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The Town Where the Sun Never Sets 

by

Audrey

It was the dog days of summer, and I had absolutely nothing to do. In all reality, I had things to do, but they were not urgent at the time. An ex-convict, I had been released from prison ten years prior. I found myself with no real purpose, so I took up mountain climbing. After climbing the seven highest summits in the world, I was bored as a man watching paint dry. Not necessarily craving adventure, I was craving an experience to prove I was still living.

 

The map hanging on my apartment wall was a decently interesting map. Frankly, it was only there to cover up a hole. I threw a dart, and it landed on the tiny Scandinavian country of Norway. Vikings are neat, so why not? Going online, I booked a trip to climb the Kultbyfjell Mountain in an isolated Norwegian mountain town, Ondtsted.

 

After three planes, two trains, and a strange boat, I finally arrived in Ondtsted. The “quaint mountain lodge” from the website description turned out to be my translator/guide’s shack. Dimly lit and curtains drawn, it was faintly illuminated by a single, lopsided candle placed on a scratched wooden table. Nearly all of its wax stuck to the wood. Musty pickled fish, vinegar, and saltwater invaded my nostrils. Footsteps and creaking wood sounded behind me. A tiny, yet fit, grandfatherly man with hair like snow and eyes like crystals emerged out of nowhere. He introduced himself as “Iver,” my guide, his English hampered by a heavy Norwegian accent. Nobody else in Ondtsted knew English. He would accompany me everywhere.

 

We embarked on a tour of the town. With a population of fifty, everyone was dedicated to taking mountaineers up Kultbyfjell. The only contact with the outside world was through their website. Homogeneous wooden shacks lined the shore of a deep, enigmatic lake. Like a mirror, it perfectly reflected anything that dared look into it. The sky was clear. A crisp breeze traveled through the town. There were no trees, but the grass was invaded by dandelions, wildflowers, and all sorts of dangerously beautiful weeds.

 

The town’s only landmark besides the mountain was a cemetery. Every stone was pristine, like an operating room. They all looked the same: white granite with a single yellow carnation. No epitaph. Why would this be the star of the town?

 

Iver sensed my lack of interest. He gasped, “This is history!” He seemed bewildered by my reaction, even though he did not explain the landmark’s significance to me.

 

“How come none of them are marked?”

 

“In our faith, we believe that once we die, we belong to God. Our names are no longer our own. We honor this by leaving our graves unmarked,” he proudly replied.

 

“What is your faith, exactly?”

 

“Our faith dates back thousands of years to this region of Norway. Our ancestors worshiped nature gods, but about a hundred years ago, Christian missionaries visited and introduced God to our town. It evolved, and we still honor our ancient traditions, but we worship God now,” he shared.

 

Later that day, we visited a plain middle-aged couple who only spoke Norwegian. They lived in a small wooden shack, identical to the others in the town. These are his friends? The woman’s name was Runa. Tall like a tree, she was blonde with clear blue eyes and pale skin like paper. Her husband was called Egil; short like Iver, and blonde and blue-eyed, as well. The people of Ondtsted looked very similar. They all wore white clothing: a tradition of their faith.

 

Though the language barrier was an issue, the couple was decently welcoming to me. They knew a lot about me. In fact, the whole town was excited about my arrival. We stayed for hours. Iver translated our conversations while we dined on potatoes and lutefisk, a traditional Norwegian dish. Around midnight, Iver sent me outside to look at the sky. In summer, the sun never sets in most of Norway.

 

The sky appeared exactly as it did earlier that day: clear. I took pictures and walked around a little on my own, then decided to return to the couple’s shack. Nearing the door, my ears caught the tail end of a strange conversation. In English.

 

“How many are coming this summer?” Iver inquired.

 

“Three,” replied Egil.

 

“That’s a lot less than before,” said Runa, anxious.

 

“But they are coming in different weeks,” Egil said. “Nobody will know. It’s not like this is anything new.”

 

“Iver, are the carnations growing well?”

 

“Yes. We’ll be fine.”

 

I opened the door. All of a sudden, only Iver spoke English, but all of their faces were plastered with concern. Strange.

 

What were they so worried about? Later that night, I asked Iver why the mood went south. Apparently, a nearby village was dealing with a murderer on the run. Ondtsted was worried for their safety. This seemed fishy. Why not dig a little deeper? Further investigation on my part wouldn’t hurt.

 

“Iver, is there anything I can do to help?”

 

“Egil, Runa, and I formed a watch group. We patrol at night a few times a week. Our next patrol is tomorrow night. You can join if you like. It’s just the three of us.”

 

Why would I go?

 

Early the next morning, the trek up Kultbyfjell commenced. Though it was summer, it was particularly cold. Birds were quiet. The lake was placid. The climb felt more like a hike compared to previous climbs, but my stomach churned like a person expecting awful news. Tomorrow night. Just the three of us. Minutes from the summit, Iver became sickeningly quiet. Ten years in prison conditions you to see the worst in people. Something was up.

 

Iver spoke to me for the first time in a while. The winter ice on our original route had not yet melted. We would have to take a different route, closer to the ledge. Nearing the edge, he was walking in front of me. My heart pounded frantically, trying to warn me.

 

We were three steps away. Iver said to look the other direction at the beautiful view of the lake. Two steps away. Do not dare look. One step away. Enraged, he swiftly reached out to me. Cold, emptiness, hunger, grew inside. Adrenaline coursed through my veins: a shot of ice, an impulse. I pushed Iver off the ledge before he could do the same to me.

 

It has been a few years. I never left the town of Ondtsted. That day, I climbed down the mountain, raced to the couple’s shack, and confronted them. They replied, in perfect English, that they were impressed with me; I had been the first to outsmart them. They wanted me to stay. If someone was able to outwit them, they might as well work with them.

 

I took them up on the offer. Did I actually have anything better to do? There never actually was a murderer in another town; it was all a ploy. I was in their trap, but escaped and they liked it.

 

It has been a few years. Some mountaineers, unsuspecting tourists, have come, but never gone. Just this morning, I walked through the cemetery, knowing why the graves go unmarked. Placing a yellow carnation on the freshest grave, I was grateful. The carnations grew well this summer.

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AUDREY

Author, age 16

I am proud that this piece has its own unique feel. This story is set in a small mountain town in Norway. I happened to have visited Norway this past summer, and I loved how it had such a distinct vibe. It was unlike any other place I have ever been. My favorite part about this story is that it captures this feel through the environment and the characters. This story reminds me of the isolated, yet mysteriously beautiful feel that I remember from Norway. I want readers to just have fun with this piece, and allow themselves to be transported to a gorgeous, yet slightly unsettling, place.

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