by Rachel Burge
She can’t be dead, she just can’t. Someone would have sent word to Mum; we would know! Or perhaps part of me did know, deep down. The thought is like a hand stirring murky waters, churning up mud and silt and allowing dark things to the surface. Tears stream down my face as I clench my hands into fists, crumbling the cookies to nothing. The world blurs to grey, everything gone but the ache in my chest.
Snot drips from my nose and I wipe it away with my sleeve. ‘How did she …?’
The boy glances behind me. ‘In her sleep, I think.’
I turn and gaze at the bed. Mormor’s colourful crocheted blanket looks painfully cheerful. Propped between two white pillows is the wonky heart-shaped cushion we made together when I was eight years old.
My grandmother died in the bed I’m sitting on.
I clasp my hand to my mouth. Mormor’s things look so pitiful without her: a metal hairbrush with strands of blonde hair on the wooden dressing table, a string of pearls draped over the mirror above, a blue shawl hanging from the door of her huge oak wardrobe. On her bedside table, a photo of me and Mum in a silver frame, a glass of water and an embroidery in a wooden hoop with a pair of scissors. It’s like she might walk back in at any minute.
I lean forward and yank open my rucksack. The boy jumps as I hurl my stuff at the floor. Pyjamas, jeans, trainers. My hands fly as if they don’t belong to me. Why did I wait? I could have booked the plane ticket weeks ago. I should have been here!
The boy holds out a tissue. I snatch it and blow my nose while he hovers in the doorway like a forlorn dark angel. His face is so unusual – a straight nose, full lips and striking cat-shaped eyes. He wears the strangest things: a waistcoat over a black striped shirt, tight black jeans slashed on the thigh like a creature has clawed him, and black boots with metal spikes up the sides.
Anger twists inside me. ‘You said you can explain. So explain.’
He casts his eyes to the floor and chooses his words carefully, as if afraid to get them wrong – though his English is perfect, with only a trace of a Norwegian accent. ‘I’m sorry. I needed somewhere to sleep and the place was empty. I thought it would be OK.’ He points to the door. ‘I stayed in the other room. I didn’t know someone would come.’
‘You didn’t know and you didn’t care! Get out!’
I glance at the window as lightning flashes. The twisted tree jumps out of the night, its gnarled branches swaying wildly in the wind. For a horrible moment, I imagine it might come alive and march up to the cabin. Rain beats on the glass, a hundred tiny fists pounding to get in.
Looking at Mormor’s things is more than I can bear. I turn back, but the boy has gone, like he was never there. As I step into the living room, a rush of icy air hits me. The boy is at the front door, silhouetted in moonlight. His black leather trench coat flaps about his ankles. Next to his feet is a bulging duffle bag, the sleeve of a white shirt hanging out the side. I presume his bag doesn’t have Mormor’s valuables inside, but how do I know?
He hoists it to his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ignoring him, I step into the kitchen and rest my back against the counter. Once I hear the door click shut, I switch on the light and survey the dirty dishes. The boy didn’t just help himself to Mormor’s spare room, he raided her larder too. And he’s been here for more than a couple of nights, unless he had his mates over. My fingernails dig into my palms. How dare he!
Exhausted, I slump into a chair and bury my face in my hands. Mormor should be sitting opposite me. We should be laughing and remembering good times. I wrote so many letters, asking her the same questions. Now all I have is an empty chair. Tears slide down my nose and plop onto the table. My head pounds with the injustice of it.
A moth flits around my head. I watch it in a daze, unable to move. Maybe the boy is wrong. Maybe he misunderstood and it was someone else’s funeral. Maybe Mormor is visiting a friend. My shoulders sag. Mormor is dead. The truth of it is like a stone in my belly.
The moth’s wings beat against the light bulb with a faint tap, tap. The light is so bright it feels wrong, like when Mum used to wake me at dawn for a school trip. I know life goes on, but perhaps this is how everything will be now: harsh and cold and wrong. The moth drops to the table with a tiny thud. Its thick body is covered with fur, its bug-eyed face part alien, part rat. Velvet-soft wings unfold to reveal two white unseeing eyes. Funny how things appear so different when you stop to look at them.
I don’t know how long I sit with my head on the table – until my legs are numb from the cold and my arm throbs with pins and needles. Sitting here won’t bring her back. With a heavy sigh I go to the front door and slide the bolt shut.
I make my way to the spare bedroom, the one I shared with Mum whenever we visited. On each side of the room is a single bed built into its own little nook. The carved wooden frames are painted grey-blue and stencilled with yellow and red flowers. With blue velvet drapes to close out the night chill, it was like sleeping in a fairy tale. One of the beds is messed up now, sheets tangled with crocheted covers, and the room smells faintly of boy. I close the door and go to Mormor’s room, where I crawl into bed with a sob.
I’m running through fog, but no matter how fast I run, I can’t escape the twisted tree. Its gnarled arms snatch at my hair and tear at my clothes as thick roots erupt from the earth and grab my ankles. Mormor has her back to me and is grasping for a piece of cloth hanging from a branch, even though it’s hopelessly out of her reach. I cry out and she turns to face me, and her eyes are two black orbs.
And then I’m inside the hollow chamber of the tree, knee deep in rotting leaves and dead things. Dirty black claws reach for me and I scream in terror. I’m sinking fast, up to my waist, my chest. Falling into the earth itself.
‘Mormor,’ I sob. ‘Please, I need you. Please, you can’t be gone … Mormor!’
I shudder with relief, my mind somewhere between sleep and waking. It’s OK, it’s just a dream … And then the real nightmare slams into my head: Mormor is dead.
My eyes snap open to darkness and for a second I’m back in hospital, my eyes bandaged tight. My heart hammers in my chest. Why can’t I see? And then the shape of the huge wardrobe looms into view. I’m not blind – it’s just dark. I take a deep breath and try to stop my panic.
They kept my eyes bandaged for nine days. It was horrible, but nothing compared to the terror of being told I might not see again. I was never really scared of the dark before. At home there’s a street lamp outside my bedroom window that offers a constant reassuring glow. After the accident I would pull back one of the curtains before I got into bed. That way I never had to open my eyes to blackness.
Lying here now, the darkness has a weight. It presses against my skin as I reach for the covers and curl into a ball. I long for the oblivion of sleep but my mind won’t let me. My thoughts probe the rawness inside me like a tongue touching a sore spot in a mouth.
Something woke me just now – a noise. I glance at unfamiliar shadows and strain to hear beyond the desolate wail of the storm. Nothing. Perhaps I dreamed it.
A dog barks. A sharp noise, high above the howl of the wind.
Someone must be looking after Gandalf. He wouldn’t have been left to fend for himself, surely? I remember all the summers we spent together. I used to love curling up with him by the fire, my fingers in his soft fur. He would push his head against me until I rubbed him behind his ears, and in return he’d lick my nose.
I prop myself up on one elbow and listen as the wind builds to a troubled moan. Maybe Gandalf nudged his way into the woodshed and the wind banged the door shut. He might be trapped inside. Poor thing, it must be freezing out there.
Another bark.
Mormor keeps a torch on the kitchen dresser. I could put on my coat and take a look. I shiver and pull the blanket tighter. The shed isn’t far, but the thought of leaving the cabin scares me.
More barking, louder this time.
I can’t leave him out there.
&nb
sp; I stand and feel for the light switch, my fingers exposed in the darkness as they roam the cold wall. The light comes on and my shoulders drop with relief. The electricity has always been temperamental, especially in bad weather; that’s why Mormor kept oil lamps. Not that we needed them much in summer, as it never really got dark. A horrible thought crawls into my mind. It’s late winter now – that means there will only be a few hours of light.
In the kitchen, I shrug into my coat and boots. My breath hangs on the air as I reach for the torch on the dresser. The heavy metal casing is freezing but feels reassuringly solid in my hand. I click the button and it flickers into life: not exactly bright but better than getting my phone wet.
I open the cabin door and the icy rain is like a thousand needles stinging my face. The cold is so shocking I have to remind myself to breathe. Inhaling the salt smell of the sea, I step into the night. It’s two miles from here to the coast, but now there are no fields dotted with yellow flowers, and no twinkling sea beyond – just a slab of black. The island’s vast spaces – its long sweeping beaches, jagged mountains and dense forests – didn’t worry me in summer, but in the dark … I don’t like to think what might be out there.
Making my way down the rickety steps, I sweep the torch across the path and see weed stalks dripping with water. I long to shine the beam into the darkness but I know the light will be swallowed up; better to keep it pointed down.
Clouds drift apart to reveal a glimpse of moonlight, sending shadows racing over the ground. My body tenses. Someone is watching me. I shake the idea from my head but the thought creeps up and taps me on the shoulder, insistent.
The beam shakes as I point the torch at the wooden shed. Swallowing my fear, I force my feet to move. There’s something to my left. A shadow at the edge of my vision. I turn, heart pounding.
Just wind and rain.
It’s because you can’t see from that side, I tell myself. Nothing is going to jump out at you.
A raven’s caw cuts through the night. I startle and the torch thuds to the ground. ‘Shit!’ I grab it and stab uselessly at the button. Before me, the shed door bangs lightly in the wind. It hasn’t been latched on the outside – it must have got caught on something inside. My palms burn despite the cold. I start to nudge the door when I hear scratching.
My voice is tiny. ‘Gandalf? Is that you?’
I push the door and something leaps out at me. I gasp and stumble backwards. ‘Gandalf!’
He throws himself against my legs and I kneel to accept his frenzied licks. He’s much bigger than I remember. His head and body are heavyset, his thick silver fur warm despite the cold.
‘You poor thing! How long have you been here?’
I run my hand along his back and curly tail. ‘Good boy! It’s good to see you too!’ He licks my face and I hug him, breathing in his familiar smell. His warmth is so comforting I don’t want to let him go. I hadn’t realised how much I missed him until now.
A shadow shifts inside the shed. The dog moves towards it.
‘Gandalf, stay!’
He weaves around a pile of wood before I can stop him. I desperately jab at the torch and it flickers into life. Directing the beam reveals a stack of logs, an old axe and a dark shape on the ground. A white face with long black hair blinks at me.
‘You!’
He sits up and holds an arm to his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I had nowhere to go.’
A green sleeping bag covers his legs, and he’s been using his duffel bag as a pillow.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Gandalf?’
‘Who?’
‘Mormor’s dog. Why didn’t you tell me he was here?’
Gandalf covers the boy’s face in a barrage of licks and he smiles and scratches the dog’s head in return. ‘I only met him tonight. I heard barking so I let him in with me.’
Gandalf puts his head on one side, his brown eyes pleading. It must be well below zero – the boy will freeze if he stays out here. He left the cabin when I told him to, but even so, I know nothing about him. I can’t just let him back in.
Gandalf barks as if determined to change my mind. I bite my lip, wishing Mormor was here. What would she do? In her stories, a stranger always turns out to be a powerful wizard. Those who offer meat and mead are rewarded but those who close their doors pay the price. It wasn’t in Mormor’s nature to turn anyone away. I look up to see Gandalf licking the boy’s nose. He would know if the boy was bad, surely.
I turn towards the door. ‘Come on, let’s get you inside.’
Gandalf wags his tail and trots towards me, then stops and glances back. The boy is wearing his leather coat inside the sleeping bag. I walk over to him with a sigh, hating the idea of touching his clothes, but at the same time knowing it’s the only way to tell if I can trust him.
Standing above him, I take a deep breath and steel myself for whatever comes. I reach my fingers to the back of his shoulder, in a gesture that hopefully looks like I want him to get up. Thoughts and feelings crowd my mind. Guilt, love and sadness – then another emotion: one of bitterness, jealousy and hatred. How can someone carry so much kindness and yet have the potential for such malice too? It’s like he has a split personality. I pause, unsure. There is nothing to suggest he wants to hurt me, but something isn’t right.
The boy looks at me hopefully, his teeth chattering. Gandalf barks and I shrug reluctantly. ‘Come on then, get up, before you freeze to death.’
He hastily grabs his stuff and follows me up the porch steps and into the cabin. I close the door behind us, then kneel down and scratch the dog between the ears. Holding his head between my hands, I stare into his eyes. What am I doing, Gandalf? I don’t know this guy and he broke into my grandmother’s house. My dead grandmother’s house.
Gandalf grins – he has one of those doggy faces that’s always smiling – and wags his tail so hard it might drop off. I watch in wonder as he sits at the boy’s feet and stares up at him. The boy pats the dog with a smile, and anger rises inside me. ‘It’s just for tonight.’
‘Thank you. I won’t get in your way.’ He holds out his hand. ‘My name is Stig.’
‘Martha.’
Perhaps realising I’m in no mood for formal greetings, he clasps his hands behind his back and smiles awkwardly, revealing two perfect dimples. The way he rocks on his heels, he could be a gentleman from another era, not a twenty-first-century goth boy.
My coat pocket vibrates. I must have forgotten to switch off the alarm. I blink at the screen in surprise: 8.00 a.m. But Norway is an hour on; that means it’s nine o’clock here. How can it be morning when it’s pitch black outside?
Stig seems to read my mind. ‘Won’t get light for an hour or so.’
I glance at the dark kitchen window. No point trying to sleep now. I may as well clean up. I put some food and water down for Gandalf, then start on the dishes, ignoring Stig’s insistent offers to help. When I’m done, I grab a chair to my left, but misjudge the distance and slump down awkwardly, nearly falling over.
Stig reaches out a hand. ‘Are you O—’
I glare at him, my face hot with embarrassment.
He holds up his hands and takes a quick step back. ‘Sorry, sorry!’
The way he says it reminds me of the boys on the ferry. I rest my chin in my hands, wondering if things could get any worse.
Stig loiters at the edge of my vision. ‘Can I get you some coffee maybe?’
My head throbs as if I haven’t slept for days. I give the briefest nod, then rub my temples. The sound of the water boiling in the saucepan is weirdly mundane. I guess there’s no need to tell him where to find things. I watch him slide out a drawer and pick out a teaspoon. He looks totally at home. It only annoys me more. He spoons coffee grounds into the saucepan, but doesn’t crack an egg into the mixture first, like Mormor used to. After a few minutes’ boiling in the pan, he pours the coffee through a metal sieve balanced over a clay pot.
He hands me one of Mormor’s flowery blue ch
ina cups, the ones she keeps for special occasions. I try not to let it bother me, but it does. Stig points at the chair opposite and I gesture for him to sit.
‘So how come you have nowhere to go?’ I ask.
Stig shifts in his seat. ‘My stepfather. Everyone must see things his way. I didn’t.’
‘Do you live on the island?’
He shakes his head. ‘Oslo.’
‘That’s miles away. How did you end up here?’
‘I came to Skjebne for a holiday with my dad once.’ A shadow of sadness crosses his face. He pulls his coat around him, then shrugs and adds, ‘It seemed a nice place.’
I sip my coffee. It doesn’t taste like Mormor’s. I used to think it was funny how she mixed the coffee grounds with egg, but she was right. It does make it taste less bitter.
Stig raises an eyebrow. ‘No good?’
‘No egg,’ I mutter, then bite my thumbnail. A habit from childhood I should have outgrown, according to my mum. ‘So you didn’t know anyone, or have anywhere to stay?’
‘I had six thousand Kroner, enough to stay at the hotel on the harbour, but someone stole my wallet while I was asleep on the ferry. I didn’t realise until I got off.’
His eyes are the palest blue, made even more startling by the black eyeliner. He holds my gaze, his face seemingly earnest, but what do I know? Maybe he was robbed, or maybe he came here to rob Mormor.
‘So what made you choose this place to break into?’
Stig lowers his eyes to the table. ‘I heard some women at the harbour talking about a lady who lived alone by the forest. They said she had died in her sleep, and had left a note saying she wanted her cabin kept stocked with food, ready for her daughter to visit. The other said the daughter knew about the funeral but wasn’t coming.’
The blood drains from my head, making me feel sick. Mum knew Mormor had died! She knew about the funeral! Stig carries on talking but my mind is spinning so much I barely hear him. When was Mum planning to tell me exactly? Burning Mormor’s letters is one thing, but how could she betray me like that?
