by Rachel Burge
I look at my feeble white thighs, hating the paleness of my skin. Stig hands me the blanket and I cover myself with it. He hesitates, as if he doesn’t want to leave but doesn’t know what to say. Eventually he pulls his gaze away and goes to the kitchen.
Once his back is turned, I peel off my damp top. The thought of him seeing me in my underwear makes me shiver. Part of me wants him to see, wants him to notice my body. But then I glance down at my dingy bra. Everything about me is ugly.
I pull on the dry clothes, then wrap the blanket around my shoulders and reach my hands towards the fire. The heat slowly thaws my flesh, making my fingers throb and leaving a meltwater of thoughts pooled in my brain. All those nights I lay awake, trying to understand why clothes speak to me. I thought that if I could just talk to Mormor, then maybe I would understand. Now that I know the truth I feel trapped. I want to do as Mormor asks, but I hate the thought of going near the tree – and whatever weird entity is inside it – again.
Gandalf rests his chin on my knee and looks at me with sad, knowing eyes. ‘You knew it was a bad idea, didn’t you?’ I whisper. He twitches an eyebrow. That damned chest. I should have nailed it shut and caught the first flight back to London. I didn’t ask for this – any of it. Time is running out – what the hell is that supposed to mean?
Stig appears and places a steaming cup of coffee in my hands. I sip it and brandy burns the back of my throat, making me cough. He adjusts the blanket around my shoulders.
‘Better now?’
I nod, then blow on my drink, embarrassed and confused by the emotions tumbling inside me. I love how Stig makes me feel cared for, but maybe he’s only being friendly or is just grateful to be here. I peek at his face and see him studying me. He looks as puzzled as I feel. ‘Did you fall in the snow?’ he asks.
I drain the last of my drink and mumble, ‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’
He takes the cup from my hand. ‘Well, something happened. Come on.’
I want to tell him, but where do I start? ‘You wouldn’t believe me,’ I say.
He sits next to me and places my cup on the floor, then turns and peers into my good eye. ‘Try me.’
I think about the woman’s face in the tree and my teeth start to chatter.
‘You’re still cold. Look at you!’ Stig rubs both of my arms, then tries to pull me to him.
I flinch away, and then stare longingly at his chest. I want so much to be held by him, but his jumper … I couldn’t bear it if he doesn’t believe me.
Stig drops his arm, a hint of hurt on his face. I bite my thumbnail, annoyed with myself. ‘Stig? I’m sorry, it’s just that …’
He glances up hopefully, but I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I close my mouth, afraid to speak in case I cry.
Stig twists to face me on the sofa. Most people see my eye and stare or look away, but he holds my gaze without blinking. He smiles at me and my stomach flutters.
‘You said something just now, about not letting my clothes touch you.’ Stig grabs the hem of his black jumper and pulls it to his nose. The grey sweatshirt he wears underneath is frayed at the edges. He sniffs his shoulder. ‘Is it because I smell? I haven’t done any laundry for a while.’
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘It’s not that.’
Stig flashes me his dimples. Suddenly his face becomes sombre. He lowers his voice. ‘I promise not to judge. Whatever it is, you can tell me.’
I pick at my fingernails as the words drip out. ‘Things have been happening to me. I can do things, weird things I haven’t told anyone about. And I can see things.’
Stig takes a moment. ‘O-kaay. What kind of weird things?’
‘The weird kind, only weirder.’
‘Stranger than strange?’
I give a tiny nod and he tucks his hair behind his ears. ‘Is it to do with the Norns? You said something about a woman in the tree.’
A tear slides down my face. Stig pulls me to him and I fall against his chest. As soon as the wool touches my cheek, feelings and memories flood my mind. His jumper is riddled with regret. Stig blames himself for the death of his father. He had phoned him at two in the morning, claiming to be stranded after a party, but he didn’t really need a lift. His mum had been stopping them seeing each other, and Stig just wanted to talk. When his father didn’t show up, Stig walked home in the rain, hating him. The next morning, the police knocked on the door. His dad’s car had been found wrapped around a lamp post.
Stig pretends to be this happy-go-lucky person, but inside there is so much anger and sadness and self-loathing. He uses humour to mask his pain. Why hadn’t I seen that before? He strokes my hair tenderly, and I wish I could take away the hurt. I force my thoughts away from the emotions in his jumper and breathe in his smell: shampoo mixed with wood smoke and the faintest odour of sweat. His body is so warm and solid I don’t want to leave his side.
He says in a soft whisper, ‘Tell me everything. I’m big enough and ugly enough to take it. That’s what you English say, isn’t it?’
‘You’re hardly ugly.’ Just looking at him makes my pulse quicken. Kelly used to go through magazines and rip out photos of boys, then put them together to create her ultimate man. I would laugh and call it her ultimate Frankenstein. I never really liked the clean-cut American guys she went for – and I still don’t know if I’m into heavy metal and black clothes; I just like Stig. Maybe if he fancied cheerleaders and prom queens I would feel differently about him, but he’s into girls with piercings and weird clothes and tattoos, girls who are different.
I lay my head against his chest, wanting to share myself with him even though it scares me. ‘I fell from the tree outside a few months ago. That’s how my eye happened.’
Stig presses his hand to my head but doesn’t say anything. I keep talking, afraid I will never say it if I don’t get the words out now. ‘It started in the hospital. I can tell things about people by touching their clothes, like their memories and emotions are trapped in the material.’
I swallow and add, ‘I thought Mormor would be able to explain it. That’s why I came.’
Suddenly I get a different emotion from Stig’s jumper. Fear and disbelief. I knew it was too good to be true!
He tries to make his voice sound calm. ‘So you think the journals are right?’
I can’t stop. He already thinks I’m crazy; what have I got to lose? Besides, I will burst if I don’t tell someone. ‘Outside just now, I saw a woman’s face in the tree. I think it was one of the Norns.’ I look down at my hands, hating how insane I must sound.
Stig speaks cautiously. ‘Maybe there’s another explanation. People with hypothermia sometimes see things. If you fell, maybe the cold made you …’
I snatch back my hand. Stig reaches to grab it and the sleeve of his jumper brushes my arm. A new wave of guilt washes over me. Stig was so angry with his dad, but then, after he died, he felt guilty for feeling that way. He would give anything to talk to him again.
I speak without thinking. ‘You know, you shouldn’t feel bad about phoning your dad that night. Your mum didn’t make it easy for you to see each other, and you only wanted to spend some time with him. You couldn’t have known he’d crash into a lamp post.’
Stig leaps to his feet, his eyes wide. ‘How did …? I never told you that!’
I pick a stray thread from my sleeve. I had to make him believe me somehow, but what if I’ve made things worse?
‘Martha?’
I point to his jumper.
‘You know all that just from touching my clothes?’
‘I didn’t mean to, but when you pulled me to you just now –’
Stig presses a hand to his head. ‘When you said … I didn’t know. I mean, that’s amazing!’
He perches on the arm of the sofa. ‘What else do you know?’
‘Just how guilty you feel. I could probably feel more of your emotions if I sat with it for longer. I’d say it’s thirty per cent cashmere, seventy per cent wo
ol. I’d have to touch something made from cotton to get more facts.’
Stig looks down at his jeans. ‘Wait, so you’re telling me you get different things from different kinds of material? My jeans might tell you something different to my jumper?’
I nod.
He shakes his head and starts to undo the buttons of his jeans, revealing the tops of his black boxer shorts. I blink in shock.
‘So if I need to keep a secret from you, I’d better get naked!’ He laughs, then does his jeans back up. ‘Seriously, that’s amazing. Like, wow-amazing.’
He takes off one of his black socks and dangles it before me. ‘Here, try this!’
I shove his arm away. ‘No, thanks!’
He sniffs it and winkles his nose. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if that one talked!’
I never thought I would laugh about it, but suddenly it seems so funny. Stig wobbles on the arm of the sofa as he tries to put the sock back on. He laughs so much he nearly falls off.
He stops and looks at me wide-eyed, his voice serious. ‘If the journals are right and you are descended from Odin, I mean, wow! Odin is the most powerful of the gods, the All-Father! Who knows what else you can do?’
A flicker of excitement catches inside me. I guess having some of his power would be amazing.
Stig grins. ‘You have to tell me more! Is it just clothes, or could you read the material on this sofa because I just sat there?’
‘No, it’s just clothes. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s something to do with intent, because they’re made to fit us or something.’
‘Clothes are an expression of who we are on the inside, you mean?’
Before I can answer, he fires more questions at me. ‘I have to know – are my jeans annoyed because I don’t wash them enough? And my shirt, is it cross because I don’t iron it?’
I shake my head and giggle. ‘It doesn’t work like that!’
Stig pretends to hit me with his sock. ‘Well, it should!’
My phone vibrates in my jeans pocket. I’m still laughing when I swipe the screen. Twenty missed calls and eight text messages. My heart races. Most are from Mum, some from Kelly and Dad.
Stig looks over. ‘Something wrong?’
‘I’m not sure.’
I read through the most recent messages.
Dad: Please call me darling, it’s important x
Mum: Where are you? I know you’re not with your dad. Call me ASAP
Kelly: Sorry!!!!! Your mum was worried sick. Like having a panic attack. I had to tell her. Please don’t be mad!!
My chest tightens. Mum knows I’m here. She knows I lied to her. I bite my lip, worried what she’s going to say. I read the final message and my stomach drops.
Mum: I don’t want to scare you, but you need to leave the cabin. I’m getting the first flight I can. Go to Olav’s house. Go anywhere. Just leave NOW.
14
‘It’s Mum. She knows I’m here. She says to leave the cabin.’
I show Stig my phone.
‘What? Why?’ He scrolls through the messages. ‘She sent this a couple of hours ago. Even if she got the first flight …’
My throat tightens. ‘The last ferry goes at five fifteen. She won’t get here until tomorrow now.’
I read the messages again, a knot of anger in my chest along with something else – an empty, dull ache. I miss her. When I was a kid, I only had to graze my knee and Mum would come running. Despite everything, I know she loves me and would do anything to protect me – I felt it when I touched her jacket in the hospital. I wish she was here now to keep me safe.
Stig goes to the window and peers out. ‘Why does she want us to leave? Did you tell her you saw a face in the tree?’
‘No.’ But could she know something?
Stig’s face is pale. ‘How far is Olav’s house?’
‘Two or three miles. There’s a path that cuts through the forest; if we go while it’s still light I can easily find the way.’
‘There’s no one closer?’
I shake my head and swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. We haven’t heard a howl since the gunshot last night, but what if Olav didn’t kill the wolf?
Stig pulls on his boots. ‘I think I saw some snowshoes in the woodshed.’
The overhead light in the kitchen makes a buzzing sound, then flickers and goes out. Stig stares at it, then back to me. His voice is edged with fear. ‘I think we should go, Martha.’
I look about the room and a sense of dread crawls across my skin. Ever since I saw the shadows rush past me on the porch, I keep feeling there’s something in the cabin with us. When the spinning wheel moved by itself, Stig was properly freaked out. Maybe he senses it too – that feeling of being watched.
I bite my lip. I want to get away from this place, but I don’t know if we should risk going outside. The electricity often plays up – it doesn’t have to mean anything – and the living-room light hasn’t gone out.
I pick up my phone. ‘Let me try calling Mum first, OK?’
Stig nods and reaches for his coat while I dial her number. I hold my breath and wait. She speaks and my heart leaps, but it’s just a recording telling me to leave a message.
‘Mum, it’s me. I’m at the cabin. Mormor is dead, but you know that. Why didn’t you tell me?’ My voice wavers. ‘You need to come quickly – something’s happened to the tree. I can see things, and … Mum, why do we need to leave?’ I hear Stig repeatedly pressing the kitchen light switch and look over at him. ‘I’m not here on my own. We’re going to walk to Olav and Yrsa’s now, before it gets dark. Please hurry, Mum. I’m scared.’
The phone bleeps and a voice asks if I want to re-record my message. I hang up and return the phone to my pocket with a sigh.
‘Stig, maybe we should stay. We don’t know why she sent the message. If she knew about the wolf, maybe she wouldn’t want us to go outside.’
He frowns. ‘We only heard one shot fired last night. So Olav must have got it first time, otherwise he would have fired again.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘A wolf would only attack if it was hungry, and there are plenty of sheep to kill out there.’
I stand up and reach for my boots. ‘I guess.’ Stig might be right, but even without a wolf, I don’t like the idea of going anywhere near the tree again. Gandalf yawns and stretches as I shrug into my coat – at least one of us is looking forward to a walk. I grab the torch from the dresser and change the batteries. While my back is turned, I hear the cutlery drawer open and glance around to see Stig wrapping a knife in a tea towel. When I bend to clip on Gandalf’s lead, he shoves it in his coat pocket.
Stig opens the door and yellow light spills onto the porch. My cheeks and nose tingle from the cold. I pull on my hat and gloves, then step down, my boots crunching on snow. Beyond are acres of white under a grey-blanket sky – enough light to see by, but for how long? Stig jogs to the woodshed and I breathe into my gloved hands, trying not to think about the shadows that rushed past me last night.
A few minutes later Stig returns, carrying some snowshoes. He drops two of the elongated tennis racquets before me and I step into them and fumble with the straps. I lift one foot and take a wide step, careful not to hit the other. They’re cumbersome but at least I won’t sink into the snow.
Stig strides out like an expert. ‘You’ll soon get used to them.’
I take a few clumsy steps after him, then look over my shoulder. Thin grey smoke rises from the chimney, snaking into the pale watery sky. It feels wrong to abandon the cabin with the living-room light blazing, but if Olav and Yrsa aren’t there we’ll need to find our way back in the dark.
No, Skjebne isn’t exactly known for its nightlife, so where else would they be? We’ll soon be at Olav and Yrsa’s, facing the inquisition. Mum will arrive in the morning and take me home. As much as I don’t want to go near the tree, I can’t help worrying that I’ve let Mormor down. She begged me to water it – and now I’m turning my back on it, the same as Mum did.
I watc
h Stig trudge along the edge of the garden and hurry after him, though the snowshoes make it impossible to do anything but shuffle. Ignoring the twisted tree, I focus on the dark forest ahead. My lack of depth perception makes it hard to judge distances, but luckily I know this garden and these woods like the back of my hand. I’ve played in them every summer of my life; even at home in London, my dreams would bring me here.
The only sound is the wind and the muffled crunch of our footsteps. Something moves to my left. I turn to the tree and gasp. Dozens of little children hang from its branches. I scream and Stig stops. ‘What is it?’ he calls.
Fear closes my throat. It’s not children hanging from the tree, just their empty coats. I focus and realise I’m wrong. The tree is covered with scraps of material, fluttering on the breeze. It reminds me of the nightmare I had about Mormor – snatching at a piece of cloth on the tree. Sadness stabs at my heart. I blink and the branches are bare.
Stig searches my face. ‘You OK?’
I take a deep breath and wave my hand. ‘I’m fine. Just keep going!’ My legs ache from the weight of the snowshoes and taking such wide steps, but I don’t want to rest. The sooner we get to Olav and Yrsa’s, the better.
At the edge of the fir trees, Stig stops and waits for directions. I peer into the dark forest, hoping I can find the way. Luckily I soon spot the start of the path.
‘There.’ I point. ‘We need to go for about a mile, I reckon.’
Gandalf growls and sniffs at the ground and Stig touches my arm in warning. We freeze and look at one another. Once we enter the forest, it will be harder to move quickly. If there is a wolf, we won’t stand a chance. We hold our breath and listen. High above us, the tops of the trees sway wildly in the wind, making a constant rushing sound. The full moon is growing bright in the darkening sky. We need to keep moving.
Pushing away a heavy spruce branch, I step into the forest. Sheltered from the cry of the wind, it’s eerily quiet: just the crunch of twigs beneath our feet, the swish of fir, and the occasional whhump-whhump of snow sliding from branches.
