The Crooked Mask by Rachel Burge

Author:Rachel Burge [Burge, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bonnier Publishing Fiction
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

14

HER DEATH WAS NO ACCIDENT

A

fter a few minutes, we emerge from the forest. The performers are in the field gathered around the ringmaster, who stands on a high metal platform. He raises a fist to the sky and booms in a deep voice. ‘At Ragnarok, all chains will be loosened, freeing those that are bound. The wolf Fenrir will escape his shackles and Loki himself will ferry the dead to fight the gods.’ Horned figures thrust their skull poles in the air and scream a war cry. So that’s what the performers are meant to be: a horde of the dead brought by Loki.

A group of wild-looking Viking women stride to the front, some carrying shields painted with rune signs and others beating animal-skin drums. They wear armoured leather breastplates with winged shoulders and their hair is braided into tiny plaits. Most have metal chains stretched across their foreheads with elaborate silver centrepieces – a raven, a wolf, a valknut. Their makeup is simple but stunning. A band of black covers their eyes; some with vertical lines on each cheek, others a feathered network of branches reaching to their hairline.

Performers file in behind them: the Norns and ravens on stilts and various gods and goddesses. I recognise Sandrine in her bird outfit, but otherwise it could be anyone behind the masks. The drumbeat quickens and the warrior women move their tongues fast, yelling an ululation – a wavering, high-pitched sound somewhere between a screech and a howl.

Karl stands to one side, talking animatedly to Ruth and the seamstress. He shouts for them to stop the performance, but his voice is no match for the ringmaster’s. Refusing to be beaten, the old man hurries across the field and climbs the rigging of the platform. He yanks the loudspeaker from the ringmaster’s hands and dozens of people below pause and stare in bewilderment. Eventually Oskar appears and waves his arms, signalling for them to break. A few drift away, but most of the performers crowd around him and demand answers, their voices full of fear.

‘How do you know Loki wanted you to find the dead?’ Stig asks me.

I tell him about the puppet and invitation and his eyes grow large.

‘Can I see it?’

‘The card?’

He nods and I shrug. ‘Sure, it’s in my caravan.’ I don’t know what Stig thinks he can do to help, but it’s a relief to have someone to talk to about it. As we near my door, I see something that makes my throat close. The puppet is sitting on the step, back straight and head tilted to one side, its red slash of a mouth twisted in a smile as if happy to see us. I turn away, not wanting to think about how it got there. Maybe it crawled out of the snow. Thinking about the jester makes me feel weak. I don’t know if my life is in danger, but I know that he can control me, that I am completely powerless against him.

Stig sees my face and frowns, his jaw set with determination.

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