Fergus looked out the large picture window at the Norwegian tundra rolling by. The morning sky was still dim, with a faint splash of dusty rose dawn chasing the train. The sea was behind them now, the sea: his longtime friend.
Before he’d left home, the water had been like a playmate, a brother on lonely days. He’d take the rowboat out into the bay, which was just steps away from his family’s home, and visit the shoreline features he knew so well: that boulder, this inlet; the small tide pools with families of tiny bright orange crabs. Then there were the craggy outcroppings along the bay, lush with luminous green lichen, each indent providing homes for nesting birds. Some days he would climb up and nestle himself onto a rock shelf, and watch over the chicks while the mother bird left the nest in search of food—sometimes a long wait, until dusk. Then he’d scramble back down to his rowboat, and paddle gently home, the last light of the day mirrored in the calm water below him.
The bits of Norway he had seen so far—from the water, on the ship—had been familiar to him. Small fishing villages, mountains carving out steep chasms, verdant valleys, waterfalls.
Did every place in the world look like Scotland?
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