The Twisted Tree

by Rachel Burge

  As they sing, silver threads leap from their mouths, forming delicate shapes in the air. The chant continues to build – at once beautiful, strange, and haunting – until the strands become ropes. Letting go of one another’s hands, the Norns grab hold of the cords, passing them between themselves again and again, under and over, weaving a shimmering cloth of light. Flashes of silver shoot into the sky, making the surface of the well glimmer.

  The chant ends and they turn to face me, holding the cloth between them. Each tiny thread moves and pulsates with light. The girl gestures for me to touch it. I pause, unsure, and then grasp it. A million voices cry out: men, women and children from across time and from all nations – telling me their fears, joys and sorrows.

  A rush of emotion electrifies me, surging along my arm and body until my scalp tingles. The threads – they’re souls!

  Sparks ignite in my chest. Every nerve ending burns as my mind races and expands. I’m spinning through clouds, flying over forests and mountains, oceans, deserts and cities. Billions of voices speak as images flash before my eyes: blood pulsating through an umbilical cord; a mud hut and a pregnant woman; a guttural scream and the cry of a newborn. The faces of the Norns, weaving energy with their song and pulling the baby’s cry into the tapestry of creation.

  Then the hut is gone and I’m in the sky. Below me is a busy city street with hordes of people rushing in every direction. Shimmering silver light spirals around each person, yet at the same time they’re connected in a huge, intricate web of energy.

  Understanding explodes in my head. I feel as if I’ve climbed the highest mountain and I’m looking down on all creation. I want to laugh and cry and sing with joy.

  The girl raises her arm and metal glints in the half-light. I gasp as she brings her shears down on the cloth. They close with a cruel crunch, sending scraps of material spiralling like burnt ash from a bonfire. I fall to my knees with them, my heart cut in two.

  All those lives lost – ended with a single cut of her shears. The old man in Delhi who died in his sleep, surrounded by his family; the teenager in Zambia shot down by soldiers; the mother in Ireland who cuddled her children as she died in a hospital bed. I feel each and every death.

  I crawl towards a piece of fabric no bigger than a child’s coat. I want to gather them up and keep them safe. I want to stitch them back together. Kneeling in the snow, I stare at the darkening sky as thousands of scraps swirl and catch on the branches above me. How can such a beautiful shimmering cloth be reduced to this – to blackened scraps?

  And then I see Mormor, desperately trying to catch a piece of material from the tree.

  ‘Mormor, it’s me, Martha!’

  My heart aches. I get to my feet and rush to her.

  She jumps and snatches for the cloth, even though it’s hopelessly out of her reach. ‘Please, Mormor!’ I reach out but my hand glides straight through her. She turns and her eyes are empty black orbs.

  My chest hurts so much I can barely breathe. Each branch of the tree is covered with scraps of material. They sway in the breeze; a million tiny corpses. Suddenly there are hordes of people around Mormor, all of them grasping.

  I turn on the Norns. ‘Why have you done this?’

  Three voices speak as one. ‘These are the ones who died consumed by regret.’

  I look at the pitiful figures. No one should suffer this fate.

  ‘Why can’t the dead rest in peace?’

  The beautiful Norn looks at me, an ocean of kindness in her eyes. ‘The dead should rest with Hel until it is time for them to reincarnate, but no one tended to the tree and now it is rotting. Most of the souls that escaped were drawn to their regrets, hanging on the branches. Some will be trapped here for eternity unless you help them. Your ancestors left the underworld in search of you – they risked being lost forever, because only you can put things right.’

  ‘Me? But you’re the ones who control fate!’

  The young girl steps forward. Her voice is as sharp as her shears. ‘The future is bound by the past. Some things cannot be changed.’

  I turn back to the beautiful Norn, but she shakes her head. ‘Skuld is right. Besides, we have no power over the dead, and Hel cannot leave her realm.’

  I start to ask another question, but I’m stopped by the strangeness of what I see. The three figures step together to become one. There is one cloak, one hooded face: each countenance transposed on the other two. A single woman walks to the tree and lays her palm against its trunk.

  ‘Wait! How do I save Mormor?’

  Rough bark creeps over her hand like a scaly rash, turning her fingernails to wood. Her hand and arm disappear into the trunk, followed by her leg and torso. The wind groans as she steps into the tree and vanishes, leaving only a chill on the air.

  I press my ear to the bark and a raspy voice echoes in my head, ‘Come to the tree.’

  20

  I wake confused, caught between sorrow and panic. The dream releases its grip on me and I glance at the window. We made it through the night at least – the creature didn’t come back. Judging from the light creeping under the curtain, it has to be at least eleven o’ clock. And then I remember, and my heart sinks.

  I sit up and rub my neck. Stig is in the kitchen with his back to me, making coffee. The sleeves of his sloppy, oversized jumper are rolled up, showing his strong forearms. Something inside me flickers at the sight of his tight jeans and long hair. I want to put my arms around him and hold him tight. I pull my gaze away, reminding myself of how rejected I felt last night.

  I step into the kitchen and he hands me a cup of coffee. I take it with a small ‘thanks’, then reach past him and open the curtain. Huge white flakes swirl down, as fat as goose feathers. The tree is only just visible through the snow. Its branches are still, as if it’s gathering strength.

  I swallow a mouthful of coffee. ‘About last –’

  Stig speaks at the same time. ‘I’ve been –’

  We look at one another awkwardly. I wrap my fingers around my cup. ‘You first.’

  ‘I wanted to thank you for what you said about Dad, about it not being my fault.’

  An image of the Norn with her shears flashes into my mind. I consider telling Stig about my dream, but then I remember the kiss that didn’t come and how stupid I felt.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say, forcing myself to smile.

  He glances at my face as if he expects me to say something. I finish my coffee and then lay the cup by the sink.

  Stig’s eyes widen as I reach for my coat and shrug into it. ‘You’re not going out there?’

  I grit my teeth and wait for the argument to come.

  ‘Wait a few hours. If your mum isn’t here before it gets dark, then –’

  ‘And if her plane can’t land, or the ferry isn’t running? Or her car gets stuck in the snow?’

  Stig glares at me and I return his stare. ‘I promised to wait until it got light, and I have. But I can’t put if off any more. Mormor is out there – she needs me!’

  Stig grabs the back of a chair and it screeches against the floor. ‘I won’t let you go out there, even if I have to tie you to this chair!’

  My chest flushes with anger. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’

  I stomp towards the door, but he blocks my way with the chair and I fall over it, cursing.

  ‘Please, it’s not safe for you. I can’t let you go!’

  I push myself up, my cheeks hot with embarrassment. ‘Because I’m half blind? I can manage, thanks.’

  ‘You’re not seeing things clearly!’ he yells.

  I point to my left eye. ‘I wonder why?’

  Stig huffs and flaps his arms. ‘All the comments you keep making about your eye. Don’t think I haven’t noticed! I don’t know why you have to make such a big deal of it.’

  I step back, hurt and shocked. ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, your left eye looks weird and you have a scar, but it’s not that interesting!’

  I open my mouth t
hen close it again, too upset to answer. I had hoped that because of the goth thing he might like girls who are extreme-looking. He might like me because I look different.

  His voice softens. ‘Actually, your eye is the least interesting thing about you.’

  I pause, feeling deflated, but also wondering if there might be a compliment in there somewhere. Stig takes advantage of my hesitation and pushes past me. He stands by the front door, barring my way.

  ‘What were you going to say to me just now?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing.’

  He folds his arms across his chest.

  I shove on my boots, then grab my hat and scarf, not looking at him. ‘It can wait.’

  He gently touches the collar of my coat. ‘Please don’t go. Your mum will be here soon. It’s safer inside.’

  I sigh, unable to meet his gaze. I felt so close to him last night. So close I was sure he was going to kiss me. I think about the hordes of people snatching at the tree, all haunted by regret, tormented by the things they wish they’d done differently. I can’t face the thought of him rejecting me again, but if I don’t tell him how I feel, will I always regret it? It was so easy for Skuld to chop away a life with her shears – if the creature is out there, maybe it will be my thread she cuts next.

  Stig strokes my cheek and I put my hand over his, meaning to pull it away. As soon as I touch his skin, my chest tightens. I don’t want to spend my life hiding away, not getting close. Afraid to be hurt.

  Stig swallows hard. ‘I couldn’t bear it if –’

  I stand on tiptoes and kiss him, full on the lips.

  He pulls away like he’s been slapped.

  Anger and shame burn inside me.

  ‘Martha?’

  ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to …’ I splutter. ‘It won’t happen again, OK!’

  Dizzy with hurt, I push past him and reach for the door.

  ‘I like you, Martha. I do! It’s just –’

  ‘You don’t have to explain!’

  Keeping my head down, I slide back the bolt and yank the door open. Wind and snow roar into the cabin. I know what he’s going to say. He likes me, but not in that way.

  Stig grabs my arm. ‘Wait! Don’t go like this.’

  Why can’t he leave me alone? Haven’t I been humiliated enough?

  I shrug him off and stumble into a blizzard. A tear spills from my eye as I jump down the porch steps, my boots sinking in snow. I raise my arm against the vicious spit of ice and gasp as the cold air burns my throat. Anger pumps my legs faster. I trudge around the side of the cabin, tears streaming down my frozen cheeks.

  I pull my gloves from my pockets, but my hands are shaking and I can’t get them on. ‘Stupid idiot!’ I should have put them on before I came out. The snow is coming down so heavily I can only just see the tree. I shove my bare hands into my armpits and lumber towards it.

  ‘Faen! Faen! Faen!’

  Stig’s voice gets louder with each curse. I wipe my face on my sleeve as a black shape half runs, half stumbles towards me. He’s wearing his coat but hasn’t stopped to put on his hat. The snow is whirling thick and fast. I blink and see him, only to lose him again.

  ‘I wanted to kiss you! I’ve never met anyone like you!’

  I turn towards his voice. ‘So why didn’t you then?’

  A cruel wind cuts into my face. My pulse races as I stare about me. Suddenly there is only white. No cabin, no tree, no up or down.

  ‘Stig?’

  The snow is blinding. Gandalf barks in warning, but I can’t see him. I’m somewhere between the tree and the cabin, but I don’t know which is closer. I take a few steps, then stumble. My breath is hard and fast, leaving great plumes on the air.

  ‘Martha!’

  My name comes to me over the wind, and I whip around. Not trusting my sight, I stagger towards Stig’s voice. I see the back of his head and my heart falters. He’s a dozen paces away to my left, walking in the wrong direction.

  I run towards him. ‘Stig!’

  He spins around.

  A dark shape emerges from the snow. A half-human creature.

  I gasp as it strides towards me. Strips of brown leathery skin hang from its skull, and its head is covered with dirty, matted hair.

  I stand, unable to move, the air frozen in my lungs.

  Stig runs towards me from the other side, waving his arms and yelling.

  It’s coming right at me.

  Stig yanks my arm, jolting me out of my trance. ‘Go, Martha!’ He pushes me away, then turns to face the creature. I run, desperately hoping I’m heading for the cabin.

  Gasping for breath, I look back for Stig, but he’s not there. He’s on the ground.

  ‘No!’

  I stare at the thing crouched over Stig’s body. It lifts its head and yellow eyes bulge in its face; its mouth a swollen, red wound.

  My mind splinters into a million pieces. I rush towards Stig, then stop. Maybe he’s just injured … Maybe … Maybe …

  Stig’s arm is bent awkwardly beneath him. I watch as his chest heaves and falls.

  Please, Stig, get up. Just get up. I will him to stand and run. But he doesn’t.

  Red seeps into the snow, too much red.

  Stig’s eyes stare at the sky. His chest stops moving.

  I scream until there’s nothing left.

  The creature twists its head and pure evil stares at me.

  21

  The draugr stands to its full terrifying height. Scraps of leather hang from its emaciated body; a bit of material flaps in the wind, caught on a jagged bone that juts through the rotting skin of its chest. Yellow eyes stare at me through a curtain of snow.

  Stig lies at the creature’s feet, his face tinged blue. Snowflakes settle on his hair and melt into the blood that gushes from the wound in his neck. I watch transfixed as a river of red seeps out of him. Steam rises from his blood, yet he looks so cold.

  The draugr steps towards me and the stench of decay turns my stomach.

  Run. I need to run.

  My heart races, but I can’t move.

  A flash of movement makes me turn my head: a familiar shape bounds through the blizzard. ‘Gandalf!’ He jumps in front of me, hackles raised, lips pulled back to reveal sharp, dangerous teeth. He snaps and snarls with the ferocity of an animal willing to fight to the death.

  The draugr strides towards me. Its filthy hair streams in the wind and blood drips from the claws of its hand, leaving a trail of red in the snow.

  Gandalf’s barks become frenzied. Steam rises from his body and foam drips from his jaws. He dips his front legs, ready to attack, then leaps into the air and sinks his teeth into the creature’s arm. The draugr stumbles, unbalanced, and swings its arm, lifting the dog high off the ground. Gandalf’s jaw is locked, refusing to let go.

  The draugr punches the dog with its other hand and I wince at the brutal blow. ‘Leave him alone!’ I scream. I run towards Gandalf, determined to save him. The draugr throws open its arm and the dog flies through the air and thumps to the ground. He gives a pitiful whimper and is silent. Tears stream down my face. ‘I’m sorry, Gandalf! I’m sorry!’

  Sobbing, I lurch away, arms flailing desperately. The dark shape of the tree shivers ahead, only a dozen paces from me. The Norns – they have to help!

  Something tugs at my boot and I fall head first in the snow. Cursing, I roll onto my back and pull my foot free from a root. Branches sway above me, dark arms warning of danger too late. The tree is so close. If I can just …

  The draugr stands over me and its putrid smell makes me want to heave. Its left cheek has rotted away, leaving a flap of skin. The muscles around its mouth tighten into a parody of a smile.

  I crawl backwards and try to scream, but my voice is a strangled sob.

  My ancestors saved me before; maybe they can again. ‘Karina! Help me, please!’

  The draugr stares at me with lifeless eyes.

  I get to my feet and command myself to breathe. Holding the valknut
charm, I try to remember how I felt when I touched the doll. I dredge up all the power I have in me, through my legs and into my stomach and chest.

  A savage voice that’s not my own rages from inside me. ‘Up, you dead! Rise up and save me!’

  The sky darkens and the wind screams.

  A shape appears on my left. The shimmering outline of a woman: Karina! Her face is set with determination. She charges at the draugr and it swings its arm, making the apparition explode into snow.

  I raise my arm and shield my eyes as another figure rises up. A tiny old woman with long, flowing hair. Gerd runs at the creature and it turns and swings, smashing her likeness to smithereens.

  Another snowy woman rises, and another. The draugr destroys one of my ancestors, only for another to appear. It grunts as it punches its way through them. They’re slowing it down, but it’s not enough.

  I race to the tree and hammer on its trunk. I need the Norns to tell me how to save Mormor and get her back to the underworld. But not Stig! He’s so young – he can’t die! The Norns have to change this.

  A familiar chiselled face appears in the bark and my shout dies in my throat. A leg emerges, followed by a shoulder, until finally the old woman stands before me. Her face is calm and untroubled. Two figures step out from her shadow: the beautiful Norn with her hair flowing in the wind, and the girl, her face partly hidden by her hood.

  Something glints from the folds of Skuld’s cloak. It’s she who cuts the cords, she who decides when a life ends. I point at her shears and yell, ‘You killed Stig! You did this!’

  The girl looks at a scrap of fabric fluttering on a nearby branch and holds out her arm. The cloth whips through the air and flies into her hand. She holds it out to me but I refuse to take it. Stig can’t be dead. He can’t!

  She looks at me with cold eyes. ‘Don’t you want to know?’

  I gaze at the pitiful rag. I want to know everything there is to know about him, but not like this. I want the living, breathing Stig. I want to feel the warmth of his arms around me. I want us to share our secrets in front of the fire.

  She uncurls a finger as if to release the cloth.