Hauling both traps out of the water proves disappointing. The bait is gone, but no crabs or fish have been captured. These creatures are wily, having figured out how to nip the bait without being snared. I throw the traps back into the water and climb the stairs to the church. I have no choice but to go begging for the tithe now.

The church sits high on the escarpment, overlooking the village. From here, all one sees are the battered roofs of the cottages clustered before the enclosed bay. Beyond that, open sea. The mountain range that rings our little village is treacherous to pass, closing us off from the rest of the world. The only way in or out of Torgrimsvær is by sea.

Life here on the razor’s edge of the known world is difficult. Here the stars twinkle green at night and the sun turns a rich blood red at midday. It is not a place for the weak, and the people of this northern coast are a proud lot. Hardy and resilient, they proclaim themselves God’s chosen people, and thus, superior to those in other realms. The kingdoms of the east they consider to be degenerate, and the empires in the south are flabby and weak. Westerners are devils incarnate. The Almighty favors those whose flesh is hardened by salty winds and hard toil.

The village square is small, but it contains a stone fountain built over the very spot where it is said Torgrim the Unbending slew the great sea monster. I’m told villagers used to toss pennies into it as a wishing well, back when the fishing was plentiful. People hold onto their pennies now. The coins are long gone, taken by the village boys who dove in to fetch them from the bottom of the fountain. All those wishes, stolen by naked, shivering boys. The fountain has since evaporated to a few feet of brackish water that smells badly. No one makes wishes anymore.

My father was assigned to this remote coastal parish when I was ten years old. We packed our paltry belongings and made the long sail to this desolate fishing village hidden away from the rest of the world. Mother did not want to go. She was a country girl with soil under her fingernails and hay in her hair. She had no wish to trade our small farm for a hut on the bitter coast. My father assured her that being granted his own parish was a great advancement for himself and our family. Prestige, prominence and comfort, he promised. None of this materialized. There is barely a speck of greenery in this place. It is rock and mountains and the sea. Grey and cold.