A figure stands by the well: a woman in a cloak, her shoulders hunched with age and her face shaded by a hood. A flurry of snow drifts down but not a single flake settles on her. There is something eerie about the stillness, as if she’s always been here in the gloom, waiting.
Her voice is harsh and cracked. ‘Come.’
Something tugs at me, deep inside, and I stare at my boots as my feet move of their own accord. I shuffle through the snow, my legs trembling, then stop before her.
‘Closer,’ she rasps.
I take another step forward. I’m close enough to touch her cloak if I dared. I raise my eyes and see the wizened face of an old lady. Her skin is wrinkled and her cheeks are sunken red.
She dips her gnarled hand in the well. ‘Look deeply.’
I peer into inky blackness. Pinpoints of light flicker in the water as a constellation of stars explodes under her fingertips. Shapes swirl up from the depths. The ripples subside and a face looms under the water: the doctor from the hospital. The image changes and I see myself bumping into a woman at the airport. The water darkens, and a face as white and smooth as a pebble floats to the surface: Brian from the plane. Questions bubble in my mind, so many I don’t know which to ask first.
The old woman glances over her shoulder, and when she turns back to me, two other women step out from her shadow. I stumble away and nearly fall to the ground. The first wears her hood down, revealing a beautiful heart-shaped face and long black hair. She has the same high cheekbones and pointed chin as the old lady, and the same fierce dark eyes. The second seems younger, a girl around my age, her face partly obscured by her hood. They look like the three women carved into the chest: the Norns.
I clutch my head. How long have the Norns been watching me? I would never have lost my footing and fallen from the tree if I hadn’t seen that face in the bark. Confusion hardens to anger. ‘You made me fall, didn’t you?’
They fix me with a sharp gaze. ‘This is the destiny you chose before birth, but there is always another path.’
My fists clench. I point at my blind eye. ‘I didn’t choose this!’
The girl grips my wrist and her fingers burn like ice. ‘Because your mother did not water the tree, the dead escaped. It is now your destiny to return them. To do that, you must be able to see them – and such power calls for sacrifice.’
I glare at her and she yanks me towards the well. ‘Odin gouged out his eye for one sip of wisdom. He hanged himself until nearly dead in order to discover the runes!’ She dips a hand in the water and I see my reflection – only it’s not me. Both my eyes and mouth are sewn shut. ‘This is what will happen if you don’t see clearly.’
I cry out and pull free from her grasp.
The beautiful Norn touches my shoulder. ‘You have much to learn. Come.’
I stand outside the circle as the Norns take each other’s hands and begin to chant. The sound is like nothing I’ve heard before. At first a sighed whisper, wind stirring the treetops, and then growing and becoming louder, like the thrum of rain on a roof. The chant ebbs and flows, the voices merging to weave a pattern of sound.
As they sing, silver threads leap from their mouths, forming delicate shapes in the air. The chant continues to build – at once beautiful, strange, and haunting – until the strands become ropes. Letting go of one another’s hands, the Norns grab hold of the cords, passing them between themselves again and again, under and over, weaving a shimmering cloth of light. Flashes of silver shoot into the sky, making the surface of the well glimmer.
The chant ends and they turn to face me, holding the cloth between them. Each tiny thread moves and pulsates with light. The girl gestures for me to touch it. I pause, unsure, and then grasp it. A million voices cry out: men, women and children from across time and from all nations – telling me their fears, joys and sorrows.
A rush of emotion electrifies me, surging along my arm and body until my scalp tingles. The threads – they’re souls!
Sparks ignite in my chest. Every nerve ending burns as my mind races and expands. I’m spinning through clouds, flying over forests and mountains, oceans, deserts and cities. Billions of voices speak as images flash before my eyes: blood pulsating through an umbilical cord; a mud hut and a pregnant woman; a guttural scream and the cry of a newborn. The faces of the Norns, weaving energy with their song and pulling the baby’s cry into the tapestry of creation.
Then the hut is gone and I’m in the sky. Below me is a busy city street with hordes of people rushing in every direction. Shimmering silver light spirals around each person, yet at the same time they’re connected in a huge, intricate web of energy.
Understanding explodes in my head. I feel as if I’ve climbed the highest mountain and I’m looking down on all creation. I want to laugh and cry and sing with joy.
The girl raises her arm and metal glints in the half-light. I gasp as she brings her shears down on the cloth. They close with a cruel crunch, sending scraps of material spiralling like burnt ash from a bonfire. I fall to my knees with them, my heart cut in two.
All those lives lost – ended with a single cut of her shears. The old man in Delhi who died in his sleep, surrounded by his family; the teenager in Zambia shot down by soldiers; the mother in Ireland who cuddled her children as she died in a hospital bed. I feel each and every death.
I crawl towards a piece of fabric no bigger than a child’s coat. I want to gather them up and keep them safe. I want to stitch them back together. Kneeling in the snow, I stare at the darkening sky as thousands of scraps swirl and catch on the branches above me. How can such a beautiful shimmering cloth be reduced to this – to blackened scraps?
And then I see Mormor, desperately trying to catch a piece of material from the tree.
‘Mormor, it’s me, Martha!’
My heart aches. I get to my feet and rush to her.
She jumps and snatches for the cloth, even though it’s hopelessly out of her reach. ‘Please, Mormor!’ I reach out but my hand glides straight through her. She turns and her eyes are empty black orbs.
My chest hurts so much I can barely breathe. Each branch of the tree is covered with scraps of material. They sway in the breeze; a million tiny corpses. Suddenly there are hordes of people around Mormor, all of them grasping.
I turn on the Norns. ‘Why have you done this?’
Three voices speak as one. ‘These are the ones who died consumed by regret.’
I look at the pitiful figures. No one should suffer this fate.
‘Why can’t the dead rest in peace?’
The beautiful Norn looks at me, an ocean of kindness in her eyes. ‘The dead should rest with Hel until it is time for them to reincarnate, but no one tended to the tree and now it is rotting. Most of the souls that escaped were drawn to their regrets, hanging on the branches. Some will be trapped here for eternity unless you help them. Your ancestors left the underworld in search of you – they risked being lost forever, because only you can put things right.’
‘Me? But you’re the ones who control fate!’
The young girl steps forward. Her voice is as sharp as her shears. ‘The future is bound by the past. Some things cannot be changed.’
I turn back to the beautiful Norn, but she shakes her head. ‘Skuld is right. Besides, we have no power over the dead, and Hel cannot leave her realm.’
I start to ask another question, but I’m stopped by the strangeness of what I see. The three figures step together to become one. There is one cloak, one hooded face: each countenance transposed on the other two. A single woman walks to the tree and lays her palm against its trunk.
‘Wait! How do I save Mormor?’
Rough bark creeps over her hand like a scaly rash, turning her fingernails to wood. Her hand and arm disappear into the trunk, followed by her leg and torso. The wind groans as she steps into the tree and vanishes, leaving only a chill on the air.
I press my ear to the bark and a raspy voice echoes in my head, ‘Come to the tree.’