Once
Upon a Fjord was funded, in part, through a Kickstarter campaign. This
chapter has been sponsored by Emily Prusso:
“Not to make
those of you who live in colder climes feel bad, but here is an honest
representation of the happiness this time of year in California makes me feel.
Like John Steinbeck said, it feels like spring six months of the year and we
are in the thick of our six-month spring. The blossoms are blooming, the
oranges are sweet and cold, the chickens are laying, and the hills—despite the
dry year—are finally shading green.
We spend as much
time outside as possible. Riding bikes, working in the yard, soaking the sun.
*sigh*
California…it’s like a magic word.”
Sponsor
had no editorial control over the chapter content, for which the author alone
is responsible.
©2012 by Marty Reeder
Chapter 1: Of Landslides and Islands
“So I
told the fellow,” the woman forced on her listener, “‘Sonny! I’ve wrastled
grizzly bears in Wyomin’, I’ve shot at miners in Colarada, and I’ve headlocked
Mormons in Utah. I don’t think you oughta be tryin’ to steal this here satchel
o’ mine!’ And you know what that Denmarkian said to me?”
Daniel
Rudiger struggled to believe so loud a voice could come from such a petite woman’s
body, albeit one layered with deerskin clothes dangling with fringe. Do all
Americans speak like that? he thought to himself. Did I speak like that when I first came to
Europe three years back? The old woman’s falcon-like eyes waited impatiently for a response
from Daniel.
“I
think you mean, ‘Danish,’ not ‘Denmarkian,’” his journalistic side couldn’t
resist the correction.
“Don’t
go all ignorant on me,” the woman croaked, her voice echoing over the hissing
of raindrops pelting against the ship’s steam engine behind them. “I had hope
for you, bein’ an American an’ all. There ain’t no country named ‘Dane.’ The
man was bone-i-fied Denmarkian,” she nodded firmly, ending further discussion
on that particular matter.
“But
that gets away from the point,” she continued, “which is what he said to me
after I caught ‘im trying to lift ma satchel…” At this point, her wrinkled, yet
still calloused hands, found a spot where they looked comfortable, the hips.
Her lips pursed.
Daniel almost
laughed. He set out following a tip about a smuggling Russian ship in the
vicinity, but all of the sudden this seemed much more interesting—though he
figured he would have a difficult time explaining to his editor in Baltimore
how a belligerent, septuagenarian in a ridiculous outfit merited more attention
than a clandestine, Russian smuggling ring.
“Well,
what do you think that Denmarkian said?”
Maybe
the fellow mistook her century-out-of-style coonskin cap with an oversized rat, Daniel thought but wisely held
in. “I don’t know.”
“He
didn’t say nothin’, ‘cause the poor fool didn’t speak a lick of English!”
Grammatically,
Daniel censored, neither
do you.
The old
lady continued, “So I took out my translator and that cleared things up right
quick an’ proper.”
Knowing
she had a pending punch line, but not knowing what it was, Daniel stepped into
it, wincing, “What do you mean, you took out your translator?”
“Well,”
the satisfaction oozed through her wrinkles, “it was my six-shooter, of course.
It speaks a language that everybody understands!” The woman patted a leather holster
hanging lithely to her side, her laughter ricocheting off the steep walls of
coast near where they now navigated.
Daniel
dropped some courtesy chuckles before adding, nervously, “That’s not a real
revolver, is it?”
Perhaps
sensing his unease, she smiled. “I’ll tell you this much: it sure ain’t
knitting needles!” Then in a moment, with disconcerting ease, she flipped back
the flap of the holster and her revolver gleamed between the two of them.
Daniel
had certainly seen his fair share of revolvers, but not usually in the hands of
old ladies, and certainly not in hands as unpredictable as these. He flinched
every time the barrel whisked past his chest, mortally afraid that trembling
fingers might set it off at a moment’s notice.
The woman
must have sensed his discomfort. “You don’t have no need a worryin’. Why, I’m
more at ease with one o’ these than I am with a Bowie knife.” Such a statement
could only cause more, not less worry. “In fact,” she continued, “I could shoot
a pipe right outta yer mouth from the opposite end of this ship! I’ll prove it
to ya. Got a pipe?”
“What?”
Daniel asked, exasperated. At this point he was willing to do pretty much
anything to get that revolver back in its holster. “Pipe? No, no pipe. We don’t
have to—”
“Ferget
it!” she exclaimed, giving Daniel momentary relief, “I got my pipe right here.”
Her wizened hands buried into a pocket somewhere on her jerkin.
Of
course she would have a pipe, Daniel thought. She probably has it sitting in a
pocket next to a canister of chewing tobacco and a crossbow. About to throw in his final
objections, Daniel was suddenly interrupted by the sharp whistle of the boat, a
whistle that chased back and forth from cliff wall to cliff wall in a powerful
chorus that emphasized the grandeur of the landscape around them along with
their own seeming insignificance.
The
occurrence briefly took Daniel away from his precarious situation. When he
first arrived in Norway as the Baltimore Daily’s Scandinavian foreign
correspondent, the sheer size and magnitude of the cliff walls that formed the
coastline oppressed him, not to mention the name for them that sounded as alien
as the surface of the moon—“fjords.” For months, using his Norwegian
dictionary, he tried to pronounce the word “fajord.” But it wasn’t until he
started to get truly comfortable with the Norwegian language that he slipped
into the more natural pronunciation of “feeyords.”
Daniel’s
feet adjusted to a particularly large swell, amazed that now, to him, this
woman was foreign, and these deep fissures of labyrinthine coastlines carved by
monster glaciers spilling into the sea years and years ago—these fjords … these
were familiar. Instead of oppressive, they felt close and familiar, almost like
a loved one’s embrace.
Thinking
of loved ones caused Daniel a pang of regret. Returning him to the indecision
and second-guessing of that one moment only a few months back that forced him
to rethink his whole trajectory in life. The moment was so distinct that Daniel
felt like an outsider … again. This time he did not feel like a foreigner among
fjords, but a foreigner to the gaping walls of his own expectations of what his
life was to be, a stranger to the abyss of his practical self.
Of
course, rethinking life was also inevitable when a gun-wielding foreigner
stands before you, reaching a pipe up to your face. She was old, she spoke
funny, she was strangely garbed. Yet, to her, everyone else was strangely
dressed and speaking with a weird accent. I guess we’re both foreigners in
one way or another. And she’s right … I am American, even if I’ve been gone for
a few years. We Americans need to help each other out.
Daniel
laughed. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t think I ever asked you your name.”
The
woman’s reach with the pipe faltered. “Me? Why most people call me Grandma
Grizzly. What’s yourn?”
“Daniel
Rudiger,” he said, extending his hand. This gesture forced her to holster the
gun, an unintended but welcome byproduct of his action. “Good to meet you,
Grandma Grizzly.”
The next
half hour of conversation told Daniel that “Grandma Grizzly” was the woman’s
performer name. He also learned that she had been touring Europe with the
American West Rendezvous Show, that she left over a dispute on salary and that
she was now heading back West again, where she would land a job as a deputy, or
at the very least as a bounty hunter. Daniel’s journalist instincts told him
that the majority of what she said had no bearing on truth, but he discerned at
least that Grandma Grizzly was good company … especially with the revolver
hanging by her side instead of from her hands.
Before
Daniel knew it, the ship slipped into a fjord that appeared out of what seemed
to be a simple sliver in the cliff walls before them, and their conversation
became muffled by the majesty of nature’s sentinels standing above them.
Grandma Grizzly mumbled something about how it reminded her of the Grand Canyon
back home, just a bit skinnier and charcoal colored rather than red. Then the
two fell silent, and for a moment the only thing they heard was the wake of the
seawater periodically slapping into the ship’s hull and the constant humming of
the steam engine.
By the
time they had rounded their first corner, Daniel heard a commotion from the
bridge of the ship. Grandma Grizzly must have heard it too because they both
looked back at the same time, then at each other. Without thinking, the old
woman dropped a hand towards her holster. Daniel couldn’t help but grin as he
chided. “Save it for the pipe, Grandma Grizzly. It’s probably just a loud
conversation.”
“’Bout to
get louder,” Grandma Grizzly said, all gruff. Still, though, her hand retreated
and the two worked their way along the side of the ship, then up the steep
companionway to the covered bridge, where a helm, levers, and gauges allowed
for navigation of the ship. A tall roof covered all of these and protected three
people crowded near the wheel: a coxswain, a captain, and a tall, elegantly
dressed man with a tightly trimmed mustache and a fashionable cane dangling
from the crook of his arm. The origin of the commotion came from the latter,
who seemed to be doing all he could to maintain a sophisticated composure while
at the same time voicing frustration.
The
captain stood baffled before his lecturer, but expressed as much patience as
the situation mustered. The coxswain kept to his duty on the wheel, with an
occasional awkward glance back at the two.
With the
entrance of Daniel and Grandma Grizzly, the elegant man immediately seemed
relieved, and spouted something at them. All Daniel caught was the word
“français,”—the extent of his French vocabulary, but it at least told him the
man was French.
Daniel,
in the midst of a shrug and catching Grandma Grizzly from allowing her hand
approach her holster again, stood aback when the man spoke in admirable
English, “What about English, then?”
“Yes,”
Daniel answered.
“And
would either of you happen to speak Norwegian?”
Grandma
Grizzly jumped in, “Nope, but I got somethin’ that’s a universal language!”
The
Frenchman took a side glance to Grandma Grizzly, noticing for the first time
her age, gender, and dress—enough to make anyone reassess their situation.
Daniel, however, convinced him to focus back on him.
“I speak
Norwegian. What seems to be the problem?”
“I
secured passage on this vessel under the impression that it would be taking me
to the United States of America. Yet now they inexplicably veered into one of
these accursed fjords. I demand that the captain honor the passage ticket and
return to the open sea in due course.”
For a
native Frenchman, his English had all the markings of good education, Daniel
noted. “And you would like me to ask Captain Isak why he deviates?”
“It does
not concern me in the slightest why he deviates, only that he returns to
course.”
“Then,
without needing to consult with the captain, I can tell you that in order for
the captain to honor the ticket of another of his passengers, he must enter
this fjord.”
The
Frenchman immediately furrowed his eyebrows with suspicion. “Qu'est-ce que
c'est?”
Daniel
used context to surmise the question. “You see, one of the tickets requires a
stop at the Mangekilder Fjord. As the ship will continue across the Atlantic
immediately following the stop, you will find your own ticket has not been
ignored. It will only take you some four or five hours off the several day
voyage to America.”
The eyes
of the Frenchman narrowed. “That is absurd. Why should a whole ship be
inconvenienced by one passenger?”
Grandma
Grizzly couldn’t help but jump in. “Mister, I don’t know how it is in Spain, or
wherever yer from, but if you cain’t handle a few hours delay, then ya
shouldn’t be goin’ to America.” Her arms settled comfortably across her body as
if she had just delved out Solomon’s best wisdom. She slipped a side comment to
Daniel, “The trains ain’t ever on time. Sometimes days late in the West.”
Daniel
hoped to avoid an ugly confrontation, so he tried, unsuccessfully, to usher
Grandma Grizzly to the exit.
“You make
an excellent point,” the man said, looking Grandma Grizzly markedly up and
down. He then turned up his nose and said with disdain, “And you also give, in
person, another convincing reason to not be going to America.” Daniel did not
miss the slight intended for his new friend, though it was lost on her. It
annoyed Daniel that the Frenchman would pass such a judgment on her, and it
irritated him further to see the Frenchman’s smirk of satisfaction upon seeing that
she did not even recognize the insult.
The man then
reasserted his gaze to Daniel “And I would ask you, sir, to kindly inform this
captain that if he will not immediately readjust his course, regardless of the
ticket of some provincial Norwegian, or savage American ancient—like this
buffoon here—then I will demand my money back.”
Now
the man was not only being irrational and offensive, Daniel thought, but he is
relishing it. Time for it to come to an end. “The ticket to Mangekilder Fjord is not for some
provincial Norwegian, nor is it for my friend here, who is no more buffoon than
you are a gentleman. The ticket is for me.”
The
Frenchman puffed out his cheeks and Daniel thrust again: “Furthermore, Monsieur
LeRoi, I doubt it will improve your reputation among potential investors to
know that you haggled on a passenger ship for a miniscule, but not unwarranted
delay.”
This
blow, the fact that Daniel knew the Frenchman’s name and something of his
business, remarkably left both the Frenchman and Grandma Grizzly speechless for
a moment. Captain Isak, a spectator up until this point, sensed the situation
under control and turned towards the bow.
The
pattering of rain on the roof filled the silence until a puffing LeRoi finally
spat: “How, how do you know …?”
Not to be
out-befuddled, Grandma Grizzly interjected, “Yeah, how do you know who he is?”
“I’m a
journalist,” Daniel replied, “It’s my job to know who comes making calls on the
Norwegian parliament. Even if that person is hardly of note, since he is more a
scam artist than businessman, trying to find naïve investors to throw away
money on paying off earlier financiers rather than paying for the funding of a
defunct company for building a canal across the Panama isthmus.”
LeRoi did
not respond with anything more than a hard stare.
“I’m
guessing that the Norwegians found you out rather quickly. Simple background
research would tell anyone as much. Now, at the edge of the European continent,
you hope to find some rich Americans, if not the American government, anyone
not aware of your reputation, to give you some security from your defaulting
loans.”
The
silence rested heavy on the bridge after Daniel’s accusation. LeRoi glared, and
Daniel received it. Finally, Grandma Grizzly exhaled, “Whoo-ee! I don’t know
about you, Spainyerd, but I’d say that’s a point fer America!”
LeRoi
finally moved, nodding his head for a moment of acceptance before turning on
his heel and remarking, “I believe the phrase is, ‘no comment.’” He paused for
a moment and then added, “But I shall have one for you someday.” A moment
later, he cleared the bridge. And before Daniel could relax, he got pelted on
his back by a sturdy, 70-plus year old hand.
“Next
time we’ll give you both a pair of six shooters and play it out western style!
Old Spainyerd’d be digestin’ lead ‘fore he hit the ground.”
“I’ll
stick to my journalism pen, and you stick to your …” Daniel gave a nervous
glance towards Grandma Grizzly’s holster. “Actually, maybe you should stick to
those knitting needles you mentioned earlier.”
The two
exited the bridge, though not before Captain Isak gave a noticeable nod back to
Daniel. LeRoi had made his way somewhere in the passenger berth amidships,
while Grandma Grizzly accompanied Daniel back towards the bow. “So, Mr.
Mysterious,” Grandma Grizzly said en route, “What’s yer business in the
Mawjkilldeer Feeyerd?”
Daniel
grinned at Grandma Grizzly’s butchering of the pronunciation. “I’m
investigating a Russian smuggling operation. Supposedly there is a contact in
the small town here where a Russian ship has been avoiding Oslo’s and
Stockholm’s customs for the past year or so, transferring goods to Norwegian
ships for some bribes and making a good profit.”
Grandma
Grizzly’s falcon eyes squinted. “Shoot, that sort a thing must happen all the
time. You not get very many good stories of late? Why, a washed up Panama Canal
prospector seems like it would be more worth yer time.”
“Well, I
do believe that canal will be built sooner or later, but not by LeRoi’s
company. He’s never even been to the isthmus, and he’s already used up most of
his investors’ money before even getting there. But this smuggling tip, I
believe, is actually a part of a bigger operation throughout the North and Baltic
Seas. If that’s true, then it has been undermining the American trade in the
region, since they pay full custom price.”
Grandma
Grizzly sighed. “Well, I guess it sounds like you know what’cher talkin’ ‘bout.
An’ you tellin’ me there are people interested in that sort a thing?”
Daniel
smiled. A huge portion of American commerce, government, and business would
find it crucial information, with half of Europe in an uproar. But to Grandma
Grizzly? “Naw,”
he shrugged, “but it pays for living.”
Grandma
Grizzly, about to reply, instead swung her head towards the new scenery as the
ship curved past a mouth in the fjord. Daniel followed her gaze and saw, for
the first time, the majesty of the interior of the Mangekilder Fjord.
Jagged
cliffs towered all around them, creating a rugged bowl ranging in size from
three to five miles wide, with small exits scattered throughout. Creating a
sense of motion to this otherwise static monument, waterfalls tumbled from
cliff face to cliff face in glorious free falls until sliding home to the sea
like steal knives embedding into deep blue sheaths. Vegetation, trees, and
wisps of clouds clung to the cliff faces in various elevations, hopelessly
isolated by the sheer scope of the scene they belonged to. It seemed to Daniel
that even the atmosphere adopted the beauty of the scene, mixing the mist from
the waterfalls with the crisp freshness of air cascading down the cliff faces
from regions so high up they held distinct temperate zones.
Across
the open space within the fjord, Daniel noticed a small island, resting in
front of the giant base of the cliff walls, dotted with trees and jutting
upwards with a small set of infant cliffs itself before leveling out into
plains that dipped softly into the sea. A thread of smoke rising out from
behind a clump of trees on the island indicated some sort of dwelling, and
Daniel wondered if there lay the town of his destination. But the boat hugged
the cliffs to their left, and so his vision panned that direction, and he soon
saw that the town must be hidden behind a jut of rock just in front of them.
Veering
around that point of rock, Daniel and Grandma Grizzly finally saw the small
town nestled up into a crook of cliff, houses climbing the sides of the sheer
wall with tiny, intersecting trails and small roads joining them to the main
buildings down by the water’s edge. These larger, commercial buildings pointed
in the direction of the town’s main pier, which should have been crawling out
into the fjord waters on the coastline immediately to their left.
But there
was no pier.
Daniel
and Grandma Grizzly both started as they saw, instead, at what looked to be a
small mount of ash-black, heaping chunks of rock and solidified mud spilling
out into the fjord waters. Confirming their suspicions of something amiss, the
small ship’s crew buzzed with a sudden display of confusion.
In a
moment, Captain Isak and a few other sailors joined Daniel and Grandma Grizzly,
since the bow afforded the best vantage point. The captain, hands on the
railing, as if using it to support more than just his body weight, breathed out
heavily. Daniel caught some of the captain’s mumblings to himself in Norwegian,
then Isak turned to Daniel and gave him pointed, emotional instructions before
turning back to the bridge, finding a place to anchor the ship while the crew
loosened the small side boats and prepared them to enter the water.
Daniel
stood for a moment, staring at the cliff face above the heaping mount. There he
clearly saw the gaping recess where once rock and cliff must have stood out
prominently. A spring of water trickled down the now open space, already
forming a new path in the jumbled pile of rocks and mud below. The spring water
and the weeks of non-remittent rain filled in the rest of the missing details for
the journalist.
“Hey,
Cowboy,” Grandma Grizzlie said, playful in words, but with subdued volume and
tone, “What’s goin’ on?”
“Landslide.
Took out the pier and most of the village’s business district,” Daniel said,
his voice as hollow as the hole in the cliff face in front of them.
Grandma
Grizzly adopted a gritty demeanor. “And what’da captain tell ya?”
“He said
to get ready. Said the town would need any supplies the ship had, and that they
would take the next couple of hours giving what aid they could.”
Pushing
up her sleeves, Grandma Grizzly replied, “Sounds good. Let’s go help!”
Not
wavering, Daniel said, “I was given specific instructions. Captain Isak told me
that in these next couple of hours, I was to get as much information about the
disaster as I could from the people. He’s postponing the trip across the
Atlantic and returning to Oslo so we can make a complete report of the tragedy
back at Oslo and send more help.”
Grandma
Grizzly nodded, gazed at Daniel for a moment, curiously, then said, “Well, you
stick to your journalism pen and I’ll stick to my … well, my Western toughness
and help unload.”
Daniel
couldn’t help but smile at the thought of this frail old woman mingling with
hardy sailors and unloading food and supplies. Even if she doesn’t have the
body for it, he
thought, she at least has the resolve.
Grandma
Grizzly started making her way towards the ship’s cargo area when she turned
and quipped, “Seems to me this won’t make that Spainyerd any happier to find
out he’s gonna head back to Oslo instead of the States. Guess it’s nice to find
some silver linin’ to this tragic mess.”
After two
hours in the local tavern, which had become the base of operations for those
trying to dig out remains from the landslide, Daniel started to feel exhausted
just from interviewing the somber individuals whose faces were smeared from
days of both tears and mud.
Four days
before, with evening just settling in, the landslide occurred. There had been
no warning and many people were at the pier since the day’s hauls in fish were
being unloaded and sold. They had not found, and now no longer expected to
find, any survivors. Now the men and women toiled at best for proper burials
for their family members.
Most of
the ships sank or were pulverized by the landslide while at or near the pier.
The surviving boats located a passing Icelandic ship, a couple days before.
That ship came and dropped off meager supplies before promising to inform Oslo.
Daniel calculated that the Icelandic ship would still be a day away from Oslo
at this time, and because it was an old sailing ship, contrary winds might keep
it from arriving for a day or two more, where their steamship would be able to
complete the trip in about the same time. In Oslo, some crews and digging
machines could be gathered to clean up the disaster, preparing the town to
rebuild the lost pier.
All of
this information, Daniel gathered as a faithful journalist, jotting down
particulars in a fresh notebook now filled with scribblings, but inside his
heart cried out for these people—people who could hardly contemplate a new pier
when they were still mourning the loss of family and friends.
Daniel
had come to love the stoic Norwegian people, strong descendants of Vikings, and
his mind filled with images of the Norwegian friends he had made already,
comparing them with these brave folks trading off with each other while
excavating for confirmation of their devastating losses.
And while
these images marched through his mind, one image came to the forefront and
remained there, stuck in his memory. The emotions the memory evoked overwhelmed
him with a strange, still unrecognizable, feeling. He struggled to focus
anymore in the stuffy, dimly-lit tavern.
Daniel
stepped outside into the brisk fjord air, with the sun beginning its descent
behind the northwestern cliff walls. The silhouette of his ship showed still
another round of boats loading up goods from the cargo, probably with lots of
meaningless words of supervision from Grandma Grizzly. This meant that Daniel
had at least another half an hour before leaving time. He wiped his mind clear
and his professional self decided to use this extra time for searching out any
snippet of information concerning his original purpose for coming.
Another
foray into the tavern rendered him nothing for twenty minutes. Though one
sullen man, who seemed relatively clean compared to the others, did give him a
strange look before quickly denying any knowledge of Russian ships. Finally, as
Daniel’s half an hour ran out, he found a burly man just coming in from a turn
of digging.
“Russian
ships?” he gazed at Daniel curiously, “Why do you ask?”
“I am
following some of their trade patterns for an article I’m writing. I’m a
newsman,” Daniel responded.
“Actually,
I have seen one coming by here for the past year off and on.”
Daniel
cocked his head. “How have you known about this and others here have not.”
“I spent
some time on a Russian icebreaker and I recognize the make of the ship as
Russian, though they never flew a flag. They also never used the pier. They
would enter at night, anchor a distance from town, and then leave in the
morning. I assumed they were fishing and didn’t want others to know they
weren’t Norwegian.”
Daniel’s
heart fluttered as he jotted furiously in his notebook. “Could you possibly
describe the boat?”
“No,” he
shook his head. Daniel deflated before the man continued, “I can do better. I
can show you the name of the ship.”
Daniel’s
eyes lit while the sailor explained, “Late one evening I returned to sea to
search for a missing net. As I passed the promontory here, I noticed the ship
close to shore. There was enough light left to catch the name on the stern. It
was Russian, which I don’t know well, but it was short and I remember enough. I
could probably draw the characters pretty close to what they were.”
Daniel
quickly offered his notepad, and the sailor, who clearly had little experience
with a pen, scrawled characters Daniel recognized as Russian across a blank
page. Once back in Oslo, he had a friend who could help him translate it,
giving him a lead into what could be his biggest story to date.
The
steamship’s whistle sounded, and Daniel thanked the sailor while grabbing his
materials, tossing them in his satchel, and rushing out to where the ship’s
boat awaited him. Upon returning to the ship, Daniel went forward while the
final preparations were made to get the ship ready for sea and the return to
Oslo.
Grandma
Grizzly joined him and the two discussed the events of the past couple hours. A
second whistle sounded, indicating readiness to head under way. The two
companions grabbed the railing in front of them to brace for the surge of the
engine, when someone shuffled up behind them.
“Spare a
sailor a smoke,” someone coughed in Norwegian. Daniel turned, seeing a man with
a sailor’s cap and heavy coat bowing his head.
“What’s
he askin’ fer?” Grandma Grizzly barked.
“A
smoke,” Daniel said, ready to refuse since he had none.
Grandma
Grizzly intervened, “Well, shoot! He can take a swig outta my pipe!” Her hand
drew out the ever-ready pipe from unknown pockets and thrust it toward the
crouching man.
The man’s
hand reached for the pipe, but it clattered to the ship’s deck. Daniel kneeled
to the ground at the same time as the sailor to help him recover it. There, in
that vulnerable position, he saw, too late, the flashing knife escape the man’s
overcoat and fly towards him.
In a
surreal moment, Daniel waited for the knife to enter his body and end his life,
but instead it came short, slashing at the strap of his satchel. Before Daniel
could even process what happened, he was shoved backward, knocking over Grandma
Grizzly in the process, and hearing footsteps race across the deck towards the
stern.
Daniel
stood up and watched as his satchel bounced on the back of the retreating
thief. “Stop him!” Daniel yelled desperately, “He stole my bag!”
But he
knew that the thief had made his getaway. Arriving at the back railing, Daniel
noticed a small fishing boat attached below, and with the steamship already
puttering forward, the man would be long gone by the time they could put any
effort into catching him, even if Captain Isak had been willing to delay his
mission to catch a petty thief.
The man
must have realized his success at the same time as Daniel, because he glanced back,
smiled, and with the hand not holding the satchel, took the pipe and placed it
between his lips. He gave a mocking salute before lifting his leg up to scale
the railing, just preparing himself to hop to his boat below.
Daniel
watched helpless before jumping at an ear-splitting cracking sound emanating
just to the side and behind him. Simultaneously, he saw the pipe in the thief’s
mouth disintegrate into nothing but a puff of splinters. The thief recoiled in
horror, hands to his face, falling to the deck of the ship.
Daniel
swiveled his head to the side and saw the smoking barrel of Grandma Grizzly’s
gun. Daniel stared at her in awe before barely managing to mutter, “That was an
impossible shot …”
Grandma
Grizzly grinned. “Well, it was a shame to waste such a good pipe, but I didn’t
think he oughta’ve been killed for a bit o’ harmless swipin’.”
Back at
the stern, the thief had regained some sense, though he still covered his face
with one hand while groping out with the other. In a moment, the hand grasped
the satchel, which it had momentarily dropped. While bereft of the strength or
orientation to stand up, he did heft it off the deck, hoping to toss it past
the railing and into the ocean.
Daniel
gasped at the thief’s audacity, which almost paid off. The satchel left the
deck, arcing past the railing, but at the last second, a form jumped out from
the passenger berth and with an outstretched cane handle, snagged the satchel’s
open pocket, rescuing it from a watery end.
Daniel
and Grandma Grizzly ran down to the stern, where Daniel, in astonishment,
accepted the satchel from the hands of no other than LeRoi. “Being told I am
not a gentleman strikes deeper than impending bankruptcy. I hope this alters
your opinion, if only slightly.”
“Well,
now, Monsieur LeRoi, I am the one in your debt,” Daniel said, humbled.
LeRoi
nodded, all sophistication, then reached down and grabbed the groveling thief,
escorting him, with the help of some approaching sailors, into the cargo hold
to be shackled. The crew cut loose the fishing boat just as the ship headed for
the fjord’s exit with the waning sunlight giving way to dusk.
Daniel
clasped the satchel in relief, while Grandma Grizzly remarked, “Of all the
things on this ship to snag, seems a silly thing to try stealin’ my pipe. Or
yer satchel fer that matter. Wouldn’t surprise me if the feller was Denmarkian
… they tend to do that.”
Daniel
shook his head and silently chuckled, while looking out over the mystical fjord
they were about to leave.
And then
he froze.
Across
the open water, in the exact same space where he had seen it so clearly only
hours earlier, Daniel gasped at what he couldn’t see. Where the disappearing
sunlight should reveal the silhouette of that picturesque island, there now lay
nothing but glassy, near black sea. For a few moments he wondered if he was
mistaken, but the more he considered it, the more he came to the same
impossible conclusion.
The
island had disappeared.
©2012 by Marty Reeder
Once
Upon a Fjord was funded, in part, through a Kickstarter campaign. This
chapter has been sponsored by Emily Prusso:
“Not to make
those of you who live in colder climes feel bad, but here is an honest
representation of the happiness this time of year in California makes me feel.
Like John Steinbeck said, it feels like spring six months of the year and we
are in the thick of our six-month spring. The blossoms are blooming, the
oranges are sweet and cold, the chickens are laying, and the hills—despite the
dry year—are finally shading green.
We spend as much
time outside as possible. Riding bikes, working in the yard, soaking the sun.
*sigh*
California…it’s like a magic word.”
Sponsor
had no editorial control over the chapter content, for which the author alone
is responsible.