I stand outside the circle as the Norns take each other’s hands and begin to chant. The sound is like nothing I’ve heard before. At first a sighed whisper, wind stirring the treetops, and then growing and becoming louder, like the thrum of rain on a roof. The chant ebbs and flows, the voices merging to weave a pattern of sound.

As they sing, silver threads leap from their mouths, forming delicate shapes in the air. The chant continues to build – at once beautiful, strange, and haunting – until the strands become ropes. Letting go of one another’s hands, the Norns grab hold of the cords, passing them between themselves again and again, under and over, weaving a shimmering cloth of light. Flashes of silver shoot into the sky, making the surface of the well glimmer.

The chant ends and they turn to face me, holding the cloth between them. Each tiny thread moves and pulsates with light. The girl gestures for me to touch it. I pause, unsure, and then grasp it. A million voices cry out: men, women and children from across time and from all nations – telling me their fears, joys and sorrows.

A rush of emotion electrifies me, surging along my arm and body until my scalp tingles. The threads – they’re souls!

Sparks ignite in my chest. Every nerve ending burns as my mind races and expands. I’m spinning through clouds, flying over forests and mountains, oceans, deserts and cities. Billions of voices speak as images flash before my eyes: blood pulsating through an umbilical cord; a mud hut and a pregnant woman; a guttural scream and the cry of a newborn. The faces of the Norns, weaving energy with their song and pulling the baby’s cry into the tapestry of creation.

Then the hut is gone and I’m in the sky. Below me is a busy city street with hordes of people rushing in every direction. Shimmering silver light spirals around each person, yet at the same time they’re connected in a huge, intricate web of energy.

Understanding explodes in my head. I feel as if I’ve climbed the highest mountain and I’m looking down on all creation. I want to laugh and cry and sing with joy.

The girl raises her arm and metal glints in the half-light. I gasp as she brings her shears down on the cloth. They close with a cruel crunch, sending scraps of material spiralling like burnt ash from a bonfire. I fall to my knees with them, my heart cut in two.

All those lives lost – ended with a single cut of her shears. The old man in Delhi who died in his sleep, surrounded by his family; the teenager in Zambia shot down by soldiers; the mother in Ireland who cuddled her children as she died in a hospital bed. I feel each and every death.