The Cable Ferry – Part 1: The Crossing

The ferry held four cars, a bicycle, and a woman who had missed the bus.

Claire stood at the rail with her rucksack, watching the Norwegian fjord slide past in stillness. The water lay deep green and silver, walled by steep forested mountains and streaked with white waterfalls. The air was crisp and clean. A seabird hung above the wake.

She was thirty-three, an editor from Manchester, on a week's walking holiday that had become a week of missing connections. The bus had left without her. The next one was at six.

"Eleven minutes," said a voice.

The ferryman leaned in the door of the little wheelhouse. He was thirty-six, broad-shouldered, with sandy hair, a faded blue jumper and a calm, weather-beaten face. Anders. "To the other side. Then I come back. All afternoon."

"All afternoon?"

"It is the job."

"Is it a good job?"

"The best." He nodded at the fjord. "Every crossing is different. The light, the weather. Today is a good day."

"I've got four hours until the bus."

"Then you may ride," said Anders, simply. "No charge."

She stayed. They crossed to the far side, unloaded a delivery van and a farmer with sheep, and crossed back. The sun slid across the sky. Anders brought her coffee in a tin mug, and a slice of brown cheese on a cracker. He talked about the fjord: its moods, its seals, the white-tailed eagles that nested in the cliffs. She listened, hands wrapped round the warm mug.

On the fifth crossing, the wind dropped and the whole fjord turned to glass.

"Oh," said Claire.

"Yes."

"The mountains are upside down."

"It happens once a month."

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"Is the six o'clock bus the last one?"

"Green?" said Anders, a ferry light, with a slow smile.

"Green," said Claire, laughing. "Very green. I think it might be."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Last Boat.