On the Cold Coasts

let anyone out but you. And you have to be quick because the guard will be back soon, and I have to put the bolt back and lock the door so he doesn’t notice anything.”
    “I give you my word,” said Oswald solemnly. “Now hurry up and open the door.”
    Michael examined the keys on the chain. They were all similar in make and size and impossible to see which one fit the hanging lock. There was nothing to do but try them all, one by one. On the fourth try, he heard a faint click and the lock opened. Yet the race was not yet won, even if the lock was out of the latch that kept the bolt in place. He now had to force the heavy wooden bolt out of the iron holders on each side of the door. That was easier said than done. He was barely able to lift the bolt and needed to use all his strength to force it out of the holder on one side. Still, that was not good enough; the bolt needed to be lifted out of both holders at the same time. Michael let it drop and wiped the sweat from his forehead, nervous and shaking: surely the guard would be back at any moment.
    “Push on the goddamn bolt, boy! Push it to one side,” a voice thundered on the other side of the door. Yes, of course, why hadn’t he thought of that? Michael spit into his palms and pushed on the end of the bolt with all his might. Slowly but surely it slipped out of the holders and dropped to the ground with a low thud.
    Instantly the door was thrown open and the Englishmen rushed out, shadows in the dark, whispering to each other. Someone laughed softly at the naïveté of this stupid boy and seized hold of his shoulder when he was about to run away; it was captain Bell. Michael yelled and protested loudly, calling to his friend in despair: “You promised, Oswald Miller!” He thrashed and kicked; the toe of his boot hit a soft groin, and its owner cursed loudly. Michael felt a heavy blow to the back of his neck, and then everything went black.

    The magistrate’s keychain could not be found, so the hanging lock had to be demolished. It was already past daybreak when someone decided it might be an idea to check on the prisoners and toss some food their way. Major chaos ensued when Michael’s childish voice was heard, calling for help from inside the storeroom. Soon a small crowd had gathered outside the door. The servant who had been deployed to guard the storeroom the night before was found bound and gagged inside the stable, carefully concealed beneath a mound of hay.
    Thorkell stood impatiently over the servants as they tried with shaking hands to open the lock with a chisel. When those attempts failed, he grabbed a sledgehammer, pushed them aside, and smashed the lock in one fell swoop. He forced the bolt out of the iron holders with one movement, cast it aside, and threw open the heavy door. Ragna pushed her way through the people who stood watching and rushed after him into the darkened, windowless storehouse, calling out for her son.
    A quiet sniffling could be heard from the furthest corner. Michael lay there curled up in a low shakedown beneath a woolen cover, his hands and feet tied. He had been calling for help since regaining consciousness during the night, and he was exhausted, his face swollen from crying. His teeth chattered from the cold. Ragna ran to him and cut the ropes with her knife, took her son in her arms, and stroked his hair. “What happened, my darling? What on earth happened?!” He had received a cut from the blow to his head, and the hair at the back of his neck was moist and sticky. Ragna cried out as she felt the blood on her palm. Michael stammered, trying to respond; then suddenly Thorkell was there. He shoved Ragna aside, seized the boy’s shoulders, and shook him roughly.
    “What the hell have you done, you miserable wretch?! Why did you release them?!”
    “We don’t know if it was him who opened the door or someone else, Thorkell,” Ragna said angrily. “He can barely lift the bolt, and anyway, why would he do something like that? Can’t you see they’ve hurt him and tied him up?! Thank God he hasn’t died of exposure!”
    “Of course it was him who let them out. Who else but this worthless English bastard!” Thorkell raised the boy to his feet and shook him again. “Admit it, you lout!”
    Michael nodded his head rapidly, too frightened to speak.
    Thorkell released his shoulders and shoved him away, full of contempt, and the boy nearly fell backward. “I knew it.”
    Ragna grasped her son’s hands.