The Crooked Mask

by Rachel Burge

  I shuffle down the bed and check my phone. Still no message from Stig, despite Ruth’s tarot reading, and no missed calls from Mum. I text her asking if she’s OK, then stare at the damp-spotted ceiling. I’m sure she’s been watering the tree. She wouldn’t risk it rotting again, not after what happened last time.

  If only I could go home. As much as I want to go back, I can’t risk Nina following me. Mum was so terrified before, I can’t put her through that again.

  My breathing deepens and a wave of tiredness sweeps over me. A moment later I’m drifting, moving fast over the ground, caught by a sharp gust of wind . . .

  The jester stands before me, holding a bunch of brightly coloured balloons. He lowers his arm and pulls them in front of me. I look, trying to decide which one to choose . . . and then the colour drains and the world becomes grey. One of the balloons rotates in the wind and I see a desperate face inside. And then another face appears – there is a person in each balloon. Mouths open and close in despair, an old woman weeps, a man covers his eyes.

  The jester hands me the rope. He isn’t offering me one balloon; he wants me to take the whole bunch. I shake my head but the faces are so pitiful . . . I hold the rope, somehow knowing that they are my responsibility. Suddenly it slips through my fingers and I watch powerless as the balloons separate and sail up into the sky. I know I’ve done a terrible thing. Something I can’t take back or make right.

  The jester laughs but there’s no mirth in his voice, only bitter accusation. ‘You were meant to hold on, but you let go, didn’t you?’

  9

  TYR LOSES HIS HAND

  I

  wake with a groan, my head littered with the debris of bad dreams. Foul unspeakable things washed up on the shore between sleep and waking, as if a trawler net has dragged through my worst fears and left them raw and bleeding for the gulls to pick. And then I remember the masks. That part wasn’t a nightmare, it was real.

  I check the time on my phone, surprised to see it’s so late. I was awake for most of the night, tossing and turning, but I must have dropped off eventually. There’s still no word from Stig, though I’ve pretty much given up hope, but a message from Mum flashes on the screen.

  Don’t worry about me. When are you coming home? x

  I type a reply. Not sure, soon I hope. Miss you x

  A lump comes to my throat as I realise it’s true. We haven’t always seen eye to eye, but she’s all I have. The only living link to my ancestors, and I owe it to them to make sure we do our duty as they did. Mormor died of old age after a long and mostly happy life, and I hate that her last moments were spent in anguish, knowing she had failed to persuade Mum to water the tree. But I can help put things right.

  My phone pings and pings again. Mum sent several texts during the night, the first at 4 a.m.

  He wears a different face whenever he likes. That’s why I can’t draw him.

  Then another just after 5 a.m.

  The man I’ve been drawing, he’s an unwelcome guest. Don’t let him inside, don’t bring anything of his inside. Rules mean nothing. He scares me, Martha. Please, you have to come home.

  And then a few hours later.

  I’m going to see the doctor today, need something to make me sleep. Reception is better at the harbour. I will call you when I come out x

  My hands shake as I reread the messages. I don’t know what man she’s talking about. What scares me is the idea of her seeing a doctor.

  The last time Mum stayed up all night sketching and painting we were living at home in London. It was before Dad left us. He called the doctor out and she gave Mum medication to stop her hallucinating; she persuaded her that her clothes-reading gift and everything Mormor had told her about the tree and the Norns was a delusion. That the visions of the future she kept painting couldn’t possibly be true. Mum kept my inheritance from me because she couldn’t accept that magic is real. Even now, she struggles to believe. If only she could meet the Norns herself, she would understand. Her gift, along with her duty to water the tree, is her destiny – just as it’s mine.

  If Mum tells this new doctor everything, he’s not going to believe that Yggdrasil is in our garden. He’ll put her on medication like they did before, or hospitalise her. Dad is useless; he’s not going to understand that I need to stay on the island. He’ll try to take me away. Or I’ll be left to water the tree – living in the cabin in the middle of nowhere – alone.

  I dial Mum then take several deep breaths. She always gets agitated when she’s tired; if she hears panic in my voice it will only make things worse. It rings and rings. Eventually her phone beeps for me to leave a message.

  ‘Hi, Mum, it’s me. Are you still going to the doctor’s today? I wouldn’t tell them about the tree or, well . . . anything. They wouldn’t understand and they’ll only ask more questions. Call me when you get this. Love you.’

  I hang up, then bite my thumbnail, wondering if I should call back and leave another message. It’s already gone eleven o’clock, she might be talking to the doctor right now. I shove off the covers and get out of bed, aware I have to start work in a couple of hours. I hate the idea of Mum being upset and having no one to talk to. I can’t leave her for much longer, she needs me. If only I’d found Nina’s gold catsuit last night. If it shows me how she died, I might be able to figure out what really happened to her. I’ll look in the costume trailer again, and if it’s not there I’ll ask Karl.

  I shower and dress, then eat some toast and go out. All around me, fir trees shake and shiver in the wind, their boughs whispering conspiratorially as if they know something I don’t. A sprinkling of snow covers the ground, making the caravans and trucks sparkle. Beyond them the circus tents shine like ice-encrusted jewels. Performers hurry about, and in the distance the first customers wander in through the archway.

  I head to the costume trailer and pause when I see the woman from yesterday come out, her arms laden with clothes. Once she’s gone, I climb the steps and open the door. The smell of mothballs makes me gag. My legs feel weak and I hesitate, and then I clench my fists and remind myself of who I am. I come from a long line of strong, magical women. I’m the descendent of a Norse god.

  Ignoring the watery feeling in my gut, I approach the masks. Hel stares at the ground, her mouth frozen in a grimace. The way she glared at me last night, it was like she wanted to hurt me. I shiver and look across the rows of faces. Not a flicker of movement. Maybe they’re sleeping, or waiting?

  My gaze rests on Odin’s mask. White with a few deeply carved wrinkles, it stops just below the nose rather than covering the whole face. There’s only one opening for an eye, making the wearer partially sighted; the other side has been painted to resemble a black hole. The sides don’t line up right, giving it a slightly crooked appearance.

  I run my fingers over the smooth wood then lift the mask from its nail. The back is covered with soft grey felt. Something about it calls to me and I hold it close to my face. It fits perfectly: the gap for an eye on my right, the solid mask on my blind side. My head starts to move forward, but it’s not me doing it. I gasp and lower my hand. When I raise it again, the same thing happens. A gentle, insistent pull. It’s like the mask is drawing me closer. Like it wants to be worn. The feeling is alarming and yet tantalising at the same time.

  ‘Oskar trenger det antrekket i ettermiddag!’

  I jump at the sound of voices outside. Someone is coming . . . I return the mask and spin around, but whoever it is walks on by. If anyone comes in, they’re going to wonder what I’m doing. I don’t know how long I have; I should hurry.

  I run my gaze over Nina’s rail and then something glints inside a plastic tub. I reach past belts and shoes, but it’s just a chiffon scarf. The material shows me an image of Ulva, the girl who came into the trailer yesterday. She’s in a car with a blonde woman, her mother maybe. I get the sense they’re driving far away from here. Chiffon holds a person’s daydreams so the images it shows are usually s
unlit and gentle, but this one is heavy with desperation. It’s like her dream became a way to survive, something to cling to when there was nothing else.

  I drop the scarf and check the surrounding rails. Maybe the catsuit got put back somewhere else? After half an hour, I stop and rest my hands on my hips. Just because it isn’t in the trailer, doesn’t mean it’s not in the circus somewhere. The woman I saw earlier had clothes over her arm and yesterday she was carrying fabric. If she’s in charge of making the costumes, she might know where to find it.

  I leave the trailer and head in the direction she went. The ticket tent is empty; the show must have already started. Her footprints lead to the rear of the big top, where a doorway is hooked partially open. I put my head inside and smell talcum powder and hairspray. There are ten or so people, some sitting at tables applying their makeup and others dressing in front of standing mirrors. They move swiftly and talk quietly, all seemingly focused on their tasks.

  Eventually I spot the costume woman’s afro hair behind a rack of clothes, where she’s working at a sewing machine. I take a hesitant step inside, expecting someone to challenge me, but no one glances my way. The woman looks busy, but she was friendly when I spoke to her yesterday.

  I walk over. ‘Hi. Ruth sent me to look for something. Is that OK?’

  The sewing machine judders and stops. ‘Damn it.’ She snaps a thread with her teeth and looks up. ‘What? Hmm, yes. Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  There are lots of catsuits on the rails, but none are gold. I start to ask if she’s seen it, when the voice of the ringmaster booms out from behind a canvas wall. ‘The Sly One sired three monstrous children: Hel, half living and half dead; the sea serpent, Jormungand; and the giant wolf, Fenrir. The Norns, who decide the fate of all beings, warned that this terrible brood would destroy the gods.’

  The sound is coming from the other side of a curved black screen. I’m well acquainted with Hel, but I’ve never heard of the Sly One or the other creatures the ringmaster mentioned. I glance over my shoulder. No one is looking.

  Intrigued to learn more about Hel and her family, I edge along the wall then peek through a narrow opening. The spotlights momentarily blind me and I blink against the glare. The ring looks much bigger from down here, the trapeze higher and more forbidding. The huge tree has gone. In its place is a long strip of white material hanging from the centre of the ceiling.

  I watch the ringmaster’s back as he approaches the sea of faces before him. ‘Odin cast Hel down to the underworld. The sea serpent he threw into the ocean of men. But Fenrir was different, for the Norns had foretold that he would devour Odin at Ragnarok. The wolf was so dangerous it was decided he should be raised in Asgard under the watchful eye of the gods.’

  A performer wearing a long fur cloak and a ferocious-looking wolf mask rushes towards the audience and snarls. I’m not surprised when a child screams; the mask’s huge snout looks frighteningly real.

  Someone coughs behind me. Startled, I turn and see a burly man dressed for battle, a rune in the shape of an arrow painted on his cheek. That’s one of the worst things about being blind in one eye; people can sneak up on you. Mumbling an apology, I move out of his way and he bounds onto the stage.

  The ringmaster continues, ‘None of the gods dared go near the monstrous wolf, except for Tyr, god of truth and justice.’ The man takes a bow and the ringmaster adds, ‘Fenrir grew bigger and more powerful by the day. Fearful, the gods attempted to bind him. They told the wolf the chains were a test of his might and cheered when he broke free.’

  I know I should be looking for Nina’s catsuit, but there’s something so mesmerising about the lights and actors. Seeing the myths brought to life, realising that the gods are real, fills me with awe. The more I know about their stories, the more I feel I know about myself. But it’s not just that. The performance has a magic all of its own. The masked actors are brimming with so much energy that in this moment it feels as if they’re more than human.

  ‘Dismayed at the creature’s strength, the gods asked the dwarves to forge a chain that would be unbreakable.’ At the ringmaster’s words, a male acrobat tumbles down the silk rope, the material twisting and turning around his body, before he drops and lands with a bow. Another man follows him, and another, all wearing leather tunics and belts.

  The acrobats take it in turns to jump over one another, leapfrogging faster and higher. One of them clambers onto the other’s shoulders and pulls up the third. They raise their arms, encouraging people to clap as they march around the ring. After a few moments they drop down and then stand in a circle with their backs to the audience. The lighting changes, bathing them in a flickering orange glow, and they swing their arms in time to the sound of metal being struck in a forge.

  The ringmaster raises his voice. ‘This the dwarves did, using five things that don’t exist and against which it is therefore useless to struggle: the sound of a cat’s footsteps, the beard of a woman, the roots of mountains, the breath of a fish and the spittle of a bird.’

  The dwarves lift up an invisible chain and the ringmaster tells the audience, ‘Gleipnir, or Open, was its name.’ He points his cane at the wolf and a single green spotlight comes on. ‘When the gods tried to lay the curiously light chain on him, Fenrir sensed a trick. Before he would allow himself to be bound, he demanded that one of the gods put their hand in his jaws as an act of good faith. No one agreed, knowing it would mean the loss of a hand. And then one god came forward . . . Yes, the noble Tyr!’

  The actor steps up and extends his arm. At the same time, the dwarves lower the chain onto Fenrir. The wolf writhes then throws back its head as a sound of howling plays.

  The ringmaster raises his cane. ‘Unable to break free, the wolf bit down!’

  Tyr shouts and something thuds and bounces across the ring. Cries and whoops go up from the audience as the ringmaster bends to the floor. I move to get a better view, and then I see what he’s holding. It’s the severed arm from the trailer.

  I wonder why the god of truth was the one to deceive Fenrir? I suppose the wolf trusted him above all others. Perhaps Tyr felt guilty about lying, and that’s why he willingly sacrificed his hand. Even though the lie was a noble one, done to protect the gods, he knew it was wrong.

  The wolf charges towards me. Realising this part of the show must be over, I hurry into the changing area and stand to one side as performers enter and throw off their costumes. The actor playing Fenrir yanks down the mask. It’s Ulva. Of course, I saw her holding the wolf’s head the day I arrived. She takes a gulp of air and her eyes burn with ferocity as she strides across the room, the creature’s furry snout hanging grotesque around her slim neck. I think about saying hello, but she disappears into the changing area.

  Instead I head over to the seamstress. She has her head bent, focused on her work, and I cough, hoping she might look up. She doesn’t.

  ‘Hi, sorry . . . me again. I wondered if you’d seen a gold catsuit anywhere?’

  She frowns. ‘Look, I’m kind of busy right now. Did Ruth say why she wanted it?’

  I mumble a reply just as Karl enters the tent. If I can get him talking, maybe I can ask him if he has Nina’s catsuit. He walks over, a tiny figure in his oversized duffle coat, and snatches the green material from the sewing machine. The seamstress jumps up. ‘What are you doing? Oskar wants that for tomorrow’s dress rehearsal!’

  Karl huffs. ‘We’ve never had an actor play the Sly One and we’re not starting now.’ He walks off and she shakes her head. ‘Afraid of change, that’s what he is. The performers are sick of doing the same routines. Ulva’s been here since she was a child and she’s only ever been a wolf. It’s ridiculous!’

  ‘Who’s the Sly One?’ I ask.

  She grabs some green fabric from a plastic tub behind her. ‘Loki, but Karl won’t let anyone say his name.’ I wish I had read the myths growing up. All I know is what Ruth told me, about him causing the death of Baldur, and his three mo
nstrous children that the ringmaster just mentioned.

  ‘Why doesn’t Karl want anyone to play him or say his name?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Who knows? Anyone would think the gods were real, the way he carries on.’

  I nod sympathetically and say a hasty goodbye. Maybe Karl isn’t as crazy as everyone thinks.

  For an older person he walks surprisingly quickly, despite the limp. I hurry after him, aware I have to start work in the psychic tent in a few minutes. By the time I catch up with him, he’s almost at the hall of mirrors.

  ‘Karl! Wait, I need to talk to you.’

  He turns and there’s a weary look in his eye, like a wounded general who knows the enemy could reappear at any time.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  I hesitate, realising how strange it will sound if I ask him what he did with Nina’s belongings. Instead I find myself pointing at the material in his hand. ‘The costume – why don’t you want the seamstress to make it?’

  The furrow in his brow deepens. ‘When did you start working here? Yesterday, wasn’t it?’

  He makes it sound like an accusation. I hold his gaze and force a smile. ‘I just want to understand.’

  He turns to leave and I call out, ‘Wait! Please, Karl. I know something strange is happening. I’ve seen things and –’

  ‘You work with Ruth, don’t you?’

  I nod. For a moment I expect him to joke about me being psychic but he doesn’t.

  ‘What have you seen?’

  I swallow hard, unsure how much to tell him. He hasn’t done anything to make me suspicious, but Mum said not to trust anyone.

  ‘There was an old-fashioned clown in one of the smaller tents. Something about him wasn’t right, he was threatening.’

  Karl frowns, the lines on his forehead deepening. ‘He threatened you? What did this man look like?’