by Rachel Burge
Behind them is a man on stilts wearing a huge raven’s head with a grey beak over his nose. A plume of blue-black feathers adorns his chest and thighs, and his arms and lower legs are covered with thin scaly grey material, with claws at the end of his fingers and toes. The bird-man twitches its head in my direction as it totters by and I see that its eyes are overlaid with orange film, a black dot at the centre. The effect is so realistic it’s disturbing.
‘What do you do?’ asks Ruth.
‘Sorry?’
‘What kind of psychic are you? Tarot, palmistry, objects – what do you read?’
The man in the bird costume opens his arms and two huge feathered wings unfurl on the air. I pull my gaze back to the woman.
‘I read objects . . . clothes.’
‘Never heard of that before.’
The drumming is louder now, two soft beats and then a stronger one, getting faster. The raven moves his feet to the rhythm, twisting his body and lifting first one wing and then the other above his head. More masked creatures parade into the tent behind him: two wolves, a falcon, a boar and two cats. A girl with pointed ears and braided white hair whirls by in a purple cloak.
Resisting the urge to watch them further, I focus on Ruth. I need to say something that will convince her to give me a chance, and for a moment I consider telling her the truth. That I inherited my gift from an ancient Norse god and a mortal weaver woman who started my family line more than a thousand years ago, and I have the power to read clothing like all the women before me. My cheeks flush just thinking about how crazy I would sound. I wouldn’t believe me, so why should she? Besides, I don’t know anything about her or this place. For all I know, she might not be a genuine psychic and the readings they offer are just a bit of fairground fun.
‘My mum taught me. I used to do psychic shows with her in London.’ I don’t know where the lie comes from, but she looks impressed. I swallow hard, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels.
‘Grand. So you have experience working with the public?’
I nod and she asks, ‘How many years?’
‘Oh, lots. I have lots of experience.’
She purses her lips and I immediately know I’ve said something wrong.
‘We need someone who’s done this work before, sorry.’
She walks away and panic rises inside me. I reach for Ruth’s arm and grasp her shawl, and it shows me a flash of memory. She lived on the streets years ago, and then one day an old lady stopped to talk to her. She gave her a job in her shop and let her sleep in the back. Ruth’s gratitude wells up inside me and brings a lump to my throat. The shawl must be part cashmere. Wool holds emotions, but cashmere makes me feel them like my own. Maybe I can appeal to Ruth’s sense of charity. If she thinks I have nowhere to go, she might look kindly on me, like the lady who helped her.
‘Please. I’ll work for free. I just need somewhere to sleep. Give me a chance and I won’t let you down.’
She tilts her head and her expression softens. ‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘And you’re sure you can’t go home?’ She searches my face and I feel the sting of a tear. I might have lied to her about some things, but not that. I can’t go back to the cabin and risk Nina following me. Mum is doing her best to accept our inheritance but she still struggles to believe that magic flows in our veins; that she sees visions of the future as well as being able to read clothing like me. Her mental health is so fragile, some days it feels like she’s hanging on by a single thread. I can’t let her fall apart. I won’t.
Ruth glances about her. ‘You know we’re leaving Velfjord and going south next week?’ I take a sharp breath and nod. I had no idea they were going to be travelling on so soon. If I don’t want to go with them, I’ll have to find out what Nina wants – and fast. Ruth sighs and I have a horrible feeling she’s going to turn me away. Desperate now, I open my mouth to blurt out what I saw in her shawl, when she smiles. ‘OK. I’m not promising anything, but I’ll give you a try. Come on.’
She marches away and I hurry after her, around the side of the big top and past another two tents. Her long black coat trails out behind her and skims the snow as she walks. With her tall leather boots and her red hair flowing in the wind she could be a Viking warrior.
She stops before a wooden frame as high as a single-storey house, cut into the shape of a wolf’s head. The doorway is the creature’s wide-open mouth, complete with two white fangs fixed overhead, threatening to graze the heads of the tallest visitors. Above the cavernous black mouth is an enormous snarling snout, two yellow eyes, and a pair of ears.
The sight of it makes me feel nervous and I’m glad when Ruth shakes her head. ‘That’s the hall of mirrors. We’re going in here.’ She gestures to the small tent opposite. Propped outside is a blackboard in an antique-looking gold frame. Flowing handwriting announces: ‘Psychic readings here today – Tarot (20 minutes) 250 NOK.’ Below that are some words I can’t read. I see them and my heart sinks.
‘I don’t speak Norwegian.’
Ruth pulls back the canvas door and a waft of incense envelops me. ‘That’s OK. We have artists from all over the world, so it’s easier to do the performances in English. We put it on all our flyers and posters; most of our visitors speak it.’ She gestures for me to go through and I duck under her arm.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Inside is a proper wooden floor painted in black-and-gold checks, a rustic oak table and two red velvet armchairs. Ruth presses a switch on the floor and an elaborate chandelier lights up above our heads. We could be in a swanky city bar, not a tent in a field.
‘Wow, this place is amazing.’
She grins and gestures to a chair, her bracelets jangling. I sit down, feeling at home but oddly exposed too, as if I’ve walked onto a stage set.
‘Sorry it’s chilly. We use heaters, but it’s not worth putting them on just now.’
I look around, taking in the colourful rug, floor cushions and ornate metal lanterns.
‘So then, clothes reading. I’ve heard of watches and jewellery but material is a new one on me. Can it be anything?’
I nod and Ruth takes off her shawl. ‘No rush, take your time.’ She watches me intently and I shift in my seat. I feel awkward demonstrating my gift in front of someone. I remember the day I tried telling Kelly, my best friend at home in London. She said she believed me, but when she hugged me her coat was practically dripping with disbelief. I soon learned to keep it secret.
Now that Mormor, my grandma, is dead, there are only two people in the world who know about my gift: one is Mum and the other is Stig. I think about the letter I left for him at the cabin and worry washes over me. After everything we went through, I can’t believe he would ignore my texts, even if he changed his mind about coming back to the island. Maybe something happened to him?
Ruth coughs and I close my eyes and force my attention back to the thoughts and emotions in the wool. I pull at the strands of memories, searching for an image. There’s a man with sunken cheeks, Ruth’s father maybe? I frown and grasp harder. She had a baby when she was a teenager. She had to leave . . . Shame and guilt wrap around my heart, but they leave as quickly as they came.
I open my eyes and Ruth is looking at me. Heat creeps up my neck and into my face. I rub the shawl between my fingers, determined to make it give up its secrets. Clothes often hold recent events, but important things – moments of profound pain or joy, our deepest hopes and fears, are stained into the material. I know from touching the shawl before that it contains great sorrow, so why can’t I read it now? I focus hard and glimpse the man again. This time I tug at the memory . . . and the strand snaps. There is no emotion, no image. Nothing.
‘So?’ Ruth smiles kindly but I shake my head. My gift has never failed me before. Not once since it started six months ago, after I fell from the tree in my grandma’s garden and lost my sight in one eye. I stare at the shawl in disb
elief. For months I wanted it to stop. I hated being overwhelmed by impressions from people’s clothes, and now . . .
Ruth is waiting. I have to tell her something. I don’t know who the man is, or if he had anything to do with the baby. Not wanting to get it wrong, I say, ‘Years ago a lady showed you a great kindness. She gave you a place to stay and you’ve never forgotten it.’
I bite my thumbnail then glance at her, worried I might have read her shawl wrong before. Her eyes widen. ‘Yes!’ Emotions play across her face: shock, joy, confusion. She blows out a sigh then laughs. ‘Yes, you’re right. And you got that just from touching my shawl?’
My shoulders drop. I haven’t failed. And then my first worry is replaced by another. Perhaps I shouldn’t let her know the truth. If people realise I can tell their secrets, they might be guarded around me; it could make it harder to find out about Nina. ‘I get hunches sometimes, but mainly it’s just saying things and watching to see people’s reactions.’ Ruth doesn’t look convinced.
‘You have kind eyes,’ I continue. ‘And you were willing to give me a chance, so I guessed that someone must have done the same for you once. The rest just came to me.’
She nods. ‘Yes, tarot is a bit like that. I know the meanings of the cards but a lot of it is intuition. Things just pop into my head, but I read people too.’ She pauses then adds. ‘So, be honest with me now, how much experience do you have with the public?’
I don’t like lying, but I have to get the job. I hold her gaze and say, ‘I’ve done five or six psychic events with Mum.’
‘And you saw clients of your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Grand. I will introduce you to the new manager, Oskar. I can offer you a place to stay but it won’t be anything fancy.’
I nod and she stands up. ‘Just to warn you, Oskar can be . . . Well, you’ll see.’
Ruth leads me to a caravan that’s bigger and newer-looking than the rest then tells me to wait outside. I turn my back, not wanting it to seem as if I’m spying on her and Oskar through the window. She speaks quietly and I can only make out a few words, but I can tell she’s persuading him to let me stay on site. He sounds young and speaks with only a slight Norwegian accent.
After a few minutes Ruth opens the caravan door and I climb the metal steps. Oskar is sitting at a table, head bent over a laptop. He’s in his late twenties, with spiky blond hair, and wears square-rimmed glasses that are too big for his face. He holds a banana with one hand and taps at the keyboard with the other. He doesn’t look up, though he must have heard me enter.
Ruth smiles awkwardly. ‘Oskar, this is Martha, who I was telling you about just now.’
He looks me up and down. ‘Wow, what happened to you?’
‘Excuse me?’
He swallows and then jabs what remains of the banana in my direction.
Shocked, I glance at Ruth. She gives me a pained smile, like a mother embarrassed by a toddler but powerless to do anything about it. I’m used to people asking about my eye, but they aren’t usually this blunt. I breathe in slowly and straighten my shoulders. ‘I fell from a tree last summer. The fall severed my ocular nerve.’
‘Climb a lot of trees, do you?’
A tiny huff escapes me. ‘No.’
‘Well, that’s something.’
I think about telling him how the surgeon considered operating, so that my left eye would at least face forward instead of up and to the left, but decided it would be too risky. And then I come to my senses. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.
‘So you’re psychic, are you?’ He grins, and something tells me that whatever I say will be met with ridicule. Before I can reply, Ruth interrupts. ‘Like I say, I’ve tried her out and she’s good.’
Oskar finishes eating and tosses the skin at a bin. It misses and lands on the floor, where it sprawls out like a malformed starfish.
‘Are you going to put her in a veil or something?’ he asks.
My fingers ball into fists. How dare he talk about me like I’m not here?
I raise my voice. ‘Why? Is my face a problem?’
Ruth glares at him and then gives me an apologetic smile. ‘I always wear a costume. Visitors like that kind of thing. I’m sure Oskar didn’t mean anything by it.’
I ignore her and keep my gaze fixed on the idiot in front of me. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’
Oskar pushes his glasses up his nose and peers at me, as if mildly surprised by my audacity. ‘No problem, quite the opposite in fact. The eye thing could play to your advantage. I’m sure Ruth can come up with a good story for the customers.’
He holds my gaze as if daring me to answer, and the words come out before I can stop them. ‘Actually, my blind eye has nothing to do with me being psychic, but it can see the dead.’
He gives me a wary look then laughs. ‘So you have a sense of humour.’
Ruth grabs my arm. ‘Grand. A week’s trial it is.’
She leads me to the door and I jump down the steps, relieved to get away. Once we’re outside, she whispers, ‘Sorry about that. When God was giving out charm that fecker was last in line. I’d give him a slap but the eejit pays my wages. And don’t worry – I’ll see that he pays you. I’m not having you work for free.’
I smile, filled with a sudden fondness for her that surprises me. I hadn’t realised how alone and in need of a friend I was; her kindness means more to me than she knows.
Just then Karl, the old man I saw talking to Ruth earlier, comes limping in our direction. He hurries straight past us without saying a word then climbs the steps to Oskar’s caravan and yells in Norwegian.
We watch through the window as Oskar jumps up and closes his laptop. ‘Please. We speak English here, it’s so much fairer on our international staff.’
‘Staff? They are not staff. They are artists!’ Karl’s voice is clotted with rage, his accent thicker than ever. ‘The seamstress must not make that costume.’ He waves a black book in the air. ‘I told you before we only do the myths in here; never anything else!’
Ruth rolls her eyes as if she’s heard it all before. I want to stay and listen, intrigued by the mention of myths and determined to learn as much about this place as I can, but she drags me away. ‘Come on. I’ll show you to your caravan. It’s near the forest; I hope you like trees.’
3
YOU CAN’T TRUST ANYONE
T
he light is fading fast as we weave our way through the maze of trucks and trailers. A group of performers in white masks comes towards us, twisting their heads to look as they pass by. One of them stares a moment too long, eyes glittering behind an expressionless face, and I find myself shivering. I can’t explain it, but it feels like I’m looking at a creature from another world and not a man in a costume, as if the performer and the mask are one, or the mask is wearing the person instead of the other way around.
Ruth says something about extra rehearsals and points out the canteen tent, but I barely notice. My mind is a whirl of questions. When we were in the cabin, Stig showed me a photo of Nina on his phone and told me she’d fallen from the trapeze. Karl said he’d known something bad was going to happen. If he was talking about her, why did Ruth say he shouldn’t blame himself? Maybe he was at fault.
‘Why was he so angry?’ I ask.
‘Karl?’ she laughs. ‘A few sandwiches short of a picnic, that one.’
I want to ask more, but I don’t like to admit I overheard their conversation earlier. I need to wait until I can bring up the subject without it seeming strange. Ruth will probably be surprised I’ve even heard of Nina. Part of me wishes I’d told her the truth to start with, but then she might have turned me away and not given me the job. I don’t want to tell her I lied. The whole point of working here is for people to get to know me and feel comfortable talking to me, and they aren’t going to do that if they regard me with mistrust.
We trudge through the snow to the edge of the clearing and I pull my coat tig
hter. Dark fir trees tower over us, the tallest among them leaning inwards as if suspicious of the vehicles parked beneath their boughs. Ruth stops before a small dirty caravan half hidden beneath a mass of shivering branches. Greedy vines crisscross its rounded back, from which a pair of grimy windows stares out like hopeless eyes.
She tugs open the dented door and it squeals a rusty complaint. Inside isn’t much better. There’s a tiny sink, an oven, and a few dilapidated cupboards to my left. Facing the kitchen are a couple of small benches with a table fixed to the wall, which I’m guessing you pull down to eat. Beyond them are two sofas which run the length of the room. I don’t know when the caravan was made, but orange and brown must have been in fashion.
I peer around a concertina door and find a toilet and discoloured shower. The air is damp and smells of musty socks. Ruth switches on an electric heater fixed high on the wall then opens a cupboard and tuts at the mouldy food inside.
‘We’ll soon have this place sorted out. Back in a tick.’
I smile and try to hide my disappointment. Ruth said it wouldn’t be much, so it’s not like she didn’t warn me. Once she’s gone I drop onto the lumpy sofa. Dead leaves cluster in the corners of the floor and the ceiling is strung with cobwebs. Perhaps I was wrong to come here. I let out a sigh and remind myself that the sooner I find out what Nina wants, the sooner I can go home.
I check my phone but there’s still nothing from Mum, then open a side pocket of my rucksack and pull out the drawings she did before I left. The first one shows a group of creatures in tattered robes with animal skulls for faces. Each one holds a long pole, decorated with feathers and topped by a ram’s skull. In another picture, men wearing antlers on their heads rise up from a swirl of fog. She’s drawn other, creepier things, and I put them aside, looking for the ones of Stig.
The first drawing shows him by a caravan that looks a lot like this one. In the next, he’s standing outside the big top, but his face is scrubbed out with angry black lines. I think about the night she drew it and suddenly I’m back in the cabin.