We followed the tracks up the slope and across the bleak plateau, but there was no sign of
Håmmer.
“Are you positive that these are his tracks?” I asked Knud.
“Their tracks.”
“
Their tracks?”
Knud glared at me. If there was one thing I had learned in my short time with the Norwegian, it was that he hated to have to repeat himself.
“There were two of them,” Knud said. “They looked identical.”
“Two Håmmers?”
Another glare. Still, I couldn't help but wonder whether his witnesses were reliable, or even
awake.
An hour earlier, when I had approached the detective back at the Håmmerfest police station and asked whether anyone had seen Håmmer, the detective furrowed his brows and studied me for a long time. Finally, he cleared his throat.
“Hva heter han?”
“Håmmer.”
As it turned out, there were many town legends about Håmmer. And quite a few sightings. The most recent one had been seen just outside of town.
“They looked identical?” I asked.
Another grunt.
As we trudged up the slope together, I tried to engage Knud in small talk - topics that I thought would be of mutual interest: beer, bicycles,
Danish women’s handball. He just muttered in Norsk.
“Regnbuen har mange farger.”
“Ja,” I replied. That is the only word I know in Norsk.
Then the Håmmer tracks came to an abrupt end.
How could Håmmer just vanish like that? I wanted to ask Knud, but I was afraid of his answer. Instead I asked whether the Håmmers could have climbed a tree. I could not think of any other explanation for the disappearing tracks. But Knud shook his head, pointing to a sign.
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t notice that. And it's even in English.”
Then, barely visible in the snow, I saw it: A small gray trinket.
I picked it up, dusting off the grains of snow. Then I held it out in my palm, so Knud could see. It was a small plastic compass. The needle was spinning wildly, round and round, clockwise, then suddenly counter-clockwise, then clockwise again.
“What do you make of it?” I asked Knud.
“Hmmm... let's go back to my office,” Knud said. “I want you to listen to something.”
***
In his office, Knud lit a cigarette and pulled out an old, taped-up cassette player. He slid in a tape labeled: “lost radio transmission.”
“The Håmmers...” he started. “They speak of the compass. And the witch.”
“The
witch?”
He glared at me again. Then he hit play.
Immediately, this barely audible
snippet of conversation followed:
Voice1: This?! This looks like some piece of crap compass you got a yard sale for 50 cents!
Voice2: Trust me - this is no ordinary compass. I got it on the other side from the witch. This compass has some serious juju. You’ll need it later.”
Voice1: “What for?”
Voice2: “The real ending. The surprise one I told you about last year. This blog will end with a journey - a journey that begins with this compass.”
Voice1: “And how does the journey end?”
Voice2: “It ends with a four-letter word. More than that I really can’t say.”
Voice1: “Hmm. Well, alright then. Thanks I guess.”
There was a high pitched noise, followed by static. Knud popped out the cassette.
“Do you know what the four letter word is?” I asked. “Was it a profanity?”
“No --
luck.” Knud said.
“No luck,” I repeated. I had hit another dead end.
Knud just glared. Then he showed me the way out.
The search for Håmmer continues. If you find any clues, please drop me a line.
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