I peer into the room then quickly check to my left. There’s no one here, but I hate feeling that someone could creep up on my blind side. Stig must have gone the other way. I retrace my steps and cross the hall. It leads to an identical-looking area. The same black walls and mirrors; even the puppets are exact copies. I frown, a gnawing sense of unease in my belly. Maybe I’m looking at a mirrored wall? But I can’t be, as I don’t see my reflection.
‘Stig, are you in here?’
My words come back to me in a faint mocking echo. I swallow, my mouth dry, and call again. Nothing. The only sound is my own ragged breathing. There are only two ways he could have gone, so where is he? I clench my fists and spin around. Did he lead me here on purpose? Is this some kind of trick?
‘Stig, this isn’t funny.’
I start to leave when a thought occurs to me. Maybe one of the mirrors is fixed to a door and that’s where he went. I walk into the first room and a warrior with plaits in her hair strides towards me, a lightning-bolt painted on her cheek. I startle then glance down at my costume – the hardened leather breastplate and winged shoulders. The girl is me.
I touch an unsteady hand to my cheek and my reflection does the same. Ruth hasn’t tried to hide my scar or blind eye; she’s accentuated them. The unflinching woman who stands before me doesn’t just accept the way she looks; she is daringly unafraid, proud even. I take in the fierce black eyeliner and the jagged scar on her cheek that she wears like a war trophy, and I want to be her. More than anything, I want to be that girl.
I look in the second mirror and I am bizarrely elongated, my face and torso stretched out and concave. In the next my body is short and stumpy. I lean closer and my face widens until it’s barely recognisable. After the accident I hated looking at my reflection. I saw a monster, a distorted version of myself. I return to the first mirror and I’m grinning so hard I can feel the warrior girl’s confidence radiate from the glass.
I see something move out of the corner of my eye and I glance up. A troll hangs lifeless above me, its apple-red cheeks bulging in a manic grin. Something about it seems different. The swollen black tongue that lolls from its mouth . . . I’m sure it wasn’t there before. I watch for movement but the puppets are still.
I take a moment to steady my nerves then turn to my reflection. What I see makes me gasp. My face has gone, replaced by the back of my head. Cold dread creeps across my skin. I’m looking in the same mirror as before, so how can . . . ? The head slowly revolves even though I’m not moving. The girl is me, but tearful and afraid, mascara running down her cheeks. She looks at me pleadingly, her eyes full of panic. My legs tremble like I’m standing on the edge of a precipice. I stare at her – at me, unable to accept what I see.
The girl coughs and starts to choke. She touches a finger to her lips and her eyes widen as a fly crawls out. Insects swarm from her mouth – more and more, until there are hundreds, thousands of them. They circle around her, buzzing upwards in a swirling vortex. The drone of wings reverberates in my head, the noise so loud it hurts.
I want to run, but I can’t pull my gaze away from the mirror. I watch in sick fascination as the girl disintegrates and a new image forms: the shape of a man. It reminds me of a beekeeper I once saw, covered head to toe in bees. Only the insects aren’t covering him, they are him. The buzzing subsides as the flies congeal and the face becomes solid: first his forehead, then nose and mouth.
The man throws back his head and laughs; a harsh unnatural sound that makes me shudder. He holds out his arm with the flourish of a stage magician, then grabs his chin and peels up his skin to reveal a familiar face beneath. ‘Stig. How can . . . ?’ And then I realise – it wasn’t him I followed in here.
Shock gives way to fear as Stig’s face vanishes and new ones appear: men, women and children of all nationalities; a giantess with a bulbous nose, a horse, a salmon, a falcon, a fly. Quicker and quicker they change, until only one remains. The jester.
I race for the door but it slams shut. I pull and pull but it won’t open. The idea of him controlling my limbs, of being his puppet, fills me with terror.
‘Not to your liking? Perhaps this will prove more congenial.’
I return to the mirror and the image changes to a man with long red hair brushed back from his forehead. His amber eyes flicker with mischief and I catch my breath, disturbed by the wildfire that rages behind them, thrillingly alive yet devastating at the same time. His mouth twists to one side in a smile, his lips edged with tiny scars. I want to look away but I can’t. He is utterly mesmerising, like a snake.
The man in the psychic tent . . . When I touched his coat I sensed shifting sands, someone who couldn’t be trusted, someone who enjoys tangling people up in cruel games. That’s why Mum couldn’t draw him; he can change his face whenever he likes. Loki – shapeshifter and master manipulator. He’s the uninvited guest.
I clench my fists. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘Come now. You could at least try to enter into the spirit of things. Besides, it’s Odin who brought you here. He’s the one who chose you.’
‘Chose me for what?’
‘As his player, of course.’ Loki pulls a mock shocked face. ‘What, he didn’t tell you? It must have slipped his mind, but then he is rather busy and I suppose you don’t feature that highly in his priorities.’
The words burrow under my skin, even though I know not to believe a thing he says. After the sacrifices I’ve made to water the tree, the sacrifices my ancestors have made, I can’t bear to think that I mean nothing to Odin. But if he really did bring me here, why isn’t he the one talking to me?
Loki grins, as if pleased to see the confusion on my face. I clench my jaw and stare at him. ‘A player to do what exactly?’
‘Oh, I do love a wager!’ He pauses for dramatic effect then frowns. ‘He really hasn’t told you any of this, has he? Strange, I thought you would have meant more to him. In that case, allow me to enlighten you.’
He turns to his right and walks out of the mirror, reappearing in the next a moment later, his long green coat and head bizarrely elongated. ‘You know, it was Odin who first came across this place. He found it on one of his little wanders.’ He laughs and adds, ‘Now I think about it, I suppose he would be taken with a travelling circus.’ He paces back and his image returns to normal. ‘I couldn’t understand the appeal at first. Mortals play-acting at being gods!’ He leans towards the glass, his face earnest. ‘But the more I came here, the more I felt its pull. Yes, it’s just a few tatty tents in a field, but there is magic in the old myths. Who among us doesn’t want our name to be remembered, our stories to live on?’
I hate agreeing with him, but I know exactly what he means. I’ve felt the same magic too. There was something wonderful about seeing my ancestors’ history brought to life. I couldn’t have looked away from the performance, even if I’d tried.
He moves again, his coat gliding across several mirrors. I spin around and he appears in the glass behind me. ‘One day I noticed that I didn’t feature in their performances. There was a Loki mask but no one wore it. Why? Because years ago they did one of my stories and there happened to be a fire. Odin nearly laughed his beard off when he told me. He said I am usually to blame when things go wrong, so I shouldn’t hold it against them for holding me responsible.’ He presses his lips together and they turn as pale as the scars around them. ‘Yes, Odin found it most amusing.’