by Rachel Burge
The ringmaster strides towards the audience. He wears a red cape and a top hat and carries a silver cane. His eyes are lined with black and there are runes painted on his cheeks. He opens his arms wide. ‘Velkommen! Welcome to the world of myth and mayhem. Our story begins with the All-Father and it ends with him. For he is Ofner, opener, the one who breathed life into the first humans, and he is Svafner, closer, the gatherer of lost souls.’
The ringmaster points his cane to the man on the throne. ‘You may know him as Odin or Wotan, but he has many names.’
A rush goes to my head, making me feel woozy. Odin started my family line with a mortal woman. Impossible as it seems, his blood runs in my veins. Being here, watching part of my own history brought to life, makes me feel humbled and a tiny bit proud.
The hooded figure bangs his walking staff ominously then looks up to reveal a white mask, the left eye painted black. He speaks slowly in a deep voice and a warm thrill of excitement swirls inside me. ‘A single name have I never had since first I walked among men. Wanderer, Wayfarer, One-Eyed, the Hanged One, Grimnir the Masked One am I.’
Tiny lights flicker and explode into life on the tree behind him, starting from the roots and surging up the trunk to spark along its branches. The creatures spin away as the mist subsides and the ringmaster addresses the audience. ‘He has two wolves, Freki and Geri, the ravenous ones.’ Performers wearing wolf masks bound into view and prowl around Odin’s feet. One of them howls and the man sitting next to me claps and cheers.
The ringmaster turns and does a little hop before bounding across the ring. ‘The All-Father too is ravenous. It is not meat he craves, but knowledge. Each morning he sends his two ravens out into the world and each night they return and whisper their findings to him.’
A spotlight highlights the trapeze and I crane my neck upwards. Two performers in feathered costumes, grey beaks fixed over their noses, are poised dangerously high above the tree. The drumbeat gets faster and then one of them launches himself forward and opens his wings. He leaps into nothing and my heart falters. All around me people gasp. For a moment I think he’s going to fall, but he catches hold of a second trapeze with one hand. The audience lets out a collective sigh and I want to look away, but I can’t. I stare wide eyed, mesmerised by the magic of it. And then I remember that Nina fell from the trapeze in this ring. Did she slip while she was training, or did it happen during a show like this?
The ringmaster’s voice booms out. ‘The ravens’ names are Huginn, thought, and Muninn, memory. Odin fears for the return of Huginn, yet more does he fear for Muninn.’
The second performer opens his wings and leaps into empty space. His wrists are caught by the first and I swallow, my mouth dry, as he swings to the other trapeze. The audience gasps and ‘ah’s as the two men take it in turns to somersault through the air.
A light picks out the ringmaster, now seated high on a platform, though I didn’t see him climb the metal rigging. He points at the floor and says, ‘Odin’s wife Frigg sits at her spinning wheel where she spins her magic into being.’ The goddess is new to me and I watch entranced, wanting to drink in every word, as if knowing her story will bring me to some new understanding of myself.
Nine women wearing silver catsuits dance into the ring. Each of them carries a strip of white gauze material, so light it floats on the air. They cartwheel in a circle, their long ribbons flowing out behind them to create a shimmering wheel. I had no idea Odin’s wife was a spinner, just like the mortal woman who started my family line with him. Maybe the two things have always been connected: cloth and magic.
The ringmaster climbs down and continues, ‘Though Frigg knows the fate of all beings, she tells no one.’ The women exit the ring and the lights dim, leaving a single spotlight on the tree. The ringmaster drops to his knees and proffers his arms in worship. ‘Odin, hungry to learn the secrets of fate, knocked upon the door of the Norns, three women who weave destiny in the mighty tree Yggdrasil.’
The sound of howling wind plays and three cloaked figures on stilts emerge from inside the trunk. They have long dark hair and wear masks covered with bits of twig and leaves. I lean closer, awed by the knowledge that the Norns are real and I have met them. When I climbed the tree last summer, it was their features I saw emerge from the bark; it was because of them that I fell and lost the sight in my eye. Later, I saw them as three women – one old, one middle-aged and one young – chanting and weaving silver threads of light, weaving fate. Reading my ancestors’ journals, I realised the Norns always appear to the women in my family before we discover our gift of reading clothes. Meeting them wakes us to our destiny.
I watch with fascination as one of the women totters forward and tilts her head as if surveying the audience. The other two step out from behind her, one to the left and one to the right. They reach out their arms, their fingers splayed wide, hands dancing and twisting and feeling the air. Mirroring each other’s movements, they jerk and bend their bodies like marionettes coming to life.
The lighting changes to a red glow and the wind builds to a scream. The ringmaster announces, ‘When the Norns would not tell him the secrets of fate, Odin hanged himself from the tree.’
Thunder booms and the man on the throne stands up. His powerful voice commands the attention of the room. ‘I know that I hung on that windy tree for nine long nights, wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin, myself to myself.’
The ringmaster gets to his feet and adds, ‘He was almost at the point of death when he looked into the well of wisdom beneath.’
Odin bends his head and intones, ‘Downwards I peered; I took up the runes, screaming I took them.’ He flings his arms wide and lets out a terrifying cry – a long, drawn-out shout of pure pain and passion. Gasps sound around me and a child cries. I glance along the row of faces beside me. Some look mesmerised, others shocked and slightly afraid. A shiver of wonder runs through me to realise that the myths are just stories to these people. Even those who believe in the old gods don’t know the full story: that a weaver woman helped Odin after he cut himself down from the tree and they started a new family line together, women with a magical ability to read clothing, women like me.
A gurgling noise makes me glance over my shoulder. I turn and my blood runs cold. Nina is right behind me. Sitting in a chair and gazing at the ring. Her pale skin is marbled blue and her lips are dried and cracked. I jump up and the couple next to me frown and the people further along the row tut. And then I realise how crazy I must seem, staring at an empty chair.
‘Sorry, I’m . . . I . . .’
I run down the steps. The girl with the feathered mask isn’t there and I tug at the canvas door. Eventually I get it open. I glance behind me and Nina is in the same place, only now she’s standing up, her hands desperately clawing at her neck.
5
A SEAT AT THE TABLE
I
hurry away from the big top then stop and catch my breath. Nina has never got that close to me before. Doors would slam in the cabin and things would fly off shelves, but I never saw her do it. She’s only ever appeared in the distance, looking in through a window or watching as I watered the tree.
I shake my head, angry at myself for getting scared and running away like that. The whole point of being here is to find out what she wants. The way she clutched her throat, it was like she was trying to tell me something. I knew she wanted me to come here. The realisation strengthens my resolve and I take out my phone to check the time. Twenty past one. I decide to go back and watch the end of the performance, then realise where I’m meant to be and my stomach drops.
By the time I get to the psychic tent my heart is racing and my hands are sweaty in my gloves. The sign outside now advertises tarot readings, along with the words: psychic clothes reader – new. English speakers only. The thought of having to work instead of talking to people who knew Nina is frustrating, but I can’t see a way to avoid it. I run my hands over my hair, hoping I look vaguely presentable, and
then step through the open door.
Ruth is inside with her back to me, lighting incense and wafting the smoke.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
She turns around and for a moment I wonder if it’s the same person. There are tiny plaits in her hair and a band of red is painted across her eyes and nose. She wears a long skirt and a white blouse with a brown leather corset over it. An ornate broach with two ravens is pinned on her lapel, the chain hooked to the other side. It reminds me of the jewellery I used to make and I have a sudden pang of homesickness. When our things arrive from London, my jewellery stuff is the first thing I’m going to unpack.
‘Wow, you look amazing,’ I tell her.
‘Ah, go on with you.’
It’s not just Ruth who’s had a makeover; the room looks different too. The oak table is covered with a black cloth and has been moved to one side, along with the armchairs. Shiny gold material hangs to my left, creating a separate area. Ruth pulls the curtains to reveal two armchairs, a table with flickering lanterns and a vintage alarm clock.
‘I’ve set you up in here. Don’t forget to keep an eye on the time. Each reading lasts twenty minutes. Sandrine will take the money on the door and let people in, so you don’t have to worry about that.’ Ruth gestures to take my coat and I shrug out of it, feeling exposed. She hangs it over the back of a chair. ‘Right, I think we’re all set. There’s water under the table. If you need anything just give me a shout. I’m not far away.’
Heat prickles up my neck. She’s so close, she’ll be able to hear everything I say. She’ll know if I clam up or trip over my words. ‘Don’t people want privacy?’ I ask.
Ruth frowns. ‘Once we’re both talking, it’s easy to zone out. Customers will be too busy listening to you to notice anyone else in the room. I’m sure you’ve noticed that yourself at events.’
She gives me a quizzical look and I shift my weight to the other foot. The girl from the big top, who must be Sandrine, pokes her head in the door, still wearing a feathered mask over her eyes. She waves and I smile, grateful for the interruption. Lying always makes me feel uncomfortable. I’ve never worked with the public or done anything like this. It can only be a matter of time until I’m found out. Sandrine takes a compact mirror from her cloak pocket and applies a fresh slick of red lipstick, then blows herself a kiss. ‘Ready when you are. Bonne chance.’
Ruth mouths good luck, then steps away and closes the curtains behind her.
I drop into an armchair and wipe my palms on my jeans. I don’t feel ready for this. I should have asked Ruth more questions. What if I run out of things to say? What if I get people who treat it as a joke, or what if they don’t like what I tell them? Worse, I realise that I don’t actually want to know strangers’ secrets. I’ve spent months trying to avoid touching people’s clothes, not wanting to get close, and now I have to use my gift to give them advice.
I reach under the table for some water and my hands shake as I unscrew the lid. I take several big gulps and nearly choke. Two shiny black shoes stand before me. I look up and see a man with shoulder-length red hair, brushed back from his forehead. A smile edges across his face, and though he’s not conventionally handsome, there is something charmingly attractive about him. He must have come in while I was getting the water, though I don’t know how I didn’t see him.
He points at a chair. ‘May I?’
I cough and splutter, then wipe my chin. ‘Sorry, yes. Please do.’
He wears a long green coat, which he sweeps under him as he sits. ‘Thank you. It’s so nice to be offered a seat at the table. No one wants to force their way inside when they can be extended a proper invitation.’
I smile and try to place his accent. He doesn’t sound English, yet I don’t think he’s Norwegian either. He fixes me with a lopsided grin and I notice his lips are marked with tiny scars. His amber eyes glitter with mischief as he leans forward and searches my face. ‘So how does this work?’ He looks over his shoulder then whispers, ‘Would you like the shirt off my back, or my trousers perhaps?’
Just my luck to get a weirdo as my first client. I glance at the curtain, thankful Ruth is on the other side. I can hear her talking about the Devil card and saying to be wary of false perceptions. He nods in her direction. ‘She’s right, you know. Not everyone is who they appear to be.’
I narrow my eyes, trying to get the measure of him, when something odd happens. At first my brain can’t understand what I am seeing. His appearance shifts. Almost imperceptibly, the way the sea goes light and then dark when a cloud passes overhead. His top lip becomes a little thinner, his eyes a slightly darker shade and set deeper in his skull, his hair a little more receding. Subtle differences that on their own would go unnoticed, but together are impossible to ignore.
I’m so tired I’m imagining things – either that, or the flickering lamplight is playing tricks on me. I drop my gaze and clench my jaw, determined to stay in control. ‘If you can lay your hand on the table, please.’
He smiles and extends his left arm.
I touch his coat sleeve but there’s nothing. It’s blank. Swallowing my panic, I try again. There has to be some image or memory; some kind of impression. I tug at the material with my mind. Nothing.
He laughs and an image pops into my head. He’s standing before a crowd of shadowy faces. At first I think they’re sleeping with their eyes open, but then I realise that they don’t have eyes. He sweeps his hand across them, bathing them in green light, then turns and grasps the head of a sleeping wolf. Green flames flicker around it and the creature howls. There is something nightmarish about it and I pull my hand away.
‘You didn’t hold onto it, did you? You let it go.’
His voice is low and edged with accusation. I glance at his face, realising he was projecting an image for me to catch. A flicker of panic flames inside me. Who is this man? It’s like he’s trying to provoke me or test me. Refusing to be intimidated, I touch his sleeve again. This time I close my eyes and sense shifting sands and waves on a beach, and then I see a net. It’s like he wants to draw people in and catch them. Not necessarily to hurt them, just to tangle them up. It’s a game he plays.
‘I think you like playing tricks on people. You enjoy toying with them, sometimes a little too much.’
He thumps the table and guffaws, then wags a finger at me. ‘You’re good! But then I knew you would be. He wouldn’t have chosen you otherwise.’
‘Who’s chosen me? Oskar, you mean?’
He gets up and steps towards the curtain, then glances back with a twisted grin. ‘This is going to be such fun!’
I stare after him, my pulse racing. When he doesn’t return, my shoulders drop and I let out a sigh. A fly buzzes around my ear – strange in winter – and I knock it away. Something the man said sounded familiar. Not everyone is who they appear to be . . .
I turn the conversation over in my mind but beneath every word is a crawling mass of insects. Nothing feels certain, there are only shifting sands, a sense of not being on steady ground. I frown, wary of letting my imagination run away with me. I guess there are always going to be a few odd customers, especially at a circus. I’m sure he didn’t mean to frighten me. I take a sip of water and the fly buzzes around the room and lands on the bottle. It crawls across the surface and goes inside and I look away. No matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right. There was something chilling about the way the man smiled at me. Why do I have the feeling he knows something I don’t?
6
IT’S NOT THE STIG I KNOW
I
must have read for eight or more people. A few treated it as a joke, but most of them were desperate for advice. After the strange man was a woman with a baby. She handed me her scarf and asked if she could trust her husband. At first I couldn’t get anything, and then I saw an image of her checking his phone. She knew he was having an affair; she was just afraid to confront him. The wool was sodden with pain but there was streng
th there too. I told her what I’d seen and said she’d get through it, whatever happened, and she wept and thanked me.
Next was a man whose grown-up son had committed suicide. I touched his gloves and described the happy memories I had seen – the summers they had spent fixing up a boat and going sailing. He blamed himself but there was nothing he could have done. I held his hand and told him so, realising that he just needed to hear it; he needed someone to say the words out loud.
After that was an elderly lady who had lost everything in a fire, including her cat Charlie Boy. Her husband had died from cancer on the same day a year previously. She grabbed my arm and sobbed. What did it mean, why did it have to happen, had she done something wrong? I tried to comfort her but I didn’t know how. She left shaking her head, and I felt awful, knowing that I’d failed her.
Then there was a man with anorexia, a teenager being bullied, a woman jealous of her sister, and a man in love with his boss. Many of them walked in saying one thing, but their clothes told a different story. It was as if they had pretended to be someone else for so long, wearing a mask of respectability or playing the role of victim, they had lost all sense of themselves. As the session progressed, something unexpected happened. Once I told a customer what I had seen in their clothes, their mask slipped and I saw the real person beneath: vulnerable, hurt, and confused.
Closing my eyes, I think back over their faces. I rub my temples and let out a heavy breath. So much pain and anger, so much fear and regret and love and hope. Such raw fragility. I felt honoured and humbled to have been able to share it with them, but now I feel empty. Like a cloth wrung dry.
‘How are you doing?’
I open my eyes and Ruth is peering around the curtain.
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘You sure? You look a bit tired.’
I nod and do my best to smile. If I’ve managed to offer just one person a little comfort, then feeling drained is worth it. But it’s not that. Something doesn’t feel right. I’m not sure I could explain, even if I tried.