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.
The ringmaster strides towards the audience. He wears a red cape and a top hat and carries a silver cane. His eyes are lined with black and there are runes painted on his cheeks. He opens his arms wide. ‘Velkommen! Welcome to the world of myth and mayhem. Our story begins with the All-Father and it ends with him. For he is Ofner, opener, the one who breathed life into the first humans, and he is Svafner, closer, the gatherer of lost souls.’