by Rachel Burge
I try to sound impressed. ‘Not bad.’ I know he’s trying to cheer me up and that Mormor would want me to be happy, but it feels wrong to have fun without her. Like it feels wrong to be using her best tablecloth and wine glasses.
Stig’s oranges tumble to the ground. I reach out and grab one, then knock my head on the table.
‘You OK?’ Stig crouches down and I move away from him without thinking.
‘I’m fine,’ I snap, annoyed with myself for being so clumsy.
Stig picks up the oranges, then stands and takes a banana from the bowl. He threatens me with it. ‘Do you know what the Swedish think Norwegians call a banana?’
I shrug.
‘Gulbøy. It means, yellow bend.’
‘Really?’
Stig laughs. ‘Yes, really,’ and starts to juggle again.
I watch the fruit whizz in circles, then lay the plates on the table. ‘Let me guess – fruit salad for dessert?’
Stig grins. ‘I tried juggling custard but it got messy.’
We sit at the table and smile shyly at one another. Stig clears his throat and I wonder if he feels as awkward as I do.
‘So you don’t speak any Norwegian?’ he asks.
I pick up my spoon and feel a pang of regret. At the time, it didn’t seem worth learning a new language when we only came out for summer holidays.
‘Mormor wanted to teach me, but no. I wish I did.’
‘I can teach you a few words, if you like.’
‘OK.’ I try the casserole, which tastes just how I remember: rich and meaty mutton with cabbage and peppercorns, and a dash of cumin for warmth.
‘So, where did you learn to juggle?’ I ask.
‘My ex-girlfriend was an acrobat.’ A shadow of sadness passes over his face. He opens the bottle of red wine on the table and his expression changes as quickly as it came. ‘Nina went to the same school as me, but her parents worked for a circus in Oslo. I watched them train sometimes – trapeze, high wire, contortion, that kind of thing.’
I nod along. ‘Sounds cool.’ But how would I know? I’ve spent months making jewellery in my bedroom with only a handsaw and metal for company.
Stig pours me a glass of wine, then fills his own and raises it. ‘To making the best of things.’
My fingers caress the stem of the glass. Red wine always goes straight to my head, but I guess a little won’t hurt. I raise my glass and clink it to his.
‘Skål!’ Stig drains his drink in one gulp.
I narrow my eyes, wondering if he’s trying to get drunk. The thought of his coat nags at me. Maybe someone with an alcohol problem would be like two different people – maybe he gets angry when he’s had a drink.
‘Skål,’ I say, and swallow my unease down with the wine.
‘See, you’re learning already,’ he smiles. ‘So, any plans for tomorrow?’
Get through each hour without being overwhelmed by grief or creeped out by a tree – but I’m guessing that’s not the answer he’s looking for.
Stig refills his glass. ‘Maybe we can walk to the sea?’
We could be on holiday, the way he talks. Surely he must have plans to go back to school or whatever he does? I take a sip of wine and consider asking, but what if he thinks I’m trying to get rid of him and takes offence? My only real plan is to turn the cabin upside down. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Mormor would have left me a letter.
‘Actually I was planning to sort through Mormor’s things.’
Stig lowers his gaze, abashed. ‘Sure, sure. Of course.’
‘Anyway, Yrsa said we should stay near the cabin.’
‘Oh, that? Northern superstition. Like I said, it’s probably just a stray dog.’
I nod, but Yrsa doesn’t strike me as the nervous type. And they must be properly worried or why go to the trouble of buying a gun? I should tell Stig that I saw something outside the window earlier. I open my mouth, but he speaks first.
‘I’m glad you turned up. I was getting bored of boiled potatoes.’
My spoon clatters to my plate.
Stig swallows hard. ‘I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.’
Suddenly it’s like the first time we sat opposite each other, after I brought him in from the woodshed. What am I doing playing house with the boy who broke into Mormor’s cabin? Cooking him a meal and using her best tablecloth and drinking her wine! I shovel casserole into my mouth. It burns, but not enough to melt the ice in my belly.
Stig lays his palms on the table. ‘You have been so kind to me and I never said thank you.’ His face is flushed from the wine. ‘Seriously, you didn’t have to lie for me. I want you to know that I appreciate it. Really.’
I nod and feel the tightness in my shoulders relax a little. I hadn’t realised until now, but I’ve been waiting for him to say those words. Stig holds my gaze. ‘I would have frozen to death if it weren’t for you.’
My heart melts the tiniest bit. I guess things must be bad at home if he’d rather sleep in the woodshed than go back. ‘Like a penguin lost in the snow?’ I ask.
Stig laughs. ‘Yeah. As cold as a penguin with no one to love me.’
I feel my cheeks burn and look away. Next to the sink is a pile of dirty pots and pans. ‘You can make it up to me by doing the dishes,’ I offer.
Stig grins. ‘Sure, sure.’
‘And make breakfast tomorrow.’
‘No problem. For you, Miss Martha, extra-special pancakes!’
I take a sip of wine, enjoying the smoothness as it slips down my throat. We eat in comfortable silence; the only sound the hiss and crackle of the fire. When we’re finished, Stig looks at me, his eyes startlingly blue. ‘Takk for maten.’ He holds out a hand for my plate. ‘It means, thanks for the food.’
‘Takk for maten,’ I repeat, liking the taste of the Norwegian words on my tongue.
Stig looks pleased. ‘Det var deilig. It was lovely,’ he adds.
Gandalf whines at the front door and I feel my body tense. Stig puts our plates by the sink. ‘We could walk him on a lead if you like.’
‘OK.’
A lead sounds better than Gandalf running off into the night, but I’d be happier if we didn’t have to leave the cabin. Still, I guess he has to be walked.
Stig zips up his boots, then attaches Gandalf’s lead and slides back the bolt. It’s cold and damp, but the fog has nearly lifted. Dark clouds smother the sky so that the moon is a faint blurred halo. As I do up my coat, the thought of going near the tree makes my stomach turn. I can’t face it, not after such a nice meal. ‘I might stay here and watch, if that’s OK?’
Gandalf charges down the steps towards a clump of grass. ‘Sure!’ shouts Stig, his arm waving wildly as he’s pulled by the lead. Gandalf sniffs like a dog possessed, then lurches again, his nose close to the ground. I laugh as Stig is dragged around. I’m not sure who’s taking who for a walk.
Stamping my feet against the cold, I watch as they jog past the woodshed to the rear of the cabin. Even with the light of the moon, they soon become shadowy shapes. The longer I stand on the porch, the less I like it. Maybe I should call them back. But it’s only been a few minutes; Stig will think I’m silly. Besides, I can hear his voice complaining in Norwegian – they can’t be far. I watch my breath hang on the air and peer into the gloom. There’s something odd about the darkness. It doesn’t feel as empty as it should.
A howl shatters the night. A terrible, guttural sound – on and on like it might never stop. My heart batters against my ribcage. ‘Stig!’ I scan the darkness and yell his name again, but the only thing I hear is Gandalf barking.
Another terrifying howl. What the hell is that? I’ve only ever heard a wolf howl in movies, but this is nothing like that.
Something races past me. Not a person, but the shadow of a person.
I spin around, my fists clenched. Another shadow flickers past my shoulder, and another. I turn around and more rush past me into the cabin – all of them on my lef
t side. The side where I am blind.
8
‘What do you think it was?’ I ask.
Stig unclips Gandalf’s lead, then kicks off his boots. ‘A wolf – what else?’ He sounds angry with me, or maybe he’s annoyed with himself for thinking it was a dog. Either way, there’s something in the harshness of his tone I don’t like.
I pace the room, my mind a whirl. I can’t see anything strange now, but there was something out there, moving in the darkness. I saw things rush into the cabin – yet how could that be? Since the accident I’ve had zero sight in my left eye. I cover my right eye with my hand just to be sure. Nothing. A severed ocular nerve is just that: severed. It can’t heal itself.
I stop mid-stride and rest my hand on the sofa. In the kitchen earlier, when I saw something move outside the window … And in the bathroom, when I saw that creepy face in the mirror … The window and the mirror were both on my left side. Why didn’t I notice that before? The back of my neck prickles. I glance around the cabin and shiver. Whatever the shadows are, they’re in here now.
Stig is leaning against the kitchen counter, his face clouded with concern. I walk over to him, but what can I say that won’t make me sound insane? The room reminds me of the war photos I’ve seen in history lessons, where families were forced to abandon their homes and leave everything: food on the table, a child’s shoe on the floor. I stack the dishes, grateful for something to do.
Thud.
Stig’s head snaps up.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A slow rhythmic noise, regular as a heartbeat. Coming from inside the cabin.
Gandalf wags his tail as if an old friend has come to visit. I glance at the living room and back to Stig. He shakes his head, warning me not to move.
‘Where’s it coming from?’ I hiss.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Stig takes a step then stops, his face pale. In between the knocking is a softer noise, like distant rushing water. I’ve heard the sound before, like it belongs here. Stig’s fingers graze mine and my skin tingles at his touch. I pull away without thinking, then regret it.
The noise continues: a steady rhythmic thump. I follow the sound and find Gandalf sitting outside Mormor’s bedroom door. I swallow, my mouth dry.
Thud-shhh. Thud-shhh. Thud-shhh.
I nudge open the door and Stig reaches in and snaps on the light. We look inside, then at one another. My legs feel weak, but I make myself enter the room. The noise is coming from the huge oak wardrobe. Stig watches wide-eyed as I walk towards it. Holding my breath, I open the door. Next to a rack of clothes is Mormor’s little spinning wheel.
Moving.
I touch it and it stops instantly. The silence that follows is unsettling.
Behind me Stig mutters, ‘Fy faen, det var ekkelt.’
‘What?’
‘I said, that was creepy.’ Stig hovers in the doorway as if afraid something might jump out of the closet. ‘What made it move?’
I inspect the inside of the wardrobe. ‘No idea.’ There’s nothing to fall on the wheel, and even if something did, it shouldn’t have kept moving like that. My voice sounds calm but my stomach is twisting and turning, like a hole is opening up inside me.
Gandalf sits at my feet and whimpers. The sight of Mormor’s clothes fills me with sadness too. The wardrobe smells of her: the rose perfume she wore, mixed with herbs and sunshine. I look at her bunad. When I was a child, I begged her to let me wear it. If I touch it now, maybe it will make me feel close to her.
I reach my hand towards the costume, when a ball of red yarn drops to the floor. The air goes from my lungs. I watch in wonder as it slowly unravels towards my feet. Too scared to move, I freeze, waiting. When nothing else happens, I bend to retrieve it. The other end is caught in something under the spinning wheel: a wooden chest.
Luckily the spinning wheel isn’t heavy. Stig watches wide-eyed as I place it on the rug and then peer back inside the wardrobe. The lid of the chest is carved with the pattern of a tree, its branches and roots intertwined and touching so that it makes a perfect circle. If it weren’t for the leaves, you could turn it upside down and it would look the same. Between the roots sit three women. Their arms are raised and they’re passing a cord between them. The one on the right holds a pair of shears in her lap.
I don’t think I’ve seen the image before, yet it seems vaguely familiar. The lid of the chest won’t budge. There’s not enough room in the wardrobe for it to open; I’ll have to lift it out. I wrap my arms around it and pull, but it barely shifts.
‘Stig, can you help me?’
He walks slowly into the room.
Grabbing the box by one corner, I try to slide it out but clumsily drop it.
‘Nei, stoppe! What are you doing?’ He points to the spinning wheel. ‘Put it back!’
‘It’s OK. Something in the wardrobe must have fallen on it and made it move. I just need to get this chest out.’
He doesn’t look convinced.
‘We can do it together,’ I offer.
Stig shakes his head. ‘Not enough room. I can –’ He heaves, then stops and tries again. Finally he manages to lift it. ‘‘Helvete, det er tungt!’’
‘What?’
‘I said, it’s heavy!’ Stig groans and the chest drops with a bang.
‘Thanks.’
He looks at me expectantly, as if he’s waiting for me to open it.
‘I’m OK now, thanks. I’ll probably just go to bed.’
Stig looks at the box suspiciously, then reluctantly leaves the room.
The lid is heavy and creaks as I lift it. Like Stig, Gandalf seems keen to know what’s inside. I nudge his head away and he licks my face. ‘I know, boy, I want to see too.’
It smells ancient – of mothballs and mildew. Inside are dozens of neatly stacked books, canvas bags and rolls of material. On top of the pile is an envelope with my name on it. My breath quickens as I run my finger over Mormor’s familiar handwriting.
My Dearest Marta,
If you are reading this letter, then I will have already gone. You will be sad, I know, but please don’t waste your tears on me, little one. I have lived the life that was meant for me, and none of us can ask for more.
I have loved you since the day you were born, and it has been an honour to watch you grow into the fine young woman you are. But a life cannot be made up of summers – and winter brings with it hard choices.
Inside this chest is your inheritance. Your mother barely stirred from slumber when it was given to her, but you, my child, are awake.
You wrote to me asking why you can sense things from touching people’s clothes. I replied, but as I kept receiving letters, I can only presume mine did not reach you! The gift is one that I share also, as does your mother – though she refuses to accept it.
The story is a long one, and I hope you will learn Norwegian and read the journals for yourself. For now, all you need to know is that our ancestor, a weaver woman named Aslaug, made a sacred vow that she and her line would take care of the tree in the garden.
This has been the way for more than a thousand years. Once I am gone, the duty should fall to your mother, but I fear it will come to you. Every morning you must take water from the well and put it on the roots inside the largest chamber of the tree. I beg of you, this you must do. There have been many seers in our family, and I pray that the worst does not come to pass.
If you choose to look inside this chest there may be danger ahead – for our path is one of growth through hardship. But know that dozens of women have walked this way before you, women whose blood runs in your veins. Remember, the tree is the start of the journey and the end. Tend to it every day and listen with an open heart!
May the gods watch over you and keep you safe.
Until we meet again,
Your loving Mormor x
Scrawled at the bottom is:
The gift of reading clothing lies dormant until you meet the Norns. For we have a very special destiny –
and I believe they appear to wake us to our fate.
I feared your mother would never accept the truth, so I took you out to the tree many times, hoping you were ready to see them. Perhaps I should have told you sooner, but I promised your mother I would not – and I couldn’t risk her never bringing you to the island again. I made the mistake of pushing her too hard, I see that now. I am so sorry for what is to come. I hope you can forgive me.
Mormor had the same ability as me, and so does Mum? My pulse races with my thoughts. Who or what are the Norns? I haven’t seen them! Mormor took me out to the tree the day before the accident, but I didn’t hear anything.
I read her words for the third time. Of course Mormor hid the letter in the wardrobe, knowing I would be drawn to touch her clothes. The moving spinning wheel and the wool dropping to the floor, do they mean her ghost is with me now? I look around and shiver. I can’t help feeling that there’s something in the room, watching me.
I look back at the letter. Part of me wants to forget I ever found it. Mormor makes it sound so important, but the idea of going near the tree fills me with dread. I study her shaky handwriting. If Mormor wrote it on her deathbed, maybe she wasn’t in her right mind.
I move towards the chest and Gandalf tilts his head, his brown eyes full of concern. He barks and twitches a grey eyebrow, and I stroke his ears. ‘It’s what I came here for,’ I say. Sitting on my knees, I look inside. Even if it means hardship and danger, I haven’t come this far to close the lid.
9
There are dozens of books inside: ancient dusty tomes bound in dark brown leather, shiny hardback notebooks and rolls of mouldy-smelling paper – not to mention piles of canvas bags and folded linen. I don’t know where to begin.
The light flickers as I randomly select a notebook. Inside is tiny black handwriting, like an ant dipped in ink has crawled across its pages. I turn to the front: on the first page is written ‘Karina, 27 februar, 1918’. Beneath it is a black and white image of the same severe-looking woman I saw in the photo on the shelf. My great-grandmother. Her long wavy hair is parted in the centre and there are dark circles under her eyes. I search the pages, hungry for clues, but there are no more photos, and the Norwegian words mean nothing to me.