by Rachel Burge
I sit going over it all until my arms are numb from the cold. Shivering here won’t help. I may as well try to sleep. I glance outside and the sky is darker now, the tiny lights of the tents glowing bright in the distance. The wind has dropped and a heavy mist rolls across the site, and then I realise why the fog seems to be moving. It’s writhing with the dead, heading this way. There are twice as many as when they followed me back from the big top.
I snatch open the curtains and the light from the kitchen spills onto the snow, forming a ring of protection. The dead rush closer and a moment later they’re surrounding the caravan. Masses of shadowy arms form a circle, all reaching and snatching as if desperate to grab me. Loki has brought them here. Does he mean to punish me for dropping the rope? One touch from the man in the big top felt like a knife in my side. I don’t want to think what will happen if more catch hold of me. They must be out there now because they want revenge after I abandoned them. What other reason can there be?
16
I’M DONE HIDING FROM HIM
M
y sleep was thin and frayed by strange dreams, and now my head aches with tiredness. It’s early but the site is already busy: workmen unravelling cables, climbing metal rigging and fixing outdoor lights into place. As soon as it got light I went to Ruth’s caravan, desperate to see a friendly face. When I knocked on her door she didn’t answer, so I came here, to the psychic tent.
I pause outside it now, hoping she hasn’t figured out that I know Stig and didn’t apply for the job by chance. I’m not sure what I’m going to say, or how much to tell her, I just need to be with someone I trust. The door is hooked partially open. I step inside and Ruth is on her hands and knees under the table; a black tablecloth draped over her shoulders so it looks as if she’s been beheaded. The table is covered with animal bones, arranged in the shape of various runes. In the centre sits a human skull, a spread of tarot cards beneath. I think back to the reading she gave me and realise she was right. Stig did come back. Ruth drags out a large woven basket, cursing under her breath, then straightens up – and yelps when she sees me. ‘Christ! You nearly sent me to my maker!’
‘Sorry.’
In her hand is a white latex mask, its ghoulish face hanging to the floor. She notices me looking and explains, ‘A little jump scare for the clients. Oskar says people will love it.’ I frown, thinking it looks like a cheap fairground trick, and she rolls her eyes. ‘It’s a shite idea, but what can you do.’ She tosses it in the basket and sighs. ‘Karl is right – Oskar will be the death of this place. All these changes he’s making, it’s chaos.’
My stomach tightens to a hard knot. If you want change, you have to invite chaos. I bite my thumbnail, wondering what will happen if they go ahead with the new performance. ‘Karl hasn’t persuaded Oskar to reconsider then?’ I ask.
Ruth huffs. ‘No. Ragnarok is right on schedule, despite his best efforts. You heard about the carvings they found on the trees? Apparently they spell “Loki”. Karl insists he didn’t make them, but I’m not falling for it. I’ve always thought his whole superstitious thing is an act. He hates Oskar taking over. I bet you any money he carved them himself, hoping to scare the others and make them cancel tonight.’
I shrug, deciding to keep quiet. Karl was right not to show people the runes in his book. They would think he was responsible for the ones on the trees. Karl has managed to keep Loki out for years, just as the gods banished him after he caused the death of Baldur. But now Oskar is making him the star of the show. If rehearsing this new myth has invited him here, does that mean other gods are at the circus too? Odin features in all the performances.
I lean forward and chew my thumbnail harder, wishing I could make sense of things.
Ruth gives me a worried look. ‘Is everything all right? If something is wrong you can tell me, you know. I’m a good listener.’
I want to tell her about the jester but if she doesn’t believe Karl, someone she’s worked with for years, she isn’t going to believe me.
‘Is it Stig? I take it you have some history with him.’
I look at her in surprise. I desperately want to ask about him but I’m not sure how much to tell her. She shrugs, not pressing the matter further, and gestures for me to take a seat. I sit down heavily and watch as she rummages through the basket and tuts at a jumble of fairy lights. She lifts out a ball of cord with tiny wooden skulls attached.
‘Are you any good at unpicking knots?’ she asks.
I nod and she drops the string into my lap. As she leans close, her shawl brushes me, showing me the man I saw before. Suddenly I know who he is. It’s her older sister’s husband; he’s the father of her baby. He forced himself on her, but Ruth was too scared to tell anyone. She was terrified of what he might do, so she left the baby with her parents and ran away.
The feeling of shame and guilt is overwhelming. She thinks about her daughter every day. She longs to go back to Ireland, but her little girl is a teenager now. What if she can’t forgive her? I glance at Ruth, wishing I could tell her that the shame she feels isn’t hers to carry. I know she’s scared, but she can’t keep running from the past. She has to see her daughter again, or she’ll never find peace. The bitterness of Ruth’s regret makes me think about Mum, and a sudden pang of love fills my chest. I’m lucky I have a chance to put things right between us. Not everyone has that.
Sandrine appears in the doorway and it takes me a moment to recognise her without the bird mask. A pile of costumes hangs over her arm. ‘Brand new off the sewing machine!’ she trills.
Ruth gives a weak smile then glances back to me, and I get the feeling she was hoping to speak to me alone. She nods towards a chair. ‘Grand. Leave them on there, would you?’
Sandrine puts down the clothes. ‘I can’t believe it’s the end-of-season show already.’
‘Personally I’ll be glad to move on,’ says Ruth and sighs sadly. I wonder if she’s thinking about Nina. She turns to me and asks, ‘Shall I find you a costume, Martha? You don’t have to take part in the show, but I could do your hair and makeup if you like?’
I hesitate, and Sandrine squawks, ‘Oh, do me!’ She pulls a black toolbox from under the table and opens it to reveal tubes of face paint. ‘I saw Ulva last night. She didn’t seem herself at all. I’m worried about her.’
Ruth shrugs. ‘You know how close she and Nina were. It’s going to take time. She’ll pull through.’
Sandrine sighs. ‘I know, but she’s been acting strangely for weeks now. She needs to stop playing that ugly wolf if you ask me.’
Ruth scoffs. ‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything.’
Sandrine rummages through the box of makeup and speaks without looking up. ‘Ulva’s always had a temper, but lately she snaps at the smallest thing. I told you about my weird dreams.’ Ruth rolls her eyes and Sandrine turns to me and explains. ‘Freya had a cloak made from feathers and when she wore it she could change into a falcon. I’ve been playing her falcon for ages, but a couple of months ago I starting having dreams that I can fly.’
She picks up a pot of black glitter then shoots me a look before saying, ‘That boy Stig was in Ulva’s caravan. Do you think Karl has called the police?’
Ruth frowns. ‘I doubt it. Karl thinks they’ll pass a verdict of accidental death. I imagine he wants to put the whole thing behind him, like everyone else.’
I tug at the cord on my lap, my fingers throbbing. ‘Why would Karl call the police?’
Ruth opens her mouth to answer me, but then Sandrine delves into the box. ‘Oh, look, they’re just like talons. I’ve got to use these!’ She lifts up a packet containing black false nails and Ruth laughs. ‘You want to be careful with those; you’ll have your eye out.’ Suddenly the two of them are busy looking for nail glue. Something tells me I’m not going to find out anything with Sandrine here. I need a way to get Ruth’s attention.
‘Actually, Ruth, would you do my makeup?’
‘Of course!’
&n
bsp; She pulls her chair closer and I smile and try to relax. It’s been so long since I put on makeup. I never wore it much anyway, and after the accident I didn’t want to draw attention to my face. Ruth swirls foundation onto a brush. I wait a couple of minutes then ask, ‘What did you mean before, about Karl calling the police?’
The two women share a furtive glance, then Ruth selects some eyeliner from the box and turns to me. ‘I noticed you and Stig left here together the other day. And a little bird tells me you went for a walk in the forest. I take it you know him?’
Sandrine’s face flushes and I can guess who the little bird might be. She flaps over and starts to braid my hair. I speak cautiously, unsure how much to tell them. ‘We only met recently . . . We spent a few days together but then he left.’
Ruth paints my cheeks. ‘From what Nina told me, Stig tends to move on whenever there’s a problem.’ She gestures for me to look up and then applies eyeliner. ‘He took off straight after giving a statement to the police. They wanted to speak to him again but they couldn’t trace him. Karl agreed to call them if he ever came back.’
An icy feeling spreads in my chest. So Stig was on the run. He broke into Mormor’s cabin because he needed somewhere to hide. I clench my jaw, anger building inside me. If only I’d been able to read Nina’s catsuit properly. I don’t want to believe he hurt her on purpose, but maybe he fastened her harness wrong by mistake and she fell by accident.
Ruth finishes my face then picks out some clothes from the pile Sandrine brought. She holds them out to me, but I shake my head. All I can think about is Stig and the lies he’s told. I feel like such an idiot. I should never have let him stay in the cabin.
‘I want to see how it looks with the makeup. Please, for me?’ Ruth grins hopefully and Sandrine screeches, ‘Yes, you have to be a Valkyrie! Please, we need to see!’ She points a long black talon towards the curtain where I do my readings. ‘You can get changed in there.’
I hesitate and she grins. ‘Come on, who doesn’t want to be one of Odin’s shield maidens? You get to choose who lives and dies on the battlefield. The Valkyries have the best makeup and costumes.’
‘She isn’t going to stop until you agree,’ laughs Ruth.
‘OK then.’ I pick up the pile of new clothes and take them through. There’s a pair of black leather trousers, a tight tunic with hardened breastplates and winged shoulders, and some arm shields. It takes a while to get everything on, but it fits perfectly. It’s only dressing up, make-believe, but the thought of being one of Odin’s chosen ones sends a shiver of excitement through me. I’ve no doubt that being a Valkyrie would be dangerous, but I would love to stand at Odin’s side, to know that I have a place with him, to belong. I sweep a black cloak over my shoulders and do up the fastening at my neck. When I pull the curtain back, both women beam at me. Sandrine reaches for a mirror and I’m about to look when there’s shouting outside.
The huge bearded man from the forest thrusts his head into the tent, his massive antlers snagging on the canvas doorway. He sounds out of breath. ‘Ruth, come quick! It’s Karl. He’s dismantling everything. We tried to stop him, but he won’t listen.’
Ruth grabs her coat and rushes out, and I follow behind her. There are lots of people, some yelling in Norwegian, others in English. From their snatches of conversation it sounds as if Karl is trying to sabotage the floodlights in the field. A woman yells and someone else lurches as if they’ve been shoved. A group of masked gods joins the crowd and jostling breaks out.
I spin around and search for Ruth, but I can’t see her. And then I spot Stig on the walkway up ahead. He dashes into the hall of mirrors and I push my way through the crowd. I’m done hiding from him. I want answers.
17
A PUPPET OF THE GODS
I
pause before the gaping hole of the wolf’s mouth. Its sinister yellow eyes unblinkingly watch over the site and I shrink beneath its stare. The thought of entering its throat makes me cringe and I nearly turn away, but then I see the back of Stig’s head disappear down the passageway. Taking a deep breath, I step inside and blink in the dim light. The floor and ceiling are checked with black and gold, as are the walls. The effect is disorientating.
I hurry to the end of the corridor then stop and shiver. Grey faces stare down at me, caught in a swathe of netting. I survey each of the masks in turn, my heart thumping. The unblinking eyes of men, women and children watch me with perverse interest, as if they know I’m walking into a trap. I wait a moment longer, checking for signs of life. When none of them move, I glance at the open doors to either side of me.
Turning right, I find a narrow space with floor-length mirrors on either wall. Dozens of wooden puppets hang from the ceiling in a jumble of strings, their arms and legs at awkward angles. Gaudy fat-faced trolls with snub noses and matted hair, pale pointy-faced elves with grotesquely long fingernails, and a tatty thing with a horse’s skull for a head and too many legs. The overhead light flashes and I rub my temples. I don’t know if it’s an effect done for the customers or because it’s about to stop working, but it makes me feel nauseous.
I peer into the room then quickly check to my left. There’s no one here, but I hate feeling that someone could creep up on my blind side. Stig must have gone the other way. I retrace my steps and cross the hall. It leads to an identical-looking area. The same black walls and mirrors; even the puppets are exact copies. I frown, a gnawing sense of unease in my belly. Maybe I’m looking at a mirrored wall? But I can’t be, as I don’t see my reflection.
‘Stig, are you in here?’
My words come back to me in a faint mocking echo. I swallow, my mouth dry, and call again. Nothing. The only sound is my own ragged breathing. There are only two ways he could have gone, so where is he? I clench my fists and spin around. Did he lead me here on purpose? Is this some kind of trick?
‘Stig, this isn’t funny.’
I start to leave when a thought occurs to me. Maybe one of the mirrors is fixed to a door and that’s where he went. I walk into the first room and a warrior with plaits in her hair strides towards me, a lightning-bolt painted on her cheek. I startle then glance down at my costume – the hardened leather breastplate and winged shoulders. The girl is me.
I touch an unsteady hand to my cheek and my reflection does the same. Ruth hasn’t tried to hide my scar or blind eye; she’s accentuated them. The unflinching woman who stands before me doesn’t just accept the way she looks; she is daringly unafraid, proud even. I take in the fierce black eyeliner and the jagged scar on her cheek that she wears like a war trophy, and I want to be her. More than anything, I want to be that girl.
I look in the second mirror and I am bizarrely elongated, my face and torso stretched out and concave. In the next my body is short and stumpy. I lean closer and my face widens until it’s barely recognisable. After the accident I hated looking at my reflection. I saw a monster, a distorted version of myself. I return to the first mirror and I’m grinning so hard I can feel the warrior girl’s confidence radiate from the glass.
I see something move out of the corner of my eye and I glance up. A troll hangs lifeless above me, its apple-red cheeks bulging in a manic grin. Something about it seems different. The swollen black tongue that lolls from its mouth . . . I’m sure it wasn’t there before. I watch for movement but the puppets are still.
I take a moment to steady my nerves then turn to my reflection. What I see makes me gasp. My face has gone, replaced by the back of my head. Cold dread creeps across my skin. I’m looking in the same mirror as before, so how can . . . ? The head slowly revolves even though I’m not moving. The girl is me, but tearful and afraid, mascara running down her cheeks. She looks at me pleadingly, her eyes full of panic. My legs tremble like I’m standing on the edge of a precipice. I stare at her – at me, unable to accept what I see.
The girl coughs and starts to choke. She touches a finger to her lips and her eyes widen as a fly crawls out. Insects swarm from her
mouth – more and more, until there are hundreds, thousands of them. They circle around her, buzzing upwards in a swirling vortex. The drone of wings reverberates in my head, the noise so loud it hurts.
I want to run, but I can’t pull my gaze away from the mirror. I watch in sick fascination as the girl disintegrates and a new image forms: the shape of a man. It reminds me of a beekeeper I once saw, covered head to toe in bees. Only the insects aren’t covering him, they are him. The buzzing subsides as the flies congeal and the face becomes solid: first his forehead, then nose and mouth.
The man throws back his head and laughs; a harsh unnatural sound that makes me shudder. He holds out his arm with the flourish of a stage magician, then grabs his chin and peels up his skin to reveal a familiar face beneath. ‘Stig. How can . . . ?’ And then I realise – it wasn’t him I followed in here.
Shock gives way to fear as Stig’s face vanishes and new ones appear: men, women and children of all nationalities; a giantess with a bulbous nose, a horse, a salmon, a falcon, a fly. Quicker and quicker they change, until only one remains. The jester.
I race for the door but it slams shut. I pull and pull but it won’t open. The idea of him controlling my limbs, of being his puppet, fills me with terror.
‘Not to your liking? Perhaps this will prove more congenial.’
I return to the mirror and the image changes to a man with long red hair brushed back from his forehead. His amber eyes flicker with mischief and I catch my breath, disturbed by the wildfire that rages behind them, thrillingly alive yet devastating at the same time. His mouth twists to one side in a smile, his lips edged with tiny scars. I want to look away but I can’t. He is utterly mesmerising, like a snake.
