Fishermen from Heaven

By Bill Sevald

Fishermen from Heaven is an adventure yarn featuring two Icelander commercial fishermen, an American septuagenarian, and a Middle Eastern family on the run. Set in current times, it is the story of strangers thrown together in a raging North Atlantic storm. A diplomat, his expecting-any-minute wife, and their twelve and six year-old daughters are fleeing assassins contracted to kill them. The fishermen and the American do what they can to protect the family and themselves. Pressed into service as a midwife, the senior delivers the baby, and bonds with the youngest daughter cooking and singing at the fishing boat's tiny stove. The Icelander crewman is an Olympic class marksman with rifle and pistol, and he teams up with the captain and the old man to successfully bluff the killers the first time they board the fishing boat. The hired guns' second boarding is violent, as is their threat to the safety of the survivors after the vessel reaches Reykjavik.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780692133958

Book preview

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Fishermen

from Heaven

a novel

Bill Sevald

Copyright 2018 by Bill Sevald

This is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue, and characters are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical or by any information or storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

Cover designed by nzgraphics.com

Interior designed by Debbi Stocco

Chapter 1

He fished just enough to smell like a fisherman, with that layered, briny odor that soap and shampoo don’t completely remove. Would he miss it on starting fulltime office work in two weeks? Not as much as an Olvirsson should, given how far back commercial fishing went in the family. His father had been the last true angler, and then just barely, plying the trade as a young man before the corporate interests and their factory ships swallowed up the industry. He’d gotten out after the spreadsheets his son ran proved that there was no future in it.

So why had his first born persisted, especially when his early contributions were more statistical than physical? Probably because he didn’t look or feel like a pencil pusher. His form screamed Viking, with his ice-chest-shaped body and brawny, fleece-covered forearms under a short neck and head of blond hair, a tinge of red in it to vouch for the Celt branch of the family tree. The formidable body was betraying him now, with its blood pressure in the stratosphere and a pulse more hummingbird than human. His doctor said it was a toss-up whether a heart attack would still him before impending diabetes crippled him. He would have added or a gun had he known about the smuggling.

The accounting manager at the biotech firm had been surprised by the sample spreadsheets he brought to the interview, not realizing that all the surviving boats had the equivalent, run by someone in the family who calculated everything except the taxes, which were left to a certified accountant, more for the FLE after his signature than his acumen. Imagine if the manager had seen his contraband workouts, with their capture of hold temperatures and humidity settings.

He moved fine wine, the kind of vintages that fetch more than single malt scotch, and were as precious to the government VAT enforcers who patrolled the Reykjavík harbor. Not a grape man—what true Northman was?— his first runs were losers. Who knew that wine shouldn’t be chilled beyond a certain point and that its bottles must be stored almost, but not quite, horizontally to prevent corks from drying? Camouflaging them under a hundred pounds of Atlantic cod hadn’t done wonders for their labels either.

He eventually mastered the basics, but the pressure of getting caught and jailed ground him down. Hence the accounting clerk application that was followed by two interviews and a surprise acceptance. His ecstatic wife helped him shop for appropriate clothes. While his eleven-year-old son snickered, his younger sister was more upbeat, saying that Daddy now looked like a movie star. Yeah, a pale, out-of-shape, tie-wearing Incredible Hulk.

Smuggling had been the last resort after attempts to use the boat for something other than fishing had failed, the most creative being to outfit it as a tour boat that would take sightseers to offshore bubbly geothermal locations mentioned in legends and sagas. Updating and outfitting the craft to align with government meet-the-public specifications proved too expensive, although he did get an offer to buy it from a company that ran one of the inland hot springs tours. His attempt to wangle a job for himself as tour skipper went nowhere. They wanted the boat, period.

The new office regimen would include walking, packing a healthy lunch, and maybe even exercising at a health club after work. That would seal it; no fisherman worth his slicker and hip boots needed exercise. In fact, in the old days, he’d never seen a fat deckhand; there was too much work propelled by too much coffee for a man to put on weight. Of course, now that the holdouts were also bootlegging, their skeleton crews often resembled lardy tourists who’d mistakenly boarded the wrong vessel. Handling a gun was more important now than repairing lines and cables or lubricating machinery and equipment. One needn’t be in shape to pull a trigger.

When it came to wielding firearms, his boat had the best: his wife’s kid brother. A true sharpshooter, he had been set to travel to the 2004 Athens Olympics as a member of Iceland’s rifle team when he was removed by a committee decision at the last moment, no reason given. Jobless and thoroughly pissed, he volunteered for the Danish Army and was readily accepted after another unseen committee ruled that having a Danish uncle-by-marriage was sufficient grounds for mercenary citizenship. He patrolled in Afghanistan and was discharged in good standing a year before the celebrated documentary Armadillo was filmed. Unlike some in the shooting set, he hadn’t suffered buck fever when humans crossed his sights, although he remained tight-lipped about the kills he registered the few times he was rented out as a sniper to coalition forces. It turned out that he’d also been an alternate on Iceland’s 2004 pistol team, making him a fellow to be feared no matter the firearm.

He was low maintenance as a deckhand and seemed to enjoy his time on the water. He relished the grunge work, possibly from all the years of keeping his guns well tuned. Although he wasn’t talkative, he was hardly taciturn and would expound on subjects he liked, such as the National Church and the importance of faith. Olvirsson got enough of that at home and would wander off to fiddle with neglected tasks that were suddenly pressing. His wife Birgitta worked for Evangelical Lutheran charities in Reykjavík, and her paycheck helped keep the family afloat, especially early on when the smuggling paydays had been hit and miss.

Oly was not proud of his reaction on learning from his wife that her brother was gay. Without thinking, he’d parroted his father’s prejudice against homosexuals, going so far as to shield his son from his uncle. Yet he liked Stein and admired him because he was so manly in a cowboy movie aw shucks, ma’am way. Reykjavík wasn’t that big, with a population a bit over 100,000, making it a hard place to keep secrets. He sympathized when his wife told him that Stein didn’t fit in with his set, of how lonely he was. Admitting that he’d overreacted, having never seen anything remotely below board from his in-law, he allowed his son to resume fraternizing with his uncle as he had in the past.

Olvirsson hoped the final excursion would be as much fun as preparing for it was. At first, he planned to take his seven-year-old daughter, to give her the royal tour he’d given her brother five years earlier. Birgitta thought his intention was endearing and did not relish dampening it, but Christa was now in big girl school, and two weeks was too long to be away. And no matter his protestations, a small girl traveling with three grown men would not work, no matter how attentive her babysitters might try to be. His argument that she would appreciate the pony ride he would arrange for her far more than her game-console-clicking brother had not fallen on deaf ears but was no more successful.

So Olvirsson, Stein, and Gunnar were the Three Musketeers without a distaff, growing- bigger-by-the day d’Artagnan, and left the friendly confines of southwesterly Reykjavík to travel north and clockwise around Iceland, with plans to see the hermit-madman Borg on his island before dropping Gunnar off at the Skálar artists’ colony in Seyðisfjörður on the east coast, where he hoped to reconcile with his son.

Setting up the boat as a smuggler practical joke cast further doubt on Stein’s gayness. Weren’t homos supposed to be the creative class, flamboyant and theatrical, dressing up on the flimsiest excuse? Not his brother-in-law, whose sole contribution was to suggest that they stash bottles of grape juice in places they normally hid wine. They took him up on it but substituted the cheap 2 percent juice crap that the stores peddled like water. Pure grape juice was too pricey for the tax man.

Getaway day was peaceful, as was the journey to see Borg, the November North Atlantic and Arctic Oceans pulling their usual haymaker punches, three experienced men sufficient crew to navigate an eighty-foot fishing vessel through icy waters. Borg’s island was fifty miles north of the vertical line that bisects Iceland and sported a sheltered cove that the old man maintained despite not having a boat of his own. The Briðja Stelpan (The Third Girl), rechristened by Olvirsson’s father after the birth of his baby sister, entered the harbor to find a seaplane where it normally would have moored. The fishing boat came alongside, then anchored away to give plane room to maneuver.

The seaplane was unmarked, bearing neither the signage of Iceland’s Coast Guard nor that of a commercial interest. Olvirsson led Stein and Gunnar to Borg’s abode to find him in the small main room with three corporate types. Despite the heat from the stove, the company men wore red windbreakers over sweaters, and one gestured with gloved hands as he talked to the old man.

Borg was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people in the room and did not respond to Olvirsson’s greeting, looking away to get his bearings. The fisherman reintroduced himself, a friendly gesture that was not reciprocated by the strangers; the gloved man continuing with what he had been saying before the interruption.

Borg, it’s for your own good. You’ve done an incredible job here, but at your age, you can’t be expected to maintain this place much longer. It would be a disaster if your innovations were lost for lack of maintenance.

The old man looked at Olvirsson with eyes hinting faint recollection.

The soon-to-be accounting clerk tried to hide his dismay at the hermit’s decline. It’s Oly, Borg. Oly Olvirsson. You remember. I used to come here with my father, and a few years ago you fixed up a turf saddle so my son could ride your horse.

The old man teared up. Ásta’s dead. She died last year. A jacketed man sitting at the feet of the gloved man could not hide his annoyance and bellowed, What the hell is he talking about?

Olvirsson interjected, His horse. Ásta was his horse, a classic Icelandic mare who worked alongside him for years.

The gloved man offered insincere condolences and continued. We’ve made you more than a fair offer, in fact, one that is far greater than what your property and holdings are worth.

Stein took one step forward and icily asked, What are you guys talking about? his demeanor making it clear that he was not a man to be messed with.

The squatting man threw out his hands in frustration, rose to his feet, and turned to the three latecomers.

We have offered that senile idiot free lodging for life in the best senior facility in Reykjavík, or any other place on this goddamn earth his heart desires, along with naming rights in perpetuity on his desalination invention and seaweed innovations, to be designated to the charity of his choice. He glared at Borg. My choice right now would be the Alzheimer’s Foundation.

Olvirrson eyed the three men. They were small-boned and slight of build. He and Gunnar could diet and exercise to eternity and never approach their pencil-necked geekdom.

Stein broke the standoff. Let him think about it and get back to you.

The third jacket exploded. Jesus Christ, he’s had months, literally months.

The sharpshooter looked at the seaplane spawn with an eerie calmness. Give him more time. If what he’s done is as important as you claim it is, it makes sense that he’s not willing to part with it.

The gloved man took a step forward, sized up the three latecomers, and turned back to Borg. OK, you’ve got a week. We’ll be back, and with the authorities. He signaled his colleagues, and the windbreakers left the shack languidly to emphasize that they hadn’t been run off.

Olvirrson motioned for Gunnar to give Borg the stash in his pocket. The old man brightened at the logo of his favorite loose tobacco. He was a pipe man who occasionally chewed.

Oly said softly, We’ll go back to the boat now and let you be. You have a good smoke, get some rest, and we’ll be back with more goodies tomorrow.

The old man offered a pleading, You’re not going to leave?

Oly stepped forward to place a reassuring hand on Borg’s shoulder. No, no. Just like in the old days. We’ll sleep on the boat and give you room to do your stuff.

Walking back, Gunnar wondered which of the company men had piloted the seaplane. Stein was quick to answer, None of them. The pilot was sleeping in the plane when we came in. Ah, Stein, ever on patrol.

Borg was more alert the next morning and gave the guests a tour of his homestead. Gunnar wasn’t expecting much, having seen enough seaweed as a boy picking dulse during the summer and on weekends to supplement his family’s meager pantry. He wasn’t prepared for the old man’s exotic varieties, from Japanese to Indonesian to South African, which he had strung up in a system of locks that mixed exothermally heated water with the frigid North Atlantic in the proper proportions to suit each species. He said the work was tougher now that Ásta was gone. In the old days, he could wrap seedlings around her neck, plant them, and use the bottom of her barrel as the marking height to string them below the water line. Spreading seaweed over her from neck to rump made harvesting a snap.

His desalination works didn’t look commercially ready, resembling the seaweed waterway except that the boiling salt water ran through stages of natural filters before trickling fresh into a cistern that also collected rain water. So the recluse always had enough to drink and to spread over his meager potato patch. The setup was obviously the product of someone with a lot of time on his hands.

Borg was tired by the end of the demonstration and was glad to get back to the warmth of the shack where the fishermen presented him with the last of their presents: a ten-pound tin of instant coffee and a five-pounder of lemon drops, his favorite candy. He thanked them and said the gifts would go a long way. He’d cut the previous evening’s tobacco with dried seaweed because he could no longer smoke the good stuff straight. It would be the same with the coffee that he would mix with dried, crushed Japanese sea grapes.

The men left the next day, Stein commenting once back on the boat that he found it strange that corporate types were screwing around with an old man. Why bother talking to him? They’re going to grab it anyway.

Gunnar’s reply of they want him for branding met with dull looks, so he elucidated. I got the word from my son, who attended a workshop on how artists can promote themselves. The teacher used KFC as the example.

The fast-food chain?

Yeah, he said that it originally had a longer name, and was started by a retired military man, the white-haired guy on the sign. That’s how those men see Borg. He’s somebody you couldn’t make up. Did you see the glove guy’s eyes after he digested the dead horse story? He was seeing a logo: the fierce old Icelander and his little horse struggling against the elements! He’s probably got an artist working on it now. Paying for a nursing home and making a few charity donations is nothing compared to the positive public relations they’ll get for doing it. They want Borg alive, at least until they can get advertising-quality photographs and video of him.

Gunnar’s reunion with this son went as rocky as the meeting with the seaweed recluse. The young man was a print artist famous for one alt-rock band poster that hadn’t led to other successes. His work was much too dark for Olvirsson, who refrained from saying that all the kid’s stuff looked the same.

The young man was upfront about his goals, which were money and recognition, with money first, and he exploded when his father said it seemed like he had a chicken or egg dilemma on his hands. Olvirsson and Stein excused themselves, left for the boat, and were about to push off when they saw Gunnar scurrying down to meet them, moving as fast as his trademark limp would allow. No words were spoken, the mate assuming his normal debarking position, his captain glad that he had an able crew for the last visit to the Faroe and Shetland Islands. The original end point, the Orkneys, for a look at the Stonehenge-like ruins, had been scuttled after Stein confessed that he’d be bored to death.

With three aboard, it was safe to fish, with mackerel the target once in sight of the Faroes. Although the men weren’t wild about the greasy fish’s taste, it was reputed to be high in Omega-3’s and thus a candidate for the freezer, to be thawed on healthy eating nights. Halibut inhabited the same grounds, and if caught, by law had to be included in the mackerel count, so their palates wouldn’t suffer too much. In light rain and 40-degree temperature, the men met their personal needs by day’s end and headed for the capital Tórshavn and a night of beer, fiddle music, and deciphering the Faroese language, with its hodgepodge of Norse, Danish, Scots, burred English, and just enough Irish to confuse.

Popping for a third round, Olvirsson opined that he’d reconsidered Borg’s situation and had decided that the old man, despite being robbed, was getting a