What do the symbols mean?
Read the story to find out!
Rain is pouring down. Of course it is.
Hans's jacket gave up trying to keep him dry hours ago. Ice-cold water trickles down his back, and his shoes squelch against the cobblestones with every step. With a weary sigh, he nudges a half-rotten fish lying outside the covered walkway of Bredsgården.
"I hate Mondays," he mutters.
"Monday? It's Tuesday!" calls a familiar voice behind him.
Hans turns around.
There stands Rattus on top of a barrel outside a warehouse, looking as important as ever. One paw is pressed dramatically against his chest, a seashell sits proudly on his head like a hat, and he wears a broad, self-satisfied grin.
Hans shakes his head.
"Tuesday, Monday... it all feels the same to me. I'm unloading ships every day this week. My back already thinks it's Friday."
He stretches with a groan.
"So... are you here to lend a helping paw?"
Rattus straightens himself, clears his throat, and raises one paw.
"Not exactly! Hear ye, hear ye! An official proclamation!"
"Oh?" Hans says with a smile. "And who sent you?"
Rattus points his nose toward the coat of arms above the door of Merchant Valter's trading house, one of the respected Hanseatic merchants from Lübeck.
"They did."
Hans raises an eyebrow.
"So you've got a job with the Hanseatic merchants now?"
"I have appointed myself Supreme Rat Inspector of Heraldic Affairs!" Rattus announces proudly, removing his seashell hat with great ceremony before placing it back on his head like an official badge.
"From this day forward, every dock worker must obey the Great Coat of Arms Law. Anyone who breaks it... shall receive no dinner!"
Hans narrows his eyes.
"And what exactly does this law say?"
"Everyone must bow respectfully to the coat of arms," Rattus declares. "And I shall personally make sure they do."
Hans folds his arms.
"Very impressive. But tell me—do you actually know what's on that coat of arms?"
Rattus snorts.
"How dare you question my expertise! On one side we have a magnificent bird—perhaps an eagle... perhaps a very distinguished crow—with splendid wings and fierce claws. On the other side is a headless fish wearing a crown. The bird stands for freedom. The fish stands for... delicious dinners."
Hans bursts out laughing.
"Not quite."
He points to the shield.
"That coat of arms belonged to the German Hanseatic merchants who traded here in Bergen. The bird is half of the imperial double-headed eagle from Lübeck's coat of arms. It stands for courage and strength. And the fish?"
Hans smiles.
"That's a crowned stockfish. It shows how important the Hanseatic merchants were in the dried fish trade."
Rattus nods thoughtfully.
"I must admit... that is also an acceptable interpretation."
He adjusts his seashell hat.
"Now then... bow!"
Hans sighs.
"Bow? I'm already bent over from carrying barrels all day."
Still, he straightens up as much as he can and gives the coat of arms a polite bow.
Beside him, Rattus removes his hat and performs such a deep, elegant bow that he looks as though he is greeting an emperor.
There they stand in the pouring rain—
one soaking-wet cabin boy and one dripping-wet rat—
solemnly bowing to a coat of arms.
"Well?" Hans asks.
"Was that respectful enough?"
Rattus nods gravely.
"A satisfactory beginning."
Then he adds,
"But there is room for improvement."
Hans laughs.
"I'd better get back to work. I'm soaked to the skin."
"What does a little rain matter," Rattus declares dramatically, "when we have the honour of paying tribute to the Hanseatic merchants, who blessed our humble rat society with fragrant spices, golden ale, fine cloth, and nourishing grain?"
At that exact moment—
Slip!
The wet barrel sends Rattus flying.
Splash!
He lands face-first in a muddy puddle.
Hans sighs.
"Was that part of the ceremony too?"
Rattus coughs, spits out a mouthful of muddy water, straightens his seashell hat with as much dignity as possible, and replies,
"Naturally. That was the Advanced Hanseatic Greeting."
Hans laughs, reaches down, and helps him up.
"Come on then, Inspector. Help me unload the ship—or neither of us is getting any dinner."
Rattus sighs deeply.
"Will there at least be stockfish... with warm porridge, a sprinkle of cinnamon, and perhaps a tiny sip of golden ale that sparkles like liquid sunshine?"
Hans grins.
"If we finish our work, Your Honour, I'll even share the last crust of bread I rescued from yesterday's lunch."