THE MERCIFUL SAMARAI

There, behind large stone lay a canoe of the best indian brand ...

Spring 1948, was talked about many years later. It was the heavy rain we had in the first week of April, which always was highlighted and commented when we men sat around the coffee table to Uncle Anton and concerned us over dry summers, scorched cornfields and salmon that were trapped in Prest Hølen. It rained without interruption for four days and five nights and Lygna came on par with giants like the Nile and Mississippi.

The entire Cat Nes, Sandøydna and lower end at Node Nes was flooded, and the father was glad that we had neither plowed or had time to spread out fertilizer on these fields. Now we let away the expense, for flood waters carried minerals enough - so the Nile in its abundance bless Goshen.

But a major cleanup work was for the father and mother with horse and carriage, and excitement for two minor "ashlads" on search, for the river left after all kinds of domestic utensils from Snartemo and south. Yes, in Cat Nes so it almost seems that an assorted woodshed with sawhorse and cut walk a had come drifting.

The big warp did we get two days after rain nights. Then we managed, unseen by supervisory grandmother's eyes, taking us down to the river beside Navershølen. There, behind the large stone, lay a canoe of the best Indian brand. Sure enough it was flat-bottomed and home crafted, and true enough was the top board on the barbord side broken in two, but otherwise matched the good on the length of two young "deerfeet" that every weekend listening to Big Brother Louis' reading from the book "Deerfoot on Ohio» by Edward S, Ellis .

But how was it now with ownership of a canoe that was on drift and came ashore on our father’s earth? Absolutely impossible to say anything definite about stuff like that without further ado, no name of the canoe; apart from the letters SS which was painted in red on the broken plank. Best to talk to Brother Louis, who went to high school in Mandal, and came home with a regular bus every Saturday, mostly to get filled up a new Norway glass with mothers very best meatballs in gravy.

Meanwhile we carried the boat up high on riverside and hid it in a safe place behind some prickly bear berry. Grandmother, who came from the Dragon Land, called them "bjønsebær" and use the berries in their domestic production of medical elixir against the cold and flu.

The next day after school we sneaked down to the canoe and brought up the broken plank with the two red letter; SS. It could not possibly be anything wrong in repairing an old wreck? On the contrary, it was well so far from coveting his neighbor's property as one could get. Next time we had about the merciful sam- sam- samurai in Sunday school, I could imagine standing up and mentioning this as an example of a merciful samurai’s deed executed on Bringsjord nowadays.

But when we came home with the broken plank, and had searched high and low in the woodshed, wagon shed and barn, we just had to realize that there was no wood plank in the correct length and width obtainable, except one plank that was lying on the back of the barn. But it was a rot plank father last fall had replaced at the barn wall, facing the courtyard to our good neighbor Anna Kvavik.

The operation aroused some commotion and an open wound in the wall...

Sometimes the solution lies on an issue so close to stumbling, that one does not see the wall for the trees; Dad must have nailed up a fresh board of the same size on the barn wall. The next morning my father went early to run milk route and we had home-day from school and the coast was clear. Equipped with ladder, hammer and crowbar, we loosened the plank on the wall. The operation aroused some commotion and an open wound in the wall, and neighbor Anna came out to ask about what was going on. It was something we obviously were prepared for. Kjell locked up with his guileless blue eyes and told the story of the black rat in concentrates sack "kraftfórråtta"  which again had attacked father in his hand when he put the box down into the sack - before disappearing into a hole in the wall here at the back of the barn somewhere, and that we should now put the almost adults “Tiger” (cat) in plank opening so he could kill the bloodthirsty beast - once and for all.

Anna’s heart melted over two boys who had such a touching concern for their old father's worn work hands and asked us into buns and lemonade, and - as she said; "Then can you, Kjell, practice a little on the organ with the same."

Anna was the widow of bank- treasurer Conrad Kvavik and had a large organ standing at wall in the living-room, and as the son Arne had travelled over to America to buy a new shotgun to our father, since the Germans had found the old gun he had hidden behind the chimney in The Salmon Cabin, and daughter Alfhild was best friends with sister Plata and the whole day had been busy looking after me – who she still sees as her angel child - their organ was little use by other than Anna.

But such is life, daughter prefer the one, her mother the other. Anna had long belief that Kjell stood in front of a brilliant career as an organist in Lyngdal church, when he was just long enough in the legs to reach down to the two pedals that drove the blower, but after being on the neighboring Jacob house meeting, where the twins stood up in the doorway between the living rooms and sang five verses of Sara Lindell "None is so confident in danger," she was come any more in doubt.

It was quite impossible to say no to Anna’s temptations, so we hurried to stab the red-painted plank in through the skylight where Freia used to stick her head out when we unloaded hay wagon. Then we went around and put the ladder in place and while Kjell struggled to hide the red plank under some hay, I got lured forward Tiger the bold cat.

Kjell, who hated to sit on the organ bench and harp on "Hubby Noa" with a pedal-pedaling neighbor lady, succeeding finally to scrape up the right index finger so that it trickled up any blood, and he had to the mother who related one freshly washed rag over his finger and upon request, she also formed strips up around the wrist and gave him bragging because he was so granite-jawed and not shed a single tear.

Back to Annas temptations and our official justification for the gaping void in the barn wall. I first went with the forest cat Tiger into my elbow and afterwards came Kjell with raised rag-finger and a broken arm bandage, and claimed that his mother had said that such ugly wounds from nails could develop into tetanus if the hand was overworked.

Anna was given over, and realized that organ hour went whistle and suggested that we either could eat cream buns with marmalade at the garden table outside in the spring sunshine in the back yard, because, as she said; "So we can certainly see how it goes with Tigger on rat hunting." We must now keep in mind that this was before television era in Norway, and then it was usually not so much to look at for singles, older ladies, and although we, guys boys, well knew that there was no rat in the wall, uttered we praised and support for such a brilliant suggestion.

As soon as the table was covered and the heavily sugared lemonade served and Tiger had duly pat and good luck wishes, he was placed in the opening after the barn plank that was intended new gunwales on cano, and alpha cat Tiger was not to ask two times; with bulging tail strutted he boldly inward into the cavity between the planks.

A huge black-brown rat leap forward in the wall opening, grinning from ear to ear ...

Before I came to a certain extent with the other cream bowl, it was a terrible cat wailing inside the wall, and like a yellow / black stripe came a roaring animal out of the opening and disappeared in the direction yard of ours. The whole thing was so hideous that Kjell put the third bowl in the throat and Anna lost her coffee cup in the gravel. So a giant black-brown rat, showed up in the opening, grinning from ear to ear, as though she is now expecting buns and soft drinks and loud applause from the gaping spectators.

This went on losing face for the whole world. I went home in the kitchen and fished Bianca (italien: white cat), The farm queen, from her usual place under the stove. This queen was accustomed to admiring glances, preferably when she was in heat, where up to eight male cats were observed on stone fences round the farmyard. Carefully I placed her in the wall opening. She noticed immediately that the rat had been there, and began waving the outermost tip of the tail. Then she disappeared into the wall.

Shortly after came the sounds of fierce struggle and a short death scream, so there was complete silence for 10-15 seconds before Bianca slowly and with dignity progressed in wall opening with the big, fat “kraftfórråtta” in her mouth. But then also broke the celebration. While broken arm bandage fluttered in the air, bounced we up from the benches, grabbed hands and jumped into the ring and yelled and screamed:

Bianca, Bianca, rotta banka! (hammered rat flat)

Bianca, Bianca, rotta banka!

etc.

Bianca walked slowly and dignified ahead of wall opening with the big, fat rat in mouth.

The festivities in the yard to Anna Kvavik had dragged out in time. Barely had time we smuggle the red plank by grandma's house and down to the canoe before father was finished running milk route. But we did it right and put whistling and innocent on the barn bridge and dangled our legs when father and horse Freia swung into the yard.

Freia, who was sweaty and hot after the ride, was dried and groomed by father and eager boy's hands, before she was led at the stables to oats, peace and rest for the day. Then it was into the mother's delicious meat soup with onion sauce.

Father liked meat soup and ate as usual too much and had to take a strain on his room before he could bike to Neset. Meanwhile we had to work quietly with recalling ax and saw, hammer and nails. So we snuck down to the canoe by the river.

But grandmother had gotten a glimpse of us when we took us down Kjeringdølda, and a moment later she appeared forward and grabbed us in the act while we hammered and nailed on the red side plank.

Grandma was very relieved that we were not down by the Navershølen, and talked a bit about the weather, until she saw that it was a canoe we hammered on.  Then she gets ready to pass on family alarm. However, when we explained that the canoe was just drifted, and that we should only use it when we were allowed to bathe in the river, she calmed down and told that there was come america package from Aunt Lydia.

"Were there Wrigley's chewing gum in the package?", asked Kjell and cud chewing tentatively. But now she had little time, and turned to go, and the answer came floating into the air: «Yes, it gets a well to see when you've unpacked", the line was cast, and guess who bet on? But before we knocked on Grandmas door that afternoon, we carved out two spoon-shaped paddles of the broken side table. The canoe was repaired and ready for use.

Grandmother did welcome us; Opened a pack of Wrigley's and showed us glass jar with the filled chocolate pieces as she just going to put into the old corner cupboard. We did of course taste the heavenly temptations, before we were tough-gum-cowboys with our fingers easily outplayed at waist height.

Grandmothers’ horror and fear was that some of the grandchildren would drown in Navershølen. But instead of telling about Malla in Nygard and her son Abraham who drowned in Navershølen she  though it was better to paint the entire canoe in a pretty red color, and that she had almost half a painter bucket standing left from last summer when Louis had a holiday job of painting the henhouse of her bright red. This offer was too good to be rejected, and we took advantage.

The next day was Saturday and we had school holidays and were down early and knocked on the door grandmother to fetch brush and paint pail. It was not particularly early for grandmother, for coffeepot stood fragrant at the wood stove, and paint bucket stood untouched in the basement, and we were impatient and she had all the time in the world and throughout the day for herselves.

'It's best that you pick up the canoe up here on my yard, so it can lie on these margarine boxes while you paint", she pointed out the kitchen window and there stod two margarine boxes ready to use.

I almost deared giving grandma a hug, but she was not such a hug type like Alfhild so it came to nothing, but the thought of a few spring days near to filled chocolates and gum from the United States, got us promptly to jump in long boots, and less than fifteen minutes later was the canoe in place of margarine boxes, and grandmother came finally out to inspect the craft and nodded approvingly.

Although she had growing up on Dragon Land, she had after all been married to a sailor for 11 years before he sank off Haiti and had therefore entitled to respect for her knowledge of boats. Appreciative mention of the craft was invaluable, and we immediately started with paint.

Later in the day we helped father to sweep the yard with a couple longhandled costs of birch twigs, for it was Saturday and Thorhild and Ludvig (Louis) came home from Mandal and we looked us all maternal coveted rice porridge which on Saturday evening was served after hearing the Children's Hour on radio.

"Listen Ludvig," hinted we as soon as we had big brother on three mens hand "it's something we're contemplating; what does the letters SS mean on a boat? ", the student enjoyed that little brothers came to him with its intellectual challenges, "S / S - it is an international abbreviation for Sailing Ship. For example was the name of grandfather's ship "S / S Gemma." Sailing ships are always rigged with at least one mast. "

Kjell and I exchanged knowing glances, "What can it mean if someone has written SS on a canoe?" He shook his head: "A canoe is not the ship and it has not sail. The twits who write such a thing could never in his life have been near the ocean. "We were very satisfied with the wise answers and thought that the canoe had driven down the river from "Tinget" in Eiken or come floating from the Heck Hill for that matter.

Later that night, as we lay in bed, good and satisfied and stuffed with rice pudding, read our brother an exciting chapter from "Deerfooth on Ohio" where heroes paddled in canoes under leafed trees that stuck its branches out over river Ohio's shores, and after that, while we discussed the right statement of "ugh, ugh," also came Thorhild in to say goodnight and to give us our weekly 4-clover chocolate; a "surprise" that we kept secret for Laila and Tordis and therefore were ridden and consumed pr. promptly. Life had its bright moments in the late 40s.

On Monday we gave the canoe the second coat with red paint, and the day after we were ready for putting the boat on the water and grandmother joined to be godmother with a bottle "bjønsebærsaft" (blackberry juice). Grandmother wishes her luck on all water and baptized her "Gemma" which was the name of the ship grandfather shipwrecked with. But I had misunderstood the name and had painted P / K "Gamla" (old women) on the canoe with black bicycle paint. Fortunately grandmother had not glasses with her side and the canoe had dried up in the sun a week, leaked like a sieve, but we managed to drink a sip juice before he sock.

I had misunderstood the name and painted P / K "Old Woman" on the canoe ...

In the first lesson on Thursday told "Miss" (Ingebjørg Grosås) about giant deluge and Noah's Ark drifting ashore on Ararat Mountain as soon as the water began to subside.

Very many of the pupils then raised his hand and told her about issues and things that had drifted ashore under the great flood some weeks earlier and Målfrid Stålesen took the cake when she told that a drowned dog was driven ashore on Bergsaker.

I let me not impressed by such small things, and told spacious for a canoe that had come from Eiken and stranded in Navershølen. Stale Stålesen, the buddy who sat on the desk in front of us began to get restless and move about and waving his hand, but I had the word and was by no means finished:

"We believe the canoe can be made of a guy up on Heck Hill, for the dimwitted owner had painted SS on it, and all in Lyngdal know that a canoe is not a" Sail Ship”,  I said, hoisted on shoulders and smiled overbearing of such a fundamental lack of general knowledge. "And so were the ...»

But then it was too much for my friend on the bench in front of, and completely out of turn he interrupted quite so loudly, "It is my canoe! IT IS MY CANOE! "Then he calmed down a bit and continued breathlessly:" The flood took my canoe as grandfather and I have made, I had it down by Presthølen, we had painted SS on it; S for Ståle and S for Stålesen. They are stealing my canoe! "

Ståle was a dab hand at the accordion, and his father had a garage in the T-junction at Presthøl Bridge where they had built a house on the hill between Salmon cabin and auto repair shop. Grandfather name was also Ståle Stålesen and lived in Vestigarden, where he was a farmer and hunter and skilled foreman in Road Administration.

"Ståle, now you need to calm down," said Miss. "You three boys get to talk at recess, and then we'll hear what you agree on." But Kjell was ambulatory as gentleman and took such armband, raised his hand and said: "There is not much to talk about; Ståle get back the canoe." This was well spoken, and provoked scattered applause among girls from Alleen.

But I could not quite steer me down and exclaimed a trace in my voice: "Yes, yes; he just get the whole canoe, but it is at least the last time I will be merciful samarai. " Now was Misses Grosås interest woken seriously: "What are you saying, Finn, merciful ... ehe, Samaritan?"

My answer came somewhat disjointed, but in summary it was something like: "Yes, here we find a canoe, lying bruised and shattered in the riverside. We do not go past, but takes it up and groom nicely with it, to tear down plank from father's barn wall against Anna to give the boat new, beautifully gunwales on barbord side - we leave it in peace and quiet to dry in the sun in front of the chicken coop - and so we paint the bright scarlet with grandma's finest chickens paint, not just one - but two coats! And what is the thanks we get for that we and grandmother caring nicely with a lost wrecks in riverside? "

Given out with my hands in a questioning motion against my colleagues in the classroom I asked: "Deserves we “thank you guys” - or we deserve suspicion of petty robbery and theft?"

 All the girls from Alleen that had gone on Gustava Bringsjords Sunday School, exclaimed quite in unison: "Thank you, of course!"

Then turned Ståle and looked at us before he stretched out his hand and said with a big grave seriousness: "I thank the grandmother and both Samarai."

After school we went to grandma to announce the sad development but even though she was terribly upset, she took it like a man.

So she opened corner cupboard and took out a blue stem bowl with piece of sugar and a half-empty glass with American filled chocolates, before she sat down with the rocking chair until the coffee table, poured some coffee over at the bowl and pushed it over to us. We dipped sugar cubes in bowl and sucked and smacked his lips and so zest for life, for my father had promised at the dinner table that he would build a kind of "boatcanoe" that we "deerfeet" could paddle with under leafed trees in Ingri Tjønna.

POACHING IN BRINGSJORD FOREST

Gemini on high gloss furniture ski.

This story is from Bringsjord forest in the old days; from the tragic post-war period when the Swedes had punch as winners in five mil Nordic skiing in Oslo. Especially Uncle Anton was upset over this, and swore by Degner that if he had been 30 years younger, would "svenskbaggarne" had to bite the cornice. This was daring said by a man who never ran it longer than in sports as one of two surveyors in the long jump pit on the games on workers day 1 May.

This Christmas we had received new hand-made skis of the owner of all Furniture factory with his wife (Alf og Marie), and we comforted uncle that he could just calm down, we were ready to put us in hard training on a five mils trail straight through the deep bringsjordske forests.

A beautiful winter day in January, we set off up "Skoddeveien" (a forest road) on high gloss ski. This ancient road, which was made for horse with stubbs slead - and medieval church walkers - started down by the river past Siljevollen in Strømnes and went up to the old cotter in Egeland valley. It was a steep climb at the beginning, but well up on Kvassekleiva gentle way out inward toward Rinneveden.

The day was a very calm and sunny, and the forest was filled with a meter-thick layer of fresh snow that threatened to break the branches of conifers, and many a young birch stood as a bent smaltroll with nose buried in snowdrifts.

On top of Kvassekleiva scared we set up a grouse that had perched herself in a large pine tree, and a little further inside støkte we set up a long ebbed woodcock who sat under a bush where it usually was wetland, otherwise it was quiet in the woods.

As the road wound up under Ingrihill, was training trail to lose superseded by a latent hunting instinct, for which there were clear traces of elk. It had crossed the road and walked up towards Graudebohelleren, probably early at dawn, before it had completely stopped to snow.

Kjell was immediately overzealous and thought that we should follow moose tracks, but I held back and believed that moose could now be "of all piles," and that it was best to go up the track inland to Older. We stopped and discussed a little back and forth without being agreed other than that now it was time to take lunch break.

Above a suitable spruce, we buckled of our skis and walked a deep pit in the snow. So we let the skis flat as to seat on a bench before we sat down and took out lunch packs mother had sent with. They baked bread slices with goat cheese tasted good, but the slices with gooseberry jam was a solid frozen disaster.

"Goof demanding jam askance," I said, looking onto the packed lunch to Kjell.

"You can get ..."

He was interrupted by a resounding, sharply shot up from Ingrihill. A stunned moment we were sitting motionless, then flailed ourselves around the tree and got clear view of the hill.

"But Lord Jebael!", I shouted excitedly, "a rolling stone is coming towards us ... run for life!"

And Kjell shied voted as rooster on the shotgun, but was then standing there gaping, "That there is no rolling stone; there's a moose! "

Moose sailed roll in roll down the hillside, and it stopped just 60-70 meters above where we were standing.

"Look! See up there! "I screamed behind my hand and pointed toward Ingrihill. So I grabbed Kjell arm and tore him back into hiding behind the tree. A man came slides, partly on boots, partly on the buttocks, down the track after the moose, and at arm he held a rifle. Neck hairs began fighting back, and heart pounding and beating, while we made peepholes to the tendon on the mountainside.

When poacher reached the moose, he stated quickly that it was lifeless and harmless. Gently he emptied his rifle for cartridges and hung it on a branch, before he grabbed the legs and turned the moose so that it was lying with his head facing down the hillside. Then he sat on his haunches behind moose head, grip around the muzzle and bend moose head backward with his left hand, while with his right he drew up a broadleaf sheath knife and with a few quick cuts he open the animal throat. The red, steaming blood spurted several meters down into the white, icy snow. "A juicy winter Sacrifice ', would our ancestors, the Vikings, have called such a happening.

Only now had the offender time to look around. Was he discovered? Was someone nearby? He stared and listened.

And fear took a new icy grip for two sweaty boy bodies.

The silence was suddenly broken by the snow that slid down from a birch tree that took the time to rise up from the night hunched position. The shooter was upset and took off his dark blue earflap-hat and put his hands behind his ears to listen better. Then we knew him again, it was Bernt, son of Hartvig in Neset.

I looked over at brother Kjell and wonderment he tacitly expressed, was painted with a broad brush all over your face. How could our biggest "dyrskue hero" (Dyrskue; annual livestock exhibition in Lyngdal) fall so deeply that he shot the moose in Bringsjord-forest outside moose hunting season? It was quite impossible to understand. Something had to be wrong, and we dared for our dear life not to reveal ourselves.

...

The reason why he was our hero, yes half the village's hero, was the following event:

On “dyrskue” on Bergmoen was there so they oxen that were participating in the exhibition, one by one to enter the ring to be judged by dress-clad judges with hat and coat and polished, low shoes. As in boxing was "ring" a rectangular area fenced with ropes, and those who had access there, besides judges and "lureladden", the number men who were needed to keep track of the ox - rarely more than four to five guys in soiled overalls. The job as lureladd was prized among us schoolboys, when the lucky at closing were paid 5 kroner, - by the cashier to Lyngdal Dyreavlslag.

Task was immediately removing debris bulls put down in the ring, so that the judges avoided getting shit on your shoes. The Ladd took "lura" on a broad blade shovel bucket and carried it away to a corner of the ring that was set aside for this purpose. This dump grew, and the more tart-fine audience kept well away from the corner.

On longside had "kårfolket," the village's older toilers, has been awarded ringside seats at a couple of green-painted benches from German time. There sat each one in their finest clothes; white shirt and black suit and tie, as befits a generation who had never spent some time with clothes clothes that can be called casual wear.

Then it happened that a Kvindøl (man from Kvinesdal) found time to enter the ring. He was a long, lanky fellow, and had drunk himself to unlimited courage in the hairless chest; with flannel shirt open to the navel. He began to turn and wave his heels like a Halling dancer, and swore that he was man enough to force any Lyngdal bull to its knees.

The next individ who entered the ring was breeding team nestor, big bull "Lund Boy." When Kvindøl approached, lowered its head and roared, and the poor man took a hopelessly backward halling roll vertically in the canvas. The scorn and ridicule that followed, fallen Kvindøl heavily for the chest, and he stopped and began to tease the village's older toilers where they sat on the bench of honor.

"Yes, here it smells of dung and mothballs long road," he said and remained pointedly noses. The old did not understand irony, and some gradually began to look for mothballs in the pockets. Then he turned to the old Hartvig in Neset, "I see you've taken on the confirmand suit, and it is all just fine, since you then are ready to be put in the coffin ... huh, huh ... huh? "

There was dead silence around the ring. Good People could not believe their ears. "Everyone" knew Hartvig was terminally ill, and that his son had come home from whaling with the sole purpose of to be with his father in his last weeks.

A threatening murmur rose from the depths of people, and som prepared himself to throw his jacket. But they were too late. A young, stocky man stepped over ropes and into the ring. With flat hand hammered him into a blow across the abdomen to the prodigal Kvindøl, so he collapsed like a folding knife, then took Bernt lifting grip and bar big mouth like a child over to the corner where lureladden had gathered bullock shit, where he lifted man high up and dumped him right in the muckheap. "Just do as you are at home," was the laconic Bernts afford Kvindølen. And while he ostentatiously patting "debris" of hands, he paced over and sat down next to his elderly sickly father.

Then broke his celebration. And it would never end ...

...

The fallen elk had stopped in a depression in the terrain, but the dump was not greater than that we could constantly see what was happening up there. First he turned the moose so that it again was lying with his head pointing upward slope, then went he downside moose and stepped out a deep pit in the snow. «Certainly for the bowels", whispered Kjell, in an attempt to show that he was clear-headed and at the height of the occasion. We had been involved in slaughtering many times at home in the carriage shed, and knew so roughly what was to come.

Bernt hung his jacket next to his rifle, and then we saw that he had wrapped a rope several turns of life. Also this he hung down on the branch, and while he searchingly gazed circling, he folded slowly up the sleeves of the shirt. We held our breath while he looked both well and long down to the place where we sat hunched.

Again he brought forward knife and stuck it into the bottom of the abdomen, so he took with both hands around the handle and pulled the knife slowly and firmly upwards to the sternum. The steaming entrails gushed out and up, and he cut them loose and scoop them into the snow pit. Within a few minutes the abdomen emptied of content.

"Wonder what he is now going to do? He'll never be able to bear all the moose home, "whispered I in ear Kjell in an attempt to remain unruffled and intellectual in time of danger.

Clearance came instantly. First he cut the elk feet just below skank, and then cut him loose thighs from the abdomen at the top at the hip capsule. Then he brought down the rope and through an incision behind the hock, he attached the two thighs together in a ells distance.

Then he broke down a branch and swept snow over moose and tracks that were deposited on the field of battle, buttoned on his jacket, slung moose tighs over shoulders, grabbed his rifle, and set off obliquely through Ingri valley.

We were a while numb with cold and - possibly - a little horror. "Oh my God," sighed Kjell, and then loosened it somehow, and skis came on, and I can promise that it went fast in the turns down Skoddeveien.

...

Home in the yard stood father and split firewood, and he could not believe it was a true word in the story we blurted out with. But we told the same up to several times in chorus, so all doubts were swept aside, and he got busy with directing and instructing.

We were sent to the mother in the kitchen to eat a delayed dinner and Tordis was sent into the Garden to warn Uncle Anton that we had to salvage a moose and he had to come as soon as he could. Even went dad in the barn and attached Stubbs sleigh and a large herring barrel stuck on long sled. As soon as Uncle came, we talked about what had happened, and let up a battle plan for further actions. All had heard only praise for the young naval officer on Neset, and we agreed that it had not to come out some rumor poaching in Bringsjord forest until we had confronted Bernt with the matter.

As soon as Uncle Anton had eaten the rest of the dinner, taken father Freia from the stables, and with maternal admonitions to be careful and not to break your legs, we jumped all on the sled and headed for the woods.

It was icy and slippery for Freia up Skoddeveien, but she was young and eager and Count shod, and Uncle Anton - the "Kollen-king" - was thick dressed in an old, fluff coat with a belt, and he panted and groaned and let himself pull upwards in a piece of rope dangling behind stub sled.

Elk lying where it was abandoned and it went quickly to haul it down to Skoddeveien where it was attached to stub sled and pulled down to Siljevollen. There sawn and hewn father of the head and front legs and Anton stewed the cut portions into the barrel. Then we laid moose body on the long sleigh, spread a blanket over - and drove home.

St. Anton in Garden

It was a busy night for father and uncle who were behind closed doors in the coach and skinned and dismembered moose. Then mother took care of the pieces, and salted them carefully into a well-used oak barrel. Thanks to the cold and a meter-thick layer of snow was all the meat of superior quality - clean and fresh.

"But mother," said Kjell, "why add all the meat in one barrel? Should not Uncle Anton get his party "? Mother glanced toward the father who was quick to respond: "This meat, neither we nor Anton have, it is not our flesh. We have recovered it for that it should not go to waste, but be used for food for Bringsjord people who need something extra."

He looked at Anton, who small- smiled slightly and looked as if he was now bad plagued by itchy from angel wings which now threatened to bounce forward.

"But father, who should get all this fine moose meat?", I asked nonchalant as not to be branded as "Curious-Per". He pulled a bit on the shoulder and then onto St. Anton: "We'll decide when we have spoken with young Bernt Hartvigsen at Neset. Anton has a theory about what might have happened ... " he looked inciting onto our uncle, but this looked discreetly away on his sister and kept silent.

Late in the afternoon the day after, we turned into the yard with Bernt. His father, the old man of honor Hartvig in Neset, had passed away a month earlier, and both father and uncle Anton had followed him to the grave, and condolences the two adults sons.

Father took his time with committing Freia to courtyard tree, and only now it was done, step uncle Anton and Kjell and me out of sleighs - a broad kane space for both people and the meat barrel. So we tramped up to the hall door in unison. Bernt had enough seen us coming, for he opened the door before the father managed to knock.

He smiled a little cautious and asked us to come into the kitchen, for - as he said - it was the only room in the house that was heated. He held on to push his ships uniform. "You must excuse the mess," he said and set aside, newly washed, white shirts that floated out over the kitchen table, "it's so tomorrow I travel to Sandefjord to patterns on a whaler."

I was deeply impressed by gold stripes on the dark uniform jacket, and asked if he was a real whaling captain, but he shook smiling his head and replied that he was only 1. Officer in Kosmos fleet.

"You wonder well why we have come," said the father, and he met with his gaze. "Yesterday came the boys home from the woods and told that a moose was shot at Ingrihill and it fell off the edge and down into Rinneveden. Shortly thereafter came a guy who killed the moose. Gemini says that that guy was you, Bernt. "

The three others sat and twisted at us and looked at the floor, and was unhappy intensely in our world's precarious existence.

But Bernt had already decided to put the cards on the table when he saw we swung into the yard: "So it was you guys who were there," he said, looking searchingly at us. "It does not surprise me. I had a feeling of being watched. "

Uncle Anton could now drop his breath. He realized that it turned out to be a good atmosphere around the table and put a cautious question: "You must understand, Bernt, that now we wonder why you shot a moose that rightfully belongs to all the inhabitants of Bringsjord? Are you so tired of whale meat in Jahre fleet that you must supplement with elk meat? Huh, huh, huh ... " He opened snuff escalate and untested a good rosehip snuff before he set himself well back on his chair’ seat and continued with his feigned laughter.

Bernt shrugged smile: "Yes, you may ask, you Anton ... No, this is not so. In Antarctica, the diet is both varied and nutritious. "

He took a pause and a sip cold coffee of a half empty cup standing on the stove, then he was serious and continued: "Now I'll tell you why I shot the moose, so you get to decide what you will do with the matter."

You will recall that my nearest neighbor here on Neset, Alexandrine, lost her husband in a blasting accident during the war. It was a tragedy. She was left with a boy of five years and a girl of one year.

In the seven years that have passed since then, it has always been poor condition in the old longhouse. Father bought some small marshy land of her when she was most emty for cash, and while mother lived, she helped them with some flour for flatbread baking and some meat sausages after pig slaughter and father eased every year a few load of hay into the old barn of her - so she long way to salvage a milk cow through the winter.

The rest of the hay she collected in farmers' fields. She was well liked and many a farmer has left hay for her on his fields during these years. I have seen with my own eyes that you, Anton, allows half the load of hay lie again after you ... »

St. Anton smiled slightly frivolous and blushed blending into the sunset. Familiar, it was well known that he was got lost in the dark-eyed Alexandrine but no swarm of his had not led to anything ...

"When I two days ago took a round to say goodbye to the neighbors," continued Bernt, "I realized soon that it was bad situation in the house of Alexandrine."

"It has not been possible to get some daytime work on farms after Christmas," she said apologetically, "it is not the season for such a winter. But I can frying some chopped potatoes, if you will accept it? " Her eyes were shining with shame.

"But you've got a cow," said Bernt caught off guard, "you must have milk and butter?"

"No, Rødkolla should soon have calf, so she has stopped milk," said the son, Jani, and stared down at the floor. "But soon everything will be better for us. In May I become confirmed and so I travel at sea, and I will send my monthly wages home to my mother every time! "

 "That day I had been at Trade team and bought bread, cured pork and eggs for the past my money," continued Bernt; "I had planned to hold a small farewell party with a couple or three friends that night. But now I asked Alexandrine and kids take on outerwear and come home to me. They ate the eggs and flesh side.

I felt I got a great gift, as I stood here by the stove and smashed and fried and stuffed on their plate as they emptied. Alexandrine thanked all too soon refuse refills, but I saw through her and heaped on new supplies and kids tried not once to hold back. Have never experienced anything like that in my entire life. "

Bernt smiled to himself with the thought of that night - but then he was serious and continued: "Last week, I took over the farm after the father, and along with the bank solved I like my brother. I therefore had little cash for time, yes to tell it like it is ... I'm in the money pinch until I check in in Sandefjord tomorrow.

But I was seriously worried that the neighbors would not make it through the winter, so I could not just leave and let them empty-handed.

So I took a serious decision. As you know, father eagerly The National Rifle and Krag-Jørgensen rifle his is a sniper worthy. "Lange Krag" hit it the sieved.

The rest of the story you know. I can only assure that when I came home from the woods yesterday, flayed I skin of thighs before I went over with them to Alexandrine and presented them as cow thighs, bought in the butcher shop on Trade team.

St. Anton smiled from ear to ear and stood up and embraced Bernt Hartvigsen. "I had a theory," he said in thick voice, "and I hit spot on."

"And we ... we had a theory that a poacher was loose in our forests," I said enthused, "but there we missed. What we had was a Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest! One who took from the rich and gave to the poor ... "

 Robin Hood. He took from the rich and gave to the poor ...

Dad looked still seriously off on the young naval officer: "Bernt, you put your officer career at stake for your neighbors, and you did right," he cleared his throat and looked for words, and St. Anton used the silence to take over, "All on Bringsjord is to be held responsible if any of our kids go to bed hungry. A moose is now the smallest community can offer, " he was silent and looked embarrassed down on a brown snuff stain that appeared from one of the officer's shirts on the table.

Father, who now had now found back the words he was looking for, took quite a bit chewing tobacco and continued: "Nevertheless, we must ask you to do us a favor. Yesterday we went into Rinneveden and retrieved the shot moose home. The slain and dismembered and all the meat was salted down the barrel standing outside in sleighs. Now we let off the barrel at the driveway to the Alexandrine, and then you have to roll it up to the house. You easily fabricate an explanation. Perhaps you could say something like that in the basement of deceased persons are many surprises? "

Then it was just before a tear threatened to roll down the cheek 1st officer Hartvigsen, but he stood up, took a twin in each elbow, lifted them up and gave them a warm hug. It felt a little bit embarrassing, but "the powerlifting" I can still remember.

NB! Poachers, his family, residence and neighbors - is anonymous.  

This story was printed in the newspaper "Lister" on Saturday 19 September 2015.

RABBITS FOR COW

The one-year-old rabbit Bugs was sold to the Germans ...

It was an early Saturday evening in summer 1944. Petter had gone to the attic to replace wearing long trousers and a clean shirt that his mother had presented to him, before she and her father had tense horse Bjuty for trolley and driven in a feast for the family at Hagestad.
The three sisters had dutifully been with parents, but Petter had insisted on spending Saturday evening among comrades who gathered downstairs in the parsonage, and since he was the eldest son almost 14 years old, gave his mother after he got what he wanted.

While he was looking for shoes under the bed, he heard strange voices, and when he stuck his head out of the open attic window, he saw a group of German soldiers coming up the farm road to the house, and the fear he seized the chest and squeezed. "Some people have gossiped on father," he muttered to himself, and began to breathe heavily, "and now they are coming to take him."

First impulse was to hide in the cupboard where his father had hidden his rifle and radio under a few loose floorboards, but then grabbed the reason him and he realized that something like this had to be some of the stupidest he could do. "Best to get down into the yard to hear what they want", he thought - and to his relief he noticed that the soldiers came sauntering up the road with shouts and laughter and apparently was not under strict military command. But it could be a charade, so it was best to be cautious.

The first soldier smiled a bit tentative to Petter and said, "Guten Abend, mein Junge". And Petter responded politely: "Good ape (monkey), main young," and all the German soldiers laughed noisily to this before they were crowding in front of rabbit cages in front of the barn-bridge. There had Petter two major - and one smaller cage with white country-rabbits. In each of the major was there three adult female rabbits, and in the smaller cage was a male rabbit named Bugs. Just that day, he was one year old, and had been duly celebrated with carrots and salad, and with a long red  ribbon on the cage door. (1. price)

"Sieben große kaninchen - das ist wirklich gut!" the leader said to his comrades, and turned again smiling Petter: "Sind diese kaninchen zum Verkauf?"
Steve shook his head and waved his hands: "I do not understand what you mean. Verstehe nicht. "

But the Germans had as usual done a thorough preparation, and "der führer" put his fingers into the breast pocket and drew up a pencil stub and a green piece of paper as he turned to Peter. There stood written in capital letters:

RABBITS ZU SALE? YES NO.
WAS IST COST? ______ Kr.
WIE MANY? ____ Pcs.

Peter now knew that the soldiers had not come to the farm to take horses or rummage buildings, but to buy rabbits - and a heavy burden was lifted off his shoulders, and he felt relieved and happy - and kept on saying that they only could take all the rabbits and get off place, but immediately realized that it could be perceived as both rude and suspicious. Here it was probably best teaming.

He took the pencil and put a thick line under "YES" and the German smiled back and put his finger on the field behind "WAS IST COST?". Petter thought about it; among buddies in between they acted adults countries rabbits for 7 -  8 kroner. But now he saw his chance to warp some extra money from the hated occupiers and doubled the price to just over 14 kroner pieces. With firm grip on the pencil he wrote this reason that the price was 100 Kr and that number was 7.

"The leader" raised eyebrow and looked a bit uneasy, but the other soldiers was equally pleased with the pricing *, and the collection of money going fine and in a good tone.

* It was so part of the soldiers' daily allowance was paid in local currency, but for the vast majority who acquired Norwegian girls, there was little to spend money on, so somehow kroner lost value and since they now anyway would leave Norway and moved to the Eastern Front, it was okay to spend money on a festive farewell dinner in the barracks on Skrumonen.

One of the soldiers, who were expert in such twisted instantly head around - while he jerked and broke his neck - on the seven rabbits, and put them down into two sacks. Then they took with laughter and shouts quickest way down to the river.

Back stood Petter with three empty rabbit cage and with a stack of money in hand. When he somewhat trembling and bewildered got counted them up, the amount was exactly 700  kroner. (160 US dollar in 1944).

First he felt a great joy over his new wealth, but then came second thoughts, and he had to sit down on the edge of the barn bridge; What had he done? What had he done? Traded with the Germans ... and with big profits! What did the father  contemptuously called such people? War Profiteers?

Slowly he loosened the red silk-loop from the cage, went into the kitchen and cut a brown paper in the right size to wrap cash pile, folded paper exactly on the stack - and tied the red loop tight around the package. Then he went up to the attic and hid the package carefully inside the straw mattress.

Something delayed he locked house and rode down to the vicarage.

The father must have seen Petter when he came cycling home late at night, for he was waiting in the yard.
"The Germans came, and I sold the rabbits," he said to his father while he parked the bike inside the coach. "Yes, I realized that something like that had happened," his father said, "when I found this green green piece of paper down the road."

But then cracked man-mask in his son's face and the tears rolled out: "I was so scared, Dad. I thought they came to take you, and then I was so relieved when it was just the rabbits they were out after I sold all together - even Bugs. "
The father put his arm comforting around his son's shoulders: "You did quite right my boy, we had never come to eating the rabbits anyway."

"But Dad, I got too much for them. It's a shame! ". The father looked again at the note: "One hundred kroner for seven rabbits are well paid, but no blood price. You have nothing to be ashamed of. "He patted his son comforting on his head and added:" But come now, Petter, now you have to get you supper! "

So it was that Peter was the only one to carry on a big black secret.
...

When they reached the bank, refused Rødkolla to go a step further. Alexandrine spoke softly with cow and lid and pleaded, but to no avail; cow did not budge.

Seppo Jorma was a Finnish descended explosives expert who had moved into a poor little smallholding on Bringsjord-Neset. His wife Alexandrine was from Nordland in Norway and an accomplished woman; big and strong and unusually beautiful.

Norway was at this time conquered by the Germans, and military resistance was turned down. But the war went its course in Europe, and thousands of prisoners of war were sent to Norway, especially Poles, Russians and Serbs. These were primarily set to build roads, railways, airports and port facilities. In Lyngdal went there mostly for road construction, and there was great demand for qualified explosives experts (shoot bases) when the Germans did not allow the prisoners obtained the dynamite.

The Finnish ancestry man had in many ways sympathetic to the Germans who helped Finland militarily in "Continuation War" (1941-44) against the Soviet occupiers in Finnish Karelia, and he was promptly offered employment on road projects. This led immediately to increased prosperity in the house on the headland, and there was hustle and bustle of the barn with a beautiful dairy cow in the stall and rooster and hen in the lower end. Also cohabitation in the main house flourished as never before, and the oldest boy of five years got a younger sister to share bedrooms with.

Happiness did not last long. An early summer day in 1943 underwent an explosive charge of premature, and a stone splinter the size of a fist hit Seppo Jorma Sepoiinen in the back and made an open hole through his chest. When the priest came with the death message to the small læstadian family on Neset, he was amazed at how calm and restrained Alexandrine behaved, but he noticed that the glow was extinguished in the dark her eyes all the while she made coffee substitute and put forward cups.

In the evening they came with Seppo Jorma wrapped in a canvas, for she had given the priest instructed that she would not receive him in "Nazi coffin". The Germans gave her three additional months' pay, and a representative of NS stood up and thanked her for her husband's tireless efforts for his new fatherland.
The first time as a widow, she was plagued by German officers on Saturday evenings came in their Mercedes cars and stopped outside the house. But she declined sharply offered both this and that so that it soon became an end to the traffic.

Less than a year later the money was used up, the chickens slaughtered, and the credit on trade made dried up. The only thing she had left of movable property was Rødkolla, the good, faithful dairy cow. But what should the kids live on when they got no milk? To live only on potatoes and salt was not good enough for children who would grow and develop.

But she saw no alternative but to sell the cow. Oldest boy, Jani, would next week begin in grade school and needed school satchel and shoes. Emanuel on Bringsjord had some time ago offered her 700 kroner for the cow. This was a lot of money for a cow, and now she had to trust that he would keep his word. So from now they got rather take day by day as they came. If necessary, she sell the rest of the small land plots for consumption ... The war could not last forever, and now it went credible rumors that the Allies had landed in France, and that Hitler's "Eastern Front" was in full resolution.

A beautiful afternoon, while the children were visiting two older sisters on a neighboring farm that subsisted sewing dresses for a faithful customer crust, let Alexandrine away against Bringsjord farms with Rødkolla. But the cow was apparently in plain moody that day, she realized that something was wrong, and would turn. Here she just vent when she was horny and were visiting the bull to Emanuel. But there was no time for such today; it was only gone a couple of months since the last time she was there. Alexandrine had to be completely out astray.

When they arrived at the bank (an old stone and earth dam on the river), refused Rødkolla to go a step further. Alexandrine spoke softly with cow and lid and pleaded, but to no avail; cow did not budge.

Suddenly there came a bike from the Bringsjord farms tinkling down the hill to the bank, it was Petter who was heading to Nodeneset. When he saw Alexandrine stand there with teary eyes and bale with her cow, he slowed up and asked if she needed help. He knew her a little from before, when they both had been on day-work and put potatoes in the soil for several "bachelor farmers" the spring.

Alexandrine relieved her griefs and told all about the kids and school and on flour sack and yeast pitcher standing empty home in the kitchen sink. "And now I'm on my way to Emanuel to sell the cow, but she refuses to go a step further." She saw the boy in the eye with that tearful deer eyes: "Could you Petter be kind and help me get Rødkolla over on the other side of the bank?"

There was hardly a teenage boy in this world who could resist that gaze, and Petter was certainly not one of them; yet he was just standing by the bike, "How much will Emanuel pay for the cow?"

"He has offered me 700 kroner, and it is a good price," said Alexandrine and looked down. Then smiled Petter, as if he felt a kind of relief, "I'll give you 800 kroner for Rødkolla, cash in hand. Just let the cow pasture here at the roadside so bikes I home and fetch the money. "

Fifteen minutes later Petter was back with a brown package bound in red silk ribbon which he gave to the widow: "Here are most of the money we agreed on for Rødkolla. But ... I just counted them, and there are no more than 700 kroner in the package, so I owe you still hundred kroner. "

"Oh, that's okay," said Alexandrine and smiled relieved and happy, "seven hundred is more than enough for the cow."
But Petter just swept it away: "A deal is a deal, my father always tell. You can only take this money and cow back to your farm, "and when he saw the confusion in her eyes, he added; "Someday I my well earned 100 kroner so I can come and retrieve the cow."

Tears sprang up in Alexandrines eyes, and she had to turn away against Rødkolla, and then she felt that Petter hitting a bag in her other hand: "Just a little something from me to Jani; he may need some "grown out" boots this winter?" And before she had turned and thanked, he had raised himself on the bike and tramplet off against Node Neset. And it went fast cornering, for a great burden was gone.

EPILOG
An early morning on a spring day in 1945, was a little bull calf tied to an apple tree by the driveway where Petter lived. Parents were very puzzled over this, and knew neither in or out. The only characterized by calf was a red silk ribbon tied to his collar. The mother believed the loop broght memory of a loop Petter had used at rabbit cages, and so everything came for a day.
The calf grazed on Petters home farm throughout the summer, and in late autumn had the young "studepåsen" grown into harvestable. Then the young bull got the red silk ribbon tied to his collar again and were brought back to the old house at Neset where it was left tied to the barn wall.


NB! One of my sisters told this story from the war when I was denied schooling and was bedridden with chickenpox. I think I remember correctly and that most of it is true, but as a precaution I have anonymous names and place of residence.

This story was printed in the local newspaper "Lister" on Saturday 12 September 2015.