‘It’s Mum. She knows I’m here. She says to leave the cabin.’
I show Stig my phone.
‘What? Why?’ He scrolls through the messages. ‘She sent this a couple of hours ago. Even if she got the first flight …’
My throat tightens. ‘The last ferry goes at five fifteen. She won’t get here until tomorrow now.’
I read the messages again, a knot of anger in my chest along with something else – an empty, dull ache. I miss her. When I was a kid, I only had to graze my knee and Mum would come running. Despite everything, I know she loves me and would do anything to protect me – I felt it when I touched her jacket in the hospital. I wish she was here now to keep me safe.
Stig goes to the window and peers out. ‘Why does she want us to leave? Did you tell her you saw a face in the tree?’
‘No.’ But could she know something?
Stig’s face is pale. ‘How far is Olav’s house?’
‘Two or three miles. There’s a path that cuts through the forest; if we go while it’s still light I can easily find the way.’
‘There’s no one closer?’
I shake my head and swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. We haven’t heard a howl since the gunshot last night, but what if Olav didn’t kill the wolf?
Stig pulls on his boots. ‘I think I saw some snowshoes in the woodshed.’
The overhead light in the kitchen makes a buzzing sound, then flickers and goes out. Stig stares at it, then back to me. His voice is edged with fear. ‘I think we should go, Martha.’
I look about the room and a sense of dread crawls across my skin. Ever since I saw the shadows rush past me on the porch, I keep feeling there’s something in the cabin with us. When the spinning wheel moved by itself, Stig was properly freaked out. Maybe he senses it too – that feeling of being watched.
I bite my lip. I want to get away from this place, but I don’t know if we should risk going outside. The electricity often plays up – it doesn’t have to mean anything – and the living-room light hasn’t gone out.
I pick up my phone. ‘Let me try calling Mum first, OK?’
Stig nods and reaches for his coat while I dial her number. I hold my breath and wait. She speaks and my heart leaps, but it’s just a recording telling me to leave a message.
‘Mum, it’s me. I’m at the cabin. Mormor is dead, but you know that. Why didn’t you tell me?’ My voice wavers. ‘You need to come quickly – something’s happened to the tree. I can see things, and … Mum, why do we need to leave?’ I hear Stig repeatedly pressing the kitchen light switch and look over at him. ‘I’m not here on my own. We’re going to walk to Olav and Yrsa’s now, before it gets dark. Please hurry, Mum. I’m scared.’
The phone bleeps and a voice asks if I want to re-record my message. I hang up and return the phone to my pocket with a sigh.
‘Stig, maybe we should stay. We don’t know why she sent the message. If she knew about the wolf, maybe she wouldn’t want us to go outside.’
He frowns. ‘We only heard one shot fired last night. So Olav must have got it first time, otherwise he would have fired again.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘A wolf would only attack if it was hungry, and there are plenty of sheep to kill out there.’
I stand up and reach for my boots. ‘I guess.’ Stig might be right, but even without a wolf, I don’t like the idea of going anywhere near the tree again. Gandalf yawns and stretches as I shrug into my coat – at least one of us is looking forward to a walk. I grab the torch from the dresser and change the batteries. While my back is turned, I hear the cutlery drawer open and glance around to see Stig wrapping a knife in a tea towel. When I bend to clip on Gandalf’s lead, he shoves it in his coat pocket.
Stig opens the door and yellow light spills onto the porch. My cheeks and nose tingle from the cold. I pull on my hat and gloves, then step down, my boots crunching on snow. Beyond are acres of white under a grey-blanket sky – enough light to see by, but for how long? Stig jogs to the woodshed and I breathe into my gloved hands, trying not to think about the shadows that rushed past me last night.
A few minutes later Stig returns, carrying some snowshoes. He drops two of the elongated tennis racquets before me and I step into them and fumble with the straps. I lift one foot and take a wide step, careful not to hit the other. They’re cumbersome but at least I won’t sink into the snow.
Stig strides out like an expert. ‘You’ll soon get used to them.’
I take a few clumsy steps after him, then look over my shoulder. Thin grey smoke rises from the chimney, snaking into the pale watery sky. It feels wrong to abandon the cabin with the living-room light blazing, but if Olav and Yrsa aren’t there we’ll need to find our way back in the dark.
No, Skjebne isn’t exactly known for its nightlife, so where else would they be? We’ll soon be at Olav and Yrsa’s, facing the inquisition. Mum will arrive in the morning and take me home. As much as I don’t want to go near the tree, I can’t help worrying that I’ve let Mormor down. She begged me to water it – and now I’m turning my back on it, the same as Mum did.
I watch Stig trudge along the edge of the garden and hurry after him, though the snowshoes make it impossible to do anything but shuffle. Ignoring the twisted tree, I focus on the dark forest ahead. My lack of depth perception makes it hard to judge distances, but luckily I know this garden and these woods like the back of my hand. I’ve played in them every summer of my life; even at home in London, my dreams would bring me here.
The only sound is the wind and the muffled crunch of our footsteps. Something moves to my left. I turn to the tree and gasp. Dozens of little children hang from its branches. I scream and Stig stops. ‘What is it?’ he calls.
Fear closes my throat. It’s not children hanging from the tree, just their empty coats. I focus and realise I’m wrong. The tree is covered with scraps of material, fluttering on the breeze. It reminds me of the nightmare I had about Mormor – snatching at a piece of cloth on the tree. Sadness stabs at my heart. I blink and the branches are bare.
Stig searches my face. ‘You OK?’
I take a deep breath and wave my hand. ‘I’m fine. Just keep going!’ My legs ache from the weight of the snowshoes and taking such wide steps, but I don’t want to rest. The sooner we get to Olav and Yrsa’s, the better.
At the edge of the fir trees, Stig stops and waits for directions. I peer into the dark forest, hoping I can find the way. Luckily I soon spot the start of the path.
‘There.’ I point. ‘We need to go for about a mile, I reckon.’
Gandalf growls and sniffs at the ground and Stig touches my arm in warning. We freeze and look at one another. Once we enter the forest, it will be harder to move quickly. If there is a wolf, we won’t stand a chance. We hold our breath and listen. High above us, the tops of the trees sway wildly in the wind, making a constant rushing sound. The full moon is growing bright in the darkening sky. We need to keep moving.
Pushing away a heavy spruce branch, I step into the forest. Sheltered from the cry of the wind, it’s eerily quiet: just the crunch of twigs beneath our feet, the swish of fir, and the occasional whhump-whhump of snow sliding from branches.
Touching the tree trunks with my gloved hands, I lead the way, with Stig and Gandalf close behind. The lower parts of the trees are covered with hundreds of tiny thin branches, which add to the gloom. Dead and spiky, they reach out like skeletal fingers, threatening to slash at our faces. The torch is heavy in my pocket and it’s a comfort to know it’s there, but I don’t use it. Better to let my sight adjust to the moonlight. After ten minutes or so, Gandalf stops and growls at a patch of undergrowth. My skin prickles. I stare in every direction. Nothing but fir trees and the watching eyes of a raven.
By the time we emerge from the forest, the moon is high in the sky and half hidden by cloud. Olav and Yrsa’s place sits on a hill in the distance, its lights twinkling. My heart leaps with joy.
‘Good, they’re home!’ shouts Stig. We grin at one another and walk a little faster. We’ll have some explaining to do when we get there, but I don’t mind. My nose and toes are numb; I just want to get out of the cold.
Gandalf barks and charges off, tugging the lead from Stig’s hand. I stomp after him, while Stig huffs and flaps his arms in annoyance. Gandalf zigzags through the snow, back the way we came. Whatever scent he’s picked up, he’s not letting it go. ‘Not now, Gandalf! Come back!’ Olav and Yrsa’s house is only fifteen minutes away, less if we hurry.
A dark shape stalks out from the shadows of the trees and my body stiffens. It’s just Gandalf. I breathe a sigh of relief and chase clumsily after him. He’s got something in his mouth: a pale padded glove. I take it from him and an image of Mormor flashes into my mind, clutching Yrsa’s gloved hand and begging her to water the tree. Tears ache in my throat as I remember the anguish she felt. The material starts to show me something else. Something terrible … slashing black claws and …
Stig takes the glove from me and the connection is lost.
‘What’s that?’ He turns it over to reveal a stain on the cuff.
Gandalf paws and whimpers at something a little way off. Stig gives me an anxious glance, then pulls the tea towel from his pocket. It falls to the ground and the blade of the knife gleams. Holding it out, he walks forward. I follow, my heart pounding. Gandalf is standing over a dark shape on the ground. It looks like a person, but it can’t be.
‘Faen!’ Stig grabs me and tries to hold my head against his shoulder, but I pull away. Olav’s grey beard is frozen, his mouth open. His arms lie stiffly over his body, holding a gun. My gut clenches. I think I’m going to be sick.
Stig goes closer and mutters in Norwegian, then whispers, ‘His neck has been slashed.’ I turn to look away, a taste of bile in my mouth, and see another shape in the snow. Just ten paces to my right. My heart drops to my stomach. Please, no. It can’t be.
Stig grabs my hand and squeezes tight. We walk over together. Yrsa’s huge sheepskin coat is shrouded with frost, her frozen face covered in blood. A flap of skin hangs loosely from her cheek. I cover my mouth with my hand. The sleeves of her coat have been torn to shreds, the material drenched in blood. Beneath her, the snow is stained dark.
A sob rises in my throat. ‘Stig, what do we do?’
He stares blankly, then gestures to the house. ‘Olav has a car. Come on, it’s not far!’
Wiping away tears, I clamber after him.
A howl rips through the night. Coming from Olav and Yrsa’s house.
Stig’s face is stricken with panic. ‘We have to go back! Run!’