The ringmaster raises his voice. ‘This the dwarves did, using five things that don’t exist and against which it is therefore useless to struggle: the sound of a cat’s footsteps, the beard of a woman, the roots of mountains, the breath of a fish and the spittle of a bird.’
The dwarves lift up an invisible chain and the ringmaster tells the audience, ‘Gleipnir, or Open, was its name.’ He points his cane at the wolf and a single green spotlight comes on. ‘When the gods tried to lay the curiously light chain on him, Fenrir sensed a trick. Before he would allow himself to be bound, he demanded that one of the gods put their hand in his jaws as an act of good faith. No one agreed, knowing it would mean the loss of a hand. And then one god came forward . . . Yes, the noble Tyr!’
The actor steps up and extends his arm. At the same time, the dwarves lower the chain onto Fenrir. The wolf writhes then throws back its head as a sound of howling plays.
The ringmaster raises his cane. ‘Unable to break free, the wolf bit down!’
Tyr shouts and something thuds and bounces across the ring. Cries and whoops go up from the audience as the ringmaster bends to the floor. I move to get a better view, and then I see what he’s holding. It’s the severed arm from the trailer.
I wonder why the god of truth was the one to deceive Fenrir? I suppose the wolf trusted him above all others. Perhaps Tyr felt guilty about lying, and that’s why he willingly sacrificed his hand. Even though the lie was a noble one, done to protect the gods, he knew it was wrong.
The wolf charges towards me. Realising this part of the show must be over, I hurry into the changing area and stand to one side as performers enter and throw off their costumes. The actor playing Fenrir yanks down the mask. It’s Ulva. Of course, I saw her holding the wolf’s head the day I arrived. She takes a gulp of air and her eyes burn with ferocity as she strides across the room, the creature’s furry snout hanging grotesque around her slim neck. I think about saying hello, but she disappears into the changing area.
Instead I head over to the seamstress. She has her head bent, focused on her work, and I cough, hoping she might look up. She doesn’t.
‘Hi, sorry . . . me again. I wondered if you’d seen a gold catsuit anywhere?’
She frowns. ‘Look, I’m kind of busy right now. Did Ruth say why she wanted it?’
I mumble a reply just as Karl enters the tent. If I can get him talking, maybe I can ask him if he has Nina’s catsuit. He walks over, a tiny figure in his oversized duffle coat, and snatches the green material from the sewing machine. The seamstress jumps up. ‘What are you doing? Oskar wants that for tomorrow’s dress rehearsal!’
Karl huffs. ‘We’ve never had an actor play the Sly One and we’re not starting now.’ He walks off and she shakes her head. ‘Afraid of change, that’s what he is. The performers are sick of doing the same routines. Ulva’s been here since she was a child and she’s only ever been a wolf. It’s ridiculous!’
‘Who’s the Sly One?’ I ask.
She grabs some green fabric from a plastic tub behind her. ‘Loki, but Karl won’t let anyone say his name.’ I wish I had read the myths growing up. All I know is what Ruth told me, about him causing the death of Baldur, and his three monstrous children that the ringmaster just mentioned.
‘Why doesn’t Karl want anyone to play him or say his name?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Who knows? Anyone would think the gods were real, the way he carries on.’
I nod sympathetically and say a hasty goodbye. Maybe Karl isn’t as crazy as everyone thinks.
For an older person he walks surprisingly quickly, despite the limp. I hurry after him, aware I have to start work in the psychic tent in a few minutes. By the time I catch up with him, he’s almost at the hall of mirrors.
‘Karl! Wait, I need to talk to you.’
He turns and there’s a weary look in his eye, like a wounded general who knows the enemy could reappear at any time.
‘Yes, what is it?’
I hesitate, realising how strange it will sound if I ask him what he did with Nina’s belongings. Instead I find myself pointing at the material in his hand. ‘The costume – why don’t you want the seamstress to make it?’
The furrow in his brow deepens. ‘When did you start working here? Yesterday, wasn’t it?’
He makes it sound like an accusation. I hold his gaze and force a smile. ‘I just want to understand.’
He turns to leave and I call out, ‘Wait! Please, Karl. I know something strange is happening. I’ve seen things and –’
‘You work with Ruth, don’t you?’
I nod. For a moment I expect him to joke about me being psychic but he doesn’t.
‘What have you seen?’
I swallow hard, unsure how much to tell him. He hasn’t done anything to make me suspicious, but Mum said not to trust anyone.
‘There was an old-fashioned clown in one of the smaller tents. Something about him wasn’t right, he was threatening.’
Karl frowns, the lines on his forehead deepening. ‘He threatened you? What did this man look like?’
‘He had long orange hair, though I think it was a wig. He was about your height, and he had thin lips and a husky voice.’
Karl shakes his head. ‘There is no one here like that.’
‘And the masks are . . . strange.’
‘Strange how?’
If he hasn’t seen them move then he probably wouldn’t believe me. I decide to take a different line.
‘Nina, the girl who died – do you still have her belongings?’
His bushy white eyebrows jump in surprise.
‘Why?’
‘Ruth mentioned you brought them back from the hospital. Could I see them, please, just for a moment?’
He narrows his eyes. ‘Who are you?’ When I don’t answer he lets out a sigh. ‘They are no longer in my possession. Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘The gold catsuit she was wearing . . .’
His expression darkens, telling me the conversation is over. He turns to walk away and I grab his arm, hoping to find some clue in the material. His duffle coat is riddled with resentfulness and apprehension; half-formed fears that have eaten into the fibres of the wool. He knows the circus is in danger. There’s a monster at the gates he has to keep out, but he doesn’t know how to fight it. The realisation makes me shiver. I knew there was something wrong about the circus, but I hadn’t considered it might be in danger.
He gives me a wary look, and I release his arm and lower my voice to a whisper. ‘I know there was more to her death.’
Harsh caws sound from the edge of the clearing. Dozens of ravens sweep the sky and blacken the treetops, calling a warning to each other.
‘Please, Karl. Something isn’t right. I just want to know what’s going on.’
His face pales. ‘I should never have let them perform the myth of Baldur.’
‘Why? Because of Loki?’
‘Never say that name. We call him the Sly One. I wouldn’t let an actor play him, but yes, I allowed his story to be told.’
A tiny pulse of excitement beats in my throat. Could he know that the gods are real too? But his coat revealed only vague fears. I watch his expression, unable to decide if his apprehension is based on mere superstition, or if he believes that Loki had something to do with Nina’s death. ‘So you think it was Lo— the Sly One’s doing?’