Behind them is a man on stilts wearing a huge raven’s head with a grey beak over his nose. A plume of blue-black feathers adorns his chest and thighs, and his arms and lower legs are covered with thin scaly grey material, with claws at the end of his fingers and toes. The bird-man twitches its head in my direction as it totters by and I see that its eyes are overlaid with orange film, a black dot at the centre. The effect is so realistic it’s disturbing.
‘What do you do?’ asks Ruth.
‘Sorry?’
‘What kind of psychic are you? Tarot, palmistry, objects – what do you read?’
The man in the bird costume opens his arms and two huge feathered wings unfurl on the air. I pull my gaze back to the woman.
‘I read objects . . . clothes.’
‘Never heard of that before.’
The drumming is louder now, two soft beats and then a stronger one, getting faster. The raven moves his feet to the rhythm, twisting his body and lifting first one wing and then the other above his head. More masked creatures parade into the tent behind him: two wolves, a falcon, a boar and two cats. A girl with pointed ears and braided white hair whirls by in a purple cloak.
Resisting the urge to watch them further, I focus on Ruth. I need to say something that will convince her to give me a chance, and for a moment I consider telling her the truth. That I inherited my gift from an ancient Norse god and a mortal weaver woman who started my family line more than a thousand years ago, and I have the power to read clothing like all the women before me. My cheeks flush just thinking about how crazy I would sound. I wouldn’t believe me, so why should she? Besides, I don’t know anything about her or this place. For all I know, she might not be a genuine psychic and the readings they offer are just a bit of fairground fun.
‘My mum taught me. I used to do psychic shows with her in London.’ I don’t know where the lie comes from, but she looks impressed. I swallow hard, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels.
‘Grand. So you have experience working with the public?’
I nod and she asks, ‘How many years?’
‘Oh, lots. I have lots of experience.’
She purses her lips and I immediately know I’ve said something wrong.
‘We need someone who’s done this work before, sorry.’
She walks away and panic rises inside me. I reach for Ruth’s arm and grasp her shawl, and it shows me a flash of memory. She lived on the streets years ago, and then one day an old lady stopped to talk to her. She gave her a job in her shop and let her sleep in the back. Ruth’s gratitude wells up inside me and brings a lump to my throat. The shawl must be part cashmere. Wool holds emotions, but cashmere makes me feel them like my own. Maybe I can appeal to Ruth’s sense of charity. If she thinks I have nowhere to go, she might look kindly on me, like the lady who helped her.
‘Please. I’ll work for free. I just need somewhere to sleep. Give me a chance and I won’t let you down.’
She tilts her head and her expression softens. ‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘And you’re sure you can’t go home?’ She searches my face and I feel the sting of a tear. I might have lied to her about some things, but not that. I can’t go back to the cabin and risk Nina following me. Mum is doing her best to accept our inheritance but she still struggles to believe that magic flows in our veins; that she sees visions of the future as well as being able to read clothing like me. Her mental health is so fragile, some days it feels like she’s hanging on by a single thread. I can’t let her fall apart. I won’t.
Ruth glances about her. ‘You know we’re leaving Velfjord and going south next week?’ I take a sharp breath and nod. I had no idea they were going to be travelling on so soon. If I don’t want to go with them, I’ll have to find out what Nina wants – and fast. Ruth sighs and I have a horrible feeling she’s going to turn me away. Desperate now, I open my mouth to blurt out what I saw in her shawl, when she smiles. ‘OK. I’m not promising anything, but I’ll give you a try. Come on.’
She marches away and I hurry after her, around the side of the big top and past another two tents. Her long black coat trails out behind her and skims the snow as she walks. With her tall leather boots and her red hair flowing in the wind she could be a Viking warrior.
She stops before a wooden frame as high as a single-storey house, cut into the shape of a wolf’s head. The doorway is the creature’s wide-open mouth, complete with two white fangs fixed overhead, threatening to graze the heads of the tallest visitors. Above the cavernous black mouth is an enormous snarling snout, two yellow eyes, and a pair of ears.
The sight of it makes me feel nervous and I’m glad when Ruth shakes her head. ‘That’s the hall of mirrors. We’re going in here.’ She gestures to the small tent opposite. Propped outside is a blackboard in an antique-looking gold frame. Flowing handwriting announces: ‘Psychic readings here today – Tarot (20 minutes) 250 NOK.’ Below that are some words I can’t read. I see them and my heart sinks.
‘I don’t speak Norwegian.’
Ruth pulls back the canvas door and a waft of incense envelops me. ‘That’s OK. We have artists from all over the world, so it’s easier to do the performances in English. We put it on all our flyers and posters; most of our visitors speak it.’ She gestures for me to go through and I duck under her arm.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Inside is a proper wooden floor painted in black-and-gold checks, a rustic oak table and two red velvet armchairs. Ruth presses a switch on the floor and an elaborate chandelier lights up above our heads. We could be in a swanky city bar, not a tent in a field.
‘Wow, this place is amazing.’
She grins and gestures to a chair, her bracelets jangling. I sit down, feeling at home but oddly exposed too, as if I’ve walked onto a stage set.
‘Sorry it’s chilly. We use heaters, but it’s not worth putting them on just now.’
I look around, taking in the colourful rug, floor cushions and ornate metal lanterns.
‘So then, clothes reading. I’ve heard of watches and jewellery but material is a new one on me. Can it be anything?’
I nod and Ruth takes off her shawl. ‘No rush, take your time.’ She watches me intently and I shift in my seat. I feel awkward demonstrating my gift in front of someone. I remember the day I tried telling Kelly, my best friend at home in London. She said she believed me, but when she hugged me her coat was practically dripping with disbelief. I soon learned to keep it secret.
Now that Mormor, my grandma, is dead, there are only two people in the world who know about my gift: one is Mum and the other is Stig. I think about the letter I left for him at the cabin and worry washes over me. After everything we went through, I can’t believe he would ignore my texts, even if he changed his mind about coming back to the island. Maybe something happened to him?
Ruth coughs and I close my eyes and force my attention back to the thoughts and emotions in the wool. I pull at the strands of memories, searching for an image. There’s a man with sunken cheeks, Ruth’s father maybe? I frown and grasp harder. She had a baby when she was a teenager. She had to leave . . . Shame and guilt wrap around my heart, but they leave as quickly as they came.