Stig hurries down the hill towards the forest. The snowshoes are impossibly heavy – I can’t run. The wooden frames catch on each other and I fall into a snowdrift.
‘Stig, wait!’
I try to get up, but my foot hits my other leg and I thud back down. My heart thumps in my chest. I take a deep breath and am about to yell again when a furry face nudges my neck. Gandalf licks my nose and I cry with relief. Holding onto his body for support, I stand and then stagger down the hill.
Stig is waiting at the edge of the forest. ‘You OK?’
I rush into the trees – ‘Yes. Come on!’ – but it’s so dark I can’t find the way. I grab the torch from my pocket and my fingers fumble with the button. Stig bites off one of his gloves and switches it on for me. I sweep with the beam, but all I see are densely packed tree trunks. At last I find the path.
‘This way!’ I call.
Even with the torch and the light of the moon, I can barely see the trees three metres ahead. I rush forward and a spiky branch slashes my cheek. I yelp and raise my arm.
Stig follows behind, his breathing heavy.
Another distant howl.
‘Quick, Martha!’
I swallow a sob, wishing I could run, but the stupid snowshoes! Olav and Yrsa were badly clawed but not eaten, so it doesn’t kill for food, whatever it is. Every snapping twig sends a jolt of fear through me. What if it’s got our scent? There’s no way we can outrun it!
When we emerge from the forest, both of us are panting hard. Mormor’s cabin blazes brightly in the dark.
‘Come on!’ urges Stig.
I snatch a few deep breaths, then trudge towards it.
We’re almost at the garden when Gandalf turns back and barks.
Something is moving through the forest behind us, breaking and splintering wood.
I chase after Stig, panic forcing speed into my legs. Gandalf could easily streak ahead, but he stays close. He growls at the darkness behind me, but I don’t stop, not even to catch my breath.
Stig charges onto the porch and rips open the cabin door. I clamber up the steps, not pausing to take off my snowshoes, and fall inside with Gandalf just behind. Sprawled on the floor, I desperately gulp at air.
Stig bolts the door, then kneels and puts his arms around me. There is so much fear and anguish in his coat. I bury my face in his neck. ‘What was that?’ My shoulders heave with sobs. ‘Poor Olav and Yrsa!’
‘We’re safe now, Martha. It’s OK. It’s OK.’
He helps me to the sofa and I collapse onto it, my limbs aching and frozen. He takes off his snowshoes, then pulls off mine. I can’t get the image of them out of my mind. Something had clawed Yrsa to shreds. I glance up, and Stig looks as sick as I feel.
‘We have to tell someone, the police or –’ He takes his phone from his pocket and mutters angrily in Norwegian, then shoves it back. I check my phone but there’s nothing. No new messages and no signal.
Stig goes to the window and yanks the curtain shut. He stands with his back to me for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is strained but strangely calm. ‘Your mother will be here in the morning. I’m guessing she’ll bring a car. We just have to get through the night.’
A couple of hours ago he was desperate to leave the cabin, but now he knows something is out there. Now he’s seen what it can do …
Stig kneels before the stove and opens the door. I watch as he pokes the fire then takes a log from the basket. How can he carry on as normal?
I chew my thumbnail and whisper, ‘You said it was a stray dog.’
He gives me a hurt look.
A tear runs down my face. ‘You said Olav had shot the wolf.’
He says nothing.
‘They were clawed to death! Not bitten. What kind of wolf would do that?’
He shrugs and shakes his head sadly. ‘I don’t know.’
Yrsa seemed so strong – mentally and physically. The way her arms were ripped, she must have put up a fight. They had a gun but they still couldn’t stop it.
I clamp a hand to my mouth as I remember.
Stig frowns. ‘What is it?’
The raspy voice when I got off the ferry … it sounded like the woman in the tree.
‘No bullet can stop the dead.’ I say the words quietly, almost to myself.
‘What?’
‘There are claw marks around the hole in the tree. Like something crawled its way out. You said the tree’s roots reach down to the underworld.’
‘What are you saying?’
The shadows that darted past the kitchen window and then rushed by me on the porch; the creepy face in the mirror … The Norns were trying to warn me! Mormor must have known what would happen if the tree wasn’t watered. She didn’t say, because it was too hideous.
‘The tree is rotting because no one watered it, and now the dead are escaping.’
Stig’s face is ashen. ‘You can’t be serious.’
I step into the dark kitchen and light an oil lamp. The journals and drawings are spread over the table, where we left them. I search through the sketches frantically, then gasp when I find it. The creature with a skull for a head and long matted black hair, crawling over a burial mound of faces. It has huge black claws – the kind that could make those marks around the tree and slash Yrsa to shreds.
Stig follows me and stands at my elbow. ‘You’re saying something like that crawled out of the tree, and that’s what killed them?’
I point to the creature’s claws. ‘A draugr.’ Just saying the name turns my insides to ice. ‘Mormor told me about the dead that return. I thought they were just stories.’
Stig grabs the drawing and turns it over. ‘Stop this. You’re making it worse. We don’t know what’s out there. We just have to stay inside and –’
‘And what? We’ll be OK?’ I snatch up some journals. ‘One of these books has to talk about the draugr. Maybe it says how to get rid of it.’ I flick through their pages. ‘We have to know what’s out there, we have to know what it’s capable of, we have to know what it –’
Stig grabs my arm. ‘Breathe, Martha.’
I gulp a lungful of air but it doesn’t lessen my panic. Stig looks at the journals and for a moment I think he’s going to read them. Instead he gestures to the sofa. ‘Sit down. I’ll make us something to eat.’
‘Eat?!’ I clutch the books to me. ‘I can’t eat now!’
‘You need your strength. You haven’t had a thing since breakfast.’
My arms tremble and several journals drop to the floor. He’s right. I need to get a grip. Stig is doing his best to look after me. I feel bad for what I said just now. He couldn’t have known that this would happen.
He turns his back to me and places the oil lamp on the kitchen counter, then picks up a loaf of bread. A surge of loneliness makes me want to hug him.
‘Stig?’ He glances over his shoulder, his eyes more beautiful than ever in the half-light. I muster my best Norwegian accent. ‘Du er deilig.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘You just said I’m delicious.’
My cheeks burn. ‘I did? I meant to say you’re lovely. I mean, for looking after me.’
He looks startled at the compliment. He coughs, his face flushed, then mutters, ‘Takk,’ and turns away.
I feel stupid. Why did I say that? I pick up the fallen journals and grasp them tightly, wishing I had kept quiet. Maybe I should go and sit on the sofa; whatever I say will only make it worse. But I don’t. I gaze at Stig as he slices the bread, watching the movement of his shoulders and the way his hair falls down his back.
A shadow shifts: behind the dresser, in the corner. My throat closes. The darkness is moving, expanding and deflating, like an animal breathing. I watch transfixed, then take several hasty steps back into the living room. The shadows around the dresser are paler now, but the edges of the lounge seem darker, as if whatever it is has crawled along the wall to follow me. I bump into the edge of the sofa, then drop onto it, the books tumbling from my grasp.
Hugging my knees to my chest, I bury my face in my hands. Something nudges me and I nearly jump out of my skin. Stig hands me a plate of sandwiches and puts two cups on the floor. He flops down next to me, then leans over and takes a sandwich from my lap.
I glance behind the sofa. The shadows are moving again – this time by the kitchen table. Stig turns his head to follow my gaze, but then goes back to eating. He doesn’t seem to notice anything. I’m glad. Whatever’s in here with us, it’s not like we can go anywhere. I just have to hope it leaves us alone.
We chew in silence. The only sounds are the hiss and crackle of the fire and the wail of the wind. The journals sit between us on the sofa. Stig glares at them. ‘I think we should burn them.’
I put my hand on them protectively. Despite everything, they are part of my inheritance, part of me. ‘What if they talk about the draugr? Shouldn’t we find out?’
He shoves the books and they fall to the floor. ‘Can’t we talk about something else?’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything! Anything else.’
There are dark circles under his eyes where his eyeliner has smudged. Maybe he wants to talk because he needs to take his mind off things.
‘OK, what do you want to know?’ I sigh.
Stig sips his coffee. ‘I don’t know – what do you like doing?’
I shift in my seat, feeling slightly uncomfortable. ‘I make stuff out of metal.’
‘Great, what kind of stuff?’
I think back to my room and my brooches and necklaces.
‘Jewellery. Spiders and ravens.’
He raises his eyebrows.
I take out my phone and scroll through some photos until I come to a silver pendant shaped like a raven. Stig reaches for the phone and I show it to him, feeling shy.
‘You made that?’
‘Yup.’
‘Wow! That’s amazing.’
He flicks through more photos, seemingly impressed. ‘Who is this?’ I reach for my phone and there’s a tiny spark of electricity as our fingers touch. I wonder if he notices it too, but his face tells me nothing.
‘My friend Kelly.’
‘And this guy?’
It’s a selfie of Darren and me. I took it at his Halloween party, before the accident. He’s dressed as a zombie and is wearing white face paint which covers the worst of his acne. I’m a witch, holding a broomstick made from twigs.
‘Darren. My friend’s cousin.’ I shrug and take my phone. ‘No one important.’
‘Really? He seems to like you.’
I glance back to the photo. Darren’s arm is draped around my shoulder, reaching for the broomstick. I vaguely remember him making a joke, saying I could ride him any time.
‘You look good together.’
I give a tiny shrug. Now I’ve met Stig, my thing with Darren seems so trivial. Darren made me laugh, but there is something special about Stig. Just being in the same room as him is exciting. When he’s near, I want to pull him close. The way he looks at me sometimes, I get this warm shiver. Darren never made me feel like that.
Stig gives me a quizzical look and I study the photo again. ‘We look ridiculous. Someone set my broomstick on fire with a candle halfway through the night, and Darren … Well, he’s not going to be interested in me now.’
Stig huffs. ‘I bet guys hit on you all the time. You just don’t notice.’
I frown, hoping he isn’t making fun of me. ‘I’m blind to it, you mean?’
He glances at me over the rim of his cup. If he notices the bitterness in my voice, he doesn’t show it.
‘Anyway, what happened with your girlfriend, the trapeze artist?’
Stig takes a bite of sandwich, then another. He chews thoughtfully.
‘The girl you showed me on your phone, that was her? She looks beautiful.’
Stig nods and narrows his eyes, as if he’s not sure what to make of that. ‘I guess so.’
‘What happened between you?’
He shifts slightly in his seat. ‘I went through a bad time after Dad. And Nina is the kind of girl who likes things to be fun.’
Something flickers in the corner of my eye: a shadow near the front door. I sense it moving closer, and have the feeling that we’re being watched.
Stig sighs. ‘We had this huge argument, and then she fell …’
‘She fell?’
‘From the trapeze wire. They said her harness wasn’t done up properly.’
‘Oh no. Is she OK?’
‘Her mother phoned me from the hospital. She was in a coma.’ He notices my worried expression and adds, ‘It’s OK. She woke up the next morning. She’s fine.’
‘So, did you finish with her, or …?’
Stig’s eyes flash dark. ‘Nina was the one who ended it. She met someone else.’ A hint of pain passes over his face, but he forces a smile. ‘Someone who made her laugh – a clown.’
I stifle a laugh. ‘Really?’
Stig grins. ‘No, not really. She fell in love with the lion tamer.’
I smile, despite the awfulness of everything, and our eyes meet. His face is soft in the glow of the fire. For a moment I almost forget Yrsa and Olav – but the image of their frozen faces is right there, just behind my eyelids.
Stig gives me a sideways glance. ‘So what about you? Not found your lion tamer yet?’
The room is suddenly hot. I shove the blanket off my legs. ‘Something like that.’
He puts the plate on the floor, then takes off his coat and lays it on the sofa. I think about the different emotions I felt when I touched it … there was such anger and jealousy.
‘Stig, can I ask about your dad?’
‘Sure.’ He seems a little surprised, but doesn’t sound defensive.
‘You said you came to Skjebne with him?’
‘Yes. We came just after Mum threw him out. It was great, mostly. We went hiking and fishing every afternoon, once his hangover had worn off. He told me about the dreams he’d had when he was younger, before he got married and had a kid.’
‘Like what?’
Stig’s face brightens, as if thinking about it makes him happy. ‘Travel, build a boat. I remember we saw this old building for sale by the harbour. We talked about doing it up and turning it into a guesthouse.’
‘But you never did?’
Stig gives a hollow laugh. ‘The place is still for sale. It was good to dream though. I thought if we started something out here together, he might stop drinking. I don’t know – it felt like a somewhere we could be happy.’
It’s strange to think that Stig must have been on the island at the same time as me. I might have passed him and his dad out walking. I gaze into the fire, remembering. ‘I had the best summers here too. Dad would come out as well sometimes, when he wasn’t working. He used to call Mormor an outrageous eccentric and they’d play practical jokes on each other. Back then, even Mum would laugh and join in. I remember this one time, Mormor woke me up in the middle of the night just to have a picnic in the midnight sun.’
‘She sounds like fun.’
‘She was.’
A log shifts in the stove and our words die down with the flames.
Stig’s voice is quiet. ‘I didn’t say before, but when I overheard the women at the harbour talking about this place being empty, I felt I had to come.’
I wait for him to go on.
‘It was like my feet brought me here, without my knowing why. When I got to the cabin, I felt so bad about my Dad dying, and losing my money, I sat on the doorstep and cried.’
I reach a hand to his, but he tucks his hair behind his ears before our fingers meet.
‘It was strange, but the door was open, like the cabin wanted me to come in.’
It would have been just like Mormor to invite him inside. I take a trembling breath and Stig looks mortified.
‘Sorry, that was the wrong thing to say.’
‘No, it’s not that. So what made you run away?’
He places his cup on the floor. ‘After Dad died, Mum let stupid Erik move in. He was always nagging me to get a haircut and wipe the mess off my face. He talked about Dad like he was some loser – like he was an angry drunk and we were lucky to be rid of him. We’d argue and Mum always took Erik’s side.’
His face is shadowed in anger. ‘One day I found Dad’s coat in the dustbin. It was covered in herring and potato peelings. Mum knew what it meant to me, and she let Erik throw it away. I didn’t have a plan; I just left and found myself here.’
‘And then I showed up.’
‘Yeah!’ Stig laughs. ‘Then you showed up and it was terrifying!’
I lean back and cross my arms. ‘I look that scary, do I?’
He shakes his head and smiles. ‘The way you pointed your phone at me like it was a gun. And the way you yelled. Yes, you were scary!’
His voice becomes serious. ‘I felt so bad telling you about your grandmother.’
I hadn’t thought about it before, but it can’t have been easy for Stig either. I do my best to lighten the mood. ‘And then I threw you out and left you to freeze in the woodshed.’
‘I was lucky you let me stay!’
I gesture to the journals. ‘Lucky? Are you sure about that?’
‘That … not so much. But being with you is nice.’
I rest my head on his shoulder and gaze at the fire. His jumper holds fear and worry but there is contentment too. He enjoys my company and feels at home with me. A feeling of warmth spreads through my chest. I tug at the threads with my mind, wanting to find out more, but the harder I try, the more they evade me. It’s almost as if I want to know too badly. I give up with a sigh. If he does like me as more than just a friend, it is hidden deep.
I snuggle closer to him and tell myself that everything will be OK. Mum will arrive in the morning. We just have to get through the night, like Stig says. I try not to think about the shadows in the corner of the room. Whatever’s there can’t be worse than what’s outside, and at least we have each other.
Stig strokes my hair for a few minutes, and then his hand drops to his side. A yawn escapes me and I close my eyes.
When I wake, the room is dark. The electric light in the living room must have packed up too. The flames in the stove have died to nothing; the only light is the red glow of the logs. Gandalf is growling softly in the back of his throat. I shiver and rub my arms, then lean over the back of the sofa to see what he’s looking at. He wags his tail and I shush him quiet.
The wind has dropped and the cabin is eerily quiet, almost as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. I glance at the door. With any luck, whatever was out there is miles away by now, but even so, the idea of a creature roaming the blackness … I don’t want to think about it.
Gandalf growls again, louder this time. What’s got into him? I call his name softly, trying not to wake Stig, then reach out to pat him on the head. He backs away from me, his hackles raised. I follow his gaze and then I see it too – staring down at me from the ceiling.