I drop the journals on the bed, then stand at the window. Snowflakes swirl together and flutter to the ground. At first just a few, and then the world is disguised by a veil of white. The snow settles quickly, hiding the past with a fresh layer of white.
Before, Stig said Nina had woken up from the coma and is fine. Why tell me that if she hadn’t? What else is he lying about? As much as I hate to admit it, Mum is right. I don’t really know him.
A tap at the door makes me jump. What if it’s Stig? I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything; I don’t want him to think I don’t trust him.
My voice sounds unsure. ‘Come in.’
It’s Mum. She closes the door behind her. ‘You OK?’
I nod, and she sits on the bed and gestures to the pile of journals and material. ‘I take it this lot was in the chest?’
‘Uh-huh.’
She points to the roll of material. ‘What’s that?’
I open it out. ‘Our family tree.’
Her eyes widen as she studies it. ‘The numbers though, they can’t be birthdates. Mormor’s birthday is in April.’
I glance at her face, wondering how much to tell her. ‘I think it might be when our ancestors met the Norns; when they were first able to read clothing.’
Mum touches one of the embroidered names and snatches back her hand.
Excitement rises inside me. ‘Did you feel something?’
‘I … I don’t know. It was like someone calling to me through the thread.’
She seems scared, and I wish she wasn’t. I’d love to be able to share the experience with someone, with her. ‘It’s weird at first, but you get used to it, honestly. Try touching it again. See what else you feel.’
‘No.’ She rubs her head, then adds, ‘I thought it was just clothes, not fabric.’
‘It is only clothes. It doesn’t happen with ordinary material, but I think …’ I chew my thumbnail. She probably doesn’t want to hear about ghosts; that bit can wait for later. ‘I think our ancestors can speak to us through their work. It’s like they’ve stitched their intent into the fabric and we’re following the thread back to them.’
Mum looks at me warily. I sit next to her and go to touch her arm, but she flinches. My hurt must be written across my face, because she instantly softens. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.’
Swallowing my disappointment, I look at the embroidered tree and wish things were easier between us. Mormor always seemed to understand. She knew without words, but then she could read my thoughts and emotions from my clothing. If I had known, I might have felt differently about wanting to hug her. I decide not to take Mum’s reaction personally. ‘Have you noticed there’s a gap under Mormor’s name?’ I ask.
Mum stands and turns her back to me. I feel stupid suddenly. What was I thinking? That she would give me a sewing lesson and we’d happily stitch our names together, and then add a few flowers and a rainbow?
Mum heads to the door. ‘Maybe later, OK?’ She turns, as if something has just occurred to her. ‘I know the date … when the Norns first appeared to me, I mean.’ I look at her in surprise, thinking she wouldn’t want to talk about it.
‘It was four years ago, on the last day of August. I know because that’s the day your dad phoned and said he wouldn’t be there when we got home to England.’
Mum takes a deep breath. ‘You know, the worst thing about the divorce is feeling that I’ve failed you.’
‘Failed me?’
‘I didn’t want you to come from a broken home. I shouldn’t have stuck by him after the first affair, but I thought he’d change after you were born.’
I never realised Mum felt that way, or that Dad had cheated on her before, though somehow it doesn’t surprise me. I think back on all the birthdays and sports days he wasn’t there for. Though I miss him sometimes, he spent so much time working away. He always had one foot in our life, the other out of it. ‘You’re not responsible for Dad. He’s his own person. I think he’s been seeing Chantelle a lot longer than he admits too.’
Mum smiles, a look of relief on her face.
I glance back at the embroidery. The stitching is so impressive. Each tiny knot and twig of the tree perfectly captured.
Mum sees me looking. ‘I’ll give our ancestors one thing: they were good with a needle and thread.’
I pick up the wonky heart-shaped cushion I made as a kid. ‘Beats my efforts.’
Mum grabs the cushion and hits me with it. ‘Who cares? You have other talents.’
‘I’m handy with an axe, you mean?’
Mum laughs, and it reminds me of how she used to be. I’m glad to see her happy.
‘So this Stig, you like him?’
I nod, unsure what to say. I do like him, so much. I want to tell her about the whole Nina thing, but I don’t feel ready. Not when I don’t know what to think myself.
‘Well, any boy would be lucky to have you.’
She opens the door and gives me a big smile, the kind that says everything will be all right.
Once she’s gone, I walk to the window. Maybe it’s the hypnotic nature of the falling snow, but I find myself staring into space, thinking about everything that’s happened.
A flash of movement catches my attention. I only caught a glimpse, but it looked like the ghost I saw in the cabin – the girl with short dark hair, wearing a shift dress. I press my palm to the cold glass. It can’t be! And then I remember how I dropped the cord because I wanted to make sure Mormor went back to the underworld. What if I let go too soon?
I pick up a journal from the bed and flick through it, sure I’ve seen her face before. And then it comes to me. The photo on Stig’s phone: the girl on the trapeze wire. Nina!
A chasm opens up within me and dark thoughts rush inside.
When I saw her before, I thought she was glaring accusingly at me, but what if she was looking at Stig? He said he’d been helping her train – maybe he was the one who didn’t do up her harness properly. He was so jumpy when Yrsa knocked on the door; perhaps he is on the run.
I drop to the bed, my mind whirling. When I touched Stig’s rag of regret, it tried to show me something about Nina, but I didn’t want to see. As soon as Stig opened his eyes, he said her name. What if he saw her ghost; she might be haunting him because she wants revenge.
Stig’s coat held such anger, but that was his dad, not him. I’m sure Stig wouldn’t hurt anyone. A familiar ache spreads in my chest. I wish Mormor were here. She would know what to do. I can almost hear her voice, urging me to trust my instincts and speak to him. My shoulders drop with relief; my decision is made. Before Stig leaves for Oslo, I will make him tell me the truth. Whatever it is, it’s better to know.
Determined to put it out of my head, I open the door to Mormor’s wardrobe and smile to see her bunad. It was always special to her. She wore it on her birthday and special occasions, and if I begged enough, she’d put it on just to make me grin.
I reach for the wooden hanger, careful to avoid touching the material, and lay it out on the bed. There’s a white blouse, over which sits a blue bodice and a full skirt embroidered with colourful flowers. Seeing it fills me with sadness, but thinking about the times she wore it makes me happy too.
I touch the costume and see a girl with long blonde hair, no older than six, clapping her hands as her grandmother dances under the tree, twirling her long skirt. The girl is me! Joy fills my chest as I see myself through Mormor’s eyes. The love she feels for me is so profound, so perfect.
I watch in wonder as Mormor puts her shawl around the girl’s shoulders and takes her hands. ‘What do you hear?’ she asks. The girl closes her eyes. She doesn’t see the raven that circles above, then lands on a branch to watch her. Nor does she see the three women that hold hands in a circle. But Mormor does. She sees them like she always does, and it makes her smile.
The girl opens her eyes and Mormor tells her, ‘The fates have a special purpose for you, my child. Keep listening and one day you shall hear them.’
I pull my hand away and open my eyes. Mormor said her bunad would be mine one day. Now seems like the right time. I change into the outfit and a feeling of comfort and warmth envelops me, as if Mormor is hugging me through the material. I plait my hair how Mormor used to wear hers, then put a dab of her perfume on my neck.
I stand and appraise myself in the mirror, turning this way and that, looking at my slim waist in the tight-fitting bodice and feeling the skirt swish around my legs. The only thing missing is my necklace. I feel sad for a moment, but then I realise that I don’t need it; Odin’s power is in my veins, not in a charm – and besides, I can always make another. I smile at myself and a pretty girl smiles back.
Peering into the chest, I see a single notebook. I pick it up and sit with it on my lap, thinking about all the women with the same gift as me who have written journals, telling their stories for the next generation of women to find.
Inside the book, the pages are blank. I reach for the pocket of my rucksack and take out a pen. Hel is right – it’s time for me to write my own story.
THE END