The Twisted Tree

by Rachel Burge

The bird flies back to its branch and caws again. I have the strangest feeling it’s trying to tell me something.

  ‘Come on – let’s get inside before parts of me really do fall off!’ says Stig.

  I pull my gaze away from the tree and trudge after him. As we walk, a black shape flies overhead, trailing us like an ominous shadow.

  11

  My cheeks and nose tingle from the warmth of the cabin as I collect the journals, then drop them on the table. I’m glad we went for a walk together first; it makes it easier to ask Stig for a favour.

  ‘So this is what you found in the chest last night?’ Stig nudges one of the books with his finger, as if afraid to touch it.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I stand over him and arrange them in the order I want them to be translated: Mormor’s journal first, then Karina’s and the books of sketches.

  He picks up a random roll of paper and pulls at the ribbon. ‘What are these? Legal documents or something?’

  ‘No, journals and drawings. Things passed down in the family.’

  Stig unrolls the paper and flattens it out, ignoring the books, and I sigh with annoyance. The picture is the one of the tree with the man hanging upside down. Beneath his head is a pool of water, with lots of symbols drawn inside.

  ‘Hmm. Looks like Odin,’ says Stig.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The All-Father, the highest of the gods. The one the Vikings believed in. They believed in Odin, and Thor and Loki, and other gods. In the Norse myth, Odin hung himself from the world tree in search of knowledge, and the runes appeared in the well.’

  I bend over the picture. ‘Do you know what the symbols mean?’

  Stig turns to me in surprise. ‘You don’t know? You’re wearing one of them.’

  I grasp the silver charm around my neck and my breath catches. I don’t know why I fashioned the three interlocking triangles. The design just came to me.

  ‘That’s the valknut, Odin’s symbol,’ says Stig. My fingers squeeze the charm as Stig points at the other shapes on the drawing. ‘You use the runes to tell someone’s fate and for doing magic.’

  Leaning over him, I grab another roll of paper and open it out. ‘What about this?’ It shows a giant figure wearing a hooded robe, seated on a throne.

  ‘Hel, maybe – ruler of the underworld.’ Stig sees my confused expression. ‘The Christians stole her name and gave it to their idea of ‘hell’. The Norse didn’t believe in the devil; there’s no fire or burning people.’

  He frowns, then adds, ‘The dark mother goddess, to whose cold embrace we must all return. It’s said that when you die, Hel forces you to look at yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She makes you see the good and bad in yourself. I guess so that you can learn from your mistakes.’

  He flicks through the sketches, seemingly puzzled. ‘Did your grandmother do these drawings? Didn’t she show them to you before?’

  Ignoring the question, I sit opposite him and scrabble through sheets of paper. ‘What about this one?’ I ask, holding up a drawing of the tree with three women sitting at the base of its trunk. Like in the image carved on the chest, they’re passing a cord between their hands and one holds a pair of shears. I tug anxiously at the charm around my neck as Stig studies the picture.

  ‘The Norns,’ he says.

  My stomach does a tiny somersault. ‘Are you sure?’ The charm comes away in my hand with a snap. ‘Damn.’

  ‘It’s OK. We can fix it.’ Stig takes the necklace from my hand before I can stop him. ‘We just need to –’

  I snatch it back, annoyed. ‘I know what I need to do. I made the thing!’

  Stig sits back in his chair. He looks as if he’s invited a stray cat into his house, only to discover it has fleas. I pick at the chain with my nail.

  Stig points. ‘It’s that link there, see –’

  ‘I’m not totally blind!’ I snap. Feeling guilty, I mutter, ‘It would help if I had some tools.’

  Stig leans over and opens a drawer of the dresser, then hands me a little pair of pliers. For once, the fact he knows where everything is makes me smile. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry. It’s just – all this, it’s a bit weird.’

  Stig shrugs like it’s no big deal and watches as I attack the chain. I’ve always had a steady hand, but not today, it seems.

  ‘Can I?’ He gestures for me to give him the pliers and the necklace.

  I hand them to him reluctantly, and then peer over as he carefully opens the clasp. ‘So, the Norns, are they gods too?’ I ask.

  Stig tucks a wayward strand of hair behind his ear, then deftly closes the silver link. ‘No. They’re older than the gods. They’re the women who weave fate – they decide what kind of life we have and when we die.’

  That must be what Mormor meant when she said the gift of reading clothing lies dormant until the Norns appear to you. She was talking figuratively about fate. A tiny laugh escapes me. How could I have thought otherwise? ‘So the Norns aren’t real women?’

  He gives me a quizzical look. ‘Depends. Some people believe the Norns and the old gods are real. There’s a name for their religion, but I don’t remember what it’s called.’

  He drops the chain on the table and takes his phone from his pocket. ‘I keep forgetting there’s no Internet. I could have looked it up for you.’

  I try to put on the necklace, but I can’t quite open the clasp.

  ‘Here, let me.’

  Stig stands up and walks around the table. I lift up my hair, feeling self-conscious, and he carefully lays the chain around my neck. His fingers lightly brush my skin and I tingle at his touch. He closes the clasp, but doesn’t move. ‘So you’ve inherited all this?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve inherited more than that,’ I sigh.

  Stig sits opposite me and waits for me to explain.

  ‘Mormor tended to the tree every morning and she wants me to do the same.’

  ‘Tend?’

  ‘It means to look after.’

  ‘I know what it means. But how do you look after a tree? Doesn’t it look after itself?’

  I pick up Karina’s journal and flick through it until I come to a sketch of a woman kneeling inside the tree. There’s a wooden pail on the ground next to her. ‘I need to take water from the well every morning and put it on the roots inside the biggest chamber of the tree.’

  Stig takes the journal from me and scans the page. ‘But your grandmother didn’t really believe what it says here, did she?’

  I tut, unable to hide my irritation. ‘I don’t know what it says!’

  ‘Of course, sorry.’ He drops the book on the table, as if something bad has just crawled from its pages, then glances at the window and back to me. ‘According to whoever wrote that, the tree out there is Yggdrasil – the world tree.’

  ‘The one you said Odin hung from?’

  Stig pulls the band from his hair and it tumbles over his shoulders in a great black mane. ‘Yes, the tree at the centre of the cosmos. It connects the worlds: its branches hold the realm of the gods, and beneath its roots is the underworld. It’s where the Norns live.’

  My head throbs. Believing in destiny is one thing, but surely Mormor didn’t actually think there are women who weave fate living in the tree outside? Stig flicks through the book and reads, ‘Each day, Odin’s ravens Huginn and Muninn fly through the nine worlds, then perch on his shoulders and whisper their findings to him. Such was his thirst for knowledge, Odin plucked out his eye to be granted a drink from the well of wisdom.’

  The pit of my stomach turns cold. ‘Wait. Odin only had one eye?’

  Stig nods and carries on. ‘When the Norns would not tell him the secrets of fate, he hung himself from the tree. At last he spied the runes in the well, and in them found the answers he sought.’ I nod for him to continue. ‘Listen to this … The sagas speak the truth when they tell how Odin hung for nine days and nights. And it is true that neither food nor water would he take. But what they do not tell is how a youn
g weaver woman watched over him. After he cut himself down from the tree with a cry, she took him to her cabin and gave him mead and the comforts of her bed. From Aslaug did spring a line of earthly daughters –’

  ‘Hang on. Mormor said I had to water the tree because someone called Aslaug made a sacred vow more than a thousand years ago.’

  Stig glances at me quizzically, then back at the book. ‘It says here that because Odin hung from the tree, it caused its decay to quicken – so he tasked Aslaug and her descendants to water it from the well to preserve its life.’

  I stand and go to the window. The branches of the tree shiver violently in the wind; it seems more alive than ever. Surely it’s nonsense; some kind of hoax. I can’t really be descended from an ancient Norse god.

  I stare at the tree, trying to untangle the knot of thoughts in my head. A black shape flies at me. I jump as it crashes into the window then disappears, leaving a smudge on the glass. I grip the counter with both hands, my knuckles white.

  ‘Fy faen!’

  Stig grabs his coat. For a moment my legs forget how to move. Then I push my feet into my boots and rush after him, my feet slipping on the cabin steps.

  Breathing hard, I trudge to the garden and see a black shape in the snow. A raven.

  ‘Is it …?’

  Stig shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

  It’s the same bird as before, I know it is. A beady black eye blinks and stares, closes and blinks again. Crouching next to it, I reach out my hand. I don’t know what to do, but I have to do something.

  It gets to its feet, flaps awkwardly a little way, then lands on the snow. Perhaps it’s injured. I give chase and it takes to the air, then lands and does the same thing again. Finally it settles on a low branch of the twisted tree. It caws and caws, its eyes burning into me with murderous intensity – and this time I know what I have to do.

  12

  ‘What do you mean, it wanted you to follow it? You don’t look well, Martha. Please, just sit down a minute.’

  Stig watches from the door as I scrabble under the kitchen sink. I shove a bottle of paraffin oil to one side and sweep some sponges to the floor. At last I find it: a large wooden pail.

  Stig inhales sharply when he sees it. ‘This thing about the tree – it’s just a story. Make-believe.’

  Ignoring him, I march down the steps and around the side of the cabin.

  He follows close behind. ‘Don’t you think you’re –’

  ‘What?’ I snap.

  His long black coat flutters about his ankles like a raven that’s forgotten how to fly. He pauses, a bewildered look on his face. ‘Well, taking it too seriously.’

  The pail knocks against my leg as I walk. ‘And the raven?’

  He hurries after me, breathing hard. ‘Birds do that. They get caught in a gust of wind or lose their way. Just because a raven hits the window doesn’t mean Odin sent it. It doesn’t mean that you’re his descendant!’

  I spin around, suddenly angry. ‘You know nothing about me, or my family!’

  ‘I know you miss your grandmother. And I know grief can make people crazy, but –’

  ‘I’m crazy? That’s what you’re saying?’ I throw the words at him, then stomp away.

  ‘Nei, vent! Please, stop!’

  I march towards the tree. Maybe it’s all in my head, but I’m sure the raven was trying to tell me something. It wanted me to go to the tree. I shouldn’t have waited; I should have done as Mormor asked and watered it straight away.

  Stig calls, ‘Why don’t we go inside? It’s freezing out here. You can do it tomorrow.’

  I pause and turn with a heavy sigh. ‘I know it seems weird, but I need to do this.’

  We stand for a long moment, staring at one another. Emotions play across his face, like the way the contours of a landscape go light and dark when a cloud passes overhead. His eyes are wild and destructive. Stormy sea eyes that could drag me under if I let them.

  I frown, wishing he would say something that would allow me to explain, but how can I, when I don’t understand myself? Our breath hangs in the space where words should be.

  Eventually he turns away, muttering in Norwegian. I watch him trudge back to the cabin, his shoulders slumped like he’s one of the figures in the drawings. He disappears inside and loneliness settles over me like a tattered cloak.

  I stare at the frigid sky and sigh. I didn’t tell Stig about the books that moved by themselves or the doll twitching, because he probably wouldn’t have believed me. I know he could never fancy me, but I don’t want him to think I’m losing my mind.

  Taking a shuddery breath, I turn to face the tree. Buzzing fills the air, getting louder with each step I take. I hold my arm against my nose, but it doesn’t stop the hideous smell. Mormor died over a week ago and no one has tended to the tree since. She didn’t say what would happen if no one watered it, but it can’t be good.

  I walk around the tree, my boots tripping over gnarled roots. The well is small, three people could join hands and reach around it, but something tells me it’s unfathomably deep. I dip the pail into the water and a raven launches from a branch, its black wings clapping in applause. I watch it fly away, my mind a blizzard of questions. Mormor fed a raven on the porch every day, and swore it was the same bird that came back to her. Maybe it has been watching me.

  A gust of wind shakes the branches and snowmelt drips down my neck, making me shiver. The thought of the wolf stalks my mind. What if Olav didn’t shoot it? What if it’s still out here? I glance around, feeling vulnerable.

  The buzzing is louder now. Something bad is going to happen, I can feel it. Bending almost double, I enter the largest chamber. The hole is bigger than before. Too black and too deep, it gapes like an open mouth jeering at me. The wood around it is scored with deep lines, as if an animal has tried to get inside, or something has clawed its way out. Instinct tells me to throw the water at the hole. Closing my eyes, I picture Mormor: her long blonde hair and her mischievous grin. It gives me the strength I need. The buzzing roar is so loud it hurts. I press my hands to my ears and the pail thuds to the ground. It’s like the hole doesn’t want me to get near.

  Gritting my teeth, I snatch it up and chuck the water at the tree’s roots. It hisses like a fire being put out and there’s a horrible sound, like the drawn-out gasp of a thousand souls taking their final breath. My skin prickles. What would make that noise?

  I rush out and trip on a root, landing head first in snow. Mist snakes around the tree and wraps around my body. I scramble to my feet and two ravens explode from a branch, making my heart lurch. I look for the cabin but the world is falling away.

  Confused, I stumble against the moss-covered trunk. What did Mormor say? Listen with an open heart. Swallowing hard, I press my ear to the tree. Time slows as a steady drumbeat sounds inside. Wood creaks and groans, like something is stirring deep within. I hold my breath and listen. I’ve heard that sound before …

  The bark splits open and green smells invade my nose. I stare in disbelief as a forehead pushes its way out of the tree: a woman’s face with chiselled cheekbones and a sharp, pointed chin. Moss and dirt tumble from her eyelids as she blinks into life.

  Her head snaps towards me with a sickening crack. Unable to move, I watch as a gnarled knot opens into a perfect hole, revealing a pale worm curled inside. Her voice sounds like wind through the dead leaves of a tree. ‘Time is running out, Marta.’

  13

  Stig is throwing a log on the stove when I stagger in through the door. He looks up in surprise as I lurch towards him. My legs tremble so much, I can barely walk.

  ‘Helvete! What happened to you?’

  My breath is quick and shallow. ‘Mormor,’ I croak. ‘Get Mormor.’ And then I remember. I feel so sad and tired I could dissolve into a puddle of my own tears. I slump onto the sofa and close my eyes.

  Stig stands over me. ‘What was it? Did you see the wolf?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. There was a woman – in t
he tree. She said –’

  ‘You’re in shock, Martha. You need to get warm.’ Stig shakes my shoulders, his voice insistent. ‘Come on. You need to get out of those wet things.’

  Groaning, I fumble for the zip of my coat but my fingers are numb and useless. I open my eyes and see him leaning over me. His face is different, or maybe I’m seeing him properly for the first time. He has stubble on his chin, and the crease in his bottom lip seems even deeper, more kissable. My eyes close as I imagine his mouth pressing against mine.

  ‘Wake up, Martha!’

  Stig tugs at my coat, yanking me out of my fantasy. I twist my head to the sofa, feeling ashamed. Of course Stig doesn’t want to kiss me. No boy wants to kiss me. Stig pulls my arm from the sleeve of my coat and tries to haul me up. He’s so close I can feel the heat from his body. Any closer and his jumper will touch me. I can’t bear to know what he thinks of me right now.

  ‘I can do it. No, don’t,’ I wail. ‘Just let me do it. You can’t let your clothes touch me!’

  Stig holds up his hands, a confused look on his face. ‘OK, OK.’

  I clumsily shrug out of my coat, and it slides to the floor with a heavy, wet slap. My neck and chest are oddly clammy, as if there’s something worse than wet fabric clinging to me. The woman in the tree – Mormor said the ability always lies dormant until the Norns wake you to your fate. But I haven’t …

  Suddenly I remember. That’s why I fell! I was in the garden and I heard Mum and Mormor arguing. I climbed the tree because I wanted to eavesdrop, when a face pushed its way out of the bark. The same face I saw just now. That’s what made me lose my grip and fall. Is the face one of them? Can the Norns be real?

  Stig kneels by my feet and gently tugs at my boots, his eyes full of concern. The room dips and sways, making me dizzy.

  ‘I’m going to get you a blanket. While I’m gone, take your trousers off.’

  I tug at my wet jeans but they’re superglued to my legs. Panting with exertion, I eventually manage to wriggle free. Stig reappears holding a colourful crocheted blanket and a pile of my clothes. He glances at my bare legs and swallows, a pained look on his face. He places the sweatshirt and bottoms on the sofa. ‘Here, put these on. I’ll make you a hot drink.’