The Body in the Fjord

Kari and Erik had been.

The galley yielded nothing other than the fact that there would be vafler in the tour’s future—a large waffle iron that made the heart shapes was stored in one of the cupboards. There was a small room off the galley with a table and chairs, a place for the crew to relax. Apparently nothing. A few paperbacks lay on one shelf next to a coffee mug. There was a box of brochures and maps. She opened the closet opposite the door. Knapsacks. The guides’ and the stewards’, according to the name tags. Kari’s and Erik’s would have been here. Kari’s and Erik’s knapsacks, which unaccountably turned up in Oslo. She pushed the bags to one side and searched the rest of the small closet. She emerged beaming. So there was something after all. But Pix would have to do the rest.

Voices.

“Do you mind if we smoke?” Anders asked the elderly woman sitting just where they’d left her.

“No, not at all,” she replied.

“Maybe we should open the window. It seems a little stuffy,” Sonja offered solicitously. Mrs. Rowe’s cheeks were red.

“That would be very kind. Thank you.”

“This church dates to only about one hundred years after the introduction of Christianity into Norway by King Olav. He was very convincing, offering a choice between adopting his religion or death. Still, people were not completely sure about this new religion, so they kept some of the old superstitions, like this circle with a cross in the middle. You had to have at least seven of these on the walls or the old gods might reclaim the church. There were no pews or seats in stave churches. Everyone stood, the women on the north side, to protect the men from evil spirits.”

Pix wanted to ask the church’s guide whether this was

because the women were thought to be powerful or expendable, but she was moving on to further details.

“And you have seen the carved Viking ship dragon prows on the roof, another safeguard. Here inside if you look straight up, you will see the roof appears to be the underside of the hull of a Viking ship. These churches are called ‘stave’ churches because of these large pillars holding the roof up. All of the carving and paintings also exhibit the mixture of Christian symbolism and the older Viking traditions. Notice particularly the intricate design around the three doors. Men entered through the front door, women again through a door on the north side, and the priest through this one.” She gestured toward the door. “The exterior porch was used for processions and it was also where the lepers and pregnant women had to stay during the service.”

“Lepers and pregnant women.” Jennifer nudged Pix. “Same ole, same ole.”

“We are very lucky to have this church. Between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries, about nine hundred churches were built, but so many were destroyed that we have only around thirty complete ones today. At one time in our history, many people thought the stave churches should be taken down because of their association with the pagan Viking times. Other kinds of churches were built. Just before this one was going to be sold for the wood, an Englishman bought it and saved it. Unfortunately, the owner had already washed the walls to remove the paint, so it is hard to see what it once must have looked like. You have to imagine the bright colors.”

Pix wandered out to the small cemetery. A huge copper beech stood in front, its top branches even with the carved dragon’s heads jutting out from the roof of the church. The spreading branches below cast feathery shadows on the red wood of the church and shaded the tombstones. Some of these had pitched forward, the weathered names faint; others were new and upright, their inhabitants known, the letters still sharply incised on the stone. Bright

bunches of flowers were scattered about in small vases. She wondered how old the tree was, how many interments it had witnessed. In Aleford, antiquity meant 1775. Here, that was only yesterday.

“Wasn’t that interesting? Especially about keeping the Viking ways. Viking is Old Norse for ‘pirate raid.’” It was Marge Brady speaking. She sat down under the tree and Pix joined her. Marge was madly scribbling away in her journal. “I don’t want to forget a thing. None of the guidebooks mentioned that business about the pastor having to take care of his predecessor’s widow. I can tell you that would not go over big at home.”

Pix had missed this. “What was the custom? I was out here.”

“Well, when one died, the new one had to support the widow, so it was easier just to marry her. The woman in that portrait on the wall was married to three pastors; then she died before the last one and he married a seventeen-year-old and it all started over again. I guess it was sort of a career for these women. Do you suppose they still do this in Norway today?”

“I would doubt it. Women—and men—don’t have to worry about a steady income, health care, or old age. I think I’ll go back and have a closer look at that portrait, though.” Pix thought of the portraits of the priests she’d seen, with their wide starched ruffs encircling their throats above their somber black robes. Her friend Faith was married to a man of the cloth, but Tom Fairchild was neither starched nor somber. Nor could Pix see Faith transferred like the parish Bible and Communion silver to Tom’s successor. This old Norwegian custom—was it a reflection of their practicality, frugality, or concern for the widow? Perhaps all three—and besides, having someone around who knew the drill must have been a help to the new pastor.

But she didn’t get a chance to gaze at the portrait after all. They were being urged gently but firmly to get on the buses for a quick ride to a scenic mountaintop viewpoint, then back to the boat.

Sonja and Anders had been busy setting out things for lunch—a huge steaming vat of pea soup, boller—rolls—salad, and plenty of sliced meats and cheese. Ursula sat at a table near the galley and the three were chatting. Like Kari and Erik, these stewards were also students. Sonja had grown up in Undredal. “It is not so far from here. We are famous for our old church. It is the oldest one in Scandinavia still in use. Undredal is a very good place to live, but I will probably stay in Oslo. These villages are very small, you know.”

Ursula did know. She had been to Undredal one spring with Marit and it was tiny—but beautiful. The cherry trees had been in blossom and the church, which only held thirty people, was indeed special. Twelfth-century paintings had been discovered beneath many layers of paint on the walls and restored. There was also an intricate wooden chandelier of stag’s heads, yet what she could still visualize most clearly, and with some amusement, was the pulpit with the inscription informing all who should pass by that it was painted by an Olsen, but above that proclaimed that it had been paid for by Peter Hansen. Marit had pointed it out and later teased her husband about the priorities of his forebearers.

Now Ursula turned to her task as investigator and asked the two young people, “Are you enjoying your jobs? It seems like quite a bit of work, with very little time off.”

“Oh, we don’t mind. The pay is good and we meet so many nice people?” Anders’ voice went up and down in the typical pattern, ending on that questioning note. He continued. “Sonja worked for the company last summer, and when I met her this winter, she convinced me to give it a try, and I’m glad I did. We are seeing more of each other now than we do all year.” He smiled expansively.

“I heard there was some problem with the other stewards on this trip. Did you know them?”

Sonja frowned. “I knew Erik from last summer and met Kari a few times. It’s a sad thing. I don’t know what they could have been thinking of. Erik was not the type to do something like this.”

But Kari was? Ursula caught the unspoken thought and was about to ask, Like what? when the rest of the tour poured into the cabin, famished after a morning of sightseeing. Pix went over to her mother. “Everything all right?”

“Better than that, dear.”

Pix sighed. While she’d been sidetracked by pastors’ wives and carved acanthus leaves, Mother had probably figured everything out.

“We’ll have time for a chat at the hotel,” Ursula said firmly.

“How big do you think it is?” Pix asked. The two women were sitting in Pix’s room at Kvikne’s Hotel in Balestrand.

“Hard to say—and I didn’t have much time to investigate. There were some rain jackets and other things hanging in the closet. I pushed them to the side and moved the Knapsacks. I’d already tapped on the walls of most of the boat—this cane is really remarkably useful—but everything felt very solid, except in the closet. The rear wall definitely sounded hollow, as if there was some sort of compartment behind it.”