For several weeks he worried and fretted, and delayed replying to his high priest. “What good have I done with the money, or with my years in Myra?” he thought. One day Nicholas made a decision. He made sure that no one was watching and he dug up the hidden money and took it with him when he carried fruit and vegetables to the hut of the widow and her daughters. That morning there was no-one in the hut. He carefully hid the money in a large cabbage. There was enough for three dowries.
Later that day, Nicholas was arrested. The officials had brought spades and they searched his house and dug outside looking for money, but found nothing. Nicholas was thrown into the town prison with thieves and sailors and violent men. He spoke to them about his faith and God, and they listened quietly without the mockery which he expected. One evening a sailor told him how from another ship in great peril he had seen the merchant’s vessel strike rocks by a small islet, and begin to break up. But perhaps some of the crew had been swept onto the island. The wreck had happened near a notorious pirate’s stronghold at Olympus. Nicholas listened and wondered if the merchant might, after all, have survived. He prayed that he had.
Months passed. The officials offered to sell Nicholas his freedom but he could tell them truthfully that he had no money. Meanwhile Nicholas wrote to his high priest with his modest report, and awaited trial.
Now and then small presents arrived for Nicholas without any explanation, and he shared these with the other prisoners. News from the town filtered to the prison, and one day Nicholas heard that the three beautiful daughters had married at a triple wedding.
The day eventually came for his trial, and he was taken into court, blinking in the bright light. The prosecutor described how Nicholas had continued to profess a heretical faith and demanded the most severe punishment. When Nicholas tried to speak and describe his faith to the court, the prosecutor went scarlet with rage, and a giant official covered Nicholas’s mouth. The judge adjourned the court, but just then there was a stir, and a richly-dressed tall man entered with bold black eyebrows. A woman in the crowd cried out and rushed to him. The merchant was alive, back from the sea!
He had been washed onto an islet, where he was captured by pirates and chained to a bench as a galley-slave. After weeks of rowing, beatings and great hardship, the pirates were surprised by the fleet of the new ruler of the Province and the pirates and rowers were all captured and taken to Antalya. On landing bystanders had mistaken the merchant for their new ruler in disguise because of his black eyebrows and arrogant nose. The merchant’s features were so similar that he was taken to the palace, and eventually discovered to be the ruler’s younger brother, kidnapped as a baby. He was given gifts and eventually appointed Governor of Myra.
So Nicholas was freed, the merchant helped him to build a proper meeting place, and in due time he became a bishop. Later the three dowries began the tradition of giving presents at Christmas-time. Today the church which Baba Noel built still stands, and to enter it you go past Nicholas’ statue through a shady garden. The statue shows three little girls clutching his robes while on his shoulder sits a robin, but that, best beloved, is another story.
MAGEROYA ISLAND - DECEMBER
My dears, now my family has grown up it is lovely to have two nieces in the house. You asked about that big Christmas card showing three fat cows. It is from an old friend and I’ll tell you about it as your bedtime story.
One harsh winter long ago your grandfather was mayor here while I was a teenager. There was a knock at the door late one night and when I opened it a very tall young man I just recognised stood in the doorway.
“Is your father at home, Oddweg?” “Where else would he be at such a black time, Olaf?” I replied. “He’s in the kitchen. Come in.”
The young man ducked under the lintel and entered the kitchen. He greeted father and then looked at me. Father sucked on his pipe and after a long pause said “Oddweg dear, could you leave us to talk.” I blushed and went to my room, slightly upset. I could hear murmuring, then later the door slammed and father called up. “Oddweg, please come downstairs.”
In the kitchen, he motioned me to sit down. “My dear, I need to ask for help. Olaf has brought news, news that must go no further. You have a friend in Gjesvaer? I think your schoolfriend Amalie, named after the writer, teaches there?” “Yes, father.” He sighed. “Yesterday one of the Gjesvaer boats almost ran over a floating wreck. Two men were on board who said two others had washed over the side. The fishermen towed the remains into harbour and the men said they must not be seen by the Germans. So they took them to an empty house along the coast and fed and warmed them. The men are ill. They only say that their engine broke down a week ago and the recent gale blew them north-east for a hundred and fifty hours. One speaks like a southerner and the other may not be Norwegian at all. Olaf thinks they have been part of the Orkney Bus. You have heard me talk about the Bus. We must hide them. I cannot leave Honningsvag – the commandant would want to know why - but you could visit Amalie and if questioned say that she has been unwell and you will help with the teaching.”
“But what can I do?” “In Gjaesvaer you can arrange care for the strangers, and try to make sure that they are genuine. My dear, I would go if I could, and it may indeed be dangerous if they are not what they seem. Fortunately the Gjaesvaer people are true with never a Quisling among them, but there are always weak people who talk too easily, so be very careful and discreet.”
“And how will you manage without me? I may be gone several days?” “Dear Oddweg, your old father has learned a few tricks since your mother died – I can boil an egg and cook a fish. Not as well as you do, but well enough.”
When I set off I had the benefit of starlight and an hour’s bright display of Northern Lights. I cycled the old track to Gjaesvaer because there was no proper road then. Amalie had just finished teaching the infants’ class when I arrived. She welcomed me in and told me the men had improved, had slept, and had eaten. She nodded when I told her that I had come prepared to replace her at the school on the pretext that she might not be feeling well. “I’ll take a few days off and you can teach.” she said. “The children have been told nothing about our visitors.”
Amalie and I walked to the strangers’ house, a building which was only used during the main fishing seasons. It was sturdy enough and protected from west and north by a great rock. The ground was sodden underfoot, and the skerries offshore disappeared and re-emerged as the waves thundered over them.
The two men were haggard, dirty, and anxious. “Who are you? Nobody has told us where we are.” they demanded. “I’m Oddweg, a friend of Amalie’s from Honningsvag” I said. “Honningsvag? In the very far north? Beyond the Lofotens?” “Yes – almost as far north as our land reaches.” I replied. Cautiously I added “Amalie teaches here and I am her friend. Honningsvag is larger and an administrative centre” I added with slight emphasis. “It has a garrison, warships in the harbour, and on many nights we hear the planes go over searching for the Murmansk convoys.” The men looked at each other. “Oddweg’s father is the mayor.” said Amalie quietly.
“We do not wish to meet Germans.” they replied. “If our boat can be repaired, and we can pay well for that, we will journey south again.” “Now that you know our names” said Amalie, “what are yours?” “Torgai and Kjell.”
By then I was certain that these two were genuine. Amalie and I told them to remain inside and that we would provide more food. There was fuel in the house, and the village engineer had already looked at their boat and its engine, but thought them beyond repair. They were fairly safe. German patrols scarcely ever came to this small fishing village and if one approached we would send warning.
After a few days they both recovered, and it was obvious that the engine was completely broken and the boat damaged beyond repair. I went home to Father, who was pleased to hear my news and also to have a change of diet from boiled fish and eggs. He started planning for the two to be taken south from one safe house to the
next while their vessel was quietly taken to sea and scuttled. On the way Torgai and Kjell spent one night at our house in Honningswag, and from the windows we could see the German ships and hear the ratings singing as they reeled on board after drinking in the town. Our two guests left very early on a small fishing boat going down Porsangerfjord towards Hammerfest. I never knew the details – it was safer not to – and we had a number of anxious days in case there was news of their capture, but eventually we breathed easily.
So that was my biggest adventure during the war and it was how I met Torgai who sent the card. After peace arrived he visited us to tell me about his farm near Bergen, and he even asked me to marry him. He was a very good-looking man and my father favoured him. I even went to Bergen and met his mother, but I found that I missed this island and my friends so much that I knew I couldn’t settle in the busy south. I also knew that Torgai wanted to farm and tend cows and sheep in rich pastures, and that he would not leave his farm and his mother for our wild barren hills. So I came home to Honningsvag, and a few years later met your uncle Olaf again and married him, and our three lively children were the result. As a girl my heart had fluttered a little when I thought of Torgai, a real handsome hero, crossing from our coast to Shetland and back in those small fishing boats to provide information to the Allies. But when it came to deciding about marriage I wanted to stay here with our long summer days, the Northern Lights, my familiar friends and people, and even with my aged father. Torgai married and has a family, and every year we exchange Christmas cards.
So although I expect you to go to college or university or sail the seven seas, remember that many people find happiness close to home. I was seventeen when my father was visited by a young man with important news one night, and I had no idea that eventually that young man and I would find we were made for each other. He was then just a lad known as Olaf the Tall. So off to bed now, and don’t read for more than a few minutes. And tomorrow I’ll tell you the story behind another of our Christmas cards.
A FIRST DAY ON THE SLOPES
Matthew stirred and felt the pistol under his pillow. He looked at his watch. The room was too hot and his feet protruded far beyond the duvet. Beds were rarely long enough. Through the window the skyline was faintly seen, the snowy hills almost black. Small pairs of lights belonged to a distant piste-basher. His boss had boomed “I’m sending you for part back-up, part holiday – you need a break after the fuzzy-wuzzies. The President’s daughter will be where you are going with a thoroughly unsuitable boyfriend. He’s from the Middle East, his father has been made a peer and is a major party donor, and people are gunning for the young man from both ends of the extremist spectrum. He has dodgy friends and unfortunately is a British citizen so we have to protect him. We’ve staff to do that. You are to keep your distance in the Alps but be ready to provide extra cover if necessary. Amanda will be your senior and brief you. Put out of mind what happened in those other mountains. Have a good Christmas.”
He slept on the ferry while the first heavy snows reached in the Alps, and then drove non-stop across France. At Aime in the Val d’Isere the mountain road signs demanded snow chains, but the Audi’s deep treads and winter tyres plus soft hands on the wheel took him up 18 kilometres of corkscrew road to Belle Plagne. The outside temperature fell steadily as he rose but the tyres gripped without slipping. Nevertheless he was relieved to turn into the underground car park below the apartments. That evening he again noted how severe tiredness helped him to blot out the images of Kabul and the high valleys, only to return unbidden when he relaxed.
The shower was scalding until he found the right mix. Shaving, he glowered at his grey sideburns. His ski clothes were baggy enough to have big pockets, whose contents he checked carefully. Standing in deep footsteps outside, he watched the road-clearing tractors push piles of snow in front of the apartments. Breakfast in the dining room did not overstretch his French, after which he walked to the ski office and bought a combined Paradiski pass covering both Plagne and Les Arcs areas. The plastic pass, the size of a credit-card, was for an inside pocket from which it would automatically send a message to open ski-lift turnstiles. And perhaps allow, he thought, someone to know where he was at any time.
He retrieved skis and boots from the apartment locker room, checked his bindings and ran down to Plagne Bellecote which had opened after the winter’s first good snowfall. The snow was perfect, soft and deep, and the resort almost empty in the week before Christmas. Skiing rhythms returned to his leg muscles but he remembered how fresh snow on the piste flatters everyone. Deep heavy snow or ice would be the real tests. The Arpette chair-lift sped him, alone with five empty seats, to a height of nearly 2400 metres. The sky was blue, a brilliant winter sun shone, and at the top he caught his breath – two valleys away loomed Mont Blanc, white and majestic, shoulders above the other peaks, while below him thin wispy cloud masked the Isere valley.
As he stood picking out the landmarks and the line of the Italian border a slim dark figure, anonymous with a big hat and sun glasses, approached from the top of the lift. “Bonjour Harry” it said, slight beside his tall bulk. “Bonjour. How did you know I would not speed off down?” he demanded. “They say you’re an old softie - bound to stop and admire any beauty, but especially a mountain view.” she said. “I’ll race you down.”
Despite his greater weight and longer skis, she kept well ahead all the way to Plagne Bellecote where she pointed her arm and skied over to the Telecabine. “It’s open to Belle Plagne and they’ll be sending a few gondolas up to Roche de Mio. I’ll ask the engineer to let us go.” Fifteen minutes later they were rising up the almost vertical face of the mountain. “You know this resort well?” he asked. She nodded “I had several weeks here in ‘01. There are no difficult runs but it’s good for medium skiers. From the top there is a long gentle run behind the ridge, through a tunnel, and back to Belle Plagne. We shall have to walk through the tunnel – they won’t have filled it with snow yet.”
At the top both admired the views of Bellecote peak and Mont Blanc, and the jagged rows of summits across the Alps. Then she turned – “Follow me.” Four minutes later they stopped at the entrance to the tunnel. As predicted no snow had been shovelled inside. Carrying skis, they walked into the gloom. Halfway through she stopped. “I think this is one place where we are free from surveillance.” she said. “There must be more to this project than we know. A President’s indiscrete daughter with a well-connected Arab in attendance does not explain why we are here. And I don’t know who may listen to us or how. For any important message use code or notes or speak to me here. Always use my cover name.”
They walked on and replaced skis. He followed the virgin well-marked piste while she took the short straight route down the mountain to rejoin the Arpette runs, powder snow flying at each turn. They swept past his apartment and the Belle Plagne hotels. At Plagne Bellecote she said – “Become familiar with the mountain and the runs today.” and disappeared into the shopping area.
“Holiday forsooth,” he grunted – dropping into the old-fashioned speech which he knew he adopted when irritated. “Make myself familiar with a coffee shop first, and a brandy.” He propped his skis in the rack beside a café and went inside. A stocky young man strolling through the village changed direction.
The young man pushed open the door and looked around. Matthew sat in a corner of the café away from the window facing the room. The man collected a drink, walked to the next table, and as if on impulse said “Pardon” and sat down at Matthew’s table. “Bon Jour” in an American accent. “Are you British?” Mathew nodded. “Somehow I thought so. I’d like to request your help.” He waited while Matthew watched him without smiling. “I’m taking time out from college and have been asked to collect information for an Ivy League Ski Guide. La Plagne is one of my projects. Do you know it well? May I ask you some questions about it?” Matthew stirred his coffee. “I can’t really help. I arrived yesterday. The information office ought to be open �
�� they should be able to assist” He drank the small cup of dark liquid with one gulp, followed it with the brandy and stood up. “I hope you find your facts.” He smiled and left. The young man felt that he had rarely seen a colder smile. “Bloody limey” he remarked softly to himself.
Matthew explored the lifts and runs to and from Plagne Centre. There were no queues for the lifts – “Millionaire’s skiing” he muttered. But many lifts and pistes had not yet opened, and among these the runs and lifts to the village of Plagne Montalbert were closed. He made a note to check them tomorrow and also the hillsides to Montchavin plus the Vanoise Express cable car to Les Arcs so that he knew the entries and exits for the whole skiing area. The winding mountain road was not necessarily the route by which trouble might arrive or wish to leave.
The sun dipped below the hills, temperature dropped, and just before 4.15 PM he reached the bottom of the Arpette lift which would take him to the top of the ridge again ready to ski back down to his apartment. The lift was running, its chairs rising steadily up towards the ridge but the attendant looked at him and said “Ferme”. Matthew shook his head and tapped his watch. After a short conversation into his mobile phone the attendant waved Matthew onto a chair.
The lift took him almost vertically up out of the valley and over trees. Above the treeline the snow lay unbroken apart from the tracks on the piste and a very few dark and stick-like figures descending. The air was still and the waxing moon hung to his right. Unbidden his thoughts returned to the Afghan village – just such a moon had lit that valley. He again saw houses and farmstead reduced to rubble – and once again stumbled along the track hoping to find survivors.
Wrenching his thoughts back, the top of the lift was now in sight but he was not yet high enough to see Mont Blanc. He would enjoy the run back – it was always good to have the mountain to oneself. As the lift stopped suddenly and the chair swung he thought of supper and where he should meet Amanda.
Barnabas Tales Page 11
