The Crooked Mask Page 3
My eyes snap open to darkness, the sheets drenched with sweat. I stare across the room, half expecting to see claws creep under my door. It was just a nightmare . . . not real. Taking a deep breath, I get out of bed and head to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Mum is sitting at the table in her nightdress, a sketchpad before her. The pencil in her hand moves back and forth scratching at the paper, though her eyes are closed. I know she has visions of the future and has to get them out of her head, but I’ve never seen her do it before. Part of me feels like I shouldn’t be here, that I am intruding, but she looks so cold I can’t just leave her.
‘Mum, are you OK?’
I will her to open her eyes and smile at me, to say that everything is fine, but she doesn’t. Her hand carries on drawing, moving with a will of its own. She looks so eerie and vulnerable with her long blonde hair hanging loose about her face, and I have a sudden fear that she might be unravelling; that she might never come back to me.
I walk over, then look at the paper and gasp. She’s drawn Stig outside a circus tent. ‘Mum, can you hear me?’ I touch her shoulder and suddenly her hand moves faster, scoring out his face.
‘Mum! Stop!’ I shake her and her eyes open. She looks at me in a daze and I point at the drawing. ‘Do you know where Stig is? Do you know what’s happened to him?’ She turns away, but I have to know. ‘Is he in danger? Please, you have to tell me.’
‘You should never have let him stay here,’ she mutters.
Ignoring her, I grab the sketchpad and flick through the drawings. Among the many pictures of circus tents are creatures wearing tatty robes with skulls for faces, and a girl with strings attached to her arms and legs like a puppet. And then I see something that makes me turn cold. Mum has drawn a close-up of my face outside a big top, a look of anguish in my eyes and tears rolling down my cheeks.
She rips it from my hand. ‘Promise me you won’t go there, promise you won’t leave me!’ I reach out my arms, about to reassure her, when Gandalf gets up from his bed and growls. His grey fur bristles and a chill runs through me. He always does that when . . .
A cup slides across the kitchen counter with a sharp scraping sound. Then a plate leaps from the wooden dresser and smashes on the floor.
Mum rushes to the open door but it slams in her face. The light above our heads begins to sway and Gandalf bares his teeth at something I can’t see. A picture jerks and then bangs against the wall and Mum leaps away, her eyes wide with terror.
I glare around the room, my heart hammering in my chest. I’ve only seen Nina through the window before, but I know it’s her. ‘What do you want?’ I yell. ‘Stig isn’t here. He’s gone!’ Mum covers her face with her hands and sobs as sheets of paper fly into the air. ‘Please, just leave us alone!’ I scream. ‘Leave us alone!’
The door bangs open letting in a rush of icy air and I snap back to the present. The memory of Mum’s tear-stained face brings a lump to my throat and I rub my arms, feeling helpless. I would give anything to erase her fear, to be able to protect her. Ruth walks inside, carrying a cardboard box with a pile of bedlinen folded on top. She places it on the counter then unpacks cleaning stuff, along with teabags, milk, and bread and cheese. ‘The canteen tent opens at seven for breakfast and does lunch from twelve. Dinner starts at six, but if you want to eat here I’ve brought you a few things.’ She pulls out some tins then opens a cupboard above the sink to reveal a microwave.
I take a moment to calm my thoughts and then go over to her. ‘Thanks, Ruth.’
She pulls on some rubber gloves and scrubs the grubby inside of a cupboard, while I pick up a rag and go to war with the cobwebs. I expect her to ask what I’m doing here or why I left home, but she doesn’t. She yawns, and I notice how tired she looks. Maybe that’s why she isn’t making conversation. Part of me welcomes the silence, but I need to find out about Nina.
Eventually I say, ‘So how long have you worked at the circus?’
She answers without looking up, ‘Longer than I should have, probably.’
‘Years then?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And the acrobats, have they been here a long time?’
‘Depends. We get artists from all around the world. At the moment we have performers from China, Russia, Nigeria, India and Mexico as well as various places in Europe. Some stay for six months, others have been here much longer.’ Ruth wipes her forehead then adds. ‘They’re incredibly talented. You should go to the show tomorrow.’
I nod, thinking I’d like to see the kind of things that Nina did. And then I shiver, remembering that Stig said she fell from the trapeze. I don’t know how it happened though, as he didn’t go into detail. Maybe there’s a way I can get Ruth to talk about the accident. I glance at her face and say, ‘It always looks so dangerous, up there on the trapeze, I mean.’
Her expression darkens and she scrubs the cupboard with renewed vigour. When she doesn’t say anything, I risk adding, ‘I guess it’s safe though?’
‘Hmm.’ She reaches for a bottle of cleaner, fixing me with sharp brown eyes. ‘So what brings you to Norway? Are you just travelling through?’
I shake my head, disappointed at the change of subject. ‘I’m staying on Skjebne in the Lofoten Islands with my mum. My grandmother was Norwegian.’
‘Was?’
‘She died last month.’
Ruth’s gaze softens. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’
I hold back a tear and look away. It wasn’t long ago that I was rushing to catch my flight at Heathrow and then boarding the ferry to the island, excited to see Mormor. I’d known something was wrong when she hadn’t answered my letters, but the last thing I expected to find was a random boy living in her cabin. I was so angry at Stig for breaking in that I almost didn’t believe him when he said she’d died. It might have been stupidly trusting of me to let him stay, even if he had nowhere to go and would have frozen to death otherwise, but it helped to have him there. Losing Mormor was the worst thing that ever happened to me. He was someone to talk to when I had no one.
Thinking about him makes my head pound. There must be a reason he hasn’t been able to text. I hope he isn’t hurt.
‘So will you be going back to London soon?’ asks Ruth.
‘No, we’re going to stay.’ I don’t mention that we don’t have a choice. Somehow I doubt she would believe that Yggdrasil, the Norse world tree, is real and growing in my grandma’s back garden and Odin has tasked my family line with watering it.
As I wipe down the walls I ask Ruth where she lived before and how she came to do tarot but she offers such meagre answers I soon give in to silence. All I learn is that she left Ireland when she was my age, and that the lady who saved her taught her to read people’s fortunes. She doesn’t say anything about having a baby. I’m glad she doesn’t ask me any more questions. I feel bad about lying to her, especially as she’s been so kind.
I know better than anyone the damage that lies can do. If Mum had told me about our gift and the fact that Mormor had died, I would have known to water the tree and the dead would never have escaped. I realise she was trying to protect me, and we’re trying to put things right – we promised no more secrets – but I still can’t forgive her for keeping the truth from me.
Ruth peels off her rubber gloves then drops them into the box that held the food and bedlinen. ‘Now then, you’ll be needing somewhere to sleep.’ She pulls out one of the sofas, turning it into a bed, then wrestles a duvet into a cover and shakes out some sheets. They smell clean and homely and I fight a yawn.
She finishes and straightens up. ‘You remember where I am?’ I shake my head and she points to the left. ‘A few minutes that way, just past the big costume trailer. The performance starts at noon tomorrow so we need to be in the psychic tent by half past one, ready for when people come out.’
I nod and she puts the cleaning stuff back into the box. ‘I’m seeing a friend tonight, but come to mine for dinner tomorrow?’
She smiles then pulls me close and whispers, ‘Things will get better, you’ll see.’ Her arms hold me tight, as if she knows how much I need a hug. Her warmth is so comforting that I want to stay there, but her shawl . . . This time it shows me the baby she left behind. Shame, regret and guilt pour out of her. I pull away, the emotions more than my heart can hold.
Ruth hoicks up the box and I open the door, the icy wind so shocking it takes my breath away. The moon is a pale silver disk, shrouded almost entirely by cloud. All around us dots of light shine in the dark, some from caravans nearby and others from far away. It makes me think of ships on the ocean. Adrift.
Ruth says, ‘Sleep well,’ then walks away and vanishes into the night.
As soon as she’s gone the dark feels different. Like it’s alive and watching me. The giant shape of the big top lurks in the distance, outlined by swaying strings of yellow lights. Beyond it, I can just make out the wolf’s head that marks the entrance to the hall of mirrors. I turn away, not wanting to think about its hungry eyes and gaping mouth.
A gust of wind yanks the door from my grip. Something hits the caravan roof with a thud, a branch maybe, and the light in the kitchen area flickers. Fighting the wind, I pull the door closed and turn the flimsy lock. The hairs on my arms rise up on end and I have the feeling that someone is standing behind me.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Coming from the window opposite.
I spin around and glare at the closed curtains, my heart racing. There won’t be anything out there in the dark, but what if . . . Holding my breath, I stand still and listen. Nothing. Just the lonely wail of the wind. I let out a shaky sigh and the sound comes again: three urgent taps. Steeling myself, I rip open the curtains. A mass of fir branches writhe against the glass as if the caravan is being consumed by the forest.
I go to shut the curtains, annoyed at myself for being so jumpy, and then I see her out in the darkness: a girl in a white dress, her legs bare. She reaches a hand to her throat, the whites of her eyes black. Then I notice my reflection and realise I’m wrong – she isn’t outside. She’s behind me. I spin around but the caravan is empty. When I look at the window again, she’s gone.
My phone buzzes on the counter and my heart leaps into my throat. Six texts and nine missed calls from Mum. Reception is always bad on the island; the messages must have been stored up then sent through all at once. I phone her and she answers instantly.
‘Martha, thank God. Are you at the hotel? Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.’
She sounds agitated and I feel bad for making her anxious. I forgot she booked a room for me in the nearby town. I should have phoned to let them know I wouldn’t be coming.
I drop onto the bench, my legs shaky. ‘Please don’t worry, Mum. I’m OK. I had a change of plan. I’m staying at the circus, in a caravan.’ The line goes quiet and I wonder if she’s annoyed with me. After she did the drawings, we went to the harbour so I could go online. A few search terms – Nina, accident, Norway, circus – brought it up instantly. It was the circus she had drawn. We both knew I was going to come here.
Still no answer; maybe we’ve been cut off. ‘Mum, are you there? I’ll come home as soon as I can, I promise.’
Her voice is a faint whisper. ‘There’s something I’m not being shown.’ And then I hear the sound of a pencil scratching at paper. Perhaps I was wrong to leave her. Has she been drawing all day? What if she doesn’t eat or sleep? What if she forgets to water the tree? The thought of the dead escaping again and another draugr, a walking corpse, attacking the cabin makes my stomach feel weak. I should be there with her.
Her breathing quickens. ‘A game is in play.’
‘What do you mean, a game?’
‘Not everyone is who they appear to be.’
I hear the sound of frantic sketching and when she speaks again there is panic in her voice. ‘You’re not safe, Martha. Please, you have to be careful. You can’t trust anyone.’
4
GRIMNIR THE MASKED ONE
I
t’s been raining all morning and the sky is a strange eerie yellow. The light feels too bright, forced almost. It reflects off the gold stripes of the tents, the glare so bright it hurts. I close the caravan door behind me and rub my aching head. What with worrying about Mum and the wind and the nocturnal animal noises of the forest, I didn’t sleep well.
I glance up at the giant fir trees and feel myself grow smaller. Hundreds of tall thin trunks stand in close formation, their heavy green boughs dripping with snowmelt. The forest feels darker and more foreboding than it did yesterday, the trees looming over the clearing as if they uprooted themselves and crept closer to us in the night.
I head into the site, keen to see where Nina worked and hopefully talk to someone who knew her, before I have to head for the psychic tent. The place is a buzz of activity: people chatting and laughing outside their caravans, some performers hurrying about in full costume and makeup and others in jeans and coats. A man in a dressing gown is standing on the steps of a caravan, his face coated in white paint. He sips from a mug then throws the dregs on the ground and sees me looking. With a wave of his hand, he changes his expression from a frown to a grin, and then mimes pulling off his face. He pokes out his tongue and I smile warily, unsure if he’s being friendly or not.
I keep walking, past the canteen tent and on towards the row of shiny black trailers glistening with rainwater. The sugary smell of waffles drifts on the icy breeze, getting stronger with each step I take, and I feel my stomach rumble. It’s strange to think that Stig was living here just weeks ago. I know he helped Nina train, but I’m guessing he had other friends at the circus too. I check my phone – no new notifications – and a familiar disappointment tugs at my heart. After everything we went through, I was sure he would come back, but maybe I didn’t mean as much to him as I thought. My worry hardens into something brittle and I shove my phone into my pocket, determined not to dwell on it.
When I get near the entrance, I stop and watch people file into the circus. Parents with children, old people and couples, all bundled up in hats and coats and armed with umbrellas. They trail in through the archway, dutifully passing beneath the sign and leaving the surrounding snow untouched. Curiously, they don’t queue once they get inside. Instead they mill around the ticket tent, chatting happily and somehow knowing whose turn it is next.
A girl waits by the door of the big top, taking tickets. She wears a long brown cloak with feathers around the collar and an ornate feathered mask that covers her eyes. Noises drift out from behind her: a steady rhythmic drumming accompanied by male voices singing a haunting lament. She moves to the music, hopping from foot to foot like a bird that wants to take flight. There’s something hypnotic about the music and the flow of people, and I find myself walking behind them, caught up in the excitement. I want to see the kinds of things that Nina did on the trapeze. I want to see the performance that Stig would have watched.
Once the last few people have entered, I approach the girl on the door.
‘I work here, with Ruth in the psychic tent. Is it OK to watch?’
She runs her tongue over her glossy red lips then says in a French accent, ‘Sure. Sit anywhere you like.’
I step into a narrow tunnel lined with billowing drapes of material. Strips of white fabric hang down, obscuring my view. I push them aside and emerge to see a huge tree prop in the centre of the ring. Surrounding it are rows of wooden chairs arranged in tiers. I climb the steps of the nearest aisle then find a vacant seat and glance around.
Tall metal pillars stand about the tent like cranes, poles forming an elaborate skeleton beneath the stretched skin of the big top. Sleeping spotlights nestle in the rafters, waiting to shine on the dark ring below. I didn’t notice at first, but the floor is painted with three interlocking golden triangles, the centre of the design obscured by the base of the tree. I know the symbol
– it’s Odin’s valknut.
My pulse quickens and I touch my chest where my necklace used to be. I made the charm when I was living in London, before I even knew about my heritage. Why would it be painted on the floor? Karl said something about doing myths, so perhaps the circus performs stories from Norse mythology. Stig didn’t mention it, though he didn’t say much about the place at all. Maybe the tree is supposed to be Yggdrasil, which holds the realm of the gods in its branches and beneath its deepest root the underworld. The tree at my grandma’s cabin. Excitement dances inside me at the thought.
A recorded announcement plays in Norwegian, followed by English. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boy and girls, giants, dwarves and elves . . . please take your seats. The show is about to begin!’
The lights dim and the last murmurs of conversation die away. Dry ice billows across the ring, a horn blasts out and suddenly the atmosphere changes, the buzz of anticipation replaced by nervous tension. The drumming slows and there’s a soft rattle and jingle of bells. A surge of energy thrums through the room and I have the prickly feeling of exhilaration I always get before a storm.
A young child’s voice speaks. ‘There was a time long ago, a time before remembering, when the old gods walked among us. We have not forgotten their names; we have not forgotten their stories, for we are the storytellers, the dreamers of the old ways. You have stepped through our gateway and heard our calling. Now it is time to awaken. It’s time to bid the gods hail and welcome!’
A spotlight comes on, highlighting an old man on a throne, seated in front of the tree with his head bowed. He has a long grey beard and wears a hooded cloak. Rolling mist obscures his legs and feet. I lean forward. There’s something moving within the fog: creatures in rags wearing pale masks. They creep and crawl, half hidden within the churning smoke.