The Crooked Mask Read online

  ‘How?’

  ‘Ulva’s mum left a note in her caravan telling her to meet by the entrance that night. If she wasn’t there, she’d know she didn’t want to go with her. Nina saw the note before Ulva did, and she took it. Later, she admitted what she’d done and tried to explain that she did it to protect her, but Ulva wouldn’t forgive her. Nina did everything she could to make it up to her. She even promised she could take the lead role and play Baldur.’

  I think about the image I saw of Ulva bound and thrashing to get free. I guess that explains why she feels trapped here.

  Stig shakes his head. ‘Ulva was really upset. Most of the others stayed out if it, but Ruth went crazy – screaming and shouting at Nina, saying it wasn’t her decision to make.’

  I remember when I brushed Ruth’s sleeve. She was outraged on Ulva’s behalf, but there was more to it than that. The baby she left behind in Ireland must be a teenager now. I know she wants to go back and see her. Maybe she got angry because it triggered a fear in her, imagining how she would feel if someone stopped them being together. I still don’t understand why she’d feel guilty or worry that she’d contributed to Nina’s death though.

  We walk the rest of the way in single file. This time the silence wraps around us like a blanket, allowing us to take refuge in our thoughts. The snowfall has eased and a murky gloom settles over the forest, wisps of fog circling the trunks like lost spirits. The world seems oddly quiet and then I realise why. When we passed this way before, the trees were full of noisy ravens. Now there’s not a single bird. It’s as if something frightened them away.

  We’re almost back when we hear a shout. It’s a woman’s voice, high pitched and panicked. She’s saying something in Norwegian. I look to Stig but he shakes his head, as if her words don’t make sense. We walk faster and then a man who sounds as if he could be Nigerian yells, ‘She’s right. Look! It’s been carved into all the trunks!’

  13

  THE CIRCUS IS CURSED

  A

  dozen performers invade the forest, their horned headdresses advancing through the trees like mythical beasts. I shrink back as a huge man crashes towards us, shoving away snow-covered branches and grunting. Like the others, he wears a costume made from strips of rough hessian sacking. Antlers are fixed to his head; long tatty ropes hang down his back in a parody of hair. His forehead, eyes, nose and cheeks are completely covered by black paint, his jaw and bushy beard coated in white. He pauses a little way ahead of me and yells, ‘It’s the same here!’ At his words, ragged horned creatures approach from every direction.

  Stig hurries over to the group and I follow him and push my way to the front. Four runes have been carved into a trunk, one below the other. I glance to either side of me and see that dozens of trees have the same symbols. There’s something chilling about seeing them repeated over and over. A man calls in the distance, ‘Here too!’ Another cries from the opposite direction, ‘And here! They’re all around the clearing!’ People speak over each other, some in Norwegian and others in English, their voices taut with worry.

  Karl limps through the crowd and shouts above the din. ‘Hva skjer her?’ Everyone falls quiet and moves aside to let him pass. He touches the carved symbols with trembling fingers, his face pale. Suddenly the atmosphere changes, loud surprised voices replaced with hushed fear. Karl pulls a notebook from his jacket pocket, and still no one speaks. The only sound is the stirring of the wind in the treetops, as if the forest is whispering dark curses.

  Oskar arrives sweaty and out of breath. He glances at the circle of faces then pushes his glasses up and peers at the trunk. ‘A few marks on a tree! Come on, back to work.’

  The bearded man grunts, ‘It’s hundreds of trees, a whole ring of them right around the clearing.’ A performer wearing sackcloth with holes cut out for eyes shakes his head, his long straw-hair rustling. Next to him, a man with an animal skull fastened over his face murmurs in agreement. ‘The way they appeared from nowhere, it would have taken dozens of people working together.’ People turn and glance around, and I feel it too. There’s something out there in the gloom, something bad. A woman puts her hands on her hips. White streaks are painted on her cheeks and down her chin and she wears a string of bones around her neck. ‘It’s not natural.’

  Oskar gives a nervous laugh. ‘It’s a prank. Someone will have done it during the night.’ The performers look to one another, unsure. When no one contradicts him, I step forward. ‘We walked this trail an hour ago. They weren’t here then – we would have noticed.’

  Stig speaks up behind me. ‘Martha’s right. They weren’t there just now.’ He gives me a reassuring nod and a warm glow spreads in my belly. It feels like how it was before, the two of us facing the world together. A woman notices and tuts, a look of suspicion in her eyes. I glance at the faces around me, and the way they stare at Stig makes me uneasy. I don’t have to touch their clothes to know he isn’t welcome here.

  Oskar turns on him. ‘You were Nina’s boyfriend, weren’t you?’ Stig drops his gaze and the circus manager continues, ‘I thought you’d run off weeks ago, and yet here you are . . . and trouble right behind you.’

  Karl waves the notebook at Oskar like a preacher damning a sinner. ‘You are the one bringing trouble. Tell me, which myth were you doing just now?’

  Oskar blows out a sigh. ‘You know very well, Karl.’

  ‘I do know. And I warned you against it. Again and again I warned you.’

  Oskar raises his voice. ‘I’m sure your book of fiction is all very interesting, but the fact remains we need to rehearse.’ He turns and addresses the crowd. ‘We’ve invested a lot of money in tomorrow night, not just props and costumes but hiring extra crew and security. I’m assured that the road will open in time. If the show is a failure, we’re ruined. The circus will close. Everyone will lose their jobs. Those are the facts.’

  Performers look at one another, anxiety written on their faces. Oskar smiles as if pleased his words are having the desired effect. ‘You can either stand here and listen to superstitious nonsense, or you can get back to work.’

  A few people at the back of the group walk away. The huge man with the beard sees them leave and turns to Karl. There is kindness in his voice, as if he’s trying to understand. ‘Why shouldn’t we do this show tomorrow? What will happen if we do?’

  Karl clears his throat then says in a loud voice, ‘Many years ago, before I was born, the circus was nearly destroyed. It happened shortly after my father became manager. There was a fire that destroyed the big top; nine performers lost their lives.’

  Oskar tuts. ‘A terrible tragedy, yes, but what does that have to do with anything?’

  Karl glares at him and continues, ‘It happened the first time they performed a myth with the Sly One. My father ruled that the circus would never perform his stories again and it’s been that way for ninety years. I’ve seen to it that nothing has changed.’ He jabs his black book in the air. ‘Until the owners demanded I introduce a new routine. Everyone loves the Sly One, they said, and so we did the myth of Baldur, and poor Nina . . .’

  A ripple of unease goes through the crowd. Oskar snorts incredulously. ‘Because you did one of Loki’s stories, you think the circus is cursed?’

  A German woman speaks up. ‘The day we began practising the myth of Baldur, people became different, their personalities changed. I’m not the only one to notice it.’

  The crowd murmurs in agreement and Karl smiles with relief. ‘Yes! Klara is right, we shouldn’t have changed things.’

  ‘Dummkopf!’ shouts Oskar. ‘The myths are just stories – they don’t have some special power!’ He points at Karl. ‘You can’t keep doing the same old routines and expect visitors to come back year after year. If you don’t change, you die. Admit it, you hate change. You’re scared of it. You’ve been against this new performance from the start. How do we know you didn’t carve the marks in those trees?’ He sighs and addresses the crowd. ‘If you want to keep
your jobs, then get back to work!’ He turns and strides towards the circus and half of the performers follow him. The rest watch him go, then trail after him reluctantly.

  Standing alone, Karl makes such a dejected figure that my heart aches for him. What if he’s right and acting out Loki’s stories really has brought bad luck? Maybe Loki did have something to do with Nina’s death. All I know is that he sired three children – Hel, the wolf Fenrir and a sea serpent – and that they’re meant to destroy the gods at Ragnarok, the end of the world. Ruth told me that Loki caused the death of Baldur, but she didn’t say why he did it. I wish I knew more about the gods. I wish I knew more about everything.

  I go over to Karl and ask, ‘Can I see your book, please?’

  He hands it to me and I flick through pages of scrawled handwriting along with rune symbols and drawings of set layouts.

  ‘It lists the myths that can be performed and those which shouldn’t be done?’ I ask.

  Karl nods then adds, ‘It was my father’s. He ran this place before me.’

  Stig follows me and peers over my shoulder as I read a section entitled ‘Loki – Master of Manipulation’. At the top of the page is a black cross. Lots of myths are described: Loki Mothers Odin’s Horse Sleipnir, Loki Cuts off Sif’s Hair, Loki Invents the Fishing Net, Loki and the Kidnapping of Idun, Loki Is Refused an Invitation, Loki Bets His Head. I skim-read the stories. In many of them Loki appears to get the gods into trouble, then saves the day with his cunning.

  I go back and read the last one, Loki Bets His Head.

  No one loves a wager more than the Trickster. Having persuaded a pair of dwarves to create three fine treasures, Loki bets two others that they can’t make anything as good. If they can, he tells them, they are welcome to his head.

  The dwarves set to work and create the boar Gullinbursti, the golden ring Draupnir and the hammer Mjolnir. Never one to play fair, Loki shapeshifts into a fly and repeatedly bites the dwarf manning the forge-bellows. Despite Loki’s best efforts to cheat, Freyr, Odin and Thor are so impressed with the dwarves’ craftsmanship they declare them the winners.

  When the dwarves attempt to cut off Loki’s head, he tells them that they are welcome to it, as long as they don’t damage his neck in the process. Frustrated at being tricked, one of the dwarves sews Loki’s mouth shut.

  I reread the last sentence and shiver. The man in the psychic tent . . . A sudden gust of wind turns the pages and I gasp to see a picture of an old-fashioned jester holding a net.

  I hold out the book to Karl, my hand shaking. ‘Who’s that?’

  He tuts as if the answer is obvious. ‘The Trickster. He can take any form, but that is one of his oldest guises.’

  A cold feeling crawls across my skin as I realise that he’s here, at the circus. I’ve been so stupid! Of course the jester is Loki! And the man in the psychic tent, that was him too.

  I look back at the book and there are four runes, the same ones carved into the trees. Next to each symbol is a letter. L-O-K-I.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell everyone what the runes mean?’ I ask.

  ‘They wouldn’t believe me.’ He glances about him and I have the feeling he’s just as afraid as the others, maybe even more. ‘Oskar is right; people will think I did this.’

  ‘I believe you, Karl. The old-fashioned clown I told you about, it was a jester. I’ve seen him – the Trickster. He’s here at the circus.’

  Karl looks at me with disbelief.

  ‘What? You have to be joking.’ Stig laughs nervously.

  Ignoring him, I point to the rune markings in the book. Beneath are written the words: If you want change, you have to invite chaos.

  ‘Wasn’t one of the myths called Loki Is Refused an Invitation?’ I ask.

  Karl nods and I turn back a few pages and read aloud. ‘After he caused the death of Baldur, Loki was turned away from the hall of the gods. Angry, he forced his way inside, demanding a seat at the table as was his right as Odin’s blood brother.’

  I glance at the old circus manager and he explains. ‘Odin mixed blood with him in a gesture of friendship – they aren’t related.’

  ‘So what does the Trickster do once he gets into the hall?’ asks Stig.

  Karl sniffs. ‘He insults all the gods. After that he takes off and shapeshifts into a salmon, but Thor catches him. The gods later chain him to a rock where a snake drips venom on him. It’s foretold that he will stay there until he breaks free at Ragnarok, where he will cause chaos and carnage.’

  Something shifts in the cave of my mind and bile floods my throat as the realisation hits me. The circus kept Loki out by not doing his stories. As soon as they performed one of his myths, Nina died. She was going to play Baldur, the god that Loki killed in the myth. It can’t be a coincidence; he must have had something to do with her death. And now the circus is going to do one of his biggest stories – Ragnarok, the end of the world.

  Karl mutters in Norwegian then says, ‘They have to cancel the performance.’

  He strides towards the clearing and I chase after him, with Stig following behind.

  ‘Martha, wait!’ Stig catches up with me. ‘What did you mean about Loki being here?’

  I don’t answer and he grabs my arm and spins me around. ‘Tell me.’

  I sigh heavily. ‘He came to see me in the psychic tent as a man and then I saw him again, only as a jester.’

  He looks at me unsure. ‘Faen. You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you, but it’s not just Nina here. I saw dozens of dead in the big top last night. I don’t know why or how they’re here, but Loki wanted me to find them.’ Stig’s eyes dart in the direction of the road and a huff of disappointment escapes me. Of course he won’t want to stay now. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll open the road soon.’

  ‘What?’ He shakes his head as if I’ve misunderstood him completely. ‘I’m not going anywhere, not if you’re in danger. I’m staying with you, if you’ll let me.’ I give a tight smile then look away, knowing that words are easy.

  He takes a deep breath. ‘Look, I’ve promised to be honest with you, Martha, and there’s something I should say.’ My body tenses and I search his eyes, afraid of what I might see. ‘I told you before that I was nervous about going back to the cabin after everything that happened, and it’s true. But there’s another reason I didn’t reply to your messages. I needed time to think about what I really wanted. I’ve fallen into relationships before and they didn’t go well, and I wanted things to be different with you.’

  I raise my eyebrows and he talks quickly. ‘I know you can’t leave your mum, not with how she is, and you have to water the tree. Moving to the island meant giving up my dreams – of biking around Europe and seeing all the places Dad talked about. I wanted to be sure, because the last thing I want is to let you down, and if I messaged you I knew we’d start talking and I wouldn’t be able to keep away from you.’ He pauses and then adds weakly, ‘I guess I was worried things were happening too fast.’

  ‘You should have told me.’

  He nods, a tentative smile on his face, and I find myself feeling sad instead of angry. He’s right. Things did happen fast between us. But then everything was so intense, seeing the dead and the draugr attacking the cabin. At one point, we weren’t sure if we were going to survive the night. I spent so much time worrying about the way I look and wondering if he liked me. Perhaps I focused on him so much because I didn’t want to face the awful things that were happening. He was something to cling to when everything felt hopeless.

  Though it doesn’t excuse his behaviour, I understand why he needed time alone to come to a decision. If he’s been impulsive and rushed into relationships before, it makes sense to want to be sure.

  ‘So what made you change your mind?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing. I just needed to figure things out, and I have. I want to be with you.’

  He squeezes my shoulder and then glances at his glove as if inviting me to r
ead the material, but I don’t need my gift to know that he means every word. A familiar fondness spreads in my chest, along with relief. If Loki was involved in Nina’s death then Stig didn’t have anything to do with it. Whatever happens in the future, right now I’m glad to have a friend.

  I glance in the direction of the clearing, torn between talking to Stig and going after Karl. Stig notices me looking and gives me a pained smile. ‘I know now isn’t the time to be saying all this, but I’d already decided to go back to the island when I heard you were at the circus. I realise I have to make things up to you, but I want you to know you can rely on me. Please can we start again?’

  I pull his hand from my shoulder and his expression changes from anxiety to relief as I squeeze his palm and smile. ‘OK, but you’re right, now isn’t the time. Come on, I want to see what Karl does.’

  14

  HER DEATH WAS NO ACCIDENT

  A

  fter a few minutes, we emerge from the forest. The performers are in the field gathered around the ringmaster, who stands on a high metal platform. He raises a fist to the sky and booms in a deep voice. ‘At Ragnarok, all chains will be loosened, freeing those that are bound. The wolf Fenrir will escape his shackles and Loki himself will ferry the dead to fight the gods.’ Horned figures thrust their skull poles in the air and scream a war cry. So that’s what the performers are meant to be: a horde of the dead brought by Loki.

  A group of wild-looking Viking women stride to the front, some carrying shields painted with rune signs and others beating animal-skin drums. They wear armoured leather breastplates with winged shoulders and their hair is braided into tiny plaits. Most have metal chains stretched across their foreheads with elaborate silver centrepieces – a raven, a wolf, a valknut. Their makeup is simple but stunning. A band of black covers their eyes; some with vertical lines on each cheek, others a feathered network of branches reaching to their hairline.

  Performers file in behind them: the Norns and ravens on stilts and various gods and goddesses. I recognise Sandrine in her bird outfit, but otherwise it could be anyone behind the masks. The drumbeat quickens and the warrior women move their tongues fast, yelling an ululation – a wavering, high-pitched sound somewhere between a screech and a howl.