The Klipfish Code

by Mary Casanova

  Her own words to Bestefar taunted her. "If no one fights back, then what will happen?" How easy it was to accuse Bestefar of being cowardly. How easy words were!

  She could almost taste the bitterness of risk.

  In war, nothing was simple.

  Head down, she studied her leather boots and her red wool socks protruding through the toe holes. Another reminder of the war. With leather so difficult to come by, she hadn't been able to replace the boots she'd outgrown. She'd cut the holes so her toes had a little more room. It was either that or Aunt Ingeborg's jam money to buy boots made from fish skin, and Marit had refused to let her aunt waste her money on such things. "I would rather wait until times get better," Marit had said. And when would that be if Norwegians didn't fight back? Her toes were damp from the melting snow and turning numb with cold. If her toes were cold, he must be nearly frozen.

  The path wound down at an angle in the direction of the farm, but from where she stood, the ocean was only a stone's toss away. Below her, the rocky beach was empty. The man was badly wounded, and she doubted he could walk all the way to the road. If he could slide down the short slope to the water below, she might be able to meet him and row him somewhere safer.

  With a deep breath, Marit turned.

  Snow crunched beneath her boots as she headed uphill again to the soldier. She scanned the empty trail, pushed back a cedar branch and found him.

  His eyes were half-closed and his breaths rose and fell in wheezes. Frost lined his jacket collar and the rim of his cap. If his boat was shot at, then he must have swum to shore and climbed here.

  Marit cleared her throat, hoping to draw his attention. "How can I help?"

  He didn't answer.

  She knelt closer to his shoulder until the branches swooped back over her, hiding them both. She kept her eyes on his face, trying to avoid his mangled foot. She tapped his chest. No answer. She tapped him again. "I'll help you, but you must tell me what to do."

  He lay there, unresponsive.

  First, she needed to get him warm. But how would she move him? She would ask Bestefar. Nei. She shook her head. He'd likely report the Resistance soldier to the Nazi headquarters—just to play it safe.

  Marit considered her options. She could hide the man somewhere near the farm and tend to him in secret until he recovered. The root cellar, or the loft, perhaps. But she couldn't possibly move him by herself. Hanna? Maybe she could help. But then Marit would be involving her friend and putting Hanna's whole family at risk as well.

  With the force of breaking ice on a water trough, she thumped the man's chest. "You must—wake—up!"

  He moaned. "Mor..."

  "No, I'm not your mother. And I'm going to need your help."

  She removed her mittens, reached for his closest hand, worked off his frozen, bloodstained gloves, then placed his icy hand between her warm bare hands. His teeth began chattering again. After a time she put his hand back in his glove and placed her palms on either side of his face and held them there until his eyes opened in panic. "Compass," he said, "I need ... to get—"

  "First, you have to survive. Now sit up. Can you do that?"

  Face contorted, he rose to his elbow. Marit felt horrible, for making him suffer more pain. "Can you get down the hill to the shore?" She pointed at an angle to where the distance between the tree and water was shortest. "You could lie on your back and slide down much of the way."

  He nodded, but his eyes were glassy and distant.

  Marit was formulating a plan as she talked, and tried to sound confident so he'd trust her. "The sun will be down soon, in less than an hour. There's a house-to-house search going on for radios sometime today, so I doubt the waters will be watched as closely. If you can manage to get yourself down to the water, I could row by—"

  "You'd attract at-t-t..."

  "Attention?" She shook her head. "I don't think so. I've been rowing before. The soldiers at the lighthouse don't even see me anymore. Just be there. Somehow, I'll help you to a place where you can hide. You'll have to crawl a short distance to the barn."

  He answered by shutting his eyes. His life, it appeared, was a skiff drifting farther and farther out to sea.

  "Don't die on me! I can't carry you, and I refuse to get anyone else involved. Just be there, near the shore, just after the sun sets. You'll have to climb in the rowboat. I'll bring a dyne to cover you."

  "Dyne?"

  "Ja."

  "Warm."

  "That's right." Marit peeked out through the branches. The trail was free of other hikers. She slipped back onto the path and started toward home, behaving as naturally as she could, trying to calm her flurry of emotions. She hoped no one would notice her tracks, but there was no way to hide them now. She would steal the rowboat from the boathouse, row past the lighthouse as the shadows deepened, and meet this wounded soldier on the shore.

  If he was there.

  She would wait no longer than a minute. One minute—she'd count it out—and not a second longer. After that, if he wasn't there, she would be forced to leave him to his own fate.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Kraken

  Marit shouldered the farmhouse door, and removing her mittens, headed straight to the washbasin. Her bloodstained hands tinted the water pink.

  "You're back!" Lars said, skipping from the living room.

  Marit glanced over her shoulder.

  Under his arm, Lars carried Tekopp, who by now was far larger than his namesake and struggled to break free.

  "Where were you? You were gone so long! Bestefar wasn't happy that you were gone."

  "I had to take a walk, that's all." She deftly dumped the washbasin water down the drain and dried her hands on a towel.

  A pot sat on the cookstove and the room was filled with the smell of cod, thinned milk, and potatoes. Marit lifted the lid. "Bestefar made stew?" she whispered, amazed.

  "Ja, and I helped cut the potatoes," Lars said, hands on his hips. "We ate already."

  "Huh. And Aunt Ingeborg thought he couldn't cook for himself."

  "Don't worry. She'll be back, Marit."

  Her heart stuck in her throat. "I'm sure she will."

  At the smells, Marit's stomach grumbled. But the soldier must be far hungrier. And he needed something hot in his belly. If she could manage to hide him, then she could sneak warm food to him. She ladled a bowl of soup for herself, sat down, and ate quickly.

  "You shouldn't hike alone," Lars said. "That's what Bestefar says."

  She had no time for small talk.

  "He said it's dangerous with so many soldiers on the island."

  Marit refused to meet his eyes. If Bestefar only knew. "Where is he?" she asked.

  "Fishing. He said he'd be back before dark."

  "I-I want to row before it gets dark, too."

  Lars slid in his socks across the wood floor.

  "Careful," Marit warned. "You might get a sliver."

  "Marit," he said and slid again, "I want to go, too."

  "Nei, Lars. You stay here. Take care of Tekopp."

  He planted himself in the center of the kitchen and crossed his arms over his chest. His chin puckered. Marit knew the look. "Marit," he said, holding his voice firm, "please!"

  Marit moved to the kitchen window, eased back an edge of the room-darkening paper, and gazed outside. The sun was low. She must leave soon, before her grandfather returned. She struggled to think up an excuse to keep Lars from coming along. "It's pretty cold, Lars. Are you sure?"

  "I've been inside all afternoon. Aunt Ingeborg always said it's good to get fresh air."

  She pushed the paper back in place. "All right then—a short trip before it gets dark. There's safety in numbers, right? Isn't that what she said, too?" Marit told him in a rush, pushing away from the table.

  He smiled and nodded vigorously.

  She was uncertain about the outcome, but she was forced to take Lars along. "Let's go!" Before they passed the barn, Marit had an idea. "Let's get tha
t wool blanket from the loft."

  "But the soldier took it, remember?" He scrunched up his face at her as if she'd lost her mind.

  "The soldier? Oh, right. The German soldier at the lighthouse..."

  Her mind was tangled. Too many lines in the water.

  "Besides, why do we need a blanket?" Lars asked. "Did you find another seal pup?"

  She thought of the Resistance soldier. Hardly a seal pup. "No," she said. "To help you keep warm."

  He shook his head vigorously and stood taller. "I'm fine. I won't get cold. I'm not a baby, Marit. I don't need a blanket."

  "Oh, no, I was thinking, um, for Tekopp. Maybe he wants to go for a boat ride with us. You could go find him and bring him along. He'd like that, don't you think?"

  His eyes widened. Without a word, he ran back to the house and returned with Tekopp, wrapped up in their puffy dyne. "Aunt Ingeborg wouldn't want this outside."

  "I know. We'll be careful."

  The Resistance soldier would be a fool to climb into a rescue boat with two kids and a cat. But she had promised she'd be there. She had no choice, and she doubted he had other choices.

  In the lengthening shadows, they headed down the road to the boathouse.

  To Marit's relief, Bestefar's trawler had not yet returned. She poked her head into his boathouse and was met with the smells of oil, decaying rope, old barrels, and fish. Assured that her grandfather was nowhere near, Marit stepped to the rowboat.

  The sun shot a fireball of red across the water. Marit breathed in deeply, hoping for courage, then she lifted the rowboat's bow and pushed. The stern eased onto the water as she held the bow. "Climb in."

  Carefully, with his overly bundled cat, Lars crawled over the middle seat to the stern, a big smile on his face. "Let's be Vikings! Let's hunt down the kraken!"

  "Why would we want to find a sea monster?" Marit asked, hoping to keep his mind occupied.

  "We could tame it. Make it our pet! And then it would protect us, even when Mama and Papa are far away." Perched on his seat, with the dyne covering his knees, Lars snuggled his face into Tekopp's amber fur.

  "Sure," Marit said. "We can pretend."

  The water glittered dark with rubies as Marit rowed. They headed from the harbor to the lighthouse, but this time she kept rowing past the end of the peninsula. Two German soldiers huddled beside the lighthouse, out of the wind, their cigarettes glowing.

  One of them looked up as they rowed past. He must have decided they looked harmless, and shaped carefree smoke rings that floated up, circle after circle, and disappeared in the air.

  "Marit," Lars whispered, "we're not supposed to go past the breakwater. Are we really looking for sea monsters?"

  "We are."

  Off toward the open water, porpoises arced, diving in and out of the gray waves. "See them?" she asked.

  As Lars turned, the porpoises skimmed the surface, dived, and were gone. His jaw slackened. "Sea monsters!" he whispered, with enough awe in his voice that Marit didn't know if he was playing along or truly believing in impossible creatures.

  "Ja," Marit said, leaning toward him. "And they may have injured a Viking long ago somewhere along the coast. If we find someone, we must be very quiet and help him."

  "A Viking?"

  Marit nodded. "He may not look like a Viking. They don't always wear their metal helmets or carry long swords. But he would speak Norwegian, just like us."

  "Keep watch, Tekopp," Lars said, "a Viking."

  Beneath the water, boulders lay visible and some broke from the water. Marit rowed closer to shore, careful to avoid rocks that could rip open the bottom of their wooden boat or hold it fast in place like a beached sea turtle. They rounded a bend and reached the beach where trees met the shoreline.

  Marit began to sing aloud, "Oh, Viking, Viking, where are you?"

  Lars looked at her with an expression of wonder and respect.

  Rowing parallel to the shore, well beyond the lighthouse and its guards, Marit sang out again, "Oh, Viking, Viking, where are you?"

  A flock of oystercatchers worked the beach, poking their orange pencil beaks in and out of crevices. Again she sang out and glided forward. A few of the birds, their black-and-white feathers sharply contrasting with the gray light, scuttled away from her approaching boat.

  A haze of movement caught her attention. Onshore, easing from behind a boulder, the injured Resistance soldier stumbled toward them, his face milky white. Bent nearly in half, he hobbled toward the water with the use of a stout stick.

  Lars gasped but—thankfully—didn't scream. "Marit! He's hurt!"

  "Don't say a word," Marit ordered. "That's our Viking ... injured many years ago by the kraken, and now we must rescue him."

  Lars stared at the creature hobbling toward their boat. "He doesn't look big enough to be a Viking."

  "Well, not all Vikings are huge."

  Marit rowed quickly—pull, pull, pull—until the bow just touched the shore. The soldier tumbled headfirst into the boat with a grunt, and then curled into a ball on the floor between them.

  "We must hide him," she said.

  Lars put Tekopp beside him on the seat, and then spread the dyne over the soldier. "His foot. He's hurt bad," he whispered.

  "Ja," Marit replied. "And we must keep him a secret."

  Marit studied the mound and looked at Lars. This wouldn't work. If they rowed back like this, the soldiers would know they'd picked up something, or somebody, along the way. How stupid could she be? Why had she ever agreed to help?

  "Lars, the kraken is still searching for this Viking—and for little boys—to gobble up. And right now, it's very important that you hide under the dyne, too."

  He made a face and shook his head. "Nei."

  "Don't worry, this man won't hurt you."

  Lars pulled in his lower lip, a sign he was getting ready to debate.

  "I'm serious, Lars!" she cried, and then tried to act less demanding. "Please," she begged in a softer voice, "do as I ask, and if anyone stops us, don't say a word. Pretend you're sleeping."

  Reluctantly, with Tekopp, he crawled under the edge of the dyne and disappeared. The mound at the bottom of the boat was large, but Marit hoped it would go unnoticed.

  Then, with a silent prayer for their safety, she began rowing back. The rowing was harder now, and though the breeze had died, the sea worked against her in swells. She pulled her elbows back against the darkening waters. Sweat formed on the back of her neck and down her spine. As she neared the lighthouse, she glanced over her shoulder to stay on course. She didn't want to get closer to the lighthouse than necessary, but she didn't want a current to sweep her farther out into the bay, either.

  "Fräulein, where is your brother?" a soldier called out, startling her to her toes. Marit recognized his voice. He was the German soldier who had come to investigate the seal pup onshore. She hadn't expected the soldiers at the lighthouse to think it was out of the ordinary for her to be rowing. His question unnerved her, but she forced herself to remain calm.

  She let go of the oars, pointed to the mound at her feet, and bent her head against folded hands, hoping he would get her silent message.

  The soldier nodded. "Oh, sleeping!"

  She nodded and returned to rowing, but the guard held up his hand and motioned to the cove beside the breakwater. "Stop. No farther tonight."

  Marit held the oars above the water. Her heart stopped.

  "Soldiers are searching the island. You could get shot on the water. Pull your boat to shore and walk home from here."

  So that was why he'd commanded her to stop. Her heart started beating again. She knew she couldn't argue. She pointed the boat into the cove. Would he come and take the dyne? Her plan to help the Resistance soldier was unraveling. She was a fool, and not only had she put herself in danger, but now she risked her brother's life and the Resistance soldier's, too. It was just a matter of moments before they would all be found out. She was practically delivering the wounded soldier into N
azi hands.

  The boat nudged against the shore. The sun had set, and shadows and darkness merged. Shaking, sweat running along her spine, she climbed from the bow and with more strength than she knew she possessed, pulled the weighted boat onto the shoreline.

  At the lighthouse, the German soldier faced the shore, watching them.

  "Come, Lars," she said, pretending to shake him awake. "Climb out of the boat." He emerged, his face full of questions. She held her forefinger to her lips.

  A risky idea came to her. Extremely risky, but the only thing she could think of. Earlier, the soldier had said they needed more blankets. If she could distract him, then the wounded soldier might have a chance to escape without being seen.

  "Lars, wait here by the boat for me. And don't say a word."

  Lars nodded, with Tekopp nestled under his chin.

  Marit pulled the dyne off the wounded soldier, whose eyes widened in alarm. She whispered, "In a moment, I'll distract the guards at the lighthouse. When I do, head north to the pasture. You'll see the barn and you can hide in the loft. It's dark enough—they may not see you cross the field." Then she pointed with her head toward the barn. At first he didn't move. Had he lost his hearing? If he couldn't get out of the boat, then what was she to do?

  To her relief, he nodded.

  "I'll meet you there when I can," she said, then turned to Lars. "Wait here for me."

  "But Marit—it's getting dark!" With the situation so confusing and alarming, perhaps that's all he could think to say.

  She gave him a kiss on the top of his head, something Mama would have done to reassure him. "I'll be right back."

  The fluffy dyne filled her arms and she carried it along the shore, across the narrow cement breakwater—careful not to slip into the freezing waters on either side—all the way out to the lighthouse where the two soldiers watched. With each step, her legs weakened. Was she walking into her own trap? She wanted to run and get away from the soldiers, but she willed herself to slow down and walk calmly—stretching out time as much as possible to help the Norwegian soldier escape. Her whole being quaked, yet Marit held out the offering. She hoped that it wouldn't be bloodstained from the soldier's wounds. That might lead to another round of questions. She forced an outer calmness and vowed to keep her mouth shut. Not a word.