Dusk followed dawn with indecent haste. Barely three hours had passed since leaving Trondheim and already the windows were darkening. It was as if the sun was retreating, unwilling to stay and suffer the cold of winter. Then, quite suddenly and without any warning to speak of, a horn sounded from somewhere in front of the carriage, its low echoes reverberating off the sleeping mountainside. It had not yet died away before, as if conjured by the sound, a masked figure appeared at my compartment door. His ghoulish face and twisted features seemed ominously foreboding in the twilight. His hair was matted and grey; his dark beady eyes lingered on me for a moment before he spoke in words I could not understand, their oddly musical quality was unnerving in the dimness. Time stood still as our eyes met; my whole body felt as if it’d been drenched in ice, then his thin mouth curled into a smile and he was gone, skulking down the corridor to frighten other passengers. We had crossed the Arctic Circle and Odin himself had come to welcome me.
We journeyed on, the landscape becoming wilder with every mile; we passed prehistoric lakes, their dark seemingly solid surfaces of onyx reflected the moon above, their liquid pools of silver oases of light in the oppressive blackness.
My eyes ached with tiredness; I pulled myself away from the window and got ready for bed. As I lay between my soft clean sheets, listening to the rushing icy wind against the glass, I thought of our little train, bravely snaking its way through the valleys and fjords, continuously journeying northwards up the immense arching backbone of this majestic land. As sleep took hold, my mind wandered, the swaying of the carriage was like a cradle, gently being rocked back and forth by a softly humming mother. With this comforting thought I closed my eyes and thought no more.
It was still dark when I awoke. Groggily I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stretched out my hand, grasping in the half-light cast by a nearby lamp for my glasses. No sooner had I found them and put them on I became aware of the change in temperature. It was much colder here; my breath had turned to ice on the windowpane. Wiping it away with my sleeve I was met with an alien landscape of wild impenetrable forests, their sprawling mass clung to the sides of steep jagged mountains whose peaks were lost in shadow.
I couldn’t hear anybody moving in the compartments next-door, so as quietly as I could I got up, made some tea and wrapped myself in a warm thick blanket, and then sat down to watch the dawn unfold. The stars and moon still hung in the Egyptian-blue sky, reluctant to relinquish night to day. The ashen glow of the crescent moon remained defiant even as the suns light began to creep over the distant mountain tops, extinguishing the stars. Subdued, her pale face began to sink into the horizon as her vanquisher’s head reared; his magnified light began to warm my frozen features, and day had begun.
As the morning wore on and people began to stir from their bunks, their muffled voices carried through the wall and washed over me, pulling me out from my quiet reverie. The metallic clatter of wheels and shuddering of cutlery came closer and closer, until finally it stopped with a soft screech outside my compartment. A sharp knock on the door, and a breakfast of warm oats and honey, coffee and chilled orange juice was served by a smiling, fresh-faced and very blonde attendant, dressed in a smart navy jacket and trousers, with brass polished buttons. I ate greedily, drank my juice and then proceeded to pack away the general debris of a long journey that now littered my compartment floor, for the smartly-dressed attendant informed me we would be arriving soon.
The small industrial port city of Bodø came into view; its urban streets seemed completely at odds with the pristine countryside that surrounded them. Shadowy buildings littered the skyline; their dark, unwashed and grimy windows remained defiantly opaque in the light of the glaring sun. Funnel-shaped chimneys towered towards the sky, their dark mouths spewing copious amounts of thick white steam which cloaked the town in a misty haze. In the distance I could see my quarry, the red and white polished surfaces of a ship docked in the grey port. The shadows of water ripples danced on the hull and the sun’s rays reflected off its gleaming skin. It radiated light, like a burning beacon in a moonless night, a haven for a weary traveller seeking refuge from the cold blandness of Bodø.
The raw wind hit my face like an ironclad fist as I stepped outside onto the empty ship’s deck; its clawing fingers pulled on my flesh, and with every blast of arctic air flung tiny ice-shards into my face. Shielding my exposed extremities with increasingly numb and frozen hands, I turned my back to the monstrous gale and approached the rusted and paint-flecked railings, whose bars were coated in thick ice. The glassy coils that hung from them reached all the way down to the floor. Like grisly pale tentacles of an unseen sea creature, lurking just beneath the waves, they coiled themselves around the ship.
The sun was low in the amber-washed sky, casting long shadows onto the surrounding mountains. The bubbling mass of molten ocean was stained fiery red, its writhing surfaces akin to a lake of searing lava in the burning light. The surrounding mountains blazed, no longer frigid ice-capped peaks but blackened scorched volcanoes, whose forbidding menace seemed impervious to the biting cold. Noiselessly we navigated our way through the labyrinth of islets and fjords, until the sky was a deep indigo and the seeming danger had passed. Dotted along the coast, clinging to the mountainsides, whose faces plunged into the surrounding steely sea, were small communities of stilted wooden houses. Their small frosted windows emanated warmth, the dancing flicker of a single candle perched in the window frame a talisman that I clung to against the cold in the approaching darkness.
Inside, and sheltered from the gnawing wind and cold, I sat in the ship’s café clutching at a steaming mug of tea. As warmth returned to my frost nipped fingers, and feeling to my frozen toes I watched the lambent moon creep out from behind a mountain. In the distance was the bay of Tromsø and the twinkling lights of the town shining out over the water. I watched as the surrounding passengers began to stir from the collective stupor that so often takes hold on long journeys, gather their things and talk excitedly of the promise of hot dinners and their waiting beds. I picked up my now toasty-warm bag from beside the radiator and made my way back outside to the deck to watch the town approach.
The wind had died and all was calm. Alone, I stood on the deck facing the steadily advancing town. The snow-covered church spires, stark against the shallow roofs of the town, were illuminated from below with lamps. I watched as the brightly-lit bridge crawled into sight, its glowing pillars spanning the fjord which penetrated Tromsø. Then, from behind a crouching mountain, the green bands of the Aurora came into view. Their presence filled all the heavens, from horizon to horizon. Twisting and turning they hugged the mountains that bordered the town, like giant streaks of paint cast with a lazy hand against the dark canvas of the evening sky. Silently they danced, incalculable amounts of energy spent without a whisper. Pale green curtains of dazzling liquidity hung over the landscape, and through their timeless rhythm mellow stars shone. With a little bump the ship docked and the spell was broken. I had arrived.