by Rachel Burge
‘Hei, fina!’ The boy again. I walk a little quicker but don’t turn around. There’s no one else. He must be shouting at me. A few more steps to the boat and I can hide inside.
Ouch.
Something slams against my leg. A metal post. I wince and rub my thigh. Definitely too dark for sunglasses. I snatch them off, annoyed, but without them I feel naked.
‘Hei! Beautiful girl!’ A hand on my shoulder. The boy jumps in front of me, his beer sloshing out on the wooden walkway. His grin vanishes, replaced by a look of horror, quickly followed by embarrassment. He throws up his hands and backs away. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ His friends see my face and howl with laughter.
I stand frozen to the spot and watch as they jostle each other onto the ferry. Is this what my life is going to be like now? Once the boys have boarded, I hurry towards the boat, the metal gangplank bouncing under my feet. At the top, I hold the door to steady myself and quickly step aboard.
I look for a dark corner where I can curl up and die, but raucous laughter from the bar persuades me to brave the upper deck. Even if it’s not well lit, there probably won’t be many people to stare. I grab the metal handrail and climb the steep stairway. Footsteps sound behind me. My pulse quickens. They’re too close, gaining on me.
‘Hei?’
I turn and see a tall man with a bushy grey beard. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. His weather-worn face crinkles into a smile as he jabs a thumb to his chest. ‘Olav.’
Relief washes over me. He lives on a farm a few miles from Mormor. I barely know him, but it’s wonderful to see someone I recognise.
He follows me up the remaining steps and stands next to me on deck. In his hand is a long metal box, the kind that holds a snooker cue or a rifle. We haven’t spoken before, though Mormor often chatted to him on our walks. He looks different: older and more stooped.
‘Ja, det e dæ. Marta!’
He says my name the Norwegian way, and speaks in the lilting, sing-song cadence I know so well – an accent Mormor shares but Mum has pretty much lost.
I smile awkwardly and pull a strand of hair from my mouth. He says something, but the wind yanks my hood over my head and I can’t hear. ‘Sorry, what?’
He points at my face. ‘Ditt øye?’ I don’t know if Mormor told him about the accident. She never came to the hospital – not that I’m surprised; I don’t think she’s ever left the island, and we flew straight home to London afterwards. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since.
I shrug, feeling glad when Olav leaves it at that. We stand in silence, watching the twinkling lights of the shoreline get smaller as the ferry pulls away.
He strokes his beard, then peers around me as if expecting to see someone. ‘Why no …?’ When I don’t answer, he rubs a thumb across his lip. ‘Ja.’ He says it the way all Norwegians do, on the in-breath. I wish I could help, but my Norwegian is worse than his English. He frowns and asks something about Mormor, but falls silent when I don’t understand.
Holding the rail with both hands, I lean over and lick the salt-tang of the sea from my lips. The ferry pitches from side to side as it bounces through the waves. I like the feeling. The faster we go, the sooner I’ll get to Skjebne.
Olav raises a finger to indicate he’ll be back. He points to the metal case at my feet and I nod to say I’ll look after it. There are a few couples on deck but no one close by. I gaze in wonder at the glorious full moon and sparkling sea. The night is so wild and free and full of possibility I want to drink it in.
A seagull cries overhead and I think about the last time I saw Mormor. She took me out to the tree the day before the accident, then gave me her gloves to hold and told me to listen. I tried, but all I could hear was the lonely cry of a gull.
‘Keep trying, my child, and one day you will hear,’ she said. When I asked what I would hear, she wouldn’t tell me. She had done the same thing when I was younger. Took me to the tree, put her shawl around me and told me to listen.
I think about all the letters I’ve written her in the last few months, asking the same question over and over: why can I tell things about people by touching their clothes? I was so worried when she didn’t write back, I thought she must be sick or that she’d had an accident. Mormor doesn’t have a phone, so I begged Mum to call someone on the island and ask them to check on her. Mum told me not to worry; Skjebne often has problems with its postal service. I actually believed her – until I touched her silk blouse. Mum put her arm around me to comfort me, and I saw an image of her hands burning an envelope at the kitchen sink.
Mum had bought the blouse a few days ago, and it was the first time I’d touched silk. I know from going through her wardrobe that different types of fabric reveal their secrets differently – cashmere holds a person’s emotions and makes you feel them like your own; cotton shows images and facts without feeling – but silk is like nothing else. It speaks of deceit.
I rub my head, angry with myself for not figuring out Mum’s lies sooner. Olav reappears clutching two polystyrene cups and two Kvikk Lunsj. I recognise the striped red, yellow and green packaging instantly: the Norwegian version of Kit-Kat. He gestures for me to help myself and I take the cup and chocolate with a smile. The coffee is hot with no milk or cream to dilute it.
Olav sips, stroking his beard. When he thinks I’m not looking, he studies me with a worried frown. Several times he starts to say something, then stops. Most Norwegians speak perfect English, but it’s different for some of the older generation.
Rain. At first one or two drops, then it hammers down. Olav grimaces and gestures below deck. I hurry down the steps after him, grateful when he makes his way to the far side of the ferry, furthest from the bar. I take off my coat and we sit next to each other in silence punctuated by awkward smiles.
To pass the time, I scroll through photos on my phone. Mormor’s elkhound dog, Gandalf – I was so pleased when she let me name him; some shots of the harbour, and a selfie of us having a midnight picnic on the beach. In summer it never gets dark. They call it the land of the midnight sun, and that’s how I think of it: a place where I was free and happy, an endless summer.
I come to a photo of Mormor at her spinning wheel, her long blonde hair in plaits. The evenings when she told stories were my favourite. My heart would thud to the beat of her foot as she spun her words into the yarn – filling the cabin with magic and wonder. Her tales usually revolved around my ancestors, women who had all kinds of strange adventures, but sometimes she would speak of the terrifying draugr, the dead who walk again at night or under the cover of fog. After one of her scarier stories I would insist on taking a candle to bed. ‘Blow it out before you sleep now,’ she’d say. ‘You don’t want the dead to find you!’ I knew she was only joking, but some nights I lay awake in fear, every creak of the floorboards a walking corpse. When I called out, Mormor would be there, smoothing my hair and singing me a lullaby. Sometimes she would vow to stop telling me frightening stories, but they were my favourite ones and I would always ask to hear them again.
As we arrive at Skjebne, Olav grabs my rucksack and insists on carrying it. I thank him with one of the few words I know – ‘Takk’ – and he rewards me with a thumbs up in reply. If only I knew the Norwegian to ask for a lift.
As I wait for the ferry doors to open, a grin spreads across my face. I made it! I actually made it! My smile doesn’t last long. An icy gust slams into me, pushing me backwards. The wind screams past my ears as Olav’s hand steadies me from behind.
No bullet can stop the dead.
I shudder and turn around, but there’s only Olav. I’m sure I heard a raspy voice, but maybe it was just the wind.
I keep my head down and battle up the slope, boots crunching on ice as sharp as broken glass. Beneath me, waves suck and splash at the harbour wall. When I get to the top, what I see isn’t Skjebne. At least not the Skjebne I know. The cheerful red fishermen’s cabins that stand on stilts along the water’s edge are gone. In their place are wooden huts the
colour of dried blood, brooding over the waves with dark intent. Even the jagged mountains beyond seem sharper in their shroud of winter white.
I follow Olav as he trudges around the huts, the path beneath our feet obscured by mist. The red is faded in places. From a distance, it seemed as if they’d been bleached by the sun, but looking up I see dozens of seagulls nesting under the dark pitched roofs. The vertical lines of white are streaks of birds’ mess. In summer I loved to hear the gulls cry as they circled above the boat. It felt like my own special welcome party. With only the crash of waves and bluster of the wind, the night seems strangely quiet.
Olav walks past an old guesthouse with what looks like a ‘for sale’ sign, then enters a small gravel car park. Beyond it is a line of A-shaped wooden frames, taller than a house. In summer there would be hundreds of stockfish hanging down like fruit, drying in the sun. Now they’re dark and empty, a gallows with no one to hang.
The throaty caw of a raven makes me jump. It swoops past my head, then lands on a wooden post. I step back, a little nervous. Most wild creatures don’t get that close. But then I remember how Mormor used to feed a raven from her hand on the porch each morning … and these ones are probably just tame thanks to the tourists giving them titbits. The raven plumps its grey-feathered chest and fixes me with a beady stare before cawing again.
Olav gestures to an old blue Volvo, the only vehicle in the car park. I shout, ‘Takk,’ but the wind whips away my words. He throws my bag onto the back seat and holds open the door, but I hesitate. Mum has warned me so many times never to get in a car with someone I don’t know. But then Mormor has always seemed friendly with him and his wife, and it’s got to be safer than walking in the dark on my own. I glance at the deserted car park and climb inside, happy to escape the sting of the wind.
Olav starts the engine and turns a dial to de-mist the windscreen. He sneaks a look at my eye, then coughs awkwardly. Even if he could speak English, I doubt he’d know what to say.
‘Bo hos mæ?’ He jabs a thumb to his chest. ‘Hjemme til han Olav?’
I shake my head, then rub my hands together. Even with my gloves, they are numb from the cold.
He tries again. ‘Olav’s hus?’
Finally I understand. Why does he want to take me to his place? Unease ripples through me. I reach for the door handle – maybe I should get out.
Olav looks alarmed. ‘Med Yrsa! Wife Yrsa!’
I smile with relief, but as much as I’m grateful for the lift, I haven’t come all this way to see him or his wife.
‘Mormor house. I want to see Mormor.’
Olav grips the wheel with both hands and gives me a serious look. Maybe he’s worried about me travelling on my own. He starts to say something in Norwegian, but gives up when I shrug and smile apologetically.
He drives in silence, seemingly lost in thought. When he takes the road to Mormor’s cabin, I sit a little taller. She’ll be so surprised, I can’t wait to see her. She’ll throw an extra log on the stove and brew some coffee and I’ll give her the cookies. After that I’ll explain why I had to come.
Olav stops the car and I peer through the windscreen at Mormor’s little cabin on top of the hill. Maybe it’s the shadowy moonlight, but the plants on the roof look like they’ve doubled in size. Lots of rural buildings in Norway have living roofs as insulation, and Mormor is proud of the neat rows of herbs she grows in summer. Now the roof seems overgrown with weeds and there’s even a miniature Christmas tree up there.
A light comes on. Good, she’s still awake. Olav stares at the cabin, wide-eyed. Surely he isn’t going to drop me here, at the end of a dirt track? He rubs a thumb across his lip and looks at the house and back to me. When I don’t say anything, he drives up to the cabin and then points at the house. ‘Mora di, yes?’ I don’t know what he means, but I nod anyway.
We get out of the car and he lifts my rucksack from the back seat. I grab it and we have an awkward tussle as he tries to carry it for me. In the end I hold it to myself with a firm takk. I know how Mormor likes to chat and I want her all to myself.
Olav offers me his bare hand, which I shake. Unable to say much else, I smile and repeat, ‘Takk … takk …’ again and again. I honestly can’t thank him enough. The idea of walking all that way in the dark makes me shudder. He raises his hand and says something else about mora di, then gets into his car and drives away.
Without the lights of the vehicle, the night is that much blacker. I turn to the cabin as a cloud drifts across the moon, throwing it into shadow. Like everything else, it looks different to when I’ve been in summer. Darker and smaller; hunched in on itself. I glance at the weeds rustling on the roof. They make the place seem neglected, abandoned almost.
A mound of logs sits next to the woodshed, waiting to be chopped. I walk past them, then climb the few rickety steps to the porch and knock at the wooden door. An icy drop of rain lands on my face, making me shiver. I wish I’d let Olav see me inside. I knock again, louder this time. Where is Mormor? Even if she was in the bath she should be able to hear. It’s not exactly a big place.
A gust of wind flings grit in my face and I turn away. Then I catch sight of it. The twisted tree. At first it’s just a blurred shape at the bottom of the garden, shaking in the breeze. I squint and its black branches come into focus. It looks even more gnarled and ancient than I remember. I don’t blame the tree for the accident; it was my fault for losing my footing. Even so, seeing it makes me shiver.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I hammer on the door and scan the windows. Suddenly the light inside goes out, plunging the porch into darkness. My heart leaps into my throat. Why would she turn it off? I blink as my sight adjusts to the pale moonlight. The wind is so loud Mormor can’t have heard me knock, that’s all. She must have turned off the light and gone to bed.
I peer through the dark window and see an oil lamp on the table, its flame dying. Mormor would never go to bed and leave a flame burning, even a low one. Something is wrong.
‘Mormor, it’s me, Martha!’
A shape inside the cabin darts past the window. My legs turn to water. I’m sure it was a man, bent low. Why is there a man in Mormor’s kitchen? There has to be an explanation. Think, Martha. Where is Gandalf? Why isn’t he barking? Maybe a burglar poisoned the dog. Or maybe Mormor went somewhere with him. Maybe she’s looking after a sick neighbour, and that’s what Olav was worrying about.
I grab my bag, the taste of vomit in my mouth. My hands shake as I scrabble for my phone. One bar. Even if I get through to Mum or Dad, what are they going to do?
My pulse quickens as a shadow races behind me. Get a grip, would you? It’s just a cloud passing in front of the moon. But what if Mormor is in trouble and needs me? I can’t stay out here. I sling my bag over my shoulder and gently nudge the door. It opens with a creak.
‘Mormor?’ My voice is barely a whisper. I reach to turn on the light, but I can’t find the switch. I turn on the torch of my phone and hold it out before me, then lick my lips and swallow. The sound that comes from my mouth is a frightened squeak. ‘I know there’s someone in here. I saw you from outside.’
I scan the kitchen to my right. The oil lamp gutters on the wooden table, its flame casting strange shadows about the room. The little dresser is there with its row of blue flowery crockery. The colourful rag rug is where it should be. Mormor’s books are all in place. The wooden chairs are tucked neatly under the table.
The kitchen smells strange – of boiled potatoes and vinegar. The tap drips with a rhythmic plop. A pan and dirty plates are stacked on the draining board. Mormor would never do that. What’s going on?
My fingers tighten on the strap of my rucksack as I enter the open-plan living room. Embers glow red in the cast-iron stove to my left. It looks sinister in the dark: a pot-bellied monster on stumpy legs. Above it is the painting Mum did of the island, the choppy waves of the sea glinting in the half-light. The blue and white checked sofa facing it is empty. I go to the back of
the cabin. Three more rooms: Mormor’s bedroom, the spare room and the bathroom.
I walk on tiptoes, glancing in every direction. The creak of a floorboard makes me freeze. I spin to my left, expecting someone to jump out on my blind side, but there’s just shadows. Forcing my legs to move, I make my way to Mormor’s room. It’s darker on this side of the cabin. I hold out my phone, but it only illuminates a tiny patch of wall. I hesitate outside her door.
Someone is breathing on the other side.
My heart skitters in my chest. I lean my ear against the wood and gasp. There’s a faint shuffling sound.
What if they’re doing something to Mormor? I have to stop them!
My hand trembles as I grasp the knob.
I open the door and scream. A boy is standing there. Tall and wiry, about the same age as me. He has long dark hair, a pale face and wears black eyeliner under his eyes. He stares at me and holds up his hands in a bizarre act of surrender, as if my phone is actually a gun.
Fear turns to rage. ‘Who the hell are you?’ For a crazy moment I think he must be an apparition, not a real human being. But a ghost wouldn’t look so terrified.
‘Sorry! I can explain, please. I can explain.’ He says something in Norwegian, then tries again. ‘Please, it’s not what you think.’
My legs won’t hold me a second longer. I collapse onto the bed while he stares at me like I’m the intruder.
‘Where’s my grandmother?’
He looks at me aghast, then says in a small voice, ‘I only know what I heard.’
‘Which is …? What? Just tell me!’
‘The woman who lived here is dead. Her funeral was last week.’
4
‘You’re a tough cookie. You’ll be OK.’ That’s what Dad said when he saw my eye. He might as well have patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘I can’t help you. You’re on your own, kiddo.’ Sitting on the bed, I pull the biscuits from my bag. I was going to share them with Mormor – my celebratory treat for making it here. For being a tough cookie.
