The Twisted Tree

by Rachel Burge

  ‘If you’re sure.’ Mum smiles and I wrap my arms around her. Her yellow chiffon scarf crackles with energy. Chiffon holds a person’s daydreams, and an image comes to me now: she’s standing in a large sunlit room, teaching students to paint.

  Mum used to sell her paintings at a major art gallery in London, but she stopped around the time Dad left. I used to love going to her openings; I was so proud of how talented she is. She’s never mentioned wanting to teach, but I think she’d be brilliant at it. A shiver of excitement runs through me. Dad signed over the house to her after the divorce. It must be worth a lot – easily enough to get something out here.

  ‘Mum, there’s an old guest house for sale by the harbour. What about doing it up and running an artists’ retreat? The light there is amazing and so are the views.’

  ‘I don’t know. It would be a lot of work.’

  I point at Stig, who is throwing a log on the fire, but she only frowns in reply. Stig could help do the place up; I know he could. It would be fun to meet new people. Maybe I could take their coats at the door and then use my gift to help them make the right decisions in life, so they don’t die with regrets. The idea of using my gift to help people feels right somehow.

  Mum lowers her voice. ‘It’s too soon, Martha. Besides, you barely know him.’ She sees my face and her voice softens. ‘Look, we’ll talk about it later. We don’t have to decide anything right now.’

  I nod, but I’m already thinking about packing up my things in London. Though I’ll miss Stig, I can’t wait to see Kelly. I won’t mention the walking corpse I beheaded, but I know she’ll want to hear all about my boyfriend.

  Stig is tending the fire, his back to me. He must be able to hear our conversation, so why isn’t he saying anything? Mum pipes up before I can stop her. ‘So what are your plans, Stig?’ I glare at her, my heart in my mouth.

  He turns around and smiles. ‘I need to go to Oslo. Just for a few days. I need to talk to Mum, but then I’m coming back here to look for work.’

  My heart falters. If he goes home, does that mean he will see his ex-girlfriend? What if he mentioned her name because he’s still in love with her? The words slip out before I can stop myself. ‘Will you see Nina?’

  Stig glances anxiously at the window. When he speaks his voice sounds far away. ‘Yes. I need to know if she woke up from the coma.’

  Something drops inside me, like a pebble sinking into a well. ‘But before, you said that she –’

  He forces a smile. ‘I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.’

  Stig walks over and lays a hand on my shoulder, and part of me wants to flinch from his touch. He smiles into my eyes and I feel the brush of his coat sleeve. Anger, hatred and jealousy burn into me, followed by love and kindness. The same emotions I felt before, in the woodshed. I thought it was his dad I was picking up, but what if …

  ‘Martha?’

  Stig looks at me expectantly. How can I doubt him, after all we’ve been through?

  I grab the journals from the table, happy to find an excuse to leave the room. ‘I’m going to put these back.’

  Hugging the books to myself, I watch Stig wander over to the fire. He sits on the floor, then takes out his phone and grins, and I wonder who has messaged him. Or maybe he’s looking at photos. When I turn back, Mum gives me a suspicious look. Ignoring her raised eyebrows, I head to Mormor’s room and shut the door.

  27

  I drop the journals on the bed, then stand at the window. Snowflakes swirl together and flutter to the ground. At first just a few, and then the world is disguised by a veil of white. The snow settles quickly, hiding the past with a fresh layer of white.

  Before, Stig said Nina had woken up from the coma and is fine. Why tell me that if she hadn’t? What else is he lying about? As much as I hate to admit it, Mum is right. I don’t really know him.

  A tap at the door makes me jump. What if it’s Stig? I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything; I don’t want him to think I don’t trust him.

  My voice sounds unsure. ‘Come in.’

  It’s Mum. She closes the door behind her. ‘You OK?’

  I nod, and she sits on the bed and gestures to the pile of journals and material. ‘I take it this lot was in the chest?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  She points to the roll of material. ‘What’s that?’

  I open it out. ‘Our family tree.’

  Her eyes widen as she studies it. ‘The numbers though, they can’t be birthdates. Mormor’s birthday is in April.’

  I glance at her face, wondering how much to tell her. ‘I think it might be when our ancestors met the Norns; when they were first able to read clothing.’

  Mum touches one of the embroidered names and snatches back her hand.

  Excitement rises inside me. ‘Did you feel something?’

  ‘I … I don’t know. It was like someone calling to me through the thread.’

  She seems scared, and I wish she wasn’t. I’d love to be able to share the experience with someone, with her. ‘It’s weird at first, but you get used to it, honestly. Try touching it again. See what else you feel.’

  ‘No.’ She rubs her head, then adds, ‘I thought it was just clothes, not fabric.’

  ‘It is only clothes. It doesn’t happen with ordinary material, but I think …’ I chew my thumbnail. She probably doesn’t want to hear about ghosts; that bit can wait for later. ‘I think our ancestors can speak to us through their work. It’s like they’ve stitched their intent into the fabric and we’re following the thread back to them.’

  Mum looks at me warily. I sit next to her and go to touch her arm, but she flinches. My hurt must be written across my face, because she instantly softens. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.’

  Swallowing my disappointment, I look at the embroidered tree and wish things were easier between us. Mormor always seemed to understand. She knew without words, but then she could read my thoughts and emotions from my clothing. If I had known, I might have felt differently about wanting to hug her. I decide not to take Mum’s reaction personally. ‘Have you noticed there’s a gap under Mormor’s name?’ I ask.

  Mum stands and turns her back to me. I feel stupid suddenly. What was I thinking? That she would give me a sewing lesson and we’d happily stitch our names together, and then add a few flowers and a rainbow?

  Mum heads to the door. ‘Maybe later, OK?’ She turns, as if something has just occurred to her. ‘I know the date … when the Norns first appeared to me, I mean.’ I look at her in surprise, thinking she wouldn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘It was four years ago, on the last day of August. I know because that’s the day your dad phoned and said he wouldn’t be there when we got home to England.’

  Mum takes a deep breath. ‘You know, the worst thing about the divorce is feeling that I’ve failed you.’

  ‘Failed me?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to come from a broken home. I shouldn’t have stuck by him after the first affair, but I thought he’d change after you were born.’

  I never realised Mum felt that way, or that Dad had cheated on her before, though somehow it doesn’t surprise me. I think back on all the birthdays and sports days he wasn’t there for. Though I miss him sometimes, he spent so much time working away. He always had one foot in our life, the other out of it. ‘You’re not responsible for Dad. He’s his own person. I think he’s been seeing Chantelle a lot longer than he admits too.’

  Mum smiles, a look of relief on her face.

  I glance back at the embroidery. The stitching is so impressive. Each tiny knot and twig of the tree perfectly captured.

  Mum sees me looking. ‘I’ll give our ancestors one thing: they were good with a needle and thread.’

  I pick up the wonky heart-shaped cushion I made as a kid. ‘Beats my efforts.’

  Mum grabs the cushion and hits me with it. ‘Who cares? You have other talents.’

  ‘I’m handy wit
h an axe, you mean?’

  Mum laughs, and it reminds me of how she used to be. I’m glad to see her happy.

  ‘So this Stig, you like him?’

  I nod, unsure what to say. I do like him, so much. I want to tell her about the whole Nina thing, but I don’t feel ready. Not when I don’t know what to think myself.

  ‘Well, any boy would be lucky to have you.’

  She opens the door and gives me a big smile, the kind that says everything will be all right.

  Once she’s gone, I walk to the window. Maybe it’s the hypnotic nature of the falling snow, but I find myself staring into space, thinking about everything that’s happened.

  A flash of movement catches my attention. I only caught a glimpse, but it looked like the ghost I saw in the cabin – the girl with short dark hair, wearing a shift dress. I press my palm to the cold glass. It can’t be! And then I remember how I dropped the cord because I wanted to make sure Mormor went back to the underworld. What if I let go too soon?

  I pick up a journal from the bed and flick through it, sure I’ve seen her face before. And then it comes to me. The photo on Stig’s phone: the girl on the trapeze wire. Nina!

  A chasm opens up within me and dark thoughts rush inside.

  When I saw her before, I thought she was glaring accusingly at me, but what if she was looking at Stig? He said he’d been helping her train – maybe he was the one who didn’t do up her harness properly. He was so jumpy when Yrsa knocked on the door; perhaps he is on the run.

  I drop to the bed, my mind whirling. When I touched Stig’s rag of regret, it tried to show me something about Nina, but I didn’t want to see. As soon as Stig opened his eyes, he said her name. What if he saw her ghost; she might be haunting him because she wants revenge.

  Stig’s coat held such anger, but that was his dad, not him. I’m sure Stig wouldn’t hurt anyone. A familiar ache spreads in my chest. I wish Mormor were here. She would know what to do. I can almost hear her voice, urging me to trust my instincts and speak to him. My shoulders drop with relief; my decision is made. Before Stig leaves for Oslo, I will make him tell me the truth. Whatever it is, it’s better to know.

  Determined to put it out of my head, I open the door to Mormor’s wardrobe and smile to see her bunad. It was always special to her. She wore it on her birthday and special occasions, and if I begged enough, she’d put it on just to make me grin.

  I reach for the wooden hanger, careful to avoid touching the material, and lay it out on the bed. There’s a white blouse, over which sits a blue bodice and a full skirt embroidered with colourful flowers. Seeing it fills me with sadness, but thinking about the times she wore it makes me happy too.

  I touch the costume and see a girl with long blonde hair, no older than six, clapping her hands as her grandmother dances under the tree, twirling her long skirt. The girl is me! Joy fills my chest as I see myself through Mormor’s eyes. The love she feels for me is so profound, so perfect.

  I watch in wonder as Mormor puts her shawl around the girl’s shoulders and takes her hands. ‘What do you hear?’ she asks. The girl closes her eyes. She doesn’t see the raven that circles above, then lands on a branch to watch her. Nor does she see the three women that hold hands in a circle. But Mormor does. She sees them like she always does, and it makes her smile.

  The girl opens her eyes and Mormor tells her, ‘The fates have a special purpose for you, my child. Keep listening and one day you shall hear them.’

  I pull my hand away and open my eyes. Mormor said her bunad would be mine one day. Now seems like the right time. I change into the outfit and a feeling of comfort and warmth envelops me, as if Mormor is hugging me through the material. I plait my hair how Mormor used to wear hers, then put a dab of her perfume on my neck.

  I stand and appraise myself in the mirror, turning this way and that, looking at my slim waist in the tight-fitting bodice and feeling the skirt swish around my legs. The only thing missing is my necklace. I feel sad for a moment, but then I realise that I don’t need it; Odin’s power is in my veins, not in a charm – and besides, I can always make another. I smile at myself and a pretty girl smiles back.

  Peering into the chest, I see a single notebook. I pick it up and sit with it on my lap, thinking about all the women with the same gift as me who have written journals, telling their stories for the next generation of women to find.

  Inside the book, the pages are blank. I reach for the pocket of my rucksack and take out a pen. Hel is right – it’s time for me to write my own story.

  THE END

  Choosing names for my characters is one of my favourite jobs as an author. I love researching the meaning behind them and can’t start writing until I find one that feels just right. In case you’re wondering, here’s why I chose the names I did.

  Aslaug is a queen consort in Norse mythology. Derived from Old Norse (prefix áss-, meaning ‘god’, and suffix-laug, meaning ‘betrothed woman’), the regal name seemed a fitting choice for the woman who started such a magical ancestral line.

  Gandalf is a nod to Odin, via The Lord of the Rings. Gandalf the wizard was very much inspired by the Norse god of magic. In a letter dated 1946, Tolkien writes that he thought of Gandalf as an Odinic wanderer – a man who bore a spear or staff and wore a cloak and a wide-brimmed hat. Odin, of course, wore his hat with one side pulled low to disguise his missing eye.

  There are lots more similarities – both figures are carried by a special horse, can understand the language of birds and beasts and are associated with ravens, eagles and wolves. As Martha named Mormor’s dog, the suggestion is that she’s always felt drawn to the fictional wizard/Odin.

  As well as being grey (like Gandalf the Grey and Odin Grey Beard), my Gandalf is brave and loyal and willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for his friends. I’ve always had the feeling he knows a lot more than the average dog, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he was quite magical too.

  Martha is just a name I like; I didn’t choose it consciously. It’s always struck me as sounding fairly humble, and Martha’s journey is about stepping into her power. Interestingly, the Marthas in The Handmaid’s Tale are housemaids – women who wear dull colours and toil in the background. In the Bible, Martha was the sister of Lazarus and known for her obsession with housework. The name means ‘lady’ or ‘mistress of the house’.

  Mormor is Norwegian for grandmother. It translates as ‘mother’s mother’.

  Olav is a fairly common name in Norway, and I wanted an ‘everyman’ feel for the character of Olav. Perhaps it’s because of Olaf in Disney’s Frozen (also set in Norway), but the name makes me think of a friendly face – which is what Olav is for Martha.

  Stig is a Scandinavian name that derives from the word stiga, meaning ‘wanderer’ – an ideal choice for a runaway. I also like the subtle nod to Odin, the ultimate wanderer, who journeys through the worlds carrying a traveller’s staff.

  Yrsa is said to derive from an ancient Norse word for ‘she-bear’. Other sources suggest it comes from the Old Norse feminine name Ýrr, which is derived from the Old Norse œrr, meaning ‘mad, furious, wild’. The character of Yrsa is formidable in every way, so this seemed a perfect choice for her.

  First and foremost, a heartfelt thank you to my writing mentor, Lee Weatherly. A talented author, Lee is also one of the best in the business at assessing other writers’ manuscripts. Luckily for me, she’s also a wonderfully kind human being – the type to take in a puppy abandoned in a foreign country and a stray writer with the dream of one day being published. Without Lee’s expert editorial eye, support and generosity, this book would not exist.

  I must also thank my dear friend Maddy Elruna, a gifted shaman and tarot reader who introduced me to the Norse gods. Her belief, passion and dedication to Hel and the Norns inspired me to write this story and she has been a constant source of encouragement throughout my journey to publication.

  Thank you to the team at Hot Key Books for making me feel so very welcome, and
for the gentle and insightful guidance of my editor Felicity Johnston and the keen eye of copy editor Talya Baker. Thanks to Mathilde Skjerpen Fongen for her translation work in helping to ensure the narrative is authentic as possible, and to Rohan Eason for illustrating the front cover and Cherie Chapman for the book design.

  I’m hugely grateful to my ever-patient agent, Amber Caraveo of Skylark Literary. Genuinely passionate about books, super-sharp and thorough to a fault, I could not ask for better.

  I also owe a debt of gratitude to my very many beta readers (the Goodreads community is amazing!) for reading early versions of this book and my other writing projects. Also my SCBWI critique group and the Lewes Snowdrop Writers – I have learned so much from you.

  A big shout-out to everyone in the village who has shown me support and encouragement – you know who you are!

  A special thank-you to my mum, Leoni, who has read endless drafts of my work over the years and who instilled a love of writing in me in the first place. I love you.

  Finally, thank you to my partner, Andy. You have been a ray of sunshine in my life since you walked into it more than ten years ago. Thank you for believing in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. Like so many things, I couldn’t have done it without you.

  About the Author

  Rachel Burge works as a freelance feature writer and has written for a variety of websites, including BBC Worldwide, Cosmo, and MTV. She lives in East Sussex with her partner, son, and black Labrador Biff. She is fascinated by Norse myth and swears she once saw a ghost.

  Her website is rachelburgewriter.co.uk

  (@RachelABurge)

  (RachelBurge)

  (rachelburgewriter)

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