by Rachel Burge
The way they jump and snatch reminds me of the restless souls I saw at the tree. I scan their black eyes and something shrinks inside me. It’s not hate or rage I see in their faces but desperation. It’s like they’re drowning and I am the rope. I slump against the post and my eyes fill with tears. Why didn’t I do as Hel asked? I should have made sure all the dead got back. I should have given my life rather than abandon them.
Even if I can’t help the dead, maybe I can save the circus from Loki. The floodlights aren’t far away; it wouldn’t take long to run. I glance over my shoulder and there are even more figures than before, all grabbing at me. There’s no way I can get through.
Long minutes pass and I feel myself growing weaker, the cold leeching the life out of me. Everyone is in the big top watching the performance; it could be ages before someone comes this way. I don’t know how long I can last.
I need to call Mum. The last time we spoke she was afraid something was watching her at the tree – but she has to water it, the dead can’t be allowed to escape again. My teeth are chattering and my hands tremble as I pull out my phone. I expect to hear a recording telling me to leave a message, but she answers and her voice brings a sob to my throat.
‘Martha? What’s wrong?’
Pitiful faces crowd closer. The boy with the mangled leg crawls over the snow and reaches out his arm pleadingly. ‘Oh, Mum, I’ve done something terrible. I told you I’d got all the dead back before, but I didn’t. I dropped the rope too soon and they didn’t all make it into the tree . . . and now they’re here at the circus.’
Her voice is sharp with fear. ‘Slow down, I don’t understand. Are you in danger?’
‘I don’t know. I think . . . I think they want me to save them. I wish I could, but I can’t, Mum. I can’t.’
‘Is there somewhere safe you can go? Someone who can help you?’
‘No, I’m on my own. The light is keeping them away, but I’m so cold my feet are starting to go numb. I don’t know how long I have.’
‘Oh, Martha!’ Mum stifles a sob and then shushes me softly like she did when I was a child. I would give anything for her to hold me close and tell me everything will be all right.
‘You have to promise me you’ll water the tree, Mum. The next time you go there, try to listen. Don’t be afraid. If you meet the Norns, you’ll understand everything.’
She sniffs. ‘I promise I’ll try.’
My body sags against the pole. Mum is saying something but my thoughts are unravelling and I can’t follow the thread of her words.
‘Martha? Listen to me. You need to keep talking. You might feel sleepy but you have to stay awake. Tell me, why did you drop the rope?’
I hang my head. ‘Mormor. She was trying to protect me from the draugr. I knew she’d never leave me. I had to make sure she went to the underworld.’
‘You let go of the rope to make sure Mormor would be safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Martha, my darling, you didn’t have time to think! You did what you did out of love. You did your best; you have to trust what was in your heart.’
Compassion spreads in my chest. I realise Mum only hid the truth about my gift and Mormor dying because she wanted to protect me. I’ve tried to understand, and now I do. I know how easy it is to make the wrong decision out of love, because I did it too.
A noise sounds behind me: footsteps on the walkway.
‘Someone’s coming, Mum. I have to go.’
‘I love you, Martha. Phone me when you can.’
‘I love you too.’
I pocket my phone and wipe the ice from my lashes, almost too afraid to hope.
Stig strides through the crowd of dead and I rush forward, shaky with relief. At the same time, a shadowy figure breaks ranks and lunges for me. I drop to the ground and it dissolves in a swirl of black smoke where the light touches it.
Stig’s face is ashen, and his voice wavers with disbelief. ‘You’re afraid of me? I know what you think, but you’re wrong. I didn’t hurt Nina.’
His words unpick a stitch in me and a sudden rush of affection fills my heart. I’ve been afraid to have feelings for him because I didn’t want to get hurt, and then when I thought he killed Nina . . . I shake my head, unable to form the words I need to say. How could I have thought such a thing? How could I have hurt him like that?
‘I’m sorry, Stig. I know.’
He hesitates and I hold out my hand. ‘Please?’
He pulls me to my feet and I catch my breath. ‘It was Ulva. She pushed Nina.’
‘What? No, Ulva wouldn’t do that.’ He shakes his head and takes several steps back, and I have a sudden urge to throw my arms around him, afraid he might leave me.
‘It wasn’t her fault. It was the wolf mask.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The mask did something to her. She wasn’t herself.’
The wind whips Stig’s hair around his face and he pushes it behind his ears. ‘How do you know this?’
‘I touched the catsuit Nina was wearing when she fell. I saw her last memory. I’m so sorry for what I said. I was wrong about you.’
‘You were wrong about me and you’re wrong about Ulva! She loved Nina.’
I look at the dead and a wave of coldness crashes over me. ‘Please, you have to take this to Karl.’ I hold out the carrier bag, which flutters in the wind. Stig raises his eyebrows. ‘What is it?’
‘Nina’s harness. The police were right; she was wearing one. Ulva helped her into it after you left. You need to take it to Karl. It’s evidence.’
‘Evidence? But you said it wasn’t her fault!’
Another shadowy figure lunges at me and I cry out.
Stig spins around. ‘What is it? What’s there?’
I swallow a sob. ‘The dead. They’re all around us.’
He turns and peers into the darkness, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. ‘Why can’t I see them? I saw Nina in the cabin. If I saw her, then why can’t –’
‘Please, Stig, help me get into the light!’
He stares, panic written on his face, and then he takes the bag and nods. I tighten my grip on his arm and his coat buzzes with determination. He gives me a tiny smile and a flicker of warmth catches inside me. ‘Ready?’ he asks.
Before I can answer, he ploughs into the shadowy figures. Cold hands snatch at my coat and tug at my hair, pulling me on every side. I gulp and struggle to breathe. I want to tell him to turn back but I can’t speak. Shadows dart before me, appearing and disappearing. A woman howls in my face, a young boy screams, men shout. I flail with my arms, trying to knock them away, but there’s nothing there.
Something slashes my face and I scream. Stig pulls me onwards and I try to run, but my legs are shaking so much I trip over.
Dozens of icy fingers grab me, their grip stronger than ever, as if they can sense I’m weakening. They’re pulling me down, dragging me to the ground. The dead are swarming all over me. I can feel them on my arms, my legs, my face, ripping my clothes, tearing my hair.
‘Stig!’
A thousand voices cry out, just like when the dead followed the rope into the tree. Dark shadows swirl around Stig’s face. He’s saying something but I can’t hear what.
‘Get me to the light, please!’
A solid hand hauls me up. We run a little way but something tugs at my ankles and I go down. Icy hooks claw and dig at my face. I writhe on the ground and try to pull them off. I open my mouth to scream and cold fingers force their way into my throat. The air freezes in my lungs, my chest so full of ice I can barely breathe. The cold plunges deeper, razor-sharp teeth biting into the flesh of my stomach. They’re inside me.
Wails and moans build to a shriek and I wince and cover my ears.
Pain rinses my mind of thought. I try to shout but my voice has gone.
‘Martha! We’re nearly there!’
He sounds terrified. I want to tell him it’s too late. I don’t have the strength
to fight. I don’t even feel cold any more. I feel nothing.
A strong hand reaches under my arm and pulls me upright. I grit my teeth and Stig drags me along, my feet pounding on the wooden walkway.
He stops and rubs my arms. ‘You’re safe now. You’re safe.’
I blink through blurry lashes and see bright white light. A sob escapes me and I wrap my arms around his neck.
He holds me tight. ‘It’s OK. You’re OK.’ His coat is overflowing with love and worry. I wish I could stay wrapped in his arms. He’s so solid and warm. I pull away and try to speak but my teeth are chattering and it takes a while to get the words out. ‘Please, take the harness to Karl. Tell him to come quickly. Tell him he’s right, the circus is in danger.’
‘No, I’m not leaving you.’
‘I need to find Ulva and make her confess. There isn’t much time.’
‘But you can hardly stand.’
‘I’ll be OK. Please, Stig, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. You need to get Karl. Tell him to come. Now!’
25
FETTERS WILL BURST AND THE WOLF RUN FREE
S
tig races away and I wrap my arms around my sides. I take a few shaky steps and my body slowly begins to thaw, the numbness in my limbs replaced by aching stiffness. I text Mum to say I’m OK, then search for Ulva. Karl will be here soon; I just have to keep her talking until he arrives.
I move to one side as a gaggle of visitors approaches me, bundled up in coats and hats. They’re chattering excitedly, their breath forming tiny white clouds on the night air. Dozens more people spill out from the big top and then head into the smaller tents, or they turn right and congregate around the food vans, where they hand over notes in exchange for steaming trays of noodles and crêpes wrapped in serviettes.
A costumed performer stands outside each tent promising ‘wondrous feats’ and ‘amazing sights’. I glance towards the psychic tent and see Sandrine in her feathered mask, shrilling and flapping her arms. Not that she needs to drum up business; there’s already a long queue. Thinking about Ruth makes me feel bad. I hate letting her down, especially after our conversation in the canteen tent. I shouldn’t have brought up her past like that; it wasn’t fair of me. For a moment I consider going to apologise, but there isn’t time.
A muffled shriek sounds behind me. I turn and see a woman pointing at the sky, her eyes wide. The impossibly tall creature I saw earlier is striding down the path, sending visitors scattering in all directions. More than twice the height of the other performers on stilts, it glows bright red, long tubes of neon snaking around its wicker torso and limbs.
I enter the nearest tent, where dozens of people sit on benches watching a magician. He whips away a cloth to reveal a birdcage with a woman squashed inside, and the audience claps as she climbs out, then flips onto her back and arches her body. She crawls across the stage on her hands and feet with her head hanging down at a disturbing angle, and there is something repulsive about the spider-like way she moves. The crowd cheer her on, their hunger for the weird and extreme almost distasteful. I scan the room, desperately searching, but there’s no sign of Ulva or anyone in a wolf mask.
Outside a crowd is gathered around a tattooed man juggling human skulls. He balances one on top of his bald head and onlookers cheer as he tosses three more into the sky. Further along the walkway a masked Thor brandishes his hammer and flexes his muscles while men slap him on the back and women feel his biceps and pose for a selfie.
A teenage girl screams behind me and my heart pounds as a gang of boys rushes past, the impressions from their clothes exploding in my mind. Everything is colour and noise, a surreal, overwhelming mix of imagery and emotion.
A whoop sounds from the tent opposite. Keen to get off the crowded path, I step inside the doorway and scan the audience for Ulva. Inside are the Chinese girls in ballgowns. The one in the top hat is throwing daggers at the other, who is strapped to a round board. Knives land inches from the girl’s limbs, the final one pinning the roses in her hair. The thrower spins the board and it creaks and clunks as her partner rotates. She walks away and then whips the white-handled knife from her top hat. The audience gasps as she runs the blade across her tongue and then turns around. She’s going to throw it without looking.
A guy in the back row buries his face into the shoulder of the man next to him. One or two others cover their eyes, but most lean forward with an expression of ghoulish curiosity. That’s the thing about the circus: people are excited by the prospect of danger – the thought that the trapeze artist will lose their grip; the knife find its fleshy target. Tonight, joy could turn to tragedy for everyone here. The thought makes me queasy and I step outside and gulp down the icy air.
The site is quieter now that most people have filed into the smaller tents. I head towards the big top hoping to see Stig and Karl, but there’s no sign of them. Two performers wearing furry cat masks rummage through the bins by the food vans. They lick their paws and then bound off and twirl against a man waiting outside a Portaloo, much to the amusement of his beer-sipping friends. Freya whistles for the cats and suddenly the men only have eyes for her. A moment later she has her arm draped over them and is laughing loudly.
Something moves at the edge of my vision and I turn to my left. Dozens of shadowy dead are wandering through the dark caravan field. The thought of their cold grasping hands makes me shudder and I move away – straight into the Norns. They loom over me, taking tiny steps this way and that, and I shrink back.
‘Have you seen Karl? Or Ulva, the girl who plays Fenrir?’ I ask.
The women shuffle closer and peer into my face, their eyes glittering behind their masks. They speak at the same time, their voice like wind through the dead leaves of a tree. ‘The fetters will burst and the wolf run free. Much do I know and more can I see.’
The one with the shears grabs my wrist and I yelp at her icy touch. Her wooden mask frowns and clumps of earth and twig fall away as she points into the distance. ‘O’er the sea from the north there sails a ship with the people of Hel. At the helm stands Loki.’ Her eyes flash pale and bore into me and I pull away. It’s not an actor behind the mask.
‘I don’t understand.’ I shake my head and they mimic my movements in parody. The Norns decide the fate of every being; they know the future. ‘What’s Loki going to do? If you know, you have to tell me. Please.’ One of them cradles her chin in her hands as if she’s weeping. Another raises her arms, palms pushed flat as if to hold up a falling roof. The middle figure opens her arms and the other two women step behind her. Suddenly they scurry off, their stilts tip-tapping on the walkway.
‘Wait, please!’
Drumming sounds to my right and I spin around. Valkyries in the same costume as me march forward brandishing swords and beating animal-skin drums, and my heart thuds with each loud bang. With their fierce makeup and wild hair they make a formidable sight. They yell an ululation and the cold night air shivers. They mean war.
Members of the crew appear and jog in front of them, unravelling long coils of rope and gesturing for visitors to move aside. A few moments later, costumed performers arrive and assemble on the path, their cloaks and costumes flapping wildly in the wind.
I scan their masked faces and see Odin, Tyr and Freya along with a host of other gods, elves and dwarves. Sandrine in her falcon costume is there and so are the ravens, two cats, a boar and two wolves, plus the skeletal horse with eight legs from the hall of mirrors. The jaws of its skull snap open and closed, the person working it presumably hidden beneath its black blanket. There’s no sign of the wolf Fenrir. Where is she?
The drumming continues and more performers join the parade. Thor storms up the path, yelling and waving his hammer, and excited visitors leap out of the way. Loki saunters over wearing a long green coat and a helmet with two upturned horns, a simple green mask over his eyes. He bows and waves to the crowds, who go wild to see him.
The horde of dead follows close behind, shaking th
eir skull poles. Dwarves leapfrog one another and an elf girl whirls her way into the middle of the line and then shimmies under the rope. Hel strides over with her head down and takes up her position near the back, looking none too happy about it.
A whining and crackling noise cuts through the air and I look up and see speakers attached to the floodlights. The ringmaster’s amplified voice booms out: ‘Welcome to Ragnarok, the end of the world and the destruction of the gods!’
I can’t tell where he is at first, and then I see a tiny figure spotlighted on a high metal platform in the field. At his words, the line of performers starts moving. Ruth said there would be a fire show after the parade. If Ulva is part of the procession, that’s where she’ll be headed. The path is heaving with visitors. I grit my teeth and make my way down, trying to ignore the impressions from people’s clothes as I battle through the crowd.
The ringmaster continues, ‘There shall come a winter unlike any the world has seen. Mankind will struggle to survive. It will be a time of axe and blood. Brother will slay brother, father will slay son, and son will slay father. The sons of the monstrous wolf Fenrir will swallow the sun and the moon, plunging the world into darkness and chaos. Yggdrasil, the great tree that holds together the cosmos, will tremble and the world’s mountains collapse!’
I get to the end of the walkway and stop to catch my breath. Floodlights stand around the edges of the field, highlighting the ringmaster’s platform to my left and the Viking ship and ring of skull poles, which now has a bonfire burning at its centre.
Oskar is there in a fluorescent yellow jacket, giving orders to the crew who rush about lighting firebrands. When no one’s looking I hurry down the sloped entrance and duck under the rope, then wedge myself between two big barrels containing water. Before me is a large rectangular area with low fencing to keep back the crowd. I’m guessing that’s where the fire show will be. If I wait here, I should be able to grab Ulva when she appears.