The Twisted Tree

by Rachel Burge

  Stig mumbles into his coffee. ‘I walked up to the forest and found the cabin.’

  My fists clench. ‘So you just broke in?’

  He swallows and licks his lips. ‘The door was open. I only meant to stay for one night, but when no one came …’

  ‘You made yourself at home.’

  He lowers his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I can’t believe how people can be so selfish. I open my mouth to tell him what I think of him, when Gandalf barks at the door. The yellow headlights of a car sweep into the room and Stig jumps up and grabs his bag. He stares at me accusingly, his body tense, alert.

  I shrug like it’s no big deal, but inside I’m jumping with nerves. I’m not exactly expecting company either, and the last thing I want is for Mum to know I’m here.

  5

  Stig glares at the door, then back to me. Anyone would think the police were after him. Anxiety coils in my stomach … When I touched his coat there was so much jealousy and anger. Maybe he’s hurt someone and he’s on the run.

  I peek through the yellow checked curtains to see Olav’s Volvo parked outside. ‘It’s OK, it’s just a neighbour,’ I whisper.

  A knock sounds at the door and Stig’s face turns white. His eyeliner is smudged and there are wood chips in his hair. Not that I’m much better. I haven’t washed or brushed my hair since yesterday morning. With my ugly eye, I must look a fright.

  A woman’s red face peers through a gap in the curtains, making us both startle. ‘Marta? It is Yrsa!’ A shower of taps assaults the window. Stig hurries to the back of the living room, and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to crouch behind Mormor’s flowery sofa.

  ‘What will you tell her?’ he hisses.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be OK,’ I mutter.

  More pounding, loud enough to wake the dead. The door shakes as someone tries it from outside. I rush and slide back the bolt. A tired and tense-looking Olav and a huge woman in a sheepskin coat stand on the porch. Yrsa, I presume. Several inches taller and a foot wider than Olav, she makes a formidable figure. Her cheeks are covered with a mass of red thread veins; it looks as if she’s been butchering meat and hasn’t stopped to wipe her face. What’s so urgent they had to come this early?

  Yrsa’s brown eyes glitter as she raises a gloved hand to her eye and looks down at mine. Her voice is a deep rumble. ‘The tree do that?’

  I swallow and give a tiny nod.

  Yrsa frowns at me as if I’m far too old to be climbing trees. ‘How?’

  I shrug and look away. The doctor said it’s not uncommon for the mind to delete the moments before a major injury occurs and my memories will come back when they’re ready, but I hate not being able to remember. I haven’t climbed the tree since I was kid … the truth is I don’t even know what I was doing up there.

  Yrsa huffs and glances behind me. ‘Mora di?’ I shake my head and she tries again. ‘Mora di – your mother? She is with you, yes?’

  Mora di, that’s what Olav kept saying when he dropped me off last night. Of course, when he saw the light on he was asking about Mum, presuming she was in the cabin. He was hardly going to guess Goldilocks the Goth had taken up residence.

  ‘No, Mum isn’t here.’ I keep the door half closed. Even from here I can sense Stig’s panic. If there was a back door, I’m sure he would have bolted by now.

  Yrsa mutters something in Norwegian and Olav shrinks back. She pulls herself up to her full impressive height. ‘We come in.’ It’s not a request.

  I stand to one side, but not fast enough. As Yrsa pushes past me, a feeling of great strength and pride spreads through my chest. Sheepskin doesn’t offer many impressions – it’s like a musical instrument that only plays one note, but that note is loud and true. It speaks of a person’s core essence, and Yrsa resonates warrior with every fibre of her being.

  Gandalf bounds over with an excited bark and Olav drops to one knee. I don’t know who gives the other more kisses. Yrsa pats the dog’s head affectionately. ‘You make us worried! Of course you come here, naughty runaway!’

  The door of the bathroom gives a tiny squeak and Yrsa straightens. ‘Who is there?’ She takes a step forward and Stig cautiously enters the room.

  Yrsa’s eyebrows jump in surprise. ‘Who are you?’ She looks him up and down, taking in his strange clothes and woodland hair accessories.

  I speak without thinking. ‘A friend of the family,’ then stare at the floor, annoyed with myself for not just telling her the truth.

  Gandalf trots around the sofa and sits obediently at Stig’s feet. Boy and dog plead at me with their eyes and I give a tiny shake of my head. I feel bad that Stig ended up sleeping in the woodshed, but even so, I don’t like lying for him.

  Stig steps forward and holds out his hand. ‘Jeg heter Stig.’ He approaches Yrsa confidently, like he’s meant to be here. She asks him several questions in Norwegian and nods as he answers. Seemingly satisfied, she strides into the kitchen and takes off her scarf and gloves and puts them on the table, then opens a cupboard. She mutters and opens another. Stig raises an eyebrow and I shrug in reply. I’ve no idea what she’s doing, and I’m not about to ask.

  A cupboard door bangs shut, revealing Yrsa’s fearsome face. ‘How old is Stig?’

  Stig starts to answer but Yrsa raises a hand to silence him. I glance at him and swallow, trying to guess his age. ‘Erm, seventeen.’

  Stig nods and I sigh with relief, but Yrsa isn’t finished. ‘And when Stig arrive?’

  My words come out slow, unsure. ‘He came a few days ago. He was hoping to go to the funeral, but he got the timing wrong.’ I must have said the right thing as Stig relaxes slightly.

  Yrsa nods, then starts a new line of questioning. ‘Why your mother not here?’

  I clench my jaw. ‘Mum was meant to come but there was an emergency at work. She’s going to fly out soon.’ The truth burns like acid in my stomach. Mum robbed me of the chance to say goodbye to the person I loved most in the world.

  Yrsa studies me. ‘When she come?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I think. It depends on flights.’

  Yrsa nods but her face is blank; I’ve no idea whether she believes me. She catches Olav’s attention, then says to me, ‘We have family visiting. They go soon but no place for you tonight. If your mother come tomorrow, is OK you stay here?’

  I nod and she pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. I lower myself cautiously, fearful of what she might say. Leaning on the table, she looks into my right eye and delivers her words slowly, each one a gift. ‘Your mormor, she wanted cupboards kept full for you. She love you very much. She knew you would come, even if your mother did not.’

  Tears sting my eyes at the mention of Mormor’s name. ‘At the end, was she …?’ I swallow and try again. ‘Did she suffer? Was she ill, or …?’

  Yrsa hesitates a moment and then shakes her head. ‘She died in her sleep. I found her full at peace.’ Her voice is steady but there is uncertainty in her eyes. She glances at Olav and I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.

  ‘Nei, du lyver!’ exclaims Stig.

  I look over to see him talking to Olav. Judging by the surprised look on Stig’s face, I’m guessing it’s not good news. Yrsa says something to them both, her voice tense. She gives me a sideways look, then turns back and carries on talking in Norwegian.

  Why do I have the feeling that she’s keeping something from me? Maybe Mormor didn’t die in peace. Maybe something terrible happened but she doesn’t want to tell me. When she’s not looking, I reach for her scarf. As soon as I touch it, uneasiness crowds my mind. The wool speaks of her affection for Mormor, but there’s something else there too – a vague and nameless fear.

  Yrsa snatches the scarf and the connection is lost. She fixes me with a look that’s part accusatory, part wary, and I have an uncomfortable feeling of being caught out, as if she knows what I was doing. The unease she felt about Mormor she has for me too. I watch as she puts on her gloves and scarf, wanting
to ask her about it, but not knowing how.

  Stig’s voice breaks the silence. ‘Martha?’

  He looks at me as if he’s waiting, and I realise I can’t have heard him before.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘Olav says we need to stay inside the cabin, at least for a few days. He’s worried there’s something out there.’

  I glance at the dark window. ‘What do you mean, out there?’

  Stig exchanges a few hurried words with Olav and the old man strokes his beard. ‘Gaupe? Ulv?’ Stig turns back to me. ‘A lynx maybe, or a wolf, he’s not sure.’

  Yrsa grunts. ‘Sheep have been killed this past week. Their guts …’ She draws a hand over her middle and pulls a face. ‘Olav went to mainland for gun.’

  A shiver runs through me. So that’s what was in the metal case. I think back to what I heard when I got off the ferry – No bullet can stop the dead – but it doesn’t make sense. The voice I heard wasn’t Olav’s; it didn’t even sound human.

  Yrsa stands with her hands on her hips. ‘You have oil for lamps, yes?’

  I look at her, my mind blank.

  She squats and opens the cupboard under the sink. ‘Yes, enough oil, I think.’ She pats her legs and stands with a grunt. Her huge form takes up half the kitchen; she looks like she could wrestle a wolf herself.

  ‘The dark can make people’s minds …’ Yrsa frowns as if she can’t find the words, then starts again. ‘The dark, it can play tricks – up here.’ She taps a hand against her temple and I expect her face to soften, but it doesn’t.

  Olav opens the door but Yrsa hesitates. She touches her scarf and for a moment I think she is going to say something about it, but she just clears her throat, and I convince myself that I imagined the knowing look she gave me.

  ‘Your mormor, she asked me strange thing. She wanted me to water the tree from the well if your mother or you no come. It has rained lately, so I haven’t watered it.’ A look of regret crosses Yrsa’s face but she shakes her head and it goes as quickly as it came. Her voice is brisk. ‘Your mother come tomorrow. Don’t go far from house, and you’ll be OK.’ She looks Stig up and down, then pats the dog’s head. ‘Gandalf can stay with you. He will keep you safe.’

  Once they have driven away, silence descends on the cabin. Stig gives me a furtive glance and I wonder if he feels it too. The vast emptiness of outside crowding in – almost like it’s a living, breathing thing in the room with us. Yrsa and Olav live miles away on the other side of the forest. Apart from them, there’s no one. No phone or Internet connection, no way to contact the outside world. I was cut off in my room back in England, but at least I had Kelly and Mum for company. Apart from Gandalf, all I have now is a stranger.

  6

  I make some toast and coffee and Stig holds out his hands. Instinctively I flinch away in case his clothes touch me, then place the plate and cup on the kitchen table – managing to misjudge the distance and spilling coffee on his lap. He smiles forgivingly and I sit across from him, my face burning. I take a bite and chew quietly, feeling awkward.

  Finally he breaks the silence. ‘So your mother, she’s coming out tomorrow?’

  ‘I only told Yrsa that. Mum has no intention of coming.’ I don’t even try to hide the bitterness in my voice. He looks at me for an explanation, but how can I explain when I don’t understand myself. Mum never exactly got on with Mormor, but after the accident her moods became so erratic. One minute she’d be worried and fussing over me, the next she’d be cross with me for even mentioning Mormor’s name.

  ‘It’s tricky.’ I shrug. ‘What about you? Can you get your mum to send you some money for the ferry?’

  Stig gives a hollow laugh. ‘No. I’d rather sleep in the woodshed than go back.’

  I bite my thumbnail, knowing how that feels. ‘It’s complicated,’ says Stig. Then under his breath, ‘Complicated like a labyrinth.’

  I think about all the hours I’ve spent reading Mum’s clothing, testing the different types of material and trying to understand her. Once when she went out, I even climbed the loft ladder and went through an old chest of her clothes. I know she loves me, but there’s so much she keeps hidden.

  ‘Try a labyrinth in the dark,’ I sigh.

  ‘Blindfolded,’ says Stig.

  ‘With a big hairy Minotaur,’ I add.

  ‘So, you’ve met my mother?’ Stig gives a wry smile and I start to laugh, then stop. It feels wrong without Mormor here to share the joke.

  ‘What about you? Are you going to go home?’ asks Stig.

  I glance at the door. ‘I’d rather sleep in the shed with you.’ He raises an eyebrow and I feel myself blushing. ‘Not with you. I meant …’

  ‘I know, don’t worry.’ He inspects his nail, then says in a quiet voice, ‘Maybe we can both stay here for a while?’

  I shift in my seat. ‘I guess. For a few days anyway.’

  He looks relieved, but my chest is tight with anxiety. I can’t throw him out with nowhere to go, especially now I’ve lied to Yrsa, but I’m not exactly comfortable with him being here. Better to let him think he can only stay for a couple of nights.

  I sigh, feeling trapped inside. My body feels heavy, like when I’ve taken out the bathplug but stayed in the water. For months the cabin is the only place I’ve wanted to be, but now Mormor has gone, I don’t know what to do. I can’t face going home and seeing Mum. Right now I never want to see her again.

  Stig looks in the wicker basket and throws the last remaining log on the fire. ‘Is there some way I can help? Anything at all? I could take you to the graveyard in the village perhaps?’ There is kindness in his eyes, as if he really cares. I give a half-smile, touched by his concern. A part of me would like to see where Mormor is buried, but I don’t know if I’m ready. If I stay here, surrounded by her things, then it’s like she hasn’t really gone. Going to her grave would mean having to say goodbye. I shake my head.

  ‘Well, just say if you change your mind.’

  I look out of the window, feeling uncomfortable under Stig’s scrutiny. ‘Anyway, aren’t we meant to stay inside in case there’s a wolf or something?’

  Stig snorts. ‘It will just be a stray dog. I’m sure Olav will shoot it soon.’

  I pull my heavy woollen cardigan a little tighter, then glance around the cabin. Stig’s gaze meets mine and we smile at each other shyly. Although he’s a complete stranger, there’s something about him that seems vaguely familiar. ‘A spark of connection’, is what Kelly calls it, when you meet someone and feel like you know them already.

  My phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. And again.

  ‘Reception comes and goes,’ explains Stig. ‘You get nothing, then everything at once.’

  Several texts from Mum and one from Kelly: How’s it going hun? Missed you last night x. I clasp the charm around my neck and start to type: Mormor is d—, then delete it. I can’t bring myself to say it. Instead I send: Busy but talk soon. Luv u x

  I watch Stig leave the cabin, then look back at my phone. Mum will be expecting me to text – if I don’t contact her, she might phone Dad. At least she won’t call his house, not when there’s a chance Chantelle might answer. Chantelle was Dad’s secretary before he gave her the job of mistress and then promoted her to wife. She’s fifteen years younger than Mum, has fake boobs, fake eyelashes and a fake tan. To make it worse, she’s totally genuine in every other way and couldn’t be lovelier if she tried. It doesn’t bother me he’s got someone new – Dad checked out of our lives years ago; I just wish Mum could move on.

  In the end I message: Am fine, having a good time at Dad’s. I don’t put a kiss.

  According to my phone it’s 10.45 a.m., yet it’s only just properly light. I look out the window to see the sky swollen with rain clouds. Stig emerges from the woodshed clutching an axe. He props it next to the porch, then takes off his coat and rolls up his sleeves. I watch his body twist and turn as he chops, the rhythmic swing of his arm hypnotising. The blade hits the wood wi
th a satisfying thump and scrape. He throws the split logs aside and reaches for another. With his spiked boots and slashed jeans he should look out of place, yet he doesn’t. He looks at ease, like this is his home.

  Stig glances at the window and I duck away. A few minutes later I watch as he strips off his waistcoat and rolls up his shirtsleeves. His body is lean and wiry with well-defined arms, as if he’s used to physical work. Kelly would say he’s hot, but then she says that about every boy she meets.

  The pile of wood is dwindling. Soon there will be nothing left to split and he’ll come back indoors. Anxiety flutters inside me. I know so little about him, yet we’re going to be living together, at least for a while. Seeing him wield a weapon like a professional axe murderer isn’t exactly reassuring.

  I drop the curtain and turn to the room. The cabin feels so empty without Mormor. Memories cluster like spiderwebs in every corner: the shells we collected from the beach; the rag rug we made together; the feathers we found on a walk.

  Pocketing my phone, something occurs to me. Even if Mum burned her letters, Mormor would have received the ones I sent. I wrote half a dozen times. She would have known about my ability to read clothes and how desperate I’ve been to understand it. If Mormor asked Yrsa to keep the cupboards stocked, maybe she left a message for me. I jump to my feet with excitement. Yrsa said she’d known I would come.

  Hoping to find an envelope with my name on it, I go to the shelf of photographs above the stove and lift a frame. My face from two years ago beams out at me. I recognise the long blonde hair, skinny arms and freckles, but it’s like looking at a stranger – and not just because of the matching pair of eyes. In the picture I’m wearing a white bikini and shading my face from the sun: a tanned and happy fifteen-year-old on holiday, without a care in the world. I check behind the frame – no hidden letter – then put the past back where it belongs.