Only Bad Clothing

The ferry from the peninsula rounded into the mouth of the fjord—forty minutes or so, giving him ample time to reconsider. The weather had deteriorated in the past two hours, and it was no longer the semi-effortless cliffside pilgrimage it had seemed before. It was supposed to be fun, after all. And here they were, her standing boatside with the backpack on the ground between her feet.

The forecast said heavy winds, but he thought it would be grand because they had the tent. A measly, misshapen tent, but a tent nonetheless. It should do.

‘We are now approaching Bratteli.’

‘Is that it?’ she said.

‘Yeah.’ He looked behind to see if anybody was getting off. ‘Grab a hold of your bags. Once we’re off, we’re off.’ And then, tongue-in-cheek, ‘Nowhere else to go for the next twelve kilometres or so.’

She did not respond. Her arm looped through the backpack strap and she clumsily lifted up the bulk. He helped get it onto her back. ‘That okay?’

No answer.

The ferry rotated slowly, turning towards the dock. It got closer until the engine cut, and the front of it rotated away again. They just glided sideways in silence.

‘I think we’re the only ones,’ he said. ‘You ready?’

The bumper thumped against the dock, rocking them off balance. She nodded uncertainly and tucked her thumbs into the straps.

The ramp was lowered and the attendants looked at them. This was it. Last chance to make a retreat. The hell with it—he stepped out of the puddle at his feet and began his walk towards the jetty, her following in pursuit, their ponchos fluttering up and down.

He tried not to think, not to breathe. It was all part of committing. He should have known that wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

‘You okay?’

No reply. He looked back; she was walking quietly, face concentrated on the duckboards below. He heard the ferry rudder kick up, and by the time he looked back the ramp had already withdrawn. When he swallowed this sobering reality, he turned to face the scene before them.

A padlocked white cabin stood a couple of steps away, unpeopled. A yay-high fence marked the perimeter around it. Behind them, a trail went up into the towering escarpments his eyes had been trying to avoid since they’d both disembarked. Seven hundred metres in height and more malicious with the weather. Twelve kilometres: on any odd day it would be a short day’s walk. But not today.

With startling foresight, he saw the slippery ledges escaping from under their feet. The frail poles of their festival tent buckling under the weight of the storm. He was irresponsible. He had no idea what he’d put them through. The outcome would be his, and his only, to bear.

He gazed at the cliffs unfolding before him as they gathered pace uphill. Eleven and a half kilometres now. Not far. It’ll all be over soon.

A.V. Pankov is a Dublin-based writer born in Omsk, Russia. He has reported for The Irish Times, The Sun and the Irish Daily Mirror, and his fiction has appeared in Blue Earth Review, The Taborian and Mulberry Literary, among others. His debut novel, which follows two people trapped in a remote arctic town during the years after the Soviet Union’s collapse, will be available in bookstores on 3 February 2026. Find more details on avpankov.net.