Stig nods and carries on. ‘When the Norns would not tell him the secrets of fate, he hung himself from the tree. At last he spied the runes in the well, and in them found the answers he sought.’ I nod for him to continue. ‘Listen to this … The sagas speak the truth when they tell how Odin hung for nine days and nights. And it is true that neither food nor water would he take. But what they do not tell is how a young weaver woman watched over him. After he cut himself down from the tree with a cry, she took him to her cabin and gave him mead and the comforts of her bed. From Aslaug did spring a line of earthly daughters –’

‘Hang on. Mormor said I had to water the tree because someone called Aslaug made a sacred vow more than a thousand years ago.’

Stig glances at me quizzically, then back at the book. ‘It says here that because Odin hung from the tree, it caused its decay to quicken – so he tasked Aslaug and her descendants to water it from the well to preserve its life.’

I stand and go to the window. The branches of the tree shiver violently in the wind; it seems more alive than ever. Surely it’s nonsense; some kind of hoax. I can’t really be descended from an ancient Norse god.

I stare at the tree, trying to untangle the knot of thoughts in my head. A black shape flies at me. I jump as it crashes into the window then disappears, leaving a smudge on the glass. I grip the counter with both hands, my knuckles white.

‘Fy faen!’

Stig grabs his coat. For a moment my legs forget how to move. Then I push my feet into my boots and rush after him, my feet slipping on the cabin steps.

Breathing hard, I trudge to the garden and see a black shape in the snow. A raven.

‘Is it …?’

Stig shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

It’s the same bird as before, I know it is. A beady black eye blinks and stares, closes and blinks again. Crouching next to it, I reach out my hand. I don’t know what to do, but I have to do something.

It gets to its feet, flaps awkwardly a little way, then lands on the snow. Perhaps it’s injured. I give chase and it takes to the air, then lands and does the same thing again. Finally it settles on a low branch of the twisted tree. It caws and caws, its eyes burning into me with murderous intensity – and this time I know what I have to do.

12

‘What do you mean, it wanted you to follow it? You don’t look well, Martha. Please, just sit down a minute.’