The ringmaster points his cane to the man on the throne. ‘You may know him as Odin or Wotan, but he has many names.’
A rush goes to my head, making me feel woozy. Odin started my family line with a mortal woman. Impossible as it seems, his blood runs in my veins. Being here, watching part of my own history brought to life, makes me feel humbled and a tiny bit proud.
The hooded figure bangs his walking staff ominously then looks up to reveal a white mask, the left eye painted black. He speaks slowly in a deep voice and a warm thrill of excitement swirls inside me. ‘A single name have I never had since first I walked among men. Wanderer, Wayfarer, One-Eyed, the Hanged One, Grimnir the Masked One am I.’
Tiny lights flicker and explode into life on the tree behind him, starting from the roots and surging up the trunk to spark along its branches. The creatures spin away as the mist subsides and the ringmaster addresses the audience. ‘He has two wolves, Freki and Geri, the ravenous ones.’ Performers wearing wolf masks bound into view and prowl around Odin’s feet. One of them howls and the man sitting next to me claps and cheers.
The ringmaster turns and does a little hop before bounding across the ring. ‘The All-Father too is ravenous. It is not meat he craves, but knowledge. Each morning he sends his two ravens out into the world and each night they return and whisper their findings to him.’
A spotlight highlights the trapeze and I crane my neck upwards. Two performers in feathered costumes, grey beaks fixed over their noses, are poised dangerously high above the tree. The drumbeat gets faster and then one of them launches himself forward and opens his wings. He leaps into nothing and my heart falters. All around me people gasp. For a moment I think he’s going to fall, but he catches hold of a second trapeze with one hand. The audience lets out a collective sigh and I want to look away, but I can’t. I stare wide eyed, mesmerised by the magic of it. And then I remember that Nina fell from the trapeze in this ring. Did she slip while she was training, or did it happen during a show like this?
The ringmaster’s voice booms out. ‘The ravens’ names are Huginn, thought, and Muninn, memory. Odin fears for the return of Huginn, yet more does he fear for Muninn.’
The second performer opens his wings and leaps into empty space. His wrists are caught by the first and I swallow, my mouth dry, as he swings to the other trapeze. The audience gasps and ‘ah’s as the two men take it in turns to somersault through the air.
A light picks out the ringmaster, now seated high on a platform, though I didn’t see him climb the metal rigging. He points at the floor and says, ‘Odin’s wife Frigg sits at her spinning wheel where she spins her magic into being.’ The goddess is new to me and I watch entranced, wanting to drink in every word, as if knowing her story will bring me to some new understanding of myself.
Nine women wearing silver catsuits dance into the ring. Each of them carries a strip of white gauze material, so light it floats on the air. They cartwheel in a circle, their long ribbons flowing out behind them to create a shimmering wheel. I had no idea Odin’s wife was a spinner, just like the mortal woman who started my family line with him. Maybe the two things have always been connected: cloth and magic.
The ringmaster climbs down and continues, ‘Though Frigg knows the fate of all beings, she tells no one.’ The women exit the ring and the lights dim, leaving a single spotlight on the tree. The ringmaster drops to his knees and proffers his arms in worship. ‘Odin, hungry to learn the secrets of fate, knocked upon the door of the Norns, three women who weave destiny in the mighty tree Yggdrasil.’
The sound of howling wind plays and three cloaked figures on stilts emerge from inside the trunk. They have long dark hair and wear masks covered with bits of twig and leaves. I lean closer, awed by the knowledge that the Norns are real and I have met them. When I climbed the tree last summer, it was their features I saw emerge from the bark; it was because of them that I fell and lost the sight in my eye. Later, I saw them as three women – one old, one middle-aged and one young – chanting and weaving silver threads of light, weaving fate. Reading my ancestors’ journals, I realised the Norns always appear to the women in my family before we discover our gift of reading clothes. Meeting them wakes us to our destiny.
I watch with fascination as one of the women totters forward and tilts her head as if surveying the audience. The other two step out from behind her, one to the left and one to the right. They reach out their arms, their fingers splayed wide, hands dancing and twisting and feeling the air. Mirroring each other’s movements, they jerk and bend their bodies like marionettes coming to life.
The lighting changes to a red glow and the wind builds to a scream. The ringmaster announces, ‘When the Norns would not tell him the secrets of fate, Odin hanged himself from the tree.’
Thunder booms and the man on the throne stands up. His powerful voice commands the attention of the room. ‘I know that I hung on that windy tree for nine long nights, wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin, myself to myself.’
The ringmaster gets to his feet and adds, ‘He was almost at the point of death when he looked into the well of wisdom beneath.’
Odin bends his head and intones, ‘Downwards I peered; I took up the runes, screaming I took them.’ He flings his arms wide and lets out a terrifying cry – a long, drawn-out shout of pure pain and passion. Gasps sound around me and a child cries. I glance along the row of faces beside me. Some look mesmerised, others shocked and slightly afraid. A shiver of wonder runs through me to realise that the myths are just stories to these people. Even those who believe in the old gods don’t know the full story: that a weaver woman helped Odin after he cut himself down from the tree and they started a new family line together, women with a magical ability to read clothing, women like me.
A gurgling noise makes me glance over my shoulder. I turn and my blood runs cold. Nina is right behind me. Sitting in a chair and gazing at the ring. Her pale skin is marbled blue and her lips are dried and cracked. I jump up and the couple next to me frown and the people further along the row tut. And then I realise how crazy I must seem, staring at an empty chair.
‘Sorry, I’m . . . I . . .’
I run down the steps. The girl with the feathered mask isn’t there and I tug at the canvas door. Eventually I get it open. I glance behind me and Nina is in the same place, only now she’s standing up, her hands desperately clawing at her neck.
5
A SEAT AT THE TABLE
I
hurry away from the big top then stop and catch my breath. Nina has never got that close to me before. Doors would slam in the cabin and things would fly off shelves, but I never saw her do it. She’s only ever appeared in the distance, looking in through a window or watching as I watered the tree.
I shake my head, angry at myself for getting scared and running away like that. The whole point of being here is to find out what she wants. The way she clutched her throat, it was like she was trying to tell me something. I knew she wanted me to come here. The realisation strengthens my resolve and I take out my phone to check the time. Twenty past one. I decide to go back and watch the end of the performance, then realise where I’m meant to be and my stomach drops.
By the time I get to the psychic tent my heart is racing and my hands are sweaty in my gloves. The sign outside now advertises tarot readings, along with the words: psychic clothes reader – new. English speakers only. The thought of having to work instead of talking to people who knew Nina is frustrating, but I can’t see a way to avoid it. I run my hands over my hair, hoping I look vaguely presentable, and then step through the open door.