I shower and dress, then eat some toast and go out. All around me, fir trees shake and shiver in the wind, their boughs whispering conspiratorially as if they know something I don’t. A sprinkling of snow covers the ground, making the caravans and trucks sparkle. Beyond them the circus tents shine like ice-encrusted jewels. Performers hurry about, and in the distance the first customers wander in through the archway.
I head to the costume trailer and pause when I see the woman from yesterday come out, her arms laden with clothes. Once she’s gone, I climb the steps and open the door. The smell of mothballs makes me gag. My legs feel weak and I hesitate, and then I clench my fists and remind myself of who I am. I come from a long line of strong, magical women. I’m the descendent of a Norse god.
Ignoring the watery feeling in my gut, I approach the masks. Hel stares at the ground, her mouth frozen in a grimace. The way she glared at me last night, it was like she wanted to hurt me. I shiver and look across the rows of faces. Not a flicker of movement. Maybe they’re sleeping, or waiting?
My gaze rests on Odin’s mask. White with a few deeply carved wrinkles, it stops just below the nose rather than covering the whole face. There’s only one opening for an eye, making the wearer partially sighted; the other side has been painted to resemble a black hole. The sides don’t line up right, giving it a slightly crooked appearance.
I run my fingers over the smooth wood then lift the mask from its nail. The back is covered with soft grey felt. Something about it calls to me and I hold it close to my face. It fits perfectly: the gap for an eye on my right, the solid mask on my blind side. My head starts to move forward, but it’s not me doing it. I gasp and lower my hand. When I raise it again, the same thing happens. A gentle, insistent pull. It’s like the mask is drawing me closer. Like it wants to be worn. The feeling is alarming and yet tantalising at the same time.
‘Oskar trenger det antrekket i ettermiddag!’
I jump at the sound of voices outside. Someone is coming . . . I return the mask and spin around, but whoever it is walks on by. If anyone comes in, they’re going to wonder what I’m doing. I don’t know how long I have; I should hurry.
I run my gaze over Nina’s rail and then something glints inside a plastic tub. I reach past belts and shoes, but it’s just a chiffon scarf. The material shows me an image of Ulva, the girl who came into the trailer yesterday. She’s in a car with a blonde woman, her mother maybe. I get the sense they’re driving far away from here. Chiffon holds a person’s daydreams so the images it shows are usually sunlit and gentle, but this one is heavy with desperation. It’s like her dream became a way to survive, something to cling to when there was nothing else.
I drop the scarf and check the surrounding rails. Maybe the catsuit got put back somewhere else? After half an hour, I stop and rest my hands on my hips. Just because it isn’t in the trailer, doesn’t mean it’s not in the circus somewhere. The woman I saw earlier had clothes over her arm and yesterday she was carrying fabric. If she’s in charge of making the costumes, she might know where to find it.
I leave the trailer and head in the direction she went. The ticket tent is empty; the show must have already started. Her footprints lead to the rear of the big top, where a doorway is hooked partially open. I put my head inside and smell talcum powder and hairspray. There are ten or so people, some sitting at tables applying their makeup and others dressing in front of standing mirrors. They move swiftly and talk quietly, all seemingly focused on their tasks.
Eventually I spot the costume woman’s afro hair behind a rack of clothes, where she’s working at a sewing machine. I take a hesitant step inside, expecting someone to challenge me, but no one glances my way. The woman looks busy, but she was friendly when I spoke to her yesterday.
I walk over. ‘Hi. Ruth sent me to look for something. Is that OK?’
The sewing machine judders and stops. ‘Damn it.’ She snaps a thread with her teeth and looks up. ‘What? Hmm, yes. Help yourself.’
‘Thanks.’
There are lots of catsuits on the rails, but none are gold. I start to ask if she’s seen it, when the voice of the ringmaster booms out from behind a canvas wall. ‘The Sly One sired three monstrous children: Hel, half living and half dead; the sea serpent, Jormungand; and the giant wolf, Fenrir. The Norns, who decide the fate of all beings, warned that this terrible brood would destroy the gods.’
The sound is coming from the other side of a curved black screen. I’m well acquainted with Hel, but I’ve never heard of the Sly One or the other creatures the ringmaster mentioned. I glance over my shoulder. No one is looking.
Intrigued to learn more about Hel and her family, I edge along the wall then peek through a narrow opening. The spotlights momentarily blind me and I blink against the glare. The ring looks much bigger from down here, the trapeze higher and more forbidding. The huge tree has gone. In its place is a long strip of white material hanging from the centre of the ceiling.
I watch the ringmaster’s back as he approaches the sea of faces before him. ‘Odin cast Hel down to the underworld. The sea serpent he threw into the ocean of men. But Fenrir was different, for the Norns had foretold that he would devour Odin at Ragnarok. The wolf was so dangerous it was decided he should be raised in Asgard under the watchful eye of the gods.’
A performer wearing a long fur cloak and a ferocious-looking wolf mask rushes towards the audience and snarls. I’m not surprised when a child screams; the mask’s huge snout looks frighteningly real.
Someone coughs behind me. Startled, I turn and see a burly man dressed for battle, a rune in the shape of an arrow painted on his cheek. That’s one of the worst things about being blind in one eye; people can sneak up on you. Mumbling an apology, I move out of his way and he bounds onto the stage.
The ringmaster continues, ‘None of the gods dared go near the monstrous wolf, except for Tyr, god of truth and justice.’ The man takes a bow and the ringmaster adds, ‘Fenrir grew bigger and more powerful by the day. Fearful, the gods attempted to bind him. They told the wolf the chains were a test of his might and cheered when he broke free.’
I know I should be looking for Nina’s catsuit, but there’s something so mesmerising about the lights and actors. Seeing the myths brought to life, realising that the gods are real, fills me with awe. The more I know about their stories, the more I feel I know about myself. But it’s not just that. The performance has a magic all of its own. The masked actors are brimming with so much energy that in this moment it feels as if they’re more than human.
‘Dismayed at the creature’s strength, the gods asked the dwarves to forge a chain that would be unbreakable.’ At the ringmaster’s words, a male acrobat tumbles down the silk rope, the material twisting and turning around his body, before he drops and lands with a bow. Another man follows him, and another, all wearing leather tunics and belts.
The acrobats take it in turns to jump over one another, leapfrogging faster and higher. One of them clambers onto the other’s shoulders and pulls up the third. They raise their arms, encouraging people to clap as they march around the ring. After a few moments they drop down and then stand in a circle with their backs to the audience. The lighting changes, bathing them in a flickering orange glow, and they swing their arms in time to the sound of metal being struck in a forge.