It is early morning on Bryggen, and a thick fog lies over the harbour—like the smell of fish in an old coat. Along the waterfront, only the gentle lapping of the water can be heard, along with a few sleepy snores from the old wooden houses. Hans is lying in his bunk. But suddenly, he hears a strange sound.
Thump. Splash. Creak. Sniff. Then again: Swish. Breath. Scratching claws.
Hans opens one eye. A pair of wet rat feet scurry across his pillow. Then he feels a cold tail slide down his neck. “Rattus, what are you up to now?” he mutters.
“Ssh!” whispers Rattus. “Something’s happening down by the quay. I heard it myself! A fisherman from Lofoten says he caught a king cod! With a crown on its head—imagine that!”
Hans sits up. “A crown? On a fish?”
“Yep!” nods Rattus eagerly, hopping around on his chest. “They say whoever catches one gets good luck. And the cod’s head points toward the wind. If it turns north—cold weather. If it turns south—the fish will come.”
“Sounds like nonsense,” Hans mutters, rubbing his eyes.
Ten minutes later, he is standing down by the quay anyway, wearing his wooden shoes on the wrong feet and his hair sticking out in all directions. There—among ropes, barrels, and the smell of dried fish—stands a bearded fisherman, waving his arms:
“It was huge!” he shouts, stretching his arms wide. “Like a mast! And heavier than three barrels of oil! I pulled it up from Trollfjord!”
People gasp. Rattus squints skeptically. “It grows twenty centimetres every fifteen minutes,” he mutters.
Hans steps closer. “And where is the fish now?”
“Well…” says the fisherman, scratching his head. “We ate it. But I saved the head! Look!” He pulls out a massive cod head from a barrel. On top sits a lump that could resemble a small crown. The crowd stares in awe. Some make the sign of the cross. “It pointed north when we set it down,” the fisherman says solemnly. “And that same evening, the wind turned. The fish dried twice as fast.”
Hans looks at Rattus, who carefully sniffs the cod head. “Do you believe this?”
“I believe,” says Rattus solemnly, “that if we don’t catch our own king cod, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
The next morning, Hans, Rattus, and a creaky borrowed rowboat are on their way toward Lofoten. The wind is sharp and cold, and Rattus has wrapped himself in four scarves and a raincoat sewn from dried fish skin.
“Trollfjord, here we come!” Hans shouts, casting off the rope.
They fish for days. They wait. They freeze. Rattus writes poems about cod. Hans begins to regret everything. But on the fourth day—tug! A powerful pull. The rod bends, the boat rocks. Hans pulls with all his strength while Rattus balances on an oar. And then—suddenly—it rises!
An enormous cod. Broad head, curved snout—and there, on top: a growth that actually looks like a crown.
“There it is,” whispers Hans.
The fish looks at them, slowly turns its head… and swims calmly back into the deep. One splash—and it is gone.
Hans collapses into the boat. Rattus drops into his lap. “It got away.”
“Yes,” sighs Hans. “But we saw it. That’s enough for me.”
Rattus yawns and curls up in his lap.
“It wouldn’t have fit in the boat anyway.”
Back on Bryggen, everyone wants to hear the story. Some laugh, others write down the date. Hans hangs a drawing above his bunk—of the cod, with a small crown on its head.
And when someone asks, “Was it really that big?”
Hans smiles and says, “Bigger.”
Just then, a loud crash echoes—like someone dropping cymbals on the floor—but it is only Friedrich, his bunkmate, who has dropped a washbasin.
Hans wakes with a start. He is still in his bed. Rattus sits at the foot, gnawing on a fish bone.
“I dreamed,” Hans mutters. “About a huge king cod. It was as big as…”
“…as a mast?” says Rattus without looking up. “With a little crown on its head?”
Hans’s eyes widen.
Rattus swallows, looks at him, and grins. “Yep. I think we were in the same place last night.”
- 1/1
