‘What do you think it was?’ I ask.
Stig unclips Gandalf’s lead, then kicks off his boots. ‘A wolf – what else?’ He sounds angry with me, or maybe he’s annoyed with himself for thinking it was a dog. Either way, there’s something in the harshness of his tone I don’t like.
I pace the room, my mind a whirl. I can’t see anything strange now, but there was something out there, moving in the darkness. I saw things rush into the cabin – yet how could that be? Since the accident I’ve had zero sight in my left eye. I cover my right eye with my hand just to be sure. Nothing. A severed ocular nerve is just that: severed. It can’t heal itself.
I stop mid-stride and rest my hand on the sofa. In the kitchen earlier, when I saw something move outside the window … And in the bathroom, when I saw that creepy face in the mirror … The window and the mirror were both on my left side. Why didn’t I notice that before? The back of my neck prickles. I glance around the cabin and shiver. Whatever the shadows are, they’re in here now.
Stig is leaning against the kitchen counter, his face clouded with concern. I walk over to him, but what can I say that won’t make me sound insane? The room reminds me of the war photos I’ve seen in history lessons, where families were forced to abandon their homes and leave everything: food on the table, a child’s shoe on the floor. I stack the dishes, grateful for something to do.
Thud.
Stig’s head snaps up.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A slow rhythmic noise, regular as a heartbeat. Coming from inside the cabin.
Gandalf wags his tail as if an old friend has come to visit. I glance at the living room and back to Stig. He shakes his head, warning me not to move.
‘Where’s it coming from?’ I hiss.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Stig takes a step then stops, his face pale. In between the knocking is a softer noise, like distant rushing water. I’ve heard the sound before, like it belongs here. Stig’s fingers graze mine and my skin tingles at his touch. I pull away without thinking, then regret it.
The noise continues: a steady rhythmic thump. I follow the sound and find Gandalf sitting outside Mormor’s bedroom door. I swallow, my mouth dry.
Thud-shhh. Thud-shhh. Thud-shhh.
I nudge open the door and Stig reaches in and snaps on the light. We look inside, then at one another. My legs feel weak, but I make myself enter the room. The noise is coming from the huge oak wardrobe. Stig watches wide-eyed as I walk towards it. Holding my breath, I open the door. Next to a rack of clothes is Mormor’s little spinning wheel.
Moving.
I touch it and it stops instantly. The silence that follows is unsettling.
Behind me Stig mutters, ‘Fy faen, det var ekkelt.’
‘What?’
‘I said, that was creepy.’ Stig hovers in the doorway as if afraid something might jump out of the closet. ‘What made it move?’
I inspect the inside of the wardrobe. ‘No idea.’ There’s nothing to fall on the wheel, and even if something did, it shouldn’t have kept moving like that. My voice sounds calm but my stomach is twisting and turning, like a hole is opening up inside me.
Gandalf sits at my feet and whimpers. The sight of Mormor’s clothes fills me with sadness too. The wardrobe smells of her: the rose perfume she wore, mixed with herbs and sunshine. I look at her bunad. When I was a child, I begged her to let me wear it. If I touch it now, maybe it will make me feel close to her.
I reach my hand towards the costume, when a ball of red yarn drops to the floor. The air goes from my lungs. I watch in wonder as it slowly unravels towards my feet. Too scared to move, I freeze, waiting. When nothing else happens, I bend to retrieve it. The other end is caught in something under the spinning wheel: a wooden chest.
Luckily the spinning wheel isn’t heavy. Stig watches wide-eyed as I place it on the rug and then peer back inside the wardrobe. The lid of the chest is carved with the pattern of a tree, its branches and roots intertwined and touching so that it makes a perfect circle. If it weren’t for the leaves, you could turn it upside down and it would look the same. Between the roots sit three women. Their arms are raised and they’re passing a cord between them. The one on the right holds a pair of shears in her lap.
I don’t think I’ve seen the image before, yet it seems vaguely familiar. The lid of the chest won’t budge. There’s not enough room in the wardrobe for it to open; I’ll have to lift it out. I wrap my arms around it and pull, but it barely shifts.
‘Stig, can you help me?’
He walks slowly into the room.
Grabbing the box by one corner, I try to slide it out but clumsily drop it.
‘Nei, stoppe! What are you doing?’ He points to the spinning wheel. ‘Put it back!’
‘It’s OK. Something in the wardrobe must have fallen on it and made it move. I just need to get this chest out.’
He doesn’t look convinced.
‘We can do it together,’ I offer.
Stig shakes his head. ‘Not enough room. I can –’ He heaves, then stops and tries again. Finally he manages to lift it. ‘‘Helvete, det er tungt!’’
‘What?’
‘I said, it’s heavy!’ Stig groans and the chest drops with a bang.
‘Thanks.’
He looks at me expectantly, as if he’s waiting for me to open it.
‘I’m OK now, thanks. I’ll probably just go to bed.’
Stig looks at the box suspiciously, then reluctantly leaves the room.
The lid is heavy and creaks as I lift it. Like Stig, Gandalf seems keen to know what’s inside. I nudge his head away and he licks my face. ‘I know, boy, I want to see too.’
It smells ancient – of mothballs and mildew. Inside are dozens of neatly stacked books, canvas bags and rolls of material. On top of the pile is an envelope with my name on it. My breath quickens as I run my finger over Mormor’s familiar handwriting.
My Dearest Marta,
If you are reading this letter, then I will have already gone. You will be sad, I know, but please don’t waste your tears on me, little one. I have lived the life that was meant for me, and none of us can ask for more.
I have loved you since the day you were born, and it has been an honour to watch you grow into the fine young woman you are. But a life cannot be made up of summers – and winter brings with it hard choices.
Inside this chest is your inheritance. Your mother barely stirred from slumber when it was given to her, but you, my child, are awake.
You wrote to me asking why you can sense things from touching people’s clothes. I replied, but as I kept receiving letters, I can only presume mine did not reach you! The gift is one that I share also, as does your mother – though she refuses to accept it.
The story is a long one, and I hope you will learn Norwegian and read the journals for yourself. For now, all you need to know is that our ancestor, a weaver woman named Aslaug, made a sacred vow that she and her line would take care of the tree in the garden.
This has been the way for more than a thousand years. Once I am gone, the duty should fall to your mother, but I fear it will come to you. Every morning you must take water from the well and put it on the roots inside the largest chamber of the tree. I beg of you, this you must do. There have been many seers in our family, and I pray that the worst does not come to pass.
If you choose to look inside this chest there may be danger ahead – for our path is one of growth through hardship. But know that dozens of women have walked this way before you, women whose blood runs in your veins. Remember, the tree is the start of the journey and the end. Tend to it every day and listen with an open heart!
May the gods watch over you and keep you safe.
Until we meet again,
Your loving Mormor x
Scrawled at the bottom is:
The gift of reading clothing lies dormant until you meet the Norns. For we have a very special destiny – and I believe they appear to wake us to our fate.
I feared your mother would never accept the truth, so I took you out to the tree many times, hoping you were ready to see them. Perhaps I should have told you sooner, but I promised your mother I would not – and I couldn’t risk her never bringing you to the island again. I made the mistake of pushing her too hard, I see that now. I am so sorry for what is to come. I hope you can forgive me.
Mormor had the same ability as me, and so does Mum? My pulse races with my thoughts. Who or what are the Norns? I haven’t seen them! Mormor took me out to the tree the day before the accident, but I didn’t hear anything.
I read her words for the third time. Of course Mormor hid the letter in the wardrobe, knowing I would be drawn to touch her clothes. The moving spinning wheel and the wool dropping to the floor, do they mean her ghost is with me now? I look around and shiver. I can’t help feeling that there’s something in the room, watching me.
I look back at the letter. Part of me wants to forget I ever found it. Mormor makes it sound so important, but the idea of going near the tree fills me with dread. I study her shaky handwriting. If Mormor wrote it on her deathbed, maybe she wasn’t in her right mind.
I move towards the chest and Gandalf tilts his head, his brown eyes full of concern. He barks and twitches a grey eyebrow, and I stroke his ears. ‘It’s what I came here for,’ I say. Sitting on my knees, I look inside. Even if it means hardship and danger, I haven’t come this far to close the lid.