The First Bell

The first bell rang while the harbour was still dark. Several boats at the quays already had their crews aboard: work begun long before dawn had a quiet voice, made of taut ropes and groaning timber. Margen, a sturdy man with a neck reddened by the cold, came from the storehouse carrying a basket so wide that he had to walk sideways. He stopped twice to catch his breath. Beneath his soles he felt planks still damp with salt spray. Karven, tall and broad, the man in charge of unloading, pointed him towards a dry patch beside a heap of nets and did not tell him to hurry. Margen set down the basket, looked at the others waiting and understood that the first bell had not begun the day's work. It had merely marked another stretch of toil that had started much earlier. “Good Return,” he said to a crew checking its moorings. An unfamiliar voice answered. Before it was a view to admire, the harbour was a place where somebody had to carry things. And Margen knew the weight of almost all of them.