The Klipfish Code (10 page)

"Please," he repeated. "Help me."

Marit opened her mouth, but her throat had gone dry.

Branches rustled and a gloved hand pushed away the lowest snow-covered branch. A man rose up on his elbow
from the ground, just enough for her to see his face. "I'm N-n-norwegian." Beneath a navy wool cap, just like Bestefar's, his cheeks were tinged white from frostbite. As he spoke, his teeth chattered. Certain now that he was in no condition to harm her, Marit pressed closer so she could better make out his words. As she did, he flopped back, groaned, and disappeared beneath the branches.

With a quick glance around to make sure no one was coming up the path from behind her, Marit pushed the branches aside and gasped. The man's right leg ended in a mass of mangled leather and flesh. Above his injured foot, a leather belt was cinched tight around his shredded and bloody pants leg.

"Oh—what happened to you?"

"They shot ... our boat. Sank us."

"Us? Who?"

"Resistance. F-f-ive of us," he stammered through bluish gray lips.

"And the others? Where are they now?"

His nostrils flared and he looked away.

She couldn't get involved.
Turn. Run away now.
If he was indeed a Resistance fighter and the Germans found her helping him, Marit would be taken away. Perhaps Lars, too. "I need to go home."

The man opened his eyes. "I've been here ... since ... since last night. Help me ... finish."

"Finish what? What do you need to finish?"

"Mission—f-for Norway."

Every moment that she lingered drew her into his fate. And if she helped him, she would be putting not only herself at great risk. Stories she'd heard from the islanders flashed through her mind. Whole families removed in the middle of the night, whole villages bombed beyond recognition, simply because one person was caught helping the Resistance. She remembered the warning posted on Bestefar's boat: "You shall not in any way give shelter to or aid the enemy. To do so is punishable by death."

Marit shook her head. "
Nei,
I'm sorry. I can't. I can't. It's too dangerous."

Trembling, she backed onto the path, turned, and began retracing her steps. Sunlight glinted off the sea and snow-crested mountains, piercing her eyes. She stopped. If she left him, he would die. If she helped him, others' lives would be at risk. She remembered Pastor Ecklund's pale face when he chose to step down from the pulpit, and his words: "We will not be under the Nazis' authority—only God's."

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.

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 that 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."