It’s some kind of projection. A brilliant one, I have to admit. I turn to look over my shoulder, in search of the equipment, but I can’t see anything. I’ve seen mediums employ visual tricks before, but nothing like this which begs to reason that Ysulte is onto something. A rundown caravan in the middle of spooksville might not reel in customers, but this? This is bound to sell.
“You really had me,” I breathe. The old woman doesn’t react.
“How do you do it?” I ask, discarding my cover as a customer. My curiosity has got the better of me, no doubt about that. I can’t believe that a woman this old, in a place this… basic… has managed to pull off the best illusion I’ve ever seen in a psychic’s office. I’ve seen illuminated crystal balls, patterns of stars on the walls, even fake lightning, but never anything this elaborate.
The old woman shakes her head at me, looking disappointed.
“So, you don’t remember after all?” she asks.
I frown, and shake my head. “Remember what?”
“They’re not really here.” She says and gestures to the man at her right hand side.
“Yeah, I figured that much out, thanks. I’m just wondering how it is that you…”
Her hand shoots out, gripping mine with unmatched intensity as she focuses her eyes on mine. Searching. Searching. But whatever it is she’s searching for, only she knows.
“They’re from the past,” Ysulte says, her lower lip quivering. Not with fear or with anger, but with something that resembles desperation. For a moment, I forget who she is and what this is and my body prickles with goosebumps. That look in her eyes comes with practice, years and years and years of it, that’s for sure.
I shift my gaze to one of the men standing behind Ysulte for no other reason than to get my nerves back in one piece. What I didn’t expect was to have my calm shatter into a thousand more fragments. The man to Ysulte’s left nods and my heart nearly stops.
They had been standing so still the entire time that I’d been convinced they were just a projected image. Now the men’s heads are turned to look straight at me. It’s a whole other level of impressive technology, and I nearly fall off my stool.
‘From the past?’ I eventually say, still not sure what she’s playing at. Minus the look of the caravan, this whole damn thing screams futuristic.
As I stare at the projections of the men I feel a soft, chilly wind start to caress my neck. When I walked in the caravan had been stiflingly hot from all the candles. Where was the draught coming from?
“They’re from the past,” the old woman repeats, as if she’s expecting me to suddenly understand what she’s talking about. “From the past, but they’re stuck. They’re waiting.”
On impulse, I reach out a hand to touch one of the men, just at the point where his leather breastplate stops and the contours of his well-defined chest muscles start to peep through. My hand goes straight through the illusion - the hologram? - as I knew it would. But I am unnerved to see the way that his chest jerks as if he’s catching his breath, the way his eyes close as if to accept my touch.
“Waiting for what?” I ask. I am unnerved, hypnotized, and a little convinced that I must be dreaming. But I’m also curious above everything else.
“For you,” she says.
I want to laugh. Professional medium 101. Everything is about you, everything is waiting for you, if only you can see it. It’s a way of making your customer feel special, and I have to admit that in that moment it was working. The man - the illusion - that I had just tried to touch seems to be staring into me with what looks like… longing?
“You are their fated one,” the old woman says. “You are the one who will free them from serving a woman to whom they do not belong.”
It’s a trick, I know. I’m supposed to be - what? The woman who wants to steal some beautiful men - and yes, I have to admit, they are beautiful men - from their wives? It’s sheer flattery, but even though I know that, I can feel a little stab of her in my body. If only there were men like this waiting for me, longing for me.
“So,” I say, playing along to distract myself from the direction of my thoughts. “If they’re serving the wrong woman, who’s the wrong woman, then?”
The old lady looks straight at me, and says, “Your sister.”
“I don’t have a sister,” I say. I laugh, but it’s a little bit forced. It’s true - I don’t have a sister in real life, but ever since I can remember I’ve had the dream-sister, the one who I play with in some strange, stony place, the one who won’t let me step into patches of light. The thought of this sister, who exists only in my dreams, always leaves me feel a little unsettled. I shift on my stool. The old woman doesn’t look surprised.
“You have a sister,” she says, simply. “The sister who stole everything from you, including your kingdom.”
At this I laugh - I really laugh. I laugh so hard that I almost forget about the old woman and her piercing blue eyes, about the men dressed like Vikings. I laugh and laugh, and the old woman just continues to sit where she is, staring straight at me.
“Look, I’ll level with you,” I say, once my giggles have subsided. “I’m not really a proper customer. I’m a ‘medium’” - I sketch air quotes around the word with my fingers. “And I thought I’d heard every bit of rubbish that you could say to flatter a customer, but honestly, this takes the crown. No pun intended.” Then I dissolve into laughter again.
The old woman continues to look at me steadily. So do the Viking men projections. And I’d be lying if I said something didn’t shift in my chest at having their eyes on me- real or not. But even then, the laughter doesn’t stop and I have to fight tooth and nail until I eventually I pull myself together. I take a deep breath and the caravan falls back into silence. Somehow the laughter seems to have drained me, and once the sounds stops I feel odd once again, uncomfortable. Colder too. I can feel the chilly breeze on the back of my neck again, even stronger than it was before.
“Listen to me, child,” the old woman says. She’s looking at me so intently that I know beyond all doubt that she believes what she’s saying, and suddenly my laughter seems unkind. “You know it just as well as I do. You don’t belong in this world.”
Something about the way she says the words makes the last of my amusement drain away.
It’s true, of course. I never feel right. I never feel happy. But it’s more than that. It’s as if, sometimes, I’m expecting the world I live in - the world of rentals and Starbucks and half-hour reading slots - to dissolve, and the real world to emerge. Sometimes out of the corner of my eye I think I see people, or places, that touch me directly in the heart, that feel far more real to me than what I’ve always been told is the real world.
But then I try to look closer, and they dissolve again.
Maybe everyone feels that way.
Maybe every girl shown a projection of four appetite pleasing Vikings would laugh at first, then wish with the smallest bit of their soul that these men really did belong to her and her to them. And then finally, she’d fall into another fit of laughter. And once that laughter’s gone and she’s faced with what she was faced with before, confusion is the only thing felt.
I refocus my eyes on Ysulte and take another deep breath to settle the nerves that had fallen out of place.
The old woman can see that she’s got my attention, and nods. Not in a mimicking or cruel way, but as though she’s genuinely satisfied.
“You know this. You know that this place is not your true home. But more than that, my dear…” she reaches out and grasps my hand - tenderly, like a grandmother – “This is not your true time.”
It’s so bizarre what she’s saying that I feel like I can’t stop listening.
“You must have always known,” she says, looking deep into my eyes, deep into my soul, “That you are truly a queen. That your father was a king, that your mother was a queen. That the place you are in right now is not the place that is rightfully yours. That those men,” here, she g
estures to the Vikings, their eyes trained on me, “that they need you.” Her emphasis on the word ‘need’ makes me focus on them even harder. One and then the other, I stare at them. Not just a glance, I really stare and it’s there. Easy to overlook because of their appearance, but it’s there. Something is not quite right. The spark that men the likes of them should have, the rich greediness that nestles deep in the irises of men who look as strong and powerful as them is simply not there. Instead, I see emptiness. And I know, deep down, that this is all make-believe, but for a moment I can’t shake the pang of guilt that roars loud in the dungeons of my stomach.
I shake my head and decide that it’s best to just shut up and listen. Then I can pay up and go home - back to my one-bedroom flat, back to my TV and microwave. Back to reality. And forget.
The old woman gestures around her, to the hologram of the Viking men.
“They all need you so very desperately,” she whispers. “And not just them, but everyone left in your kingdom who is suffering under your sister’s cruel reign. That’s why she had to send you here - to banish you - so that you would not be able to make your true claim to the throne. She was always jealous of you.”
Something about that phrase sticks in my mind, gives me the same chill that I felt when she first mentioned that I had a sister. It’s a kind of recognition. The dream-sister, the one who I know so well by night and who fades as soon as the day comes - is always looking at me with something like resentment in her icy-blue eyes. I’d always figured it was my subconscious trying to tell me something - maybe some kind of self-help spiel about how I’m not really happy with my life. But I’d always sensed, deep down, that it was something more than that.
“You need to come back,” the old woman whispers, grasping my hand tightly. “You need to defeat your sister, and you need to save them,” - she gestures at the Viking men – “You need to save us all.”
“I’m not sure I-” I start to say.
Ysulte’s hand is on mine again, bringing me to pause. “Think deep,” she whispers leaning into my face. Her words almost blend in with the rain that still patters outside. “Think deep, and you will know by instinct how it is that you can reach them. You will know just how to prevent them from bonding with that woman - with your sister - who is on course to destroy the world as we know it. Think deep, my queen. I beg of you!”
The word flashes across my mind, but before I can form it into sound, it disappears again.
I stand up, knees shaking, and leave the caravan. I forget to pay, but the woman doesn’t seem to care. She doesn’t follow me, anyway.
The rain is still falling as I rush away from that little clearing in the woods. I’d like to say I’m walking fast, but really I’m running. To tell the truth, I feel like I’m running for my life.
Okay. So she rattled me.
I don’t get rattled - not ever. My job is to try and make other people feel like something beyond the ordinary is happening, so manufactured fear just never works on me. I’m practically immune to smoke and mirrors. Scary movies don’t scare me - I just sit there and try and figure out how they’ve done the special effects. I kill all my own spiders. I can sleep through any number of creaks and bangs and things going bump in the night.
So why can’t I sleep tonight?
I won’t say I’m scared - not exactly. I just feel wired, like every nerve in my body has pounded a couple of double espressos.
I stare at the ceiling. I’m not even convinced I want to fall asleep. I’m not in the mood for crazy dreams.
I have crazy dreams at the best of times - for as long as I can remember. They’re always playing dreams, dreams where there’s a golden-haired girl running next to me who I know by instinct - the way you always have an instinct in dreams - is my sister. And there’s always a word… the same word.
The word is ringing in my ears tonight. Somehow it seems paired with the Viking men.
I’ve never known exactly what the word is. I don’t know how it’s spelled. Sometimes when I’m doodling on a piece of paper, thinking about nothing in particular, the word somehow slips out of me. I’ve written it over and over. When I can’t figure out what a piece of graffiti says then the shapes always form themselves into that same word. The word is always there. Not always in the foreground, but it’s always there. Which doesn’t necessarily mean that Ysulte is right, it just means that I’m crazy. See, there are logical explanations for illogical things. If something doesn’t fit into the scope of reality as we know it, then it’s crazy. Those who believe in the things that, again, don’t fit into the scope of reality as we know it, are crazy. Perfectly solid explanation. It was bound to happen- a psychic getting psyched. I went there to put on a show, play pretend. Instead, I became the monkey in a cage.
I try to think of anything - anything but the shot of pure adrenaline that flooded through my veins the moment the Viking hologram guy turned to look at me. I try to think about anything that has to potential to distract from the pull I feel towards them. This nagging, nail against a chalkboard feeling that they really were more than just a video projection.
And then I close my eyes.
In my dreams, the golden-haired sister is there again. Sometimes she smiles and holds out her hands. Sometimes she laughs, and it’s a cruel laugh, like she’s won a game that I didn’t even realize I was playing.
I wake, drenched in sweat. The word is on my lips, just for a second.
Dróttning.
Then it fades away again, no matter how hard I try to claw it back. I close my eyes and see the Viking men, but I can’t read their faces.
***
The next days are all the same as usual.
I wake up with the word on my lips. Then layer skepticism on top of the word until I can’t hear it any more. I use all my daily rituals to remind myself of what normality feels like.
I get coffee. When they call out the name written on the paper coffee cup, I hear that word instead. The handsome Swedish barista that hands me my latte smiles at me and in his steal-blue eyes I see the Viking, just for a second.
I go to work. I tell people what they want to hear. They nod, and sometimes they cry, and when they mumble their thanks it sounds like that word. Dróttning.
I go home. Watch TV. Browse the internet aimlessly. I try to Google the word (doesn’t Google have the answer to every question you could possibly ask?) but I can’t figure out how I should spell it. I try all sorts of combinations. I get adverts for some Czech brand of beer. A small village in Romania. A museum in Copenhagen. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, and click the little cross on the corner of the window, wishing that I could dismiss my thoughts the same way -with a single mouse-click.
***
I go about my day.
I don’t think about the woman.
Honestly.
I go to sleep.
It’s them I dream about, not her.
Honestly.
I wake. Again.
I seem to wake most nights now. That word on my lips and thoughts of them filling my mind. Dreams of them spinning tales of things that never happened. At least not in this life. Dreams of my hair being swept from my face by rough fingers, of my lips being traced by those very fingers. Of kisses almost stolen. Desire left incomplete. And when I wake, I feel the strain of it like a mountain crushing my soul. Like I need them. Which is impossible. Wholly and irrevocably impossible. The only person I’ve ever needed in my entire life is ME.
Shakily I take a sip of water from the glass on my bedside table, hoping that I can wash all thoughts of them away. And another sip, hoping to swallow down that word that seems to want nothing more than to break free.
I lie back. The bubbling shapes of the ceiling wallpaper look like the sea, and they shift like waves, the word whispering out rhythmically.
Dróttning.
I close my eyes.
Dróttning.
I breathe deep.
Dróttning.
I close my eyes
even harder.
Dróttning.
I scream. I scream the word with every atom of my body, not taking pause until my lungs are emptied and I’m gasping for breath. And with each breath the Vikings become clearer and clearer.
I’m cold. So cold that my breath frosts with every exhale. I wrap the duvet around myself, trying to burrow back into the leftover warmth, but it doesn’t seem to touch my marbled skin.
They’re standing in front of me. Just as real as they were the day in the caravan with the old woman, and just as ghostlike. If I believed in ghosts - and I don’t - then this is what my idea of ghosts would be like.
I blink. Hard. I know there’s no clever projection in my bedroom. I know that this can’t just be a visual trick, so it must be a dream.
They’re all staring at me, intently. Four sets of eyes, all differing colours of the sea, from midnight blue to stormy grey. Standing close to me, so close that I could reach out and touch them, so close that they feel like part of myself. The word seems to murmur between them, not spoken exactly, just hanging in the air. Dróttning.
Maybe I should speak to them. After all, if it’s a dream then there’s no reason why they shouldn’t explain themselves.
I open my mouth, but there aren’t any words. It’s as if language isn’t available to me, as if the universe won’t allow me to do anything but stare, silently at these four men, as they stare silently back.
I do the only think I can do - the only little act of free will that’s available to me - and I close my eyes. I close them tighter than I’ve ever closed them before, tight enough to block out the Viking men and the starlight. Tight enough that I almost can’t feel anything else, can’t feel the beat of the hot blood rushing through my veins, can’t feel my dry, gasping breath and my body shaking. I close my eyes so rightly that the world doesn’t exist anymore and my vision’s the black hole, destroying any ghosts or illusions that dare come close.
Finally, when I dare, when I’ve built my courage from the ground up, I open my eyes again.
Viking Queen Page 2