by Rachel Burge
‘You’ve done great. Why don’t you call it a day?’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Of course. See you for dinner later. Is seven OK?’
‘Thanks.’
I pull on my coat then step outside. After the heaters and cloying incense, the blast of cold air is a welcome shock. The rain has stopped but the sky is pockmarked with grey, smothering what’s left of the sun. I glance at the hall of mirrors opposite and zip my coat higher. Maybe it’s the dark clouds, but the yellow eyes of the wolf seem almost alive, watching over the site with sinister intent. Beneath them, the creature’s gaping doorway of a mouth hangs open like a dare, too black and too empty. Why do I feel like it’s jeering at me?
I turn away and focus on Nina. I need to speak to people if I’m going to find out what really happened to her. I head along the walkway, determined to explore the other tents and find some of the performers. Someone must have been friends with her or have known Stig.
The big top stands to my left. I can’t see it on my blind side but I can hear the billowing canvas and sense its looming presence. At first there are dozens of visitors milling about, but then I follow the walkway around to a smaller tent and suddenly there’s no one. The circus feels different without crowds of people, abandoned almost. I glance over my shoulder, hoping to see someone. There’s a couple with a child holding a green balloon waiting by a food truck. Otherwise, the path is empty.
I turn back and gasp. The Norns are scuttling towards me on stilts, their black cloaks huddled together, their spindly stick legs moving like a spider. Their masks are crudely made and covered with clumps of leaves and twigs as if they’ve just crawled out from the earth.
One of them wears a large pair of rusty shears tied around her middle. She reaches a jerky, hesitant hand towards me and her mask raises its eyebrows. I step back, my heart fluttering. The wood moved, I’m sure of it. The other two women take several tiny steps to either side, their stilts tapping on the walkway, until they’re surrounding me. I look from face to face, trying to understand. For a moment, I think they’re going to say something, but then they point into the distance and scurry off, disappearing around the side of a tent as if they were never there.
I press my hand to my chest and try to compose myself. Watching the Norns in the ring was mesmerising, but coming face to face with them was unnerving. I know they’re only women dressed up, but I don’t like the sense that the actual events of my life are being mirrored around me. It feels unreal, as if I’m in a dream. It’s not the performers parodying the gods that disturbs me, it’s that they’re too convincing. And wooden masks shouldn’t move.
Blowing out a deep breath, I try to forget the encounter and keep walking. The first tent I come to has a chalkboard outside, propped on a wooden chair: Knivkasteren, and underneath, Knife-thrower here today, 3pm-4.30pm. I peer inside and the place is empty apart from the Chinese girls in ballgowns I saw yesterday. The one in the top hat is sitting on a chair, the other girl on her lap. She strokes her partner’s hair and they laugh at some shared joke.
Not wanting to intrude, I wander towards the next tent. There’s no sign but the door is open. Carnival music drifts out, slow and off key. I can’t hear anyone in the tent; maybe the performers have left already. Something about the dark doorway makes me feel cold inside and I pause, unsure whether to go in, when I notice someone in the distance.
A woman with afro hair is coming out of a trailer. She wears a big pink puffer jacket and carries a pile of costumes and fabric. I smile, relieved to see someone, and step down off the walkway and head in her direction. She struggles to pull the door closed with one hand, then stumbles down the steps and drops a roll of green material. As she grabs it, another falls.
I hurry over and pick it up. ‘Can I help carry something? I don’t mind.’
She shakes her head, breathing fast. ‘No, no. It’s OK. Just pop it on top.’
I place the fabric on top of the pile under her chin and she mutters a thank-you.
‘I’m Martha. I’m new. I work with Ruth in the psychic tent.’
‘Ah, I thought I hadn’t seen you before. That’s great. Thanks again.’
She walks back towards the big top and I wonder whether to follow her. And then I notice the trailer door is open. If there are costumes in there, one of them might hold a memory of Nina.
I check no one is coming then climb the steps and slip inside. The smell of musty fabric and leather assaults my nostrils along with a more pungent odour of mothballs, reminding me of Mum’s chest of clothes in the attic in London.
The trailer has two rectangular windows set high in each wall, but my nose tells me they haven’t been opened in a while. Ranged down the centre are rails of clothing and beneath them sit dozens of plastic boxes overflowing with shoes, hats, belts and jewellery. The one nearest to me contains wigs and hairpieces, a long matted ponytail hanging over the side. The far wall is covered by rows and rows of masks.
I wander down the trailer, the floor bouncing slightly under my feet. There are all kinds of costumes: opulent velvet gowns, rough-looking linen shirts and leather waistcoats, feathered cloaks and bodysuits covered with sequins. A laminated name label is taped to the leg of each rail. I scan the racks, my pulse quickening when I see the word Nina.
Her rail is stuffed with clothes: leotards and catsuits, a black corset laced with red ribbon, lots of dresses and several coats. This could be my best chance to get to know her, maybe even to read her memories. If I could see the last moments before her accident, I would know what happened. Maybe even figure out why she’s haunting me. I reach for an embroidered pink dress with layers of rainbow netting, but then I’m drawn to a velvet frock coat with gold brocade on the collar. In the end, I rest my fingers on a plain white jacket and close my eyes.
It shows me an image of Stig and my stomach somersaults. He’s outside the big top, his black eyeliner smudged. He yells then jabs an accusing finger in Nina’s face. I’ve never seen him so angry. I pull my hand away and try to make sense of the memory. The jacket must be pure cotton as the material shows facts without emotion. I can see what Nina saw, but I have no idea how she felt. It’s like watching television with the sound turned off. I know what’s happening, but something is missing.
Seeing Stig again is confusing, especially through someone else’s eyes. It was like looking at a different person. Not the boy who juggled fruit to make me laugh when I was feeling sad, or held me close when I was scared. He was so caring and kind to me. The Stig Nina saw is not the Stig I know, but then did I ever really know him? A sudden sadness stabs my heart. Even if we didn’t end up together, I thought we’d always stay in touch.
I glance along the rail of costumes, wanting to feel them but anxious about what they might reveal. I don’t want to believe that Stig is a bad person. He can’t be, I would have known from touching his clothes. But then so much about him doesn’t make sense. Like why did he tell me Nina had recovered from the coma and was fine, only to then say he needed to visit her in hospital to check if she was OK? When I asked him about it, he claimed it was just his way of changing the subject. The first time he mentioned her accident, he said she was fine because he didn’t want to keep talking about it. He made it sound so plausible, like it was nothing and I was overreacting. I tried asking more questions but he got defensive, as if I was accusing him of something. Soon after that he asked Mum for a lift to the ferry. At the harbour everything seemed fine; he kissed me and said he’d be back in a few days. He meant to return to the island and find work so we could be together.
My shoulders slump as a heavy feeling settles over me. I could accept him not wanting to see me again if he called and explained. It’s the not knowing that hurts. Maybe he’s lying in hospital and can’t contact me. Or perhaps he had no intention of coming back.
If there’s one thing I hate more than anything, it’s the feeling that I’ve been lied to. Tricked somehow. And no matter what anyone says, you don’t lie
to people you care about. I try not to dwell on it, but seeing him again brings it all back. If only I could find out what happened to Nina, it might be the missing puzzle piece that completes my picture of him.
The door bangs open, startling me.
‘Hvem er du?’
It’s the girl with the wolf mask I met when I first arrived. Only now she’s wearing jeans and a black bomber jacket. She strides towards me and says something else in Norwegian. Maybe she thinks I’m trying to steal stuff.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .’
Her gaze flicks to my blind eye and a look of recognition crosses her face. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise it was you. So you got the job.’
‘Yes, I’m Martha.’
She smiles. ‘That’s great. I’m Ulva. Welcome to the family.’
She holds out her gloved hand and I reach out to take it. As soon as I touch the fabric, I see an image of her surrounded by a green haze. Her arms are bound and she’s howling and thrashing. It doesn’t feel like a memory. It feels like a nightmare.
My head pounds and I rub my temples.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I just need some fresh air.’
I hurry down the steps and lean against the side of the trailer. She starts to follow me, but then stops when Karl arrives. He calls up, ‘You wanted to see me, Ulva?’
‘Yes, I want to know who’s going to play Baldur now that Nina –’
Karl huffs. ‘No one! We’re going back to the original set.’
‘But Oskar said –’
‘Nei! I’ve told you, we are never doing that myth again, not after that poor girl died!’
Karl walks off and Ulva chases after him.
I start to follow her, excited that she mentioned Nina by name – she seems friendly and maybe she can tell me something about the accident – when a movement catches my attention. I spin around and a little girl, no older than five, races towards me clutching a green balloon. She sees my face and stops in her tracks, her eyes wide with fear. For a moment I want to turn away, ashamed of my weird-looking eye, but I hold her gaze and smile. She’s just a child, she doesn’t know.
Distracted, she lets go of the string and the balloon glides away. I grab hold of it but it slips through my fingers and sails over the ground towards the big top. The girl starts to wail.
‘Don’t cry. It’s OK, we can get it back.’
Her parents rush over and the mother smiles at me, her expression changing to one of suspicion when she sees my face. They usher the girl away and I watch them, feeling guilty. The balloon was in my grasp. I should have held onto it.
I glance back towards Ulva, but she’s already disappeared. The balloon is floating and bumping along the ground; maybe I can still get it. I give chase and nearly catch it, when it blows through the doorway of a tent. It’s the one playing carnival music.
Inside, the place is empty apart from a statue of a jester. It stands on a low plinth at the back, a curtain of dark netting behind it. I blink and wait for my sight to adjust to the dim light then search for the balloon. It’s not exactly a big tent; the balloon has to be in here somewhere. I walk towards the statue. Maybe it blew behind there and got caught on something.
The jester stands with both arms behind its back, staring at the floor. It wears a tattered green tunic and baggy black trousers, and on its head is a grubby green-and-black striped cap with two horns hanging down at the front, each one tipped with a bell. Beneath the cap is a mane of orange hair. There is something terribly lonely about it and I wonder why it’s been left here on its own.
I walk around the statue, keeping my distance. The jester’s face is covered with a thick layer of flaking white paint, a smear of red over its lips. Its nose is dotted with pink and there are green diamonds painted over each eye. Its eyes are the worst thing about it. The glassy eyeballs bulge in its head, as if whoever made it used the wrong size or didn’t set them in deeply enough. A fly buzzes around me then lands on the jester’s face. It crawls over the statue’s cheek and then walks across its eyeball, and my stomach turns.
Rasping sounds. Faint at first and then louder, coming from behind the statue. I lean forward, my face next to the jester’s, and peer into the gloom. The balloon is on the ground; the string caught on the netting. I smile and reach for it when the statue blinks. I yelp and leap back, my heart banging in my chest.
The jester lifts its head with a tinkling of bells and looks at me. The paint around its mouth flakes as it speaks, its voice a gruff whisper. ‘You let go of it, didn’t you?’
Panic floods my body. I stare, unable to move. The jester grins, revealing two rows of uneven yellow teeth, his red lips pulled back too wide and too thin. I turn and race for the door, and he laughs and calls after me, ‘Don’t you want to play?’
7
BALDUR DREAMS OF HIS DEATH
I
still feel queasy as I walk to Ruth’s caravan two hours later. I tried to rest, but every time I closed my eyes I saw an image of the jester. I tell myself it was just one of those living statue things, a man in a costume, but I can’t get his grinning face out of my mind. Something about him was disturbingly familiar, and the way he spoke to me, it was like he knew me. The more I think about it, the more uneasy I feel, my thoughts a poisonous drip in a cave so vast it could swallow me whole if I let it.
I stand outside Ruth’s then quickly check my phone. I left Mum a message hoping she might have some clue as to what’s happening, but there’s no reply. I’m sure she’s fine and has watered the tree. The alternative is too awful to think about. Straightening my shoulders, I knock on the door and force myself to smile. One way or another, I’m going to find a way to ask Ruth about Nina.
The door opens and steam billows out. ‘Martha! Perfect timing!’ Ruth wipes her forehead and beckons me inside. ‘Make yourself comfortable, dinner won’t be long.’ The caravan is bigger than mine, though still old and tatty. It has the same benches and pull-down table at the front, laid for dinner, and two sofas facing each other down the sides. Unlike mine, there’s a door at the back, so I’m guessing she has a separate bedroom.
The extractor fan rumbles noisily and Ruth raises her voice to be heard. ‘The canteen food isn’t bad, but I miss cooking. It’s chicken and roast potatoes. Hope that’s OK.’
‘That’s great, thanks.’
She waves a tea towel at the steaming oven like she’s trying to tame a dragon, and I sit down and glance around the room. There’s greenery everywhere: ivy trailing down from shelves, shiny-leafed yuccas and rows of cactuses in pots. Crystals clutter the window ledges and the floor is piled high with books. Even the sofas are overflowing with balls of wool and knitting needles, not to mention clothes and magazines, so that there’s barely any room to sit.
Ruth places a jug of water before me then opens a bottle of wine. ‘Thank God today’s over. I thought it would never end. You were great by the way.’ I smile, relieved to know she thinks I did well. She offers me some wine but I shake my head. After a few minutes she lays two plates of food on the table and the smell of rosemary makes my stomach rumble. Just being in the warm, surrounded by her things, makes me feel a little better.
‘Thanks for this, Ruth.’
‘No problem. Sorry about the noise – the fan will go off soon. So how did you find it today?’
The psychic tent feels like a distant memory, even though it was only a few hours ago. I do my best to sound positive. ‘Good, thanks. I think I helped most people. There was one lady . . . she was upset about her husband and cat dying. I tried to comfort her but I think I said the wrong thing and made it worse.’
Ruth picks up a ball of wool and a half-made shawl from the bench. ‘You know, in Ireland it’s said that you leave a bit of your soul trapped in everything you crochet. You’re meant to work in a hidden mistake so that your soul can escape.’ She chucks the wool onto the sofa and sits down heavily. ‘What feels like a mistake at the time doesn’
t always turn out that way. The lady might look back on your words and feel differently later.’ She sees the look of doubt on my face and laughs. ‘It will get easier, I promise.’
Ruth pours herself some wine then raises her glass. ‘Here’s to your new job.’ I lift my water and smile, but the thought of having to work in the psychic tent tomorrow doesn’t exactly fill me with joy. I don’t have time to give readings, I need to speak to people if I’m going to find out anything.
Once we’ve finished eating, she goes to a shelf covered with a black cloth. On it are two candles, a metal dish with incense, and what looks like a small cloth figure wrapped in green thread. Arranged around the edge are sprigs of mistletoe and greenery with red berries.
She grabs a nearby pack of tarot cards. ‘Want me to read for you?’
I shrug, unsure that I want to hear my future, even if it’s possible. Ruth looks at me hopefully. ‘I can do a general reading, or you can ask a question if you like?’
There are lots of things I want to know – like why is Nina haunting me, where is Stig, and what’s happening in this weird place, but I doubt a pack of cards will give me the answers. Ruth looks disappointed. Not wanting to appear rude, I smile and say, ‘A general reading is fine, thanks.’
‘Grand.’ She closes her eyes then shuffles the pack and places it on the table. With her left hand she cuts the deck into three and then reassembles it. The first card she pulls has a red heart with three swords buried in it. The second shows a tower being struck by lightning, and the third has a picture of a man and woman kissing.
‘There’s someone you’re confused about, a boy.’
I sip my drink, wary of giving her anything to go on. She points at the middle card. ‘Something he did made you question what you thought you knew about him.’ Under the couple are the words The Lovers. She glances at the card at the bottom of the pack. ‘You’re going to be faced with a difficult decision. He’s coming back.’