I crawl towards a piece of fabric no bigger than a child’s coat. I want to gather them up and keep them safe. I want to stitch them back together. Kneeling in the snow, I stare at the darkening sky as thousands of scraps swirl and catch on the branches above me. How can such a beautiful shimmering cloth be reduced to this – to blackened scraps?

And then I see Mormor, desperately trying to catch a piece of material from the tree.

‘Mormor, it’s me, Martha!’

My heart aches. I get to my feet and rush to her.

She jumps and snatches for the cloth, even though it’s hopelessly out of her reach. ‘Please, Mormor!’ I reach out but my hand glides straight through her. She turns and her eyes are empty black orbs.

My chest hurts so much I can barely breathe. Each branch of the tree is covered with scraps of material. They sway in the breeze; a million tiny corpses. Suddenly there are hordes of people around Mormor, all of them grasping.

I turn on the Norns. ‘Why have you done this?’

Three voices speak as one. ‘These are the ones who died consumed by regret.’

I look at the pitiful figures. No one should suffer this fate.

‘Why can’t the dead rest in peace?’

The beautiful Norn looks at me, an ocean of kindness in her eyes. ‘The dead should rest with Hel until it is time for them to reincarnate, but no one tended to the tree and now it is rotting. Most of the souls that escaped were drawn to their regrets, hanging on the branches. Some will be trapped here for eternity unless you help them. Your ancestors left the underworld in search of you – they risked being lost forever, because only you can put things right.’

‘Me? But you’re the ones who control fate!’

The young girl steps forward. Her voice is as sharp as her shears. ‘The future is bound by the past. Some things cannot be changed.’

I turn back to the beautiful Norn, but she shakes her head. ‘Skuld is right. Besides, we have no power over the dead, and Hel cannot leave her realm.’

I start to ask another question, but I’m stopped by the strangeness of what I see. The three figures step together to become one. There is one cloak, one hooded face: each countenance transposed on the other two. A single woman walks to the tree and lays her palm against its trunk.

‘Wait! How do I save Mormor?’

Rough bark creeps over her hand like a scaly rash, turning her fingernails to wood. Her hand and arm disappear into the trunk, followed by her leg and torso. The wind groans as she steps into the tree and vanishes, leaving only a chill on the air.

I press my ear to the bark and a raspy voice echoes in my head, ‘Come to the tree.’

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