took his hand.

"It's my brother, Ivar," whispered Jens. "He works – or used to work – at the cannery. I don't know why they kept him on this long; he's never been a good worker. He spends more time worrying about his manicure than gutting fish. The old owner gave Ivar the job because we are orphans and people from the village help each other.

"Well, they used to anyway. When Knute died, his kids sold the cannery to some company from Oslo. Now, it's all about productivity and making money. They push the workers too hard, pay the fishermen next to nothing and slap fancy labels on the cans so they can charge more."

Mette was smiling at the gruff, conservative, economical Norwegian, showing his true colors. She squeezed his hand to encourage him to continue.

"Still, Ivar might have worked there forever if it weren't for the Inger and her brooch. Like everyone in the village, he needed the job and he has a way of charming people into putting up with his nonsense. Like how he talked me into breaking into the cannery the other night. Now, he's been arrested and there is a warrant out for me."

"What was he arrested for?"

"Breaking and entering," answered Jens. He took a few deep breaths. Mette sensed that he needed to wallow in his anger for a moment longer. She walked quietly by his side, taking slow, all-the-time-in-the-world steps. Her peace was contagious. Jens felt the anger and frustration float out of him and drift back to Norway. He was here now and calm.

"You see, the owner of the cannery read an article in a business magazine that said you should fire the least productive 10% of your employees. He even made a speech about it. I think he actually expected the people to be as excited as he was about much money the cannery would make when they got rid of the dead wood. No one knows how he got around the employment laws – maybe he figured that no one in a small village would know how to hire a lawyer.

"However he did it, it was done. Twelve people were fired on the spot. Ivar survived the purge, but they fired Steinerson's daughter, Inger. She's a nice kid, but she had a fever when she was a baby and has always been a little slow.

So, they rounded her and the rest up, told them to clean out their lockers and sent them home. For the rest of the day, the remaining workers cut fish like their lives depended on it. The fat manager must have danced a Springar over the success.

"When Ivar came home that night, Inger and Steinerson were at the house. She was crying and Steinerson was at the end of his rope. He begged Ivar to go back to the cannery and get the brooch that Inger left at her work station.

"Ivar said he would pick it up the next day, but Inger wailed so loudly that Steinerson insisted that it had to be that night. Ivar was too lazy and too afraid to do it by himself, so he convinced me to come along.

"Agreeing to go was a big mistake, but with Ivar pleading and the girl crying and Steinerson looking helpless, I had to give in."

"The poor girl. You are a hero for offering to help," said Mette.

"That may be," Jens said, smiling at the ridiculous idea of a middle aged Norwegian hero. "But, I'm no criminal. We fumbled around in the dark until Henrik, the night guard, clapped his hands on us and hauled us off to the constable.

"If it had been up to Constable Olafson, we would have got a scolding and sent home, but the cannery manager wanted to make a lesson of us. He spent half the night haranguing Olafson into locking us up. If the stupid manager had spent a moment learning about our village, he would know that no one has been locked up in Landsbyn for as far back as anyone can remember. We don't even have a jail.

"It took until 7 in the morning for the manager to give up and stomp off. Olafson let us go, but made us promise to show up for the inquest. I couldn't believe it. Middle aged Norwegian men don't get involved in such things.  I should have known better than to listen to Ivar. The whole episode made me too angry to think, so I went fishing. Nothing clears the head like hard work, you know?"

Mette nodded. Somewhere during the story her hand slipped into his. He started when he felt her strong hand curl around his callused fingers. He lifted his hand and examined the sun browned skin and dirt lined nails. She smiled innocently, electrifying him with unfamiliar thrills.

"The boat breaking down was bad luck," he said, not noticing the disappointment on Mette's face. "Now that I have missed the inquest, Ivar is being held for trial and there is a warrant out for my arrest. Ivar said the magistrate was furious." He sighed heavily to end the story. Mette said nothing while they walked slowly, hand in hand, back to the dock.

 

The landing was a hive of activity. Greasy tee-shirted kids wielded tools on the old bus and shuttled parts to the boat where other kids tinkered in the engine room. The rest of the community, begrimed with scales, slim and bits of herring, collected baskets of fish, dumped them on a large picnic table and inexpertly filleted them into ragged chunks. Jens joined the group at the table, insisting that knives be properly sharpened, demonstrating the long cuts that neatly separated fish from bone and organizing a cleaning crew that kept the workspace orderly.

"Jens' brother works in a cannery," mentioned Mette. She packed fillets in salt while several kids commented on the injustice of the industrial system. Before any of the rants could get up a real head of steam, someone told a joke about growing gills after eating all this fish.

"His brother is a good man," Mette said, drawing a scowl from Jens. "He tried to help an exploited worker." This revelation cheered the group and brought on more speeches. One of the boys clapped Jens on the back, telling him how proud he should be.

As Mette told the story, Jens was proud. Her version was a heroic tale of a pair of men standing up to the forces of evil. He half expected a Valkyrie to sweep down and whisk him off to Valhalla any minute. Lost in these musings, he missed the part when the group switched from a rapt audience into an outraged mob.

The sound of his boat engine roaring to life underscored the conspiracy that was forming around him. Mads sauntered up to the table, grinning and scrubbing grease from his hands. He nodded while Jens' story, now a legend worthy of the sagas, was told a third time. Mads eagerly agreed to the adventure being plotted. While the fish were quickly cleared away, he quizzed Jens about the layout of his village and converted his answers into elements of a plan. When the details where worked out, Jens found himself by Mette's side at the head of a band that marched off to his boat.

 

 

A shaft of daylight silhouetted Jens in the door of The Røkesild Tavern. He walked in slowly letting his eyes adjust to the darkness in the tiny room. An old man hunched over the short beer, acknowledged Jens with a barely perceptible nod. Søren, the bartender, poured Jens a beer and silently accepted the coin offered in payment. From behind the building, the back door slammed and someone ran down the alley. Jens shifted the beer from the bar to his lips and back again in a steady rhythm, marking the time it would take for the news of his return to reach the ears of Constable Olafson. The thin white line of foam reached the halfway point down the glass when Jens pushed the beer across the bar and walked out the back door. Søren wiped the bar before perching on a stool to read the paper.

 

Ivar listened to the sounds of the constable's house in the converted bedroom that served as a makeshift jail. His head hurt from lack of food and caffeine despite the tray of bread, cheese and coffee that sat untouched on a little table just out of reach. In the front hall he heard the phone ring. Olafson spoke briefly before hanging up and telling his wife he was going to the Røkesild on business. Ivar sucked in a lungful of air, preparing to call for an aspirin, but before he could make a sound, a knock came on the front door and the constable's wife went out in the yard. He was slowly deflating his lungs when the bedroom door burst open and a thin, long haired kid burst in.

In a flood of whispered Danish, Mads urged Ivar to get moving. Ivar pulled the covers tightly to his throat and closed his eyes wishing the crazy dream away. The voices in the yard faded and Ivar felt himself being roughly dragged to his feet and shoved to the door. In the hallway he saw the constable's wife draw back in surprise. "Do you have an aspirin?" he managed to blurt out before Mads yanked him back. Ivar found himself running to the door where Mette took him by the hand.

"Come on," she said. "Jens is waiting."

Back on the Harmonisere Peder Svenson stood watch in the pilot house. From this point he could see the plan come together. Mette and Mads, with Ivar in tow, were running in from the east while Jens ran in from the west, chased by the constable. Where was Tommy? He thought as he jumped to his feet. Jens was pulling away, but the constable was coming on steadily. He would be at the dock before everyone got aboard. "Come on, Tommy!" he shouted.

Jens was waving at Ivar as they all hit the dock. From the pilot house, Peder shouted at everyone to hurry. He reached out to pull Ivar aboard when he saw something that made him jump up and laugh. Ivar looked to where he was pointing. The street seemed be moving, sweeping the constable away. Jens swung aboard and joined the rest in time to see Tommy herding the last of Gus Staversen's sheep down the narrow road.

"Hurry Tommy!" shouted Jens, laughing at the spectacle. Tommy cut capers in the street enjoying his role in saving the day when a large hand grabbed him by the collar.

"Jens! Ivar! Turn yourself in or Henrik here will toss your friend in the sea," called the cannery manager.

Jens fumed impotently while Henrik smiled in victory. The big guard dangled Tommy before them like a carrot to a runaway horse. Jens began the long walk towards surrender dragging Ivar along. They were halfway there when Ivar snapped out of his stupor. "I'll be damned," he said, pointing at a woman coming up behind Henrik. Her tiny hands clutched at a broom handle that she swung fiercely into the back his head. She was no match for the hard headed guard and her weapon was an inadequate equalizer, but the shock of the attack surprised him into releasing Tommy. Thinking one hostage was as good as another, Henrik grabbed at the woman just in time for the constable to appear and demand to know what was going on. In the confusion Tommy, Jens and Ivar raced back to the boat where the crew had prepared for a quick getaway.

 

 

The pilot house was packed with hippies celebrating and recounting bits and pieces of the recent adventure.

"Who was that woman?" asked Tommy.

"That was Inger," said Ivar who had steadied his nerves with a couple of long swallows from the aquavit bottle. "I hope she doesn't get in too much trouble for clobbering Henrik."

"I don't think he will be pressing charges," said Jens. "Søren told me that the real reason she was fired was that she found out about the manager and Henrik stealing money from the company. They thought they had her scared into keeping her mouth shut, but when she heard about Ivar trying to recover her brooch and the trouble he got in because of it, she decided to turn them in."

"You mean this whole escape was for nothing?"

"I wouldn't say that," answered Jens slyly. "Think of how much fun you are going to have telling the story when you get to Seattle."

"Why am I going to Seattle?"

"Because, Landsbyn is our past. It's time for us to get out in the world and do something with our lives." The hippy interjection, "Man!" almost fell from his lips. "I called Uncle Nels. He says you'll fit right in at a place called Ballard. They even speak Norwegian there."

"What are you going to do?"

Jens looked over at Mette and blushed. "I was thinking I would try Denmark."