KATHERINE HALL PAGE
The BODY in the FJORD
A FAITH FAIRCHILD MYSTERY
—HENRJK IBSEN,
“The book says, ‘The Flam train ride continues to be one of Norway’s most popular tourist attractions,’” a woman with a slightly nasal voice read to her husband.
He was looking out the window at the people still waiting to board in front of the station at Myrdal.
“We’ll be descending from two thousand eight hundred and forty-five feet above sea level to six feet above sea level in only twelve miles. I don’t think I like the sound of it, honey, do you? Isn’t that kind of steep?” She pursed her lips and tugged at his sleeve to get his attention.
He hadn’t been listening—not an uncommon occurrence. But he had caught enough to know what she was talking about. He’d read the book, too.
“I’m sure it’s all very safe. We’re in Norway, for God’s sakes. What could be safer?”
“You’re right. I’m just being an old fussbudget.”
He’d turned to look at her and now he turned back toward the window. He hated it when she pulled at his clothes. Hated it when she used what she thought were cute words, like
“Anyway, it says here the train has five separate braking systems. And they couldn’t possibly
if they did, the train would be going so slowly by then, we could jump off.”
The man repressed the impulse to point out to his wife that jumping off the train as it zigzagged down the mountain to the fjord at any speed would be as suicidal as staying on with no brakes, and he merely grunted something that could be taken as either encouragement or discouragement. His wife opted for the former.
“What was I thinking of? This is going to be fun! It says the train passes through twenty tunnels. We won’t be going very fast, though. It takes fifty-three minutes to go down. Fifty-three minutes for twelve miles. But wait—it says it takes forty minutes to go up. Now, that doesn’t make a speck of sense. You’d think going down would be faster, wouldn’t you? It must be a misprint. We can time it, then write to the guidebook people.”
He didn’t reply, continuing to stare out the window.
You could tell the Norwegians from the tourists, because the Norwegians of all ages carried knapsacks. The tourists had bags on wheels, bags with wheels, or bags strapped onto racks with wheels. Wheels were the thing.
He’d been in Norway long enough—this was their last day—to discover Norwegians didn’t all have blond hair and blue eyes, but they did all look healthy. Good posture, too. Those knapsacks. Must be the free health care. Like to see them in the winter, he thought. Dark the whole day. Maybe they didn’t look so healthy then.
The train started with a smooth exhale and they set off down the mountain.
“Get the camcorder, honey. This is fabulous! Besides, we’re coming to that waterfall soon.”
Kjosfossen. A photo opportunity. He got the camera ready. When the train stopped deep inside a tunnel, he dutifully trailed after his wife and the others, going outside through the dark dampness, emerging into daylight farther down the tracks.
The waterfall was everything the book promised. His wife scampered close to the edge, letting the spray from the mountain torrent hit her in the face.
“So good for your complexion! Better than Evian!” she shouted back to him. He felt vaguely embarrassed by the nymphlike antics of this middle-aged woman. He knew for a fact she never sprayed water—French or any other nationality—on her face. Who was she trying to impress? He also knew for a fact it wasn’t him. Just something to say. Always something to say.
A man at his side was following his gaze.
“Kjosfossen. It’s one of our best ones, one of the biggest,” he said.
And it was. Tumbling down from ledge to ledge, crashing against the dark rocks, rocks that in June held pockets of snow, there was nothing delicate about the waterfall. No bridal-veil similes, no maidens in the mist, but roaring, pounding, impenetrable white water. He lowered the camera for a moment, bent down, and threw a twig in. It vanished instantly, engulfed in the powerful swirling foam so rapidly, he could not even be sure he’d seen it go in.
His wife was still capering about on the slippery rocks. Almost all the other passengers had gone back to the train. His new companion did not seem to be in any hurry.
“The water goes into the river at Flam, then the fjord. The Aurlandsfjord. Good fishing down below. Salmon,” the man said.
The train whistle blew. His wife gave a start, lost her footing, and for one brief moment…
Seconds later, she was grabbing his sleeve. “I could have killed myself!” She was indignant. “The book should have mentioned how dangerous those rocks are.”
They boarded the train and he resumed his post at the window.
The journey ended at Flam. When they got off the train, he was surprised to see people running from the platform and down the road toward the river. They were all talking at once.
“What’s happening?” his wife cried out. “Ask if anyone speaks English. They all speak English.”
He shook her off, wanting to know himself what was causing this uncharacteristic agitation. Wanting to run with them.
“You stay here with the bags.”
He was not far behind the man he’d been talking to in the tunnel, catching up with him shortly before they reached a knot of people standing on the banks of the river. Several were crying. A few were retching in the grass.
The cause was immediately obvious.
Caught between two rocks was the body of a man—a young man, it appeared. One of the blonds, although his head was so bashed in from his turbulent journey, it was hard to tell. Some blood had turned the pool where he’d come to rest a sickly pink—salmon pink. His right arm had been wrenched back over his head, assuming a position impossible in nature. Most of the clothes had been torn from his body. Incongruously, one foot remained clad in a running shoe, the laces neatly tied.
“It’s a wonder he’s here at all,” the man from the train said. “Usually in these waters, they’re never found.”
The roar of the falls high up the mountain had become the mere babbling of rushing waters emptying into the deep, still fjord. Mesmerized, he watched as the clear current rolled smoothly over the rocks, swept past the grisly
