By Daralyn J Sortland, © 1982.
The fjord was still as I looked out the cellar door. I
was packing freshly caught "sei", the most prized catch of the
Norwegian fisherman, apart perhaps from salmon. As I waited
for more fish I stood and listened.
The midnight sun was not shining on the mountain tonight,
and clouds hovered around the top, making it really seem like
a "Heaven Peak" which its name, "Himmeltinnen", means.
All I could hear was the occasional bleat of a lamb
looking for its mother, and the haunting call of a cuckoo.
Was it, as I had been told, the male bird calling to distract
attention while its mate laid an egg in the nest of an
unsuspecting bird? We didn't hear that call later in the
summer, so I suspect Karsten was right.
Suddenly the stillness was broken by the shrieking of the
giant-size seagulls calling their friends to a feast of
fishes' heads left on the rocks for them. I watched them
fighting over the choice pieces, although there was plenty for
all. The fighting stopped, and the birds stood by in
respectful silence, as a "Svart bak", the savage seagull with
a black back, came and ate its fill.
As quickly as they had arrived, they left. What had
disturbed them? Was it the little black mink that we had seen
there the night before, swimming and hopping from rock to
rock?
Peace and quiet reigned again as we finished packing the
fish and went to bed.
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