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West of the Moon
Katherine Langrish
An epic and action-packed fantasy adventure that weaves together Norse legends, shadowy creatures and an unforgettable hero.When Peer is orphaned he is taken by his wicked uncles to live at their foreboding mill in the shadow of Troll Fell. Here he meets beautiful and spirited Hilde and after a terrifying encounter with the sinister creatures who live below the fell the pair form an inseparable bond. They are thirsty for adventure, so when a Viking longship docks at their village, they decide to set sail for Vinland – a mysterious place across the perilous sea. But are the ship's captain and his sword wielding son really honest sailors? What creatures lurk in the shadows and forests of the new land? And will Peer and Hilde ever return?Spanning years and continents and filled with brilliantly imagined characters and creatures, this is gripping, atmospheric fantasy at its best.



West
of the
Moon
KATHERINE LANGRISH


This book is for my mother and father
Contents
Cover (#u82cc92ed-3d88-57cd-b62b-fdd2547980b7)
Title Page (#u111c1722-3ede-5a9d-9841-7982958c938a)

Part One
Chapter 1 - The Coming of Uncle Baldur
Chapter 2 - The Departure of Ralf
Chapter 3 - Talking to the Nis
Chapter 4 - Meeting Hilde
Chapter 5 - Trouble at the Mill
Chapter 6 - Trolls from the Dovrefell
Chapter 7 - Granny Greenteeth
Chapter 8 - A Day Out
Chapter 9 - More Trouble at the Mill
Chapter 10 - Bad News
Chapter 11 - The Dogfight
Chapter 12 - Stolen in the Storm
Chapter 13 - The Nis to the Rescue
Chapter 14 - Peer Alone
Chapter 15 - Torches by the Fjord
Chapter 16 - In the Hall of the Mountain King
Chapter 17 - Raising the Hill
Chapter 18 - Home

Part Two
Chapter 19 - What Happened on the Shore
Chapter 20 - A Brush with the Trolls
Chapter 21 - A Warning from the Nis
Chapter 22 - Bjørn’s Story
Chapter 23 - The Quarrel
Chapter 24 - Exploring the Mill
Chapter 25 - A Family Argument
Chapter 26 - Voices at the Mill Pond
Chapter 27 - The Nis Behaves Badly
Chapter 28 - The Nis in Disgrace
Chapter 29 - Success at the Mill
Chapter 30 - Rumours
Chapter 31 - More Rumours
Chapter 32 - The Mill Grinds
Chapter 33 - The Lubbers at Large
Chapter 34 - Under Troll Fell
Chapter 35 - The Nis Confesses
Chapter 36 - The Troll Baby at the Farm
Chapter 37 - Granny Greenteeth’s Lair
Chapter 38 - The Miller of Troll Fell
Chapter 39 - Kersten
Chapter 40 - New Beginnings

Part Three
Chapter 41 - Far Away in Vinland
Chapter 42 - Water Snake
Chapter 43 - ‘Be careful what you wish for”
Chapter 44 - The Nis Amuses Itself
Chapter 45 - The Journey Begins
Chapter 46 - The Winter Visitor
Chapter 47 - Ghost Stories
Chapter 48 - The Nis at Sea
Chapter 49 - Lost at Sea
Chapter 50 - Landfall
Chapter 51 - Spring Stories
Chapter 52 - Serpent’s Bay
Chapter 53 - Seidr
Chapter 54 - Disturbances and Tall Tales
Chapter 55 - A Walk on the Beach
Chapter 56 - Single Combat
Chapter 57 - Losing Peer
Chapter 58 - “A son like Harald”
Chapter 59 - Down the Dark River
Chapter 60 - Thorolf the Seafarer
Chapter 61 - War Dance
Chapter 62 - The Fight in the House
Chapter 63 - Death in the Snow
Chapter 64 - Peace Pipe

The background to Troll Blood
Glossary

Also by Katherine Langrish
Copyright
About the Publisher




Part One
Chapter 1
The Coming of Uncle Baldur
PEER ULFSSON STOOD at his father’s funeral pyre, watching the sparks whirl up like millions of shining spirits streaking away into the dark. The flames scorched his face, but his back was freezing. The wind slid cold fingers down his neck.
Surely this was all a bad dream? He turned, almost expecting to see his father standing behind him, his thin, tanned face carved with deep lines of laughter and life. But the sloping shingle beach ran steep and empty into the sea.
A small body bumped Peer’s legs. He reached down. His dog Loki leaned against him, a rough-haired, flea-bitten brown mongrel – all the family Peer had left.
The pyre flung violent shadows up and down the beach. Friends and neighbours crowded around it in a ring. Their faces were curves of light and hollows of darkness: the flames lit up their steaming breath like dragon-smoke. Above the fire, the air shimmered and shook. It was like looking through a magic glass into a world of ghosts and monsters – the world into which his father’s spirit was passing, beginning the long journey to the land of the dead. Was that a pale face turning towards him? A dim arm waving?
What if I see him?
Beyond the fire a shadow lurched into life. It tramped forwards, man-shaped, looming up behind the people, a sort of black haystack with thick groping arms…
Peer gave a strangled shout.
A huge man shoved his way into the circle of firelight. Elbowing the neighbours aside, he tramped right up to the pyre and turned, his boots carelessly planted in the glowing ashes. He waited, dark against the flames, until an uneasy silence fell. Then he spoke, in a high cracked voice as shrill as a whistle.
“I’ve come for the boy. Which is Ulf ’s son?”
Nobody answered. The men close to Peer edged nearer, closing ranks around him. Catching the movement, the giant turned. He lifted his head like a wolf smelling out its prey. Peer stopped breathing. Their eyes met.
The stranger bore down on him like a landslide. Enormous fingers crunched on his arm. High over his head the toneless, reedy voice piped, “I’m your uncle, Baldur Grimsson. From now on, you’ll be living with me.”
“But I haven’t got an uncle,” Peer gasped.
“I don’t like saying things twice,” the man said menacingly. “I’m your Uncle Baldur, the miller of Trollsvik.” He challenged the crowd. “You all know it’s true. Tell him – before I twist his arm off.”
Brand the shipbuilder stepped forward, shaking his head in distress. “Dear me! This – that is to say, Peer, your father did mention to me once —”
His wife Ingrid pushed in, glaring. “Let go of the boy, you brute. We all know that poor Ulf never had anything to do with you!”
“Is this my uncle?” Peer whispered. He looked up at Uncle Baldur. It was like looking up at a dark cliff. First came a powerful chest, then a thick neck, gleaming like naked rock. There was a black beard like a rook’s nest, and a face of stony slabs with bristling black eyebrows for ledges. At the top came tangled bushes of dark hair.
Against Peer’s legs Loki pulsed, growling. Any moment now, he would bite. Uncle Baldur knew it too. He looked down, and Peer read the death penalty in his face.
“Loki, quiet!” he cried in sharp fear. The little dog subsided. Uncle Baldur released Peer’s arm and inspected him. “What’s that?”
“He’s my dog, Loki.” Peer rubbed his bruised arm.
“Call that a dog?” Uncle Baldur grinned. “My dog could have ’im for breakfast!”
Brand put a protective arm around Peer’s shoulder. “You don’t need to take the boy away. We’re looking after him.”
“You are, are you? And who are you?”
“He’s the master shipbuilder of Hammerhaven, that’s who!” Ingrid snapped. “Peer’s father was his best carpenter!”
“Best of a bad lot, hey?” sneered Uncle Baldur. “Could he make a barrel that didn’t leak?”
Brand glared. “Ulf did a wonderful job on the new ship. Never put a finger wrong.”
“No? But he sliced himself with a chisel and died when it turned bad,” scoffed Uncle Baldur. “Some carpenter!”
With a bang, a piece of wood exploded in the heart of the pyre. Peer leaped forwards. “Don’t talk about my father like that! You want to know what he could do? Look there! That’s what he could do!” He pointed seawards. Uncle Baldur rocked back, off balance. High over the crowd, the fierce head and snaky neck of a dragon emerged from the darkness. The firelight glinted on its red scales and open jaws, and its goggle eyes glared threateningly at Uncle Baldur. The neck curved down swanlike and became the swooping lines of a ship, chocked upright on the beach. Behind it, ranks of dark waves rushed up the shingle.
Uncle Baldur recovered, though sweat glistened on his face. He forced a laugh. “A dragonship! A pretty toy,” he jeered, and a mutter of anger ran through the crowd. He seized Peer’s arm again. “Come along. I’m a busy man. I’ve a mill to run and no time to waste.”
“You’ll not drag the boy away from his father’s funeral?” Brand exclaimed. “Why, it’s not even over!”
And the villagers surged around, crying, “Shame!”
“Show some respect!” said Brand hotly.
Uncle Baldur grunted. Summing up the crowd with his sharp black eyes, he said at last, “Very well. I’ll stay a day or two. There’s stuff to sell, I suppose.” Jerking his head at Brand he demanded, “Has he paid your dad’s last wages – eh?”
“Of c-course he has,” Peer stammered in fury. “He’s been very k-kind – he’s arranged everything.”
“Nothing owing?” Uncle Baldur scowled. “I’ll look into that. Nobody cheats me.”
Behind him, Ulf ’s funeral pyre collapsed into a pile of glowing ash and sighed out a last stream of sparks which sped away for ever.
Eager as a pig digging for truffles, Uncle Baldur set about selling off Peer’s home. Benches, pots, blankets, Ulf ’s cherished mallets and bright chisels – he squeezed the last penny out of each deal.
Brand dared to complain. Uncle Baldur stared at him coldly and jingled the silver and copper in his pocket. “It’s mine,” he said. “Ulf owed me money.”
“That’s not true!” cried Peer.
“How would you know?” jeered his uncle. “And what’s that ring on your finger? Silver, eh? Boys don’t wear rings. Give it here.”
“No! It was my father’s!” Peer backed away, fists clenched. Uncle Baldur grabbed him, prised his fingers open and wrenched the ring off.
“Silver,” he nodded. It was too tight to fit over his own hairy knuckles, so he stuffed it in his pocket.
Fat comfortable Ingrid took Peer in and tried to mother him. “Cheer up, my pet!” She pushed a honey cake into his hand. Peer dropped it, and it disappeared into the eager jaws of Loki, lurking under the table.
“Ingrid,” he asked in desperation, “how can that fat beast be my uncle?”
Ingrid’s plump face creased into worried folds. “Oh Peer, it’s a sad story. Your father was just a boy when his own father died. His mother married the miller at Trollsvik, the other side of Troll Fell. Poor soul, she lived to regret it. The old miller was a cruel hard man. He used his fists on both of them.”
Peer flinched. “He never told me. What happened?”
“Your father ran away and never saw his mother again. But she had two more boys, and this Baldur is one of them. He’s your father’s own half-brother, though as far as I know, they never met.” Ingrid lifted her wooden bread bowl from the hearth and poured a yeasty froth into the warm flour. “But that was all long ago. I know your Uncle Baldur is very rough-spoken, and not a bit like your father, but blood is thicker than water. Surely he’ll look after you, you poor boy!”
Peer was silent. He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t I stay here with you?”
“Oh my dearie!” Ingrid cried. “We’ve thought of it. But we can’t. He’s your uncle. He’s got a right to you, and we haven’t.”
“No,” said Peer bitterly. “Of course not.”
Ingrid tried to put an arm around his shoulders. “Give your uncles a chance,” she pleaded. “Don’t you think your father would want you to try?”
“Maybe…” Peer shut his eyes on a sudden glimpse of his father, turning over a piece of oak and saying as he often did, “You’ve got to make the best of the wood you’re given, Peer. And that’s true of life, too!” He could almost smell the sweet sawdust clinging to his father’s clothes.
Loki sprang to his feet barking. The door opened and Uncle Baldur thrust his head and shoulders in. “Boy!” he squealed. “Are those chickens in the yard yours? Catch them and put them in the cart. We’re leaving. Run!”
A fine row blew up indoors as his uncle accused Ingrid of trying to steal the chickens. Peer fled outside and began stalking a fat speckled hen. Loki joined in. He dashed at the hens, which scattered, cackling. “Bad dog!” cried Peer, but Loki had lost his head and was hurtling around the yard with a mouthful of brown tail feathers.
Uncle Baldur burst out of the house. He bent down, heaved up the heavy stone doorstop and hurled it at Loki. There were two shrieks, one from Peer and the other from Loki who lay down suddenly and licked his flank, whimpering.
“You could have killed him!” Peer yelled. His uncle turned on him. “If he ever chases my chickens again, I will. Now catch them and tie them up with this.” He threw Peer a hank of twine. “Be quick!”
As Peer captured the last of the hens, Uncle Baldur tied a string around Loki’s neck. “Fasten ’im to the tail of the cart. He can run behind.”
“Can’t he ride?” Peer asked. “He’s limping...” But his voice died under Uncle Baldur’s unwinking stare, and miserably he did as he was told. Then he clambered into the cart himself.
Ingrid came out to see him off, mopping first her hands and then her eyes on her apron. “Poor lamb,” she wailed. “And Brand’s down at the shipyard and can’t even say goodbye. Whatever will he say when he hears?”
The cart creaked as Uncle Baldur climbed aboard. He took a new piece of twine from his pocket and tied one end around the rail of the cart. Then he tied the other end around Peer’s right wrist. Peer’s mouth fell open. He tried to pull away and got his ears slapped.
“What are you doing to the boy?” Ingrid shrieked.
Uncle Baldur looked round in surprise. “Got to fasten up the livestock,” he explained. “Chickens or boys – can’t have ’em escaping, running around loose.”
Ingrid opened her mouth – and shut it. Peer looked at her. See? he told her silently.
“Gee! Hoick!” Uncle Baldur cracked his whip over the oxen. The cart lurched. Peer stared resolutely ahead. He did not wave goodbye.
The steep road twisted up into low woods of birch and spruce, then into high meadows, and then stony and boggy moorland. “Garn! Grr! Hoick, hoick!” The oxen snorted, straining. The cart tilted like the deck of a ship and the chickens slid about, flapping.
“Shall I get out and walk?” Peer suggested.
His uncle ignored him. Peer muttered a bad word. He sat on a pile of sacks, his arm awkwardly tethered above his head. Over the end of the cart he could see Loki trotting along with his head and tail low. He looked miserable, but the limp had gone – he’d been faking it, Peer decided.
They came to a bend in the road. Peer looked, then pulled himself up, staring. In front, dwarfing Uncle Baldur’s bulky shoulders, the land swooped upwards. Crag above crag, upland beyond upland, in murky shouldering ridges, clotted with trees and tumbling with rockfalls, the flanks of Troll Fell rose before him. At the summit he glimpsed a savage crown of rocks, but even as he gazed, the clouds came lower. The top of Troll Fell wrapped itself in mist.
A fine cold rain began to fall, soaking through Peer’s clothes. He dragged out a sack and draped it across his shoulders. Uncle Baldur pulled up the hood of his thick cloak.
Shadowy boulders loomed out of the drizzle on both sides of the track. They seemed to stare at Peer as he huddled in the bottom of the cart. One looked like a giant’s head with shallow, scooped-out eyes. Something bolted out from underneath it as the cart passed, kicking itself up the hillside with powerful leaps. Peer sat up. What was that? Too big for a hare – and he thought he’d seen elbows…
A wind sprang up. Mud sprayed from the great wooden cartwheels. Peer clutched the sodden sack under his chin and sat jolting and shivering.
At last he realised that they were over the saddle of the hill and beginning to descend. Leaning out, he looked down into a great shadowy basin. A few faint lights freckled the valley. That must be the village of Trollsvik. He thought longingly of dry clothes, hot food and a fire. He had hardly spoken to his uncle all the way, but now he called out as politely as he could, “Uncle? How far is the mill?”
Uncle Baldur pointed. “Down among the trees yonder. A matter of half a mile. Beside the brook.” He sounded quite civil for once, and Peer was encouraged.
“Home!” his uncle added, in his shrill toad’s croak. “Lived there all me life, and me father before him, and his father before him. Millers all.”
“That’s nice,” Peer agreed between chattering teeth.
“Needs a new wheel, and the dam repaired,” complained his uncle. “If I had the money – if I had my rights –”
You’ve got my money now, Peer thought bitterly.
“– I’d be the most important man in the place,” his uncle went on. “I’m the miller. I deserve to be rich. I will be rich. Hark!”
He hauled on the reins. The track plunged between steep banks, and the cart slewed, blocking the road. Uncle Baldur twisted around, straining his thick neck and raising one hand.
“Hear that?” he muttered. “Someone’s coming…”
Who? What had Uncle Baldur heard on this wild, lonely road? What was that long burbling cry, drifting on the wind?
“You hear it?” Uncle Baldur hissed eagerly. “Could be friends of mine, boy. I’ve got some funny friends. People you’d be surprised to meet!” He giggled.
Stones clattered on the track close behind. Loki shot under the tail of the cart and Peer could hear him growling. He braced himself, skin crawling, ready to face anything – monsters or trolls.
A small, wet pony emerged from the drizzle, picking its way downhill, carrying a rider and a packsaddle. On seeing the cart, it stopped with a snort.
“Hello!” shouted the rider. “Move the cart, will you? I can’t get past.”
With a deep breath of fury, Uncle Baldur flung down the reins. He surged to his feet, teetering on the cart’s narrow step.
“Ralf Eiriksson!” he screamed. “You cheating piece of stinking offal! How dare you creep up on me, you – you crawling worm?”
“Baldur Grimsson,” the rider groaned. “Just my luck! Shift the cart, you fat fool. I want to get home.”
“Liar! Thief!” Uncle Baldur swayed, shaking his fist. “You watch out. If the trolls don’t get you, I will! You’ll steal no more. That’s finished. If the Gaffer —”
A blinding whip of lightning cracked across the sky, accompanied by a heart-stopping jolt of thunder. The rain came down twice as hard. Uncle Baldur threw himself back on his seat and shook the reins. The oxen plodded forwards. The rider trotted past without another word and struck off along an even rougher track that led off to the right.
Peer clung to the side of the cart.
Well, that’s it, he said to himself. Uncle Baldur is mad. Completely crazy.
Sick with cold, he tried to picture his father’s bright, kind eyes – his thin shoulders hunched from bending over chisel and plane. What would he say now, if only he knew?
He’d say, ‘Keep your heart up!’ After all, I’ve got another uncle at the mill. Maybe he’ll take after my side of the family. Maybe – just maybe – he’ll be a little like Father. There can only be one Uncle Baldur…
The cart rattled down the last slope and trundled over a shaky wooden bridge. “Gee!” howled Uncle Baldur, his voice almost lost in the roar of the water hurtling beneath. On the other side of the bridge, Peer saw the mill, crouching dismally on the bank with dripping thatch and sly little black windows. Wild trees pressed around it, tossing despairing arms in the wind. Uncle Baldur drove the cart into a pinched little yard. Ahead was a line of mean-looking sheds, and on the other side lurked a dark barn with a gaping entrance like an open mouth.
The weary oxen splashed to a halt. A wolf-like baying broke out from some unseen dog. Uncle Baldur dropped the reins and stretched his arms till the joints cracked.
“Home!” he proclaimed, jumping down. He strode across to the door of the mill and kicked it open. Frail firelight leaked out. “Grim!” he called triumphantly. “I’m back. And I’ve got him!” The door banged shut. Peer sat out in the rain, shivering with hope and fear.
“Grim,” he muttered. “Uncle Grim will be different, I know he will. There can’t be another Uncle Baldur.”
The latch lifted with a noisy click. A new, deep voice said loudly, “Let’s take a look at him, then!”
The mill door swung slowly open. Out strode the burly shape of Uncle Baldur. At his heels trod someone else – someone unbelievably familiar. Flabbergasted, Peer squinted through the rain. It couldn’t be true! But it was, and there was nothing left to hope for. He shook his head in horrified despair.
Chapter 2
The Departure of Ralf
IN A SMALL damp farmhouse higher up the valley, Hilde threw down her knitting. Her eyes ached from peering at the stitches in the firelight. And she was worried.
“Ma? He’s so late. Do you think he’s all right?”
Before Gudrun could answer, the wind pounced on the house as if trying to tear it loose from the hillside. Eerie voices wailed and chattered outside as rain lashed the closed wooden shutters. It was a night for wolves, trolls, bears. And Hilde’s father was out there, riding home over the shaggy black shoulder of Troll Fell. Even if he was hurt or in trouble, she and her mother could only wait, anxiously listening, while her grandfather dozed fitfully by the fire. But then she heard the clop and clatter of the pony’s feet trotting into the yard.
“At last!” said Gudrun, smiling. And Hilde ran out into the wild, wet night.
“I’m back!” Ralf threw her the reins. His long blond hair was plastered to his head, and his boots and leggings were covered in mud.
“You’re soaking! I’ll rub the pony down. You go in and get dry,” said Hilde, leading the steaming animal into the stable. Ralf came with her to unbuckle the packs. “How was the trip?”
“Fine! I got everything your mother wanted from the market. It’s been a long day, though. And I overtook that madman Baldur Grimsson coming back over Troll Fell.”
“What happened?” asked Hilde sharply.
“Oh, he yelled a few insults, as usual. That’s not my news. Hilde —” Ralf stopped and gave her a strange look, excited yet apprehensive.
“What? What is it?” Hilde stopped grooming the pony.
“There’s a new ship in the harbour! A new longship, ready to sail! And I – well, no, I’d better tell your mother first. Be quick as you can, now, and you’ll soon hear all about it.” He tugged her long hair and left her.
What was he up to? Hilde rubbed the pony dry and threw down fresh straw, hurrying so she could get back to the family. It was creepy in the stable with the wind howling outside. The lantern cast huge shadows. Whistling to keep up her courage, she turned to the door – and saw with horror a thin black arm come through the loophole and grope about for the latch. She screamed and hit it with the broom. It vanished.
“Trolls!” Hilde hissed. “Not again!” Clutching the broom she waited a moment, recovered her breath, tiptoed to the door and peered out.
Falling rain glittered in the doorway. A black shadow shifted in the mud. Squatting there, its knees up past its ears, was a thing about the size of a large dog. She saw a fat paunchy body slung between long legs, and damp bald skin twitching in the rain. Glowing yellow eyes blinked from a wrinkled pug face. For one fascinated second they stared at each other, troll and girl; then Hilde was splattered with mud as the troll sprang away in a couple of long, liquid jumps.
Hilde flew across the yard and wrenched open the farmhouse door to tell everyone about it. She tumbled straight into a colossal row.
“I never heard such a ridiculous idea in my WHOLE LIFE,” Hilde’s mother was yelling at Ralf. “You’re a FARMER, not some sort of VIKING!”
Hilde let go of the door. It slammed behind her with a deafening bang. And so she forgot about the troll, and didn’t see it leap as suddenly as a frog on to the low eaves of their thick turf roof and go scrambling up to the ridge.
“Why should it be ridiculous?” Ralf bellowed back. “That’s what half these fellows ARE – farmers and Vikings!”
“Ma – Pa – stop it!” cried Hilde. “What’s happening? Stop it – you’ll wake the little ones!”
In fact the twins were already awake – and bawling.
The wind managed an extra strong blast. All the birch trees growing up the sides of Troll Fell reeled and danced. Up on the roof the troll clung on, whimpering, and one of its large black ears blew inside out like a dog’s. It squirmed along to where a hole had been cut out to let smoke escape, and peered over at the fierce red eye of the fire. It pulled back, coughing and chattering to itself: “Hutututu!” But the sound was lost in a rattle of sleet that fell hissing into the flames.
“Very well,” said Gudrun, suddenly deadly quiet. “Let’s see what your father thinks about his only son sailing off on a longship into storms and whirlpools and goodness knows what. It will break his heart!”
“Why don’t you let him speak for himself?” Ralf roared. “And why don’t you give us both some supper? Starving us while you nag at me!”
Hilde glanced at her grandfather, Eirik, and saw his eye brighten at the suggestion of supper. Gudrun saw it too. She fetched them both a jug of ale and a bowl of groute, warm barley porridge, served as Eirik liked it with a big lump of butter.
“Eirik, tell Ralf what you think of this mad idea,” she demanded, twisting her hands in her apron. “He’ll listen to you.”
But Eirik’s face lit up. “Aha, if only I were a young fellow again. A brand-new ship! Long Serpent, they’re calling her. Oh, to sail away east of the sun and west of the moon! To follow the whales’ road, seeking adventure!” He tasted his groute. “The whales’ road – d’you know what that means, Hilde, my girl?”
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Hilde kindly. “It’s the sea.”
Eirik broke into a chant from some long saga he was making about Harald the Seafarer, waving his spoon to the beat. While Hilde clapped softly in time, Ralf tiptoed over to the twins, five-year old Sigurd and Sigrid. He sat down between them, an arm round each, and whispered. Suddenly they came jumping out of bed.
“Pa’s going to be a Viking!” they shrieked.
“He’s going to bring us presents!”
“An amber necklace!”
“A real dagger!”
“Ralf!” Gudrun whirled around. “Stop bribing those children!”
Eirik’s poem reached its climax, all dead heroes and burning ships. He sat back happily. Ralf cheered. Gudrun glared at him.
“Oh, that’s a fine way to end, isn’t it – floating face down in the water? And who’ll look after the farm while you’re away? What about the sheep? You know somebody’s stealing them: three lambs gone already. It’s the trolls, or those Grimsson brothers down at the mill. They’re all troublemakers. We can’t spare you!”
Up on the roof the troll remembered the flavour of roast lamb. It licked its lips with a thin black tongue.
“Speaking of the millers,” Ralf began, clearly hoping to change the subject, “did I tell you I met Baldur Grimsson tonight as I came home? The man’s a fool. He sat in his cart in the pouring rain, shouting at me.”
“Why did he shout at you, Pa?” asked Sigrid, wide eyed.
“Because he doesn’t like me,” Ralf grinned.
“Why not?”
“It’s all because of Pa’s golden cup,” said Hilde wisely. “Isn’t it?”
“That’s right, Hilde,” said Ralf with relish. “He’d love to get his hands on that. My troll treasure, my lucky cup!”
“Unlucky cup, more like,” Gudrun sniffed. But Sigurd and Sigrid jumped up and down begging, “Tell us the story, Pa!”
“All right!” Ralf scooped the twins on to his knees. “One wild night just like this, about ten years ago, I was riding home from the market at Hammerhaven, and halfway over Troll Fell, wet and weary, I saw a bright light glowing from the top of the crag and heard snatches of music gusting on the wind.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” Gudrun muttered.
“I was in one of our own fields, the high one called the Stonemeadow. I trotted the pony up the slope to see what was happening. Well, if you’ll believe me, the whole rocky summit of the hill had been lifted up, like a great stone lid! It was resting on four stout red pillars, and underneath was a space shining with golden light, and hundreds of trolls, all shapes and sizes, skipping and dancing.”
“How could they lift the whole top of Troll Fell, Pa?” asked Sigurd.
“As easily as you take off the top of your egg,” joked Ralf. He sobered. “Who knows what powers they have, my son? I only tell you what I saw with my own eyes. They had all sorts of food spread out on gold and silver dishes, and little troll servingmen jumping about between the dancers, balancing great loaded trays and never spilling a drop. It made me laugh out loud!
“I was so busy staring, I never noticed this troll girl creeping up on me till she popped up right by the pony’s shoulder. She held out a beautiful golden cup brimful of something steaming hot – spiced ale, I thought. I took it gratefully, cold and wet as I was.”
“Madness,” muttered Gudrun.
“Just before I gulped it down,” Ralf said slowly, “I noticed a gleam in her slanting eyes, a wicked sparkle! And her ears – her hairy, pointed ears – twitched forwards.”
“Go on!” said the children breathlessly.
Ralf leaned forward. “I lifted the cup, as if to take a sip. Then I threw the whole drink out over my shoulder. It splashed out smoking on to the pony’s tail and singed off half his hair! There’s an awful yell from the troll girl, and next thing the pony and I are off down the hill, galloping for our lives. I’m still clutching the golden cup, and half the trolls of Troll Fell are tearing after us!”
Soot showered into the fire. Up on the roof the troll lay flat with one large ear unfurled over the smoke hole. It lashed its tail like a cat, and growled. None of the humans noticed. They were too wrapped up in the story. Ralf wiped his face, trembling with remembered excitement, and laughed.
“I daren’t go home,” he continued. “The trolls would have torn your mother and Hilde to pieces!”
“What about us?” shouted Sigurd.
“You weren’t born, brats,” said Hilde cheerfully. “Go on, Pa!”
“I had one chance,” said Ralf. “At the tall stone called the Finger, I turned off the road and galloped across the big ploughed field above the mill. The trolls found it slow going over the furrows, and the clay clogged their feet. I reached the millstream ahead of them, jumped off and dragged the pony through the water. There was no bridge then. I was safe! The trolls couldn’t follow me over the brook.”
“Were they angry?” asked Sigurd.
“Spitting like cats and hissing like kettles!” said Ralf. “But it was nearly dawn, and off they scuttled up the hill. I staggered over to the mill, and as I banged on the door I heard – no, I felt, through the soles of my feet, a sort of far-off grating shudder as the top of Troll Fell sank into its place again.”
“And then?” prompted Hilde.
“The old miller, Grim, threw the door open, swearing at me for knocking so early. Then he saw the golden cup. A minute later he couldn’t do enough for me. He kicked his sons out of bed, sent his wife running for ale and bread, and it was, “Sit down, Ralf, toast your feet and tell us everything!”
“And you did!” said Gudrun grimly.
“Of course I did,” sighed Ralf. He turned to Hilde. “Fetch down the cup, Hilde. Let’s look at it again!”
The troll on the roof skirmished around the smoke hole like a dog at a rabbit-burrow, trying to get an upside-down glimpse of the golden goblet, which Hilde lifted from the shelf and carried to her father.
“Lovely!” Ralf whispered, tilting it. The bowl was wide. Two handles like serpents looped from the rim to the foot. The gold shone in the firelight as if it might melt over his fingers like butter.
“It’s so pretty!” said Sigrid. “Why don’t we ever use it?”
“Use that?” cried Gudrun in horror. “Never! It’s real bad luck, you mark my words. Many a time I’ve asked your father to take it back up the hill and leave it. But he’s too stubborn.”
“Gudrun!” Ralf grumbled. “Always worrying! Who’d believe my story without this cup? My prize, won fair and square. Bad luck goes to people with bad hearts. We have nothing to fear.”
“Did the old miller like it?” asked Sigurd.
“Oh yes! ‘Troll treasure!’ said old Grim. ‘We could use a bit of that, couldn’t we, boys?’ The way he was looking at it made me uneasy. After all, no one knew where I was. I got up to go – and there were the boys in front of me, blocking the door, and old Grim behind me, picking up a log from the woodpile!” Ralf looked grim. “If it hadn’t been for Bjørn and Arne Egilsson coming to the door that moment with a sack of barley to grind, I might have been knocked on the head for this cup.”
“And that’s why the millers hate us?” said Hilde. “Because we’ve got the cup and they haven’t?”
“There’s more to it than that,” said Gudrun. “Old Grim was crazy to have that cup, or something like it. Next day he came round pestering your father to sell him the Stonemeadow. He thought if he owned it, he could dig it up for treasure.”
“I turned him down flat,” said Ralf. “‘If there’s any treasure up there,’ I told him, ‘it belongs to the trolls and they’ll be guarding it. Leave well alone!’”
“Now that was sense,” said Gudrun. “But what happened? Old Grim tells everyone that your father’s cheated him – taken his money and kept the land!”
“A dirty lie!” said Ralf, reddening.
“But old Grim’s dead now, isn’t he?” asked Hilde.
“Yes,” said Ralf, “he died last winter. But do you know why? Because he hung about on that hill in all weathers, hoping to find the way in, and he got caught in a snowstorm.”
“His sons found him,” added Gudrun, “lying under a crag, clawing at the rocks. Weeping that he’d found the gate, and could hear the gatekeeper laughing at him from inside the hill. They carried him back to the mill, but he was too far gone. They blamed your father, of course.”
“That’s not fair!” said Hilde.
“It’s not fair,” said Gudrun, “but it’s the way things are. Which makes it madness for your father to be thinking of taking off on a foolhardy voyage. Ralf,” she begged, “you know these trips are a gamble. Don’t go!”
Ralf scratched his head. “I want some adventure, Gudrun. All my life I’ve lived here, in this one little valley. I want new skies – new seas – new places.” He looked at her pleadingly. “Can’t you see?”
“All I can see,” Gudrun flashed, “is that you want to desert us, and throw away good money on a selfish pleasure trip.”
Ralf went scarlet. “If the money worries you, sell this!” he roared, brandishing the golden cup. “It’s gold, it will fetch a good price, and I know you’ve always hated it! But I’m sailing on that longship!”
“You’ll drown!” Gudrun sobbed. “And all the time I’m waiting and waiting for you, you’ll be riding over Hel’s bridge with the rest of the dead!”
There was an awful silence.
Ralf put the cup down and took Gudrun by the shoulders. He gave her a little shake and said gently, “You’re a wonderful woman, Gudrun. I married a grand woman, sure enough. But I’ve got to take this chance of going a-Viking.”
The gale buffeted the house. Draughts crept moaning under the door. Gudrun drew a long, shaky breath. “When do you go?”
Ralf looked at the floor. “Tomorrow morning,” he admitted in a low voice. “I’m sorry, Gudrun. The ship sails tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” Gudrun’s lips whitened. She turned her face against Ralf ’s shoulder and shuddered. “Ralf, Ralf! It’s no weather for sailors!”
“This will blow itself out by morning,” Ralf consoled her.
Up on the roof, the troll lost interest. It sat riding the ridge, waving its arms in the wind and calling loudly, “Hoooo! Hututututu!”
“How the wind shrieks!” said Gudrun. She took the poker and stirred up the fire. A stream of sparks shot through the smoke hole, and the startled troll threw itself backwards and rolled off the roof. Then it prowled inquisitively round the buildings, leaving odd little eight-toed footprints in the mud. The farmhouse door had a horseshoe nailed over it. The troll wouldn’t go near that. But it pried into every other corner of the farmyard, leaving smears of bad luck, like snail-tracks, on everything it touched.
Chapter 3
Talking to the Nis
AFTER THE FIRST stunned moment, Peer began to laugh – tight, hiccupping laughter that hurt his chest.
Uncle Grim and Uncle Baldur were identical twins. Same barrel chests and muscular, knotted arms. Same mean little eyes peering from masses of black tangled beard and hair. Uncle Baldur was still wrapped in his wet cloak, however, while his brother seemed to have been eating supper, for he was holding a knife with a piece of meat skewered to the point.
“Shut up,” he said to Peer. “And get down.” Only the voice was different – deep and rough.
With a stitch in his side from laughing – or sobbing – Peer held up his wrist, still tethered to the side of the cart. Uncle Grim snapped the twine with a contemptuous jerk. He sucked the meat off his knife, licked the blade, and severed the string holding Loki. “Now get down,” he ordered through his food. He turned to his brother as Peer jumped stiffly into the mud. “Not much, is he?”
“But he’ll do,” grunted Uncle Baldur. “Here!” He thrust the lantern at Peer. “Take this. Put the oxen in the stalls. Put the hens in the barn. Feed them. Move!” He threw an arm over Grim’s shoulder and as the two of them slouched away, Peer heard Baldur saying, “What’s in the pot? Stew? I’ll have some of that!” The door shut.
Peer stood in the rain with the lantern. All desire to laugh left him. Loki whined, his head on one side. “Come on, boy,” said Peer wearily. “Let’s get on with it.”
He unloaded the hens and set them loose on the barn floor, where an arrogant black cockerel came strutting to inspect them. Then he unhitched the oxen and gave them some hay. Loki curled up in the straw and fell asleep. Peer decided to leave him there. There had been a big dog barking inside the mill, and he hadn’t forgotten what Uncle Baldur had said about his dog eating Loki. Taking the lantern, he set off across the yard. It had stopped raining, and tatters of cloud blew wildly overhead.
Not a glimmer of light escaped from the mill. Peer hoped his uncles hadn’t locked him out. Cold, damp and hungry, he hesitated on the step, afraid to go in. Voices mumbled inside. What were they saying? Was it about him? He put his ear to the door and listened.
“There wasn’t much,” Baldur was saying.
“Count it anyway,” said Grim’s deep voice, and Peer realised they were counting the money Baldur had made from the sale.
“Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, in copper and silver,” Baldur finished. “Lock it up! We don’t want the boy finding it.”
“It’s my money, you thieves,” Peer whispered furiously. A lid creaked open and crashed shut. They had hidden the money in some chest. If he walked in now, he might see where it was.
“About the boy,” said Baldur, and Peer glued his ear to the wet wood. Unfortunately Baldur was walking about, for he could hear feet clumping to and fro, and the words came in snatches.
“…time to take him to the Gaffer?” Peer heard, and, “…no point taking him yet. Plenty of time before the wedding.”
What wedding? And who’s the Gaffer? Peer applied his ear to the door again. A succession of thuds sounded like both of his uncles taking their boots off and kicking them across the room. He heard Grim say loudly, “At least we’ll get some work out of him first,” and this seemed to end the discussion.
Peer straightened up and scratched his head. But it was too cold to stand around wondering. The wind bit his ears and a fresh rain shower rattled out of the sky. Inside the mill Baldur was saying, “Hasn’t that pesky lad finished yet?” Hastily Peer knocked and lifted the latch.
With a blood-curdling bellow, the most enormous dog Peer had ever seen launched itself from the fireside directly at his throat. Uncle Grim stuck out a casual hand and yanked the monster backwards, roaring, “Down, Grendel! Come in and shut the door,” he added roughly to Peer. “Let him smell you. Then he’ll know you.”
Grendel was taller than a wolf. His brindled coat stood up in a thick ruff of fur over his shoulders and down his spine. He smelled Peer’s outstretched fingers, grumbling distrustfully. “Best dog in the valley,” boasted Uncle Grim, giving him an affectionate slap. “Wins every fight: a real killer!”
Thank goodness I didn’t bring Loki in, Peer thought with a shudder as he looked about. The narrow smoke-stained room was a jumble of rickety furniture, bins, barrels and old tools. A sullen fire smouldered in the middle of the floor, and Uncle Baldur sat beside it on a stool, guzzling stew from a bowl in his lap and toasting his vast hairy toes over the embers. Two bunk beds, set into alcoves, trailed tangles of dirty blankets on to the floor.
At the end of the room a short ladder led up to a kind of loft with a raised platform for the millstones. In the shadows Peer could make out the mill machinery, hoists and hoppers, chains and hooks. A huge pair of iron scales hung from the roof. Swags of rope looped from beam to beam.
Cobwebs clung everywhere to the walls, loaded with old flour. Underfoot, the dirt floor felt spongy and damp. A sweetish smell of ancient bran and mouldy grain mingled with the stink of Uncle Baldur’s cheesy feet and a lingering odour of stew.
Peer swallowed. He said faintly, “I did what you said, Uncle. I fed the animals and put them away. Is – is there any stew?”
“Over there,” his uncle grunted, jerking his head at a black iron pot sitting in the embers. Peer looked in. It was nearly empty.
“But it’s all gone,” he said in dismay.
“All gone?” Uncle Baldur’s face blackened. “All gone? This boy’s been spoilt, Grim. I can see that. The boy’s been spoilt.”
“Plenty left,” growled Grim. “Wipe out the pot with bread and be thankful!”
Peer knelt. He found a dry heel of bread and scraped it around inside the pot. There was no meat, barely a spoonful of gravy and few fragments of onion, but the warmth of the iron pot was comforting, and he chewed the bread hungrily, saving a scrap for Loki. When at last he looked up he found Uncle Baldur staring at him. His uncle’s dark little eyes glittered, and he buried his thick fingers in his beard and scratched, rasping slowly up and down.
Peer stared back uneasily. His uncle’s face turned purple. He convulsed. He doubled up, choking, and slapped his knees. “Hee, hee,” he gasped. “Ha, ha! Oh dear. Look at him!” He pointed at Peer. “Look at him, Grim! Some might call him a bad bargain, but to me – to me, he’s worth his weight in gold!”
The brothers howled. “That’s good!” Grim roared, punching Baldur’s shoulder. “Worth his weight in – oh, very good!”
Peer gave them a dark glance. Whatever the joke was, it was clearly not a friendly one. He pretended to yawn. “I’m tired, Uncle. Where do I sleep?”
“Eh?” Uncle Baldur turned to him, wiping tears of laughter from his hairy cheeks. “The lad’s tired, Grim. He wants to sleep.”
Uncle Grim lumbered to his feet. He burrowed into a corner under the loft, kicked aside a couple of dusty baskets and a crate, and revealed a small wooden door not more than three feet high. Peer followed warily. Uncle Grim opened the little door. Behind it was blackness, a strong damp smell, and a sound of trickling water.
Before Peer could protest, Uncle Grim grabbed him and thrust him through the door into the dark space beyond. Peer pitched on to his face. With a flump, a pile of mouldy sacks landed on his legs. “You can sleep on those!” his uncle shouted.
Peer kicked his legs free, scrambled up and hit his head a stunning blow. Stars spangled the darkness. He felt about and found a huge rounded beam of wood and the cold blunt teeth of some enormous cogwheel. He was in with the machinery under the millstones! A thin line of light indicated the closed door. “Let me out!” He pounded on it, shrieking. “Let me out, let me out!”
The rotten catch gave way. The door sprang open, a magical glimpse of firelight and safety. Peer crawled out and leaped to his feet. Uncle Baldur advanced upon him.
“No!” Peer cried. “Don’t make me sleep in there! I’ll sleep in the barn! Please! Don’t make me!”
Uncle Baldur stopped. “What’s wrong with it? It’s not that bad.”
“It’s too dark! Too dark and cramped. I can’t breathe,” panted Peer, his heart still pounding.
His uncles stared. Baldur began to grin. “Too dark?” His grin developed into a chuckle. “D’you hear that, Grim? He’s afraid of the dark. The boy’s afraid of the dark!”
For the second time that night, the brothers roared with laughter. They pounded each other on the back and choked and staggered about. At last Uncle Baldur recovered. The old bad-tempered scowl settled back on his face.
“So go sleep in the barn, Faintheart!” he snarled, throwing himself into his bunk.
With flaming cheeks, Peer tiptoed to the door. He had to step over Grendel, who opened a glinting red eye and wrinkled his lip to show a tooth. He shut the door as quickly and quietly as he could, and crossed the yard. The sky had cleared and the moon had risen.
The barn felt high and sweet and airy. Peer pulled crackling straw over his knees and woke Loki, who gobbled the crust Peer had saved. A few bright strips of moonlight lay across the floor. Cold and exhausted Peer lay back, his arm around Loki, and fell into uneasy dreams.
He dreamed of a little voice, panting and muttering to itself. “Up we go! Up we go! Here we are!” There was scrabbling, like rats in the rafters, and a smell of porridge. Peer rolled over.
“Up we go,” muttered the hoarse little voice again, and then more loudly, “Move over, you great fat hen. Budge, I say!” A roosting hen fell off the rafter with a squawk and minced indignantly away. Peer sat up. He could see only black shapes and shadows.
“Aaah!” A long sigh from overhead set his hair on end. There came a sound of lapping or slurping. Peer listened, fascinated.
“No butter!” the little voice complained. “No butter in me groute!” It mumbled to itself in disappointment. “The cheapskates, the skinflints, the hard-hearted misers. But wait! Maybe the butter’s at the bottom. Let’s find out.” The slurping began again. Then a sucking sound, as if the person – whoever it was – had scraped the bowl with its fingers and was licking them off. There was a pause.
“No butter,” sulked the voice in deep displeasure. A wooden bowl dropped out of the rafters on to Peer’s head.
“Ow!” said Peer.
There was a gasp and a scuffle. Next time the voice spoke it was from a far corner.
“Who’s there?” it quavered.
“I’m Peer Ulfsson,” said Peer. “Who are you?”
“Nobody,” said the voice quickly. “Nobody at all.”
“I think you’re a Nis,” said Peer. A Nis was a sort of house spirit. Peer had heard of them, but never expected to meet one. “Are you a Nis?” he persisted.
There was a bit of a silence. “What if I am?” the voice asked huffily.
“Didn’t they give you any butter?” Peer asked, hoping to make friends.
This set the creature off. “Plain groute!” it exclaimed. “Nary a bit of butter for poor Nithing, but plain barley porridge. Me that does half the work around here, me that sweeps and dusts, me that polishes away cobwebs!” Recalling the dirt he had seen earlier, Peer doubted that it did any of these things well, but he did not say so.
“And they has mountains of butter,” went on the Nis, working itself up, “in the dairy. In a wooden barrel,” it added darkly, “to keep off cats and mice and the likes of me. Plain groute they puts in my bowl by the fire, and I sees it, and I fetches it away, and I tastes it – and no butter!”
“I know how you feel,” said Peer, “they didn’t leave me any stew, either.”
“No butter.” It was still brooding over its wrongs. “Could you get me butter?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Peer gloomily, “if they caught me stealing butter I should think they’d half kill me. I don’t suppose I’m going to get much to eat here. I’m sorry,” he added.
“Have an egg!” said the Nis with a squeak of laughter. And it spoke no more that night.
In the morning when Peer woke up, he wondered if it had been a dream. Then he felt something in the straw just under his hand. It was a smooth brown hen’s egg. Loki looked eagerly at it, ears pricked. He knew what an egg was.
“Thanks!” said Peer to the rafters. He broke the egg for Loki, who lapped it up as noisily as the Nis, while Peer stretched and brushed straw from his clothes.
“Come on, Loki,” he said, pushing the barn door open. “Let’s go and explore!”
Chapter 4
Meeting Hilde
THE SKY WAS fresh and clear. It was still very early. Peer splashed through the puddles, keeping a wary eye on the silent mill with its blind shutters and tattered thatch. A dismal thread of smoke wavered from the roof and trickled into the yard. There was no sign of anyone about.
Peer walked around the end of the building to the bridge. He leaned on the rail, looking upstream at the big wooden waterwheel. It towered higher than his head, its dark teeth dripping. A cold breath came off the water, which flowed listlessly under the bridge in inky creases.
He crossed over and turned up the bank to visit the millpond. It was a gloomy place, even on this bright morning. Patches of green slime rotated on the dark water, which seemed hardly to move except at the very edge of the weir. Peer sniffed. There was a damp reek in the air.
He walked further, till his way was blocked by a narrow, deep-cut channel, fed by an open sluice in the side of the millpond. The water sprayed in a glittering arc over a sill slotted between wooden posts, and dashed noisily away to join the tailrace below the bridge.
Loki had run off, nosing into the reeds with his tail high. He dashed back and jumped at Peer with muddy paws.
“Down!” Peer pushed him off. “Phew. That stinks!” It was thick, black mud, the sort that dries to a hard grey shell. He tried to wipe Loki’s paws with a handful of grass, and Loki tried to help by lavishly licking his own paws and Peer’s fingers. In the middle of this mess Peer heard a pony coming down the lane towards the mill.
A girl of about his own age was riding it, brightly dressed in a blue woollen dress with red stitching. On her head she wore a jaunty red and yellow cap, and her hair was done in two long plaits tied with pieces of red and blue ribbon. She sat sideways on the shaggy little pony, with a basket on her knee. Her eyes widened when she saw Peer, and she pulled the pony to a stop. “Hello! Who are you?”
Peer tried to wipe his muddy hands on his clothes. “My name’s Peer. Peer Ulfsson.”
“Ulf’s son?” said the girl. “Now wait, I know everyone, don’t tell me. I’ll get it. Yes! There was an Ulf who was old Grim’s stepson. Is that him?”
Peer nodded. “But he died last week,” he told her. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Peer. Is that why you’re here? Have you —”
“I’ve come to live with my uncles. Yes.”
“That’s terrible for you!” the girl cried. “Whoops!” She clapped a hand over her mouth, but her eyes gleamed. “Perhaps you like them?”
“Not much,” said Peer cautiously. “Who are you?”
“Hilde, Ralf ’s daughter,” said Hilde with a flourish. “Ours is the highest farm in the dale; we own most of the north side of Troll Fell. Come and visit! You won’t meet my father, Ralf, though, because he went away this morning. He’s gone off to Hammerhaven to join some wretched new dragonship they’ve built, and my mother’s really upset. What’s wrong? What have I said?”
“Nothing,” Peer growled. “My father helped to build that ship. That’s all!”
Hilde went red. “Sorry,” she said awkwardly. “Pa says the ship is wonderful. He’s so proud to be sailing on her… Is that your dog?” She pointed suddenly at Loki. “Don’t let him near the millpond.”
“Why not? He can swim.”
“I know, but Granny Greenteeth lives in there. That’s why there aren’t any ducks or moorhens. She pulls them under and eats them. So people say.”
“Really?” Peer looked at the sullen brown water with its oily reflections. It was easy to believe that Hilde could be right.
“What’s she like?” he asked.
“She has green teeth, of course,” said Hilde. “Pointed. Green weedy hair. I’ve never seen her, but a man in the village has. He met an enormous eel one night, sliding along through the grass – and that was her, too!”
“How did he know?” Peer asked reasonably.
“He just did! And that’s not all,” said Hilde. “There are all sorts of spooky stories about this mill. I don’t envy you, living here. The Grimssons think they are so important, just because they’re the millers, and yet the mill only runs once in a while. They’re always cheating people and not giving fair measure. They won’t touch our corn any more. We have to grind it at home with the hand mill.”
“Why’s that?” Peer began to think he didn’t like this girl. Couldn’t she say anything good about the place?
“We have a feud with them,” said Hilde. “They claim they own one of our fields. They don’t, of course.” She grinned at him. “If you’re their nephew, I suppose that means we have a feud with you, too.”
“A feud!” Peer exclaimed. “And your father’s called Ralf? I think I saw him last night. Didn’t he come over Troll Fell in all that rain?”
“You were there? Pa never said. What happened exactly?”
“It was so dark he probably didn’t see me,” Peer told her. “I was in the bottom of the cart, getting soaked. As soon as my uncle saw your father, he went crazy. He jumped up and started calling him names —”
“What sort of names?”
“A crawling worm, and a thief —”
“Did he?” Hilde flashed.
Peer shrugged. “You asked. It’s not my fault. Anyway, if you hate the millers so much, why are you here this morning?”
Hilde laughed. “I’m not coming to your precious mill. I’m riding down to the village.” She patted her basket. “I’m going to see Bjørn the fisherman, and trade some cheese and butter. Mother wants fish, and my grandfather fancies a roast crab for his tea.”
Cheese! Butter! Roast crabs! Peer swallowed. He realised how terribly hungry he felt. His downcast look must have touched Hilde, for she said in a more friendly way, “I hope you’ll like living here. Your uncles will give you an easy time at first, won’t they? I know! I can bring our barley to you now. If you don’t tell your uncles who it’s from, maybe they’ll grind it for us. That would be a joke!”
“I don’t think I could,” said Peer, alarmed. He felt sure that her jokes could get him into a lot of trouble.
“I didn’t mean it,” said Hilde impatiently. She gave him a look, plainly wondering how anyone could be so dull and serious, and Peer flushed. Hilde waved. “I’ll be seeing you!” she cried.
She rode over the bridge and on down the hill. Peer blew out his cheeks.
“Who cares what she thinks?” he muttered. “Eh, Loki?” He called Loki to heel and trailed back to the yard. The mill door was open, and he saw one of his uncles standing dishevelled in the morning sunshine, scratching under his arms and staring at Hilde as her pony picked its neat-footed way down the road to the village. He summoned Peer with a jerk of the head.
“Were you talking to that lass?”
“Yes, Uncle Grim,” said Peer meekly.
He received a slap that made his head ring. “That’s for chattering and wasting time,” growled his uncle. “What did she say?”
“If you don’t want me to talk to her, why do you want to know?” asked Peer angrily, rubbing his ear. Uncle Grim lifted his hand again.
“Oh well, let me see,” said Peer with an edge to his voice. “She asked me who I was. I told her my name. Then she said her name is Hilde, and she welcomed me to the dale, which she seems to think she owns. Isn’t this interesting?”
Uncle Grim didn’t seem to notice sarcasm. “What else?”
Peer wasn’t going to repeat what Hilde had said about the millers. He racked his brains for something else. “Oh yes,” he remembered. “She said her father went away this morning. He’s going a-Viking for the summer, on the new longship.”
Uncle Grim’s black beard split open in a wide grin, showing a set of brown and yellow teeth. “Has he, indeed? Baldur!” he bellowed. “Ralf Eiriksson has gone a-Viking. Leaving his family all alone!” He clapped Peer on the back. “Maybe you’ll be useful after all, sonny!”
With a sinking heart Peer followed his uncle indoors. Loki trotted at his heels. And Grendel, sprawled out beside the fire, saw Loki. He surged to his feet like a hairy earthquake and crept forwards growling, eyes riveted on the intruder, strings of saliva drooling from his jaws. Peer whirled in alarm. Loki stood there, his tail wagging slower and slower as he lost confidence.
“Down Grendel! Down!” cried Peer.
“He’ll not listen to you,” said Uncle Baldur scornfully from the table.
“Tell him Loki’s a friend,” Peer begged, trying to bundle Loki backwards out of the door. “Can’t we introduce them, or something?”
In no hurry, Uncle Baldur finished his mouthful. “Down, Grendel,” he ordered. The huge dog flicked a glance at his master.
“Get down, sir!” screamed Uncle Baldur, slapping his hand on the table. Grendel shook his great head, spattering Peer with froth, and lowered himself to the floor, still glaring at Loki with unforgiving menace.
Peer got the door open and Loki vanished into the yard.
“Come here,” said Uncle Baldur to Peer, cutting himself some more cheese. Peer approached reluctantly till he was standing between his uncle’s outstretched legs. Crumbs of bread and cheese speckled his uncle’s beard. His stained shirt gaped open at the throat, exposing another tangle of black hair. A flea jumped out. Uncle Baldur caught it, cracked it, wiped his fingers on his shirt, and reached for more bread.
“That dog,” he said, nodding at Grendel. “That dog only obeys me and Grim. Right? He hates other dogs. He’s a born fighter.”
“Killed half a dozen,” agreed Grim in a sort of proud growl.
“So if you want to keep your dog in one piece, you watch your step and make yourself very, very useful.” Uncle Baldur stared Peer straight in the eye. “Otherwise we might organise a little dogfight. Understand?”
Peer understood. He compressed his lips and nodded, as slightly as he dared.
“Good.” Baldur explored a back molar with a dirty fingernail. “Now what’s all this about Ralf Eiriksson?”
“I don’t know,” said Peer sullenly. “No!” he added. “I mean, all I know is what I’ve told you. His daughter says he’s walking to Hammerhaven this morning. He’s going a-Viking for the summer. I didn’t ask any more.”
His uncles winked at each other, and Uncle Baldur kicked Peer on the ankle. “Where did the girl go?”
“To the village,” said Peer in a small voice. “To buy fish.”
“I want to see her.” Uncle Baldur jabbed Peer in the chest. “Watch for her coming back. Bring her straight to me. Right?”
He turned to the table, not waiting for a reply, and tossed him the end of a loaf. “Eat that and get on with the chores,” he said abruptly. “Grim’ll show you what to do. And remember – fetch me that girl!”
Chapter 5
Trouble at the Mill
HILDE’S SHOES SANK into the wet sand. She rubbed her arms, willing the sun to climb higher. It was chilly here on the beach in the shadow of Troll Fell. The tide was going out, and cold grey waves splashed on the shore.
“Half a dozen herring and a couple of crabs? Done!” agreed Bjørn cheerfully. He shouted to his brother who sat in the boat sorting the catch, “Find us a couple of good big crabs, Arne!” He turned back to Hilde. “Any news?”
“I should say so,” said Hilde gloomily. “My father’s left. Gone off for the whole summer on the new longship they’ve built at Hammerhaven.”
Bjørn whistled, Arne clambered out of the boat, and Hilde discovered that explaining it all to two interested young men cheered her up – especially when Arne fixed his vivid blue eyes on her face. “Lucky Ralf,” he said enviously. “I wish I’d heard about it. What’s the ship like?”
“Lovely,” Hilde assured him. “She’s got a dragon head, all carved and painted.”
“Yes,” Bjørn laughed, “but how long is she? How many oars?”
Hilde didn’t know. “That boy at the mill could tell you. His father built her.”
“What boy?”
“The millers’ nephew. I met him this morning. They’ve taken him in because his father died.”
Bjørn’s eyebrows rose. “The millers have taken in an orphan? What’s he like?”
“He’s all right,” said Hilde without enthusiasm. “He seems a bit nervous.”
“I’d be nervous in his shoes,” said Bjørn darkly. “Arne! Dreamer! Give the girl her fish!”
With her basket full of herring and the two live crabs wrapped firmly in a cloth, Hilde rode whistling back up the steep path out of the village. Her good mood lasted until she came in sight of the mill. Even the spring sunshine could not gild its slimy black thatch. The brook rushed away from it, tumbling over itself in a white cascade. Nobody happy had ever lived there.
Hilde felt sorry for the boy, Peer, but she didn’t want to stop. She gathered up the reins and trotted, hoping to get past without being seen, but as she reached the bridge, Peer dashed out of the yard. “Hilde! Hilde!” He ran up, looking pale and miserable. “I’m sorry. My uncles want to talk to you. Will you come?”
Hilde rode warily into the yard. Both the millers were there, lounging on the doorstep. They lowered their heads threateningly – like a couple of prize bulls, Hilde thought.
“What d’you want?” she demanded.
“A little bird told us,” Baldur sneered in his high voice, “that Daddy’s gone away. The great Ralf Eiriksson, who thinks he’s so important. Is that right? Eh?”
“Only for the summer,” said Hilde icily. “He’ll be back before winter with a bunch of his Viking friends, so don’t give me any trouble, Baldur Grimsson.”
“Vikings!” said Baldur. “I don’t give that for Vikings.” He spat. “Besides, what with storms and whirlpools and sea serpents, he’ll never come back.”
“Is that all you have to say?” snapped Hilde.
“No!” Baldur snarled. He came up close and grabbed the pony by the bridle. “Tell your mother – and your grandpa –” he emphasised the words with a stab of his thick forefinger, “to keep off that land on Troll Fell that belongs to us. You ask your mother which she’d prefer. Those fields – or that golden cup? The land is ours. And so are the sheep you’ve been grazing on it. You and your family keep off the Stonemeadow!”
He let go of the bridle and whistled. Grendel came hurtling out of the mill.
“See ’em off!” shouted Grim.
Hilde grabbed the mane. The terrified pony whirled out of the yard and bolted over the bridge and up the hill. Clinging to her bouncing basket, she hauled on the reins and slithered off sideways as the pony came to a snorting halt. “It’s all right! It’s all right.” She patted its steaming neck. “The dog’s not after you now…”
But the pony rolled a wild eye as a little brown dog burst out of the bushes. There was a crackling, crashing noise as someone tackled the steep and brambly shortcut up the side of the hill. Hilde shook back her hair. “Who’s there?” she challenged.
Peer’s pale and dirty face became visible as he parted some branches. “Are you all right?” he puffed.
“No thanks to you!” Hilde scowled at him. “Was it you who told those – those oafs – that my father has gone away?”
“Yes, it was,” said Peer miserably. “I didn’t mean any harm – I didn’t know it was important. I’m sorry, Hilde.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” Hilde recovered her temper. “Stop apologising. You haven’t done anything. They’d have heard soon enough. Everybody knows everything in a little place like this.” She gave him a sharp look. “Why are you hiding in the bushes, Peer? Are you scared of the millers? Or are you scared of me?”
Peer flushed. He didn’t answer.
“Well,” Hilde went on, “I expect there’s going to be trouble. I’m sorry, Peer, but I absolutely detest your uncles.”
“So do I,” said Peer in a low, savage voice. “I don’t know why they want me. There’s something going on that I don’t understand. Some strange plan. They stole my father’s money. I heard them counting it and talking about someone called the Gaffer – and a wedding. And if I don’t do everything they say, they’ll set their dog on Loki. He’ll be killed.”
“That’s terrible!” Hilde cried. She patted Loki, who collapsed on to his back and folded up his paws to let her rub his tummy. She scratched his chest. “Money, and a wedding?” she repeated, frowning. “I can’t imagine. Of course, old Grim, their father, was always poking about looking for the trolls’ treasure.”
“Was he? Why?”
“It’s a long story. Have you got time? And anyway, whose side are you on?”
“On your side,” said Peer with determination. “Even if they are my uncles. But I can’t help living with them. I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
Hilde patted the ground beside her. “Sit down and I’ll tell you about the trolls. It’s a good story, and it’s true. Years ago, my father was riding over Troll Fell late one night when he stumbled on a troll banquet…” She told Peer what had happened, and how Ralf had raced to the mill for shelter, and old Grim had seen the golden cup.
“Mother swears it’s unlucky,” she went on, “and it certainly was for Grim. He spent the rest of his days wandering around Troll Fell, looking for the gate into the hill.”
“What gate? I thought you said the whole place was up on pillars?”
“I think they only do that for special occasions. But there must be a gateway into the hill. We have trolls the way other people have rats and mice, and they’re all getting out somewhere. And wherever it is, it seems Grim found it, only it was winter, and he collapsed up there and died later.”
“So my uncles must know where it is,” said Peer thoughtfully.
“Yes, but what good is that? The trolls aren’t going to come out and just give them presents,” said Hilde. She was still scratching Loki’s tummy. “Goodness, Loki, how much more of this do you want?”
“Oh, he’ll go on for ever,” said Peer, laughing. Just then a distant bellow floated up from the mill. He stopped laughing and jumped up. “I’d better go.”
“Yes, you’d better.” Hilde looked sorry for him. “Watch out for yourself, Peer.” She offered her hand, which Peer took shyly. “See you soon!”
Peer raced for the mill, Loki bounding ahead. He reached the yard to find his uncles talking to a carter, a surly-looking man who had just unloaded some sacks of barley. Grendel lay in a patch of sunlight by the mill door, gnawing a bone. He growled at Loki, who pottered past and cocked a cheeky leg on the corner of the barn.
“Grind it small,” shouted the carter as he drove his cart out into the lane. “We want fine meal. I’ll collect it tomorrow.”
“You’re going to learn about the mill, boy,” said Uncle Baldur to Peer. “Grim’s just a farmer, but me – I’m the miller!” He rapped his chest. “You’re a lucky lad to have me to teach you. I hope you’re thankful.”
Something flamed up in Peer’s heart. “Thankful? What have I got to be thankful for? You treat me like a slave, you can’t even remember my name!”
Baldur raised a fist the size of a ham and clouted Peer casually over the ear. Peer found himself sitting on the ground, clutching his ringing head. Loki streaked across the yard, teeth bared for Uncle Baldur’s leg. Grendel rose silently from the doorstep and hurled himself at Loki.
“Loki!” Peer screamed. Loki saw Grendel out of the tail of his eye and veered off around the corner. Grendel dropped his hackles and slouched back to his bone.
“Come inside,” said Uncle Baldur as if nothing had happened. “I’ll show you what to do. Pay attention. You’ll be doing a lot of this.”
“You’re not going to take me to the Gaffer, then?” said Peer on impulse.
Uncle Baldur swung round, fast for such a big man.
“What?” he said in a menacing whisper. Their eyes met. Peer thought fast. “Something Uncle Grim said,” he invented. “He said, er, if I didn’t work hard, you’d give me to the Gaffer.” Come to think of it, it sounded exactly the sort of thing Uncle Grim would say.
Uncle Baldur clearly believed it. He muttered something about Grim being a chattering fool, then grabbed Peer. “The Gaffer,” he whispered, “is the King of Troll Fell. He lives up there under the crags, not far away. And naughty boys, why, he likes to tear them in pieces! So watch your step, laddie.”
He pulled Peer into the mill and climbed the creaking ladder to the loft. Peer followed, overhung by his uncle’s bulky bottom, and found himself standing on a dark, dusty platform, badly lit by one little louvred window high in the apex of the roof. In front of him in the middle of the floor sat two millstones, one above the other, cartwheel sized slabs of gritstone rimmed with iron.
“Power!” Baldur wheezed, slapping the upper millstone. “See how heavy that is? But finely balanced. What drives it? Water power. Ah, but who controls the water? Me, the miller!
“The brook obeys me, boy. I control it with my dam and my sluice gates. It turns my waterwheel and drives my millstones.
“It all comes down to power. The power of the water, the power of the stones and me. I’m the most powerful man in the valley.” He gave the millstone another affectionate pat.
“See that?” he went on, straightening up. Peer banged his head on the corner of a big wooden box with sloping sides that hung suspended over the millstones from four thick ropes. “The hopper,” his uncle grunted. “You fill it with barley, which runs out through this hole in the bottom, and shakes down through this hole in the upper millstone, which is called the runnerstone. Because it’s the one that turns. Understand?”
To his own surprise, Peer did. He tried to show an interest. “Does everyone bring their corn here?” Perhaps Hilde had been exaggerating. Perhaps the mill was doing quite well.
But Uncle Baldur scowled. “They soon will,” he growled, “now that blackguard Ralf Eiriksson has gone. Spreading lies…Telling everyone I put chalk in the flour – or dirt –” He shook his fist. “This will be the best mill in the valley. I’ll put in another wheel – another pair of stones. They’ll come to me from miles around. But first —” He stopped. “But first,” he said in a different tone of voice, “get that hopper filled, boy. I haven’t got all night!”
To lift the sack high enough to pour the barley into the hopper was quite beyond Peer. With a bad-tempered grunt, Uncle Baldur hefted the sack in his thick arms and let the glossy grain pour effortlessly into the hopper. Then he took Peer outside to open the sluice and start the wheel.
It was getting late. The sun had set and it was cold by the stream. Peer looked anxiously for Loki as he followed his uncle up to the dam. The millpond seemed more sinister than ever as darkness fell. A little breeze shivered the surface and the trees sighed sadly. He hoped with all his heart that Loki had kept away from this dark water.
Uncle Baldur showed Peer how to work the sluice gate. He stood on a narrow plank bridge and simply tugged the gate up. It slid up and down between grooves in two big timber posts. He banged in some wedges to keep it stuck in place. A rush of water boiled from under the gate, filling the air with thunder, and the great black waterwheel stirred into life. The mill machinery began to clack.
“You’ll do that job next time,” Uncle Baldur said. “And don’t hang about here after dark. Or Granny Greenteeth will get you.”
As if he cared, thought Peer. Aloud he asked, “Who is Granny Greenteeth?”
“She lives at the bottom of the pond,” said Uncle Baldur briefly. “She likes to come out at night – the old hag. So watch yourself.”
It was now almost quite dark. Peer looked over his shoulder as they walked back to the mill. What was that dark patch floating in the shadow of the willows? Weeds? Or the spreading hair of Granny Greenteeth rising from her slimy bed? A fish splashed, and ripples lapped against the bank… He hurried after his uncle. Something crashed through a nearby bramble bush and leaped on to the path. Peer’s heart nearly stopped – then he saw what it was.
“Loki!” he gasped in relief. “You crazy dog!” Loki leaped and lashed his tail. Peer hugged him. “Come on,” he said, and they ran into the yard together.
Chapter 6
Trolls from the Dovrefell
A MILE OR SO further up the valley, Hilde was eating supper. Through mouthfuls, she told her family about meeting Peer, and the Grimsson brothers’ threats.
“I knew there’d be trouble,” Gudrun exclaimed. “Your father should never have gone.”
“You could always give them the golden cup ?” Hilde cocked an eyebrow at her mother.
“Over my dead body,” said Gudrun promptly. “I never wanted the thing, but it’s your father’s pride and joy. They can’t have it.”
“I thought you’d say that. I’d better keep an eye on our sheep, then, hadn’t I? In case the Grimssons steal them. I’ll ride up to the Stonemeadow tomorrow.”
“Oh no, you won’t.”
“Why not?” Hilde tossed back her hair, fancying herself as the family’s gallant guardian, patrolling the hills. “Don’t you think I ought to, Grandpa?”
“Well,” began Eirik, working at a meaty crab claw with the point of his knife.
“I utterly forbid it,” Gudrun interrupted. “She’s just a girl. What could she do against those two ruffians and their savage dog? Off with you, Hilde, and milk the cow before it gets too dark.”
Hilde picked up the milking bucket and stool and went, banging the door a little harder than necessary. But once she began climbing the steep pasture behind the farm, she felt better. The wide western sky was full of light. It was a perfect spring evening, very quiet, except for far-off sheep bleating, and the sounds of the cow and the pony tearing up grass.
Then she heard a new sound, the unmistakeable high-pitched rattle of milk squirting into a metal pan – accompanied by a weird growling hum like a very large bee. Goosebumps rose on her skin. She broke into a run and saw a small hairy troll squatting beside Bonny the cow, milking her into a copper pail.
“Oi!” shouted Hilde. The troll snatched up its pail and scampered up the hillside into the twilight. Hilde stood panting, hands on hips. She had to soothe and stroke the cow before Bonny would stand still. But the troll had milked her nearly dry, and Hilde went back to the house with no more than a cupful at the bottom of her pail. As she came to the door her mother called, “Bring the broom in with you, Hilde.”
“What broom?” Hilde asked.
“Isn’t it there?” Gudrun came out. “But I left it right by the door,” she said, vexed. “I can’t lay my hands on anything… Is that all the milk?” She was even more put out when she heard Hilde’s tale.
“They probably stole the broom too,” said Hilde. “You see, mother? It’s not so easy to keep out of trouble.”
“The varmints!” Eirik shook his head. “Worse than rats. They wouldn’t be so bold if my son was here: no, they wouldn’t come robbing us then!”
“They’re becoming a perfect plague,” said Gudrun.
“When I was a young fellow,” said Eirik gloomily, “I could have thrown anyone who so much as stepped on my shadow clean over the barn. No pack of trolls would have bothered me. Now I’m just a useless old man.”
“Nonsense,” Gudrun scolded him. “We need you very much, Eirik. We depend on you for – for wisdom, and advice.”
“Advice! Women never listen to advice,” scoffed Eirik, but he looked pleased.
“And stories! Tell us a story, Grandpa,” little Sigrid piped up from the floor where she was playing with the kitten. Eirik tugged her plait with his gnarled old hand.
“A story, missy? What is it to be about?”
“Trolls!” said her brother, Sigurd. The twins scrambled up and pressed close to Eirik’s knees.
“Let me think,” Eirik began. “Let me see. How about a story from a place far to the north, the wild mountains of the Dovrefell, where there are even more trolls than here? And some of them giants, by what I’ve heard!”
“Giants?” Sigurd’s eyes grew wide.
Eirik nodded. “Trolls come all sizes; and the one in this story was a big one, a little taller than a man. She was pretty, I daresay —”
“A pretty troll!” Sigrid interrupted, laughing.
“Yes, she had yellow hair and a nice long tail that wagged when she was happy. And she married a young farmer and wagged her tail at the wedding.”
Gudrun and Hilde were laughing now.
“Well, this young farmer’s friends and neighbours were disgusted. They thought he was out of his mind to go marrying a troll. They wouldn’t talk to his bride, or visit her. She sat by herself in her nice new house and was very lonely.”
“Poor troll,” said Sigrid.
“Huh,” said Sigurd. “I think he was stupid to marry a troll.”
“See what happened,” said Eirik. “One day, her father paid her a visit. He was a grim old troll from under the Dovrefell, and when he found his daughter sitting crying he said, ‘What’s all this?’” Eirik deepened his voice to a growl. “‘If your husband isn’t kind to you, I’ll tear his arms and legs off!’
“‘It’s the neighbours,’ said the troll bride. ‘They won’t have anything to do with me, and I’m so-o-o lonely!’
“‘Come with me,’ said her father, rolling up his sleeves, ‘and we’ll have a little game of catch.’
“The grim old troll went stamping round the village chasing people out of their houses, and when he got hold of them he threw them right over the Hall roof. And his daughter rushed around the other side and caught each one of them and put them back on their feet.
“When everyone in the village had been thrown over the Hall roof, the old troll shouted, ‘You’d better start being very nice to my daughter. Because if not,’ he glared, ‘if not, I’ll come back and play with you again – only, this time, my daughter will throw, and I will catch!’”
Sigrid looked puzzled. “I don’t understand,” she began.
“Do you think the old troll would really have caught them?” Hilde asked.
“Oh!” Sigrid’s face cleared. “He would have let them fall!”
“Or eaten them up,” said Sigurd with relish.
Eirik nodded. “So after that you’d never believe how polite the neighbours were. They called to see her every day and brought flowers and cakes and baskets of eggs. She was as happy as the day was long, and wagged her tail merrily. And that’s a story from the Dovrefell!” He smiled and stopped.
“Bedtime,” said Gudrun. As the twins hugged their grandfather and said goodnight, Hilde felt sudden sadness wash over her. If only Pa were here, she thought. But at least he’s alive. Not like Peer Ulfsson’s father. Poor Peer, he must hate living at the mill. I wonder what he’s doing right now?
Peer was eating his frugal supper. His uncles had given him some stale bread, a raw onion, a small piece of dry cheese and the end of a rancid sausage, and gone off somewhere taking Grendel with them, leaving Peer to mind the mill alone – except for Loki, who lay asleep by the fire...
The mill was noisily alive. Everything vibrated. The waterwheel thumped like a dark heart beating. The machinery clacked. Old dust trickled down the walls. Up in the loft, finely ground meal was snowing from the rim of the millstones and piling up on a wooden platform. Peer’s job was to climb the ladder from time to time and sweep it into sacks. It was dark up there, full of spooky shadows and old junk: worm-eaten cogwheels with half the teeth missing, a worn old millstone propped against the wall.
Peer gave the sausage to Loki and looked about, still hungry. The table was cluttered with dirty dishes, bacon rinds and crusts. On the floor by the fire his uncles had left a bowl full of cold, congealed groute, but it did not look very appetising.
I suppose that’s for the Nis, anyway, thought Peer. Even Grendel hasn’t touched it.
He prowled round the room. His uncles hadn’t said how late they’d be. He suspected they had gone out drinking. It was time to try and find where they had hidden his father’s money.
He lifted the lids of several wooden bins, built on either side of the ladder to the loft. Most were empty except for a few dusty grains at the bottom. One held a tangle of old leather harness. And one would not open. The lid was secured with an iron padlock. Peer rattled it. By the fire, Loki raised his head inquiringly. “I’m sure this is the one, Loki!” Peer told him. But knowing that did not help very much.
Reluctantly he climbed the rickety ladder to the grinding loft. A soft ring of flour encircled the millstones. Peer shovelled it into the waiting sack. He peeped into the hopper, which was getting low, and refilled it from a half-full sack of barley, which he could just lift. Pleased with himself, he was about to climb back down, when Loki leaped from his place by the fire and burst out barking, hackles up. Peer looked over the edge of the loft in alarm. Were his uncles coming back? Was it thieves?
Loki pranced, growling, then jumped and snapped at something above his head. He backed a few steps and barked some more, watching the rafters.
Peer slid down the ladder. “Loki, shut up! It’s only a rat.” And he sat on the dirty rush mat and reached out his hands to the fire. Slowly his eyes closed. His head nodded forwards. But Loki barked again, and he sat up with a jerk.
“Stop it!” he complained. Loki flung him an apologetic glance but continued to stand braced and staring upwards. Peer’s head drooped again, but as his eyelids closed he heard a familiar voice. “See my leg?” it giggled. There was another flurry of barks from Loki, who jumped about as if on springs.
Peer’s eyes flew wide. By the flickering firelight he saw something sitting on one of the cross beams. A spindly little leg covered in a worn grey stocking dangled temptingly just over Loki’s head.
“See my little leg?” teased the voice again. Loki leaped again in frustrated frenzy.
“It’s only the Nis, silly!” Peer got up and grabbed his pet, closing his hand around Loki’s muzzle to keep his mouth shut. “Now be quiet.” He stared up into the beams. The leg had been withdrawn. He could just see a dim shape sitting with its arms wrapped round its knees. “Hello!” he said.
“You spoiled the fun,” the Nis sulked.
“I’m sorry.”
The Nis shuffled round on the beam till it had its back turned.
“How’s the groute this evening? Have they given you any butter?” asked Peer cunningly. The Nis came to life at once.
“I doesn’t know, Peer Ulfsson. Has they? Let’s see.”
It ran briskly along the beam and down the wall like a big spider. Peer watched, delighted. It was a little grey, whiskery thing with big hands and long knobbly fingers. Its ragged grey clothing seemed part of it, but it wore a little red cap on its head. Loki backed away grumbling.
The Nis scampered to the bowl of groute and lifted it. “Cold!” it muttered. “Cold as their cruel hearts, and lumpy, too!” It stirred the bowl, scooping up the groute in messy splodges, then sat distastefully licking its fingers.
“Was there any butter?” asked Peer. The Nis shook its head.
“Now for the housework!” it said suddenly. “I has to do the housework, Peer Ulfsson. As long as they feeds me, I has to do the work. But I doesn’t have to do it well. See me!”
The little creature seized a broom bigger than itself and went leaping about the room like a grasshopper, sweeping up great clouds of floury dust. Sneezing, it cleared the dishes from the table and hid the bones under Uncle Baldur’s pillow. It polished the plates with one of Uncle Grim’s shirts, and shook the stale crusts and crumbs into his best boots. The pieces of bacon rind it dropped in front of Loki, who ate them suspiciously. Finally it put three wooden spoons and the frying pan tidily away under Uncle Grim’s mattress.
“Well done,” said Peer, laughing. “Do you always tidy up like that? Won’t they be furious?”
“What can they do?” asked the Nis. “I doesn’t want much, Peer Ulfsson. Only a bit of butter in my groute. Or a drop of honey to keep me sweet.” Loki had fallen asleep. The Nis began sneaking up on him with the obvious intention of pulling his tail.
“Don’t do that,” Peer said. “Tell me about my uncles. I’m sure you know all about them. Where have they gone tonight?”
“To the Stonemeadow. Ssh!” The Nis laid a long finger to its lips and tiptoed closer to Loki.
“Oh, leave him alone! The Stonemeadow? Where’s that?”
The Nis gave up. “High up on Troll Fell!” it snapped.
“I thought they’d gone drinking. What are they doing there?”
The Nis looked at him out of the corner of one eye.
“Talking to trolls? Please tell me,” Peer begged. “I heard them say something about trolls, and taking me to the – to the Gaffer, the King of the Trolls. Is that right? And something about a wedding? Do you know anything? Can you help me?”
The Nis ran into the corner where the big scales hung, and jumped into one of the pans, which hardly moved. It sat there bouncing gently and would not look round.
Peer saw he had gone about things the wrong way.
“Nis,” he called quietly, “I think you’re very clever.”
The Nis sniffed.
“I know a girl who lives on a farm near here. She has lots of butter. Shall I ask her to give me a big lump all for you?”
The Nis twitched and the scales swayed.
“Please be my friend, Nis, and I’ll be yours.” Peer stopped as his voice shook. He so badly wanted a friend.
The Nis relented. It sat cross-legged in the pan and leaned on the chains to make the scales swing. “What does you want to know, Peer Ulfsson?”
Peer didn’t know where to start. “Well – what’s this wedding?”
“Oh!” The Nis got very excited. “A very big wedding indeed! At midwinter, the Gaffer, the old King of Troll Fell, will marry his son to – guess who?”
“I can’t guess,” said Peer.
“Guess! Guess!” the Nis insisted.
“I can’t,” Peer laughed. “Tell me!”
The Nis paused, and said in a hushed voice, “To the King of the Dovrefell’s daughter!” It sat back.
It meant something to Peer after all. Even he had heard of the trolls of the Dovrefell, the wild mountain range to the north. “That’s an important match?” he suggested.
The Nis nodded. “Everyone is going, Peer Ulfsson. They say the bride is very beautiful. There will be such a feast!” It wriggled with delight and cracked its knuckles.
“Are you going?”
The Nis’s face fell. “I doesn’t know,” it admitted. “Food and drink, as much as you can hold, music and dancing, and the hill raised up on red pillars – but they hasn’t invited poor Nithing yet.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of time, if it’s not till midwinter. But what has the troll wedding got to do with Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim? What are they up to on Troll Fell in the middle of the night?”
“Middle of the night is daytime for trolls,” the Nis pointed out scornfully. “If Grimssons go knocking on the troll gate at noon, what will they hear? Snores.”
“I see that. But what do they want with the trolls at all?”
The Nis was getting bored and fidgety. “Treasure,” it yawned, showing a pink tongue and sharp little teeth like a kitten’s.
“Troll gold? Yes, but why,” said Peer, struggling to make sense of it, “why would the trolls give them any? I don’t understand.”
With a loud squeak, the scales tipped as the Nis leaped into the rafters like a squirrel. Heavy feet sounded at the door. In tramped Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim, stamping mud from their boots, cold night air pouring from them like water. They looked sour and displeased. Grendel loped behind them, and Loki nipped quickly outside.
Peer scrambled up. Uncle Baldur took him by the ear, led him to the door and booted him out. “Make yourself useful, you idle young layabout. I want the wheel stopped now.”
“But I don’t know how,” Peer called at the closing door.
Uncle Baldur paused with the door a couple of inches open. “Go and lower the sluicegate, of course. And then get off to the barn. Don’t come knocking and disturbing us – it’s late!”
And the door slammed shut.
Chapter 7
Granny Greenteeth
IT WAS PAST midnight. A star fell over the barn roof. Peer shivered, wrapping his arms across his chest.
“They didn’t look too happy, did they?” he muttered to Loki. “Perhaps their interview with the King of Troll Fell didn’t go too well. No need to take it out on us, though. Lower the sluicegate? At this hour?”
Loki whined softly. Peer didn’t know which was scarier, to disobey Uncle Baldur or go up near that dark millpond by himself.
“Into the barn with you,” he told Loki, dragging him there by the collar. “Sit. Stay! I’m not risking you.” Loki’s eyes gleamed in the dark and again he whined gently.
Peer crossed the yard and turned on to the wooden bridge. The mill clacked steadily. The wheel churned, chopping the water with dripping blades that glinted in the starlight. Peer leaned on the rail, trying to gather courage to go on.
A black shadow moved at the corner of his eye. He whipped around, heart beating wildly. But it was only a woman plodding up the road, dressed in dark clothes with a scarf over her head. She was using a stick to help herself along.
She saw him and stopped. Realising that she too might be nervous, Peer called out softly. “It’s all right. I’m the – the millers’ boy. Only the millers’ boy.”
“The millers’ boy!” repeated the woman. “And what is the millers’ boy doing out here so late?”
“I have to close the sluicegate,” said Peer.
“Ah!” The woman looked at him. It was too dark to see her face properly, but her eyes glittered in the starlight. “So late at night, that’s a job for the miller himself. He shouldn’t be sending a boy out. They say Granny Greenteeth lives in the millpond. Aren’t you afraid of her?”
“A bit,” Peer confessed, “but if I don’t go my uncles will be angry.”
“And you’re more afraid of them.” The woman nodded angrily. “Ah, Baldur Grimsson, Grim Grimsson, I’d make you sorry if I had my way!” She shook her finger at the lightless mill before turning to Peer again. “I’ll come along with you, my son, if you like.”
Peer hesitated. Something about the old woman made him shiver, but his father had taught him to honour old people, and he didn’t know how to refuse. And it was true he would feel braver with company, though the path to the sluice seemed no place for an old lady to be hobbling along at night. He made her a stiff little bow and offered her his arm. She took it with a chuckle and a cough.
“Quite the young lord! You didn’t learn your manners from the Grimssons. What’s your name, boy?”
“Peer Ulfsson – ma’am.” Peer winced as her cold claw dug into his arm. She was surprisingly smelly too, now he was close to her. Her clothes must be damp, mouldy, or something.
But he was glad she was there. As they passed the millrace, he knew he would have been terrified by himself. The threshing wheel and racing water made him dizzy; there was a cold draught fanned by the wheel, and a smell of wet stone and black slime. He tripped, and the old woman steadied him, hugging his arm to her side. She felt strong, and cold.
At the edge of the millpond she released his arm so he could step on to the narrow walkway above the sluice. The pond was so black he could not see where the surface lay. If only there was a guardrail! He shuffled out and grabbed the handle of the sluicegate, remembering it acted like a simple shutter. He leaned his weight on it, driving the gate down against the pressure of the water. The wheel slowed, its great vanes dripping. The rattle and grumble of the mill faltered and ceased. Only the sound of the water was left, tumbling over the weir.
“Well done,” said the old woman. She stretched out a hand to help Peer off the bridge. He took it and then let go with a cry. It was clammy – and wet – and webbed.
The late moon was rising. She stood quietly at the end of the plank, leaning on her stick. Her long skirt and cloak weren’t damp but wet – soaking wet. How had she got so wet? She pulled her scarf away from her head in fronds of trailing weed. She smiled. Even in the moonlight he could see her teeth were sharp points. Peer’s hand shook on the sluice handle. He had walked here with Granny Greenteeth herself!
The woman chuckled, like the brook gurgling. “Yesss… I like to take a stroll on a fine evening. Poor boy, didn’t you know me? Shall I tell you how?” She leaned towards him. “Watch for the sign of the river,” she whispered. “A dripping hem or sleeve. Wet footprints on the doorstep.”
Peer nodded, dry-mouthed. Granny Greenteeth drew back, as if satisfied that she had scared him. “I hate the miller,” she hissed. “Oh, how I hate him, thinking he owns my water, boasting about his mill. Now I will punish him by taking you.”
Peer clung to the post of the sluice. “But he doesn’t care anything about me. Neither of them does. The only thing they care about is their dog, Grendel. Please!”
“Ssso?” Granny Greenteeth paused. Peer waited, shivering. At last she smiled, showing dark triangular teeth. “Then I shall send that dog, Grendel, with an apple in his mouth, as a dish for my friend the Dovreking’s daughter, at her midwinter wedding. But as for you! Don’t you know the miller has plans for you?”
“Plans?” Peer’s heart thudded.
Granny Greenteeth leaned both hands on her stick, like the old woman he had supposed her to be. “We’ll have a little gossip, shall we? I hear it all, you know. Every stream on Troll Fell runs into my river!
“After the old miller died – bad riddance to him! – the two young ’uns knew where the troll gate was. And they wouldn’t let it alone. Knocking and banging, day after day! Hoping to get at the gold, weren’t they? Even tried bribes. Imagine! They left fine white bread there, and trout stolen from my water. Ah! Yet they never gave me anything.” Granny Greenteeth worked her mouth as though chewing on something bitter. She spat.
“And this went on and on, didn’t it? And at last the Troll King got tired of all this hammering and shouting outside his gate. Not seemly was it?
“So to get rid of them he thinks up something difficult. He sends word: My eldest son will be married at midwinter. He wishes to present his bride with a slave boy, as a betrothal gift. Bring me a slave boy, and you shall have your gold.”
Granny Greenteeth nodded spitefully at Peer. “And that’s where you come in, my son. Your precious uncles – your flesh and blood – will sell you to the trolls.”
Peer’s heart turned to ice.
“So now you’ll come with me, won’t you?” Granny Greenteeth coaxed. “You’ll help old Granny. Baldur Grimsson wants that gold to build a bigger mill. I’d drown him sooner! But he never puts a foot wrong. He knows I’m after him.”
“Let me go,” Peer croaked. “Please…”
“Ah, but where?” she cried. “Come to me, Peer, come to me.” She stretched out her arms to him and her voice became a low musical murmur like the brook in summer. “I’ll take you – I’ll love you – I’ll look after you. Who else will? I’ll give you an everlasting bed. Come down under the water and rest. Ressst your weary bones.”
White mist rose from the millpond, flowing in soft wreaths over the plank bridge and swirling gently around Peer’s knees. His teeth chattered and his head swam. How easy it would be to let go, to fall into the soft mist. No one would grieve. All for the best, maybe.
“All for the bessst,” Granny Greenteeth agreed.
Far away a dog barked, sharp and anxious. Peer blinked awake. “No!” He looked at the old woman. “Loki loves me,” he said thickly. “No, I won’t!”
In a whisper of wind, the mist blew away into the willows.
Granny Greenteeth nodded. “You’re stronger than you look, Peer Ulfsson. Not this time, then,” she said softly. “But I’ll wait. One day you’ll call to me. And I’ll be listening. I’ll come!”
She jerked, twice, threw her stick away and fell sideways. Her cloak twisted and clung to her body; she lay on the ground kicking – no, flapping: an immense eel in gleaming loops as thick as Peer’s leg. It raised a head with narrow glinting eyes and snapped its trap-like jaws before slithering over the bank into the pond. The black water closed over it in silent ripples.
Peer leaped off the plank. He raced down the path, drummed across the wooden bridge, hurled himself into the barn, dragged the door shut behind him and leaped into the straw. He grabbed Loki and hugged him.
“If you hadn’t barked, Loki – oh!” Loki licked his face. At last Peer stopped shaking. “I got away. But what shall I do? They’re going to sell me under the hill. Under the hill!”
Suddenly he was hot with anger. The Grimssons had sold his home, taken his money and treated him worse than their dog – and now they were going to sell him? Trade their own nephew for troll gold?
“We’ll see about that!” he exclaimed to the dark barn. The oxen munched indifferently. The hens, roosting in the beams, clucked in disapproval and irritably ruffled their feathers. Peer no longer thought of them as his hens. They had transferred their loyalty to the black cockerel, who plainly despised him. He hugged Loki again.
“Featherbrains! Traitors!” he called.
The hens squawked in shocked surprise. For a moment, Peer wondered if they had understood. But it was only the Nis, in high spirits, tipping them off their comfortable perches. He could hear it giggling. Loki’s hackles bristled under his hand. Hen after hen fell clumsily from the rafters and ran about in the straw. One ran right over him, digging its hard claws into his stomach.
“Stop it,” he called.
The Nis pranced about in the beams, kicking down dust and feathers. “News!” it carolled.
“I don’t care,” Peer groaned. “All right, what news?”
“News from Troll Fell!” said the Nis slyly.
“All right, I’m interested – go on!”
The Nis hopped. “The Gaffer’s son will marry the King of the Dovrefell’s daughter,” it said.
“You told me that already.”
“But now there’s more, Peer Ulfsson. Much more! I hear your uncles saying that now…” it took a deep breath, “the King of the Dovrefell’s son will marry the Gaffer’s daughter!”
Peer tried to work this out. “Instead?”
“No!” the Nis said impatiently. “As well!”
“Ah. So it will be a double wedding?”
The Nis nodded in ecstasy. “Even bigger wedding! Even bigger feast!”
Peer rubbed his eyes. He understood that the Gaffer of Troll Fell had pulled off an important alliance for his son and daughter, but he didn’t see why he should care. Still, one thing puzzled him. “Why would it bother the Grimssons, Nis? Why did they look so cross?”
The Nis had gone skipping off over the stalls. It answered from the other side of the barn. “Now they has to find a girl as well as a boy.”
“What!” Peer sat up.
“A girl to serve the Prince as well as a boy for the Princess,” explained the Nis. “Or the King of the Dovre will be offended.”
“You mean you knew all the time that Baldur wants to sell me to the trolls?” Peer gasped. “And you didn’t tell me?”
The Nis stopped scampering about. “Doesn’t you want to serve the trolls?” it asked, amazed.
“No!”
“Why not?”
Peer struggled to reply. “I’m a human,” he said at last. “I can’t work for trolls.”
“I’m a Nis,” said the Nis huffily, “and I works for humans.”
“Sorry,” said Peer, a little ashamed. “But you can’t like working for Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim.”
“No, because of cold groute with no butter,” the Nis agreed. “But for them that gives me hot, sweet groute with a big lump of butter, or a bowl of cream – for them, Peer Ulfsson, I works willingly.” It sighed.
“It’d take more than a bowl of hot porridge to get me working for the trolls,” muttered Peer. “Under the mountain? In the dark?” He shuddered.
“Under the hill is rich and splendid!” the Nis insisted.
“I’m sorry, Nis, it doesn’t appeal to me.” Peer was overcome by an enormous yawn. “So you’re saying the trolls want a girl as well as a boy, or the deal’s off? Good news for me. Lucky I don’t have a sister.” He lay back in the straw. Moonlight was blending into dawn. “I’m so tired.” He yawned again. “I wonder what my uncles will do now…?”
“They has to find a girl, of course,” the Nis replied – but Peer was already asleep.
The black cockerel woke him with a falsetto shriek of “cock-a-doodle-doo!” right beside his ear. Peer sat up with a gasp. The cockerel gave him a malicious glance and stalked away, tail feathers quivering.
“I’ll tell the Nis to pull them out,” Peer threatened, pushing the barn door open. As the morning sunlight streamed in, he remembered everything he had learned.
If the trolls want a girl as well as a boy, I’m safe, he thought. Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim don’t have a niece, or any female relations. Did they even know any girls?
His eyes suddenly widened in horror.
Hilde was a girl!
They couldn’t. They wouldn’t.
Could they?
No! thought Peer. But – all the same – I’ve got to warn her!
Chapter 8
A Day Out
BUT PEER DID not see Hilde again for a long time. Weeks passed. White windflowers sprang up in the birchwoods on the flanks of Troll Fell; the ploughed field above the mill sprouted with green barley, and still Hilde did not come riding down to the village, and Peer was kept far too busy to go walking up the valley to find her. He woke each morning sore and tired, and fell asleep at the end of each long day half dead with exhaustion.
One fine afternoon Hilde decided to take her little brother and sister down to the sea.
It was washday. Gudrun and Hilde had carried nearly every piece of clothing in the house to a place where a waterfall tumbled into a little pool. They had kilted up their skirts and trodden the clothes down till their legs were blue and aching. Bringing the dripping load back to the farm they found that Eirik, sitting outside the door in the sunshine, had nodded off. Unwatched, Sigurd and Sigrid had taken it into their heads to try riding the cow. They had untied her picket rope, scrambled on her bony back and allowed her to amble down the steep little valley where the wild garlic grew. She had gorged herself on the pungent leaves and flowers.
“The milk will taste of garlic for a week!” Gudrun scolded.
“We can make cheese,” suggested Hilde. “Ma, you need a rest. Let me get the children out of your way. We’ll take the pony and go down to the fjord, and you can sit in the sun and spin.”
“That would be lovely,” Gudrun agreed thankfully.
As Hilde led the pony downhill through the wood, the white trunks of the birch trees shone as if newly scoured and the brook flashed in the sunlight. Sigrid sang one song, Hilde another. Sigurd pounded the pony with his heels to make it trot. On leaving the woods the path slanted across the fields to the wooden bridge. The mill was working, clattering busily, and Hilde looked eagerly for Peer.
As it happened, Peer saw her first. He was cleaning the pigsty, a lean-to shed at the back of the mill on the other side of the millpond. Stripped to the waist, his ragged trousers rolled up, Peer shovelled out mud and smelly straw and cabbage stalks, while Bristles the boar basked against the wall, his hairy sides heaving. Resting for a moment to wipe sweat from his eyes, Peer saw Hilde and the children coming out of the woods. He almost ducked out of sight. Why did Hilde always have to see him this way, covered in dirt? But there were things he needed to tell her. He climbed out of the sty and waved.
Hilde waved back. “Hello! We’re going to the sea. Want to come?”
To the sea! Suddenly Peer didn’t care what his uncles did or said. A sunny afternoon with Hilde would be worth almost anything that could happen afterwards. He threw down his shovel. “I’ll catch you up,” he called, and Loki, who had been lying in gloomy boredom with his nose between his paws, jumped up wagging his tail.
Peer ran around the back of the barn, skirting a bank of green stinging nettles, and crept through the bushes till he was out of sight of the mill. He emerged on the path breathless, and fell into step with Hilde.
“Good for you!” she greeted him. “I hope you won’t get into trouble.”
“Oh, I will,” said Peer grimly. His face hardened. “I just don’t care any more.”
Hilde glanced at him. He was burned brown from working in the sun with his shirt off. He was covered with mud, and his trousers were nothing but rags. He looked thinner, taller and older. And Loki’s coat was rough, and his ribs showed.
“Oh!” she said, shocked.
Peer scowled, as though daring her to comment. “Loki doesn’t get enough to eat,” he said curtly. “Grendel gets it all.”
Hilde took the hint and changed the subject. “Meet the mischief-makers,” she said cheerfully. “My little brother Sigurd and my little sister Sigrid. Say hello to him, brats!”
“Hello,” said Peer, smiling. The two little children looked very alike, with pale fair hair and blue eyes. “Are you twins, by any chance?”
They nodded. “But I came first,” boasted Sigrid. “So Sigurd has to do what I say!”
“I do not!” Sigurd pulled her hair. They fell off the pony and wrestled in the road. Hilde and Peer dragged them apart. “Behave!” Hilde threatened. “Or Peer won’t come with us.”
“No, I’m coming all right,” said Peer. “I want to swim.”
Trollsvik was tiny compared to Hammerhaven, just seven or eight houses with streams of white smoke rising from their grassy roofs. A gang of dogs rushed up to sniff at Loki who instantly made five new friends. A woman came out from her door and threw a pail of water over her vegetable patch. Seeing Hilde she called out, asking how her mother was and whether they’d heard from Ralf. Peer stood shyly apart while they talked, but Hilde dragged his arm.
“This is Kersten, Bjørn the fisherman’s wife. This is Peer Ulfsson, Kersten, who has come to live at the mill.” Kersten smiled; she was very pretty, with long dark hair and green eyes, but Peer was embarrassed because he was so dirty, and glad when the conversation ended and she went back inside. Hilde tethered the pony, and together they crossed some low grassy dunes to the shore.
The wide fjord sparkled. Baby waves lifted themselves an inch or two and turned over with a clear splash on a narrow beach where every pebble seemed a different colour. A couple of faerings, narrow fishing boats, lay on the shingle. The twins squealed with delight and ran to pick up shells and seaweed. Peer breathed deep and gazed at the bright water and high mountains.
“I’m going in,” he said happily.
“It’ll be cold,” Hilde warned him.
“Who cares?” He ran into the water with a whoop. “You’re right! It’s freezing!”
Loki dashed up and down, barking at the waves in case they attacked his master. In a few moments Peer came wading out. “I’m clean,” he said through chattering teeth, “but I can’t stay in any longer. Let’s find a nice sunny boulder and sit down. There’s something I need to tell you.”
Wrapped in an old cloak which Hilde had brought to sit on, and munching bread and cheese which she had packed, Peer told Hilde about the flighty little Nis, and how he had promised to bring it some butter. He told about his meeting with Granny Greenteeth, and how she had revealed his uncles’ plan to sell Peer to the trolls.
Hilde was horrified. “They couldn’t!”
“Oh yes, they could. And that’s not all. The Nis found out that now it’s to be a double wedding. The old Gaffer’s son and daughter,” he explained carefully, “are marrying the Dovreking’s daughter and son.”
“Well?” asked Hilde, as he stopped.
“And it seems my uncles were very angry, because the Gaffer told them that the deal was off unless they could bring him a girl as well as a boy. You see, if he gives the Dovre prince a servant, he has to give the Dovre princess a maid.”
“So no gold for the Grimssons without a girl?” Hilde laughed in relief. “Then you’re safe.”
“I don’t know,” said Peer softly. “I think they’re going to find a girl. I think you ought to be very careful, Hilde.”
Hilde whistled. There was silence, except for the lapping of waves and the cries of gulls.
“So Troll Fell wants to impress the Dovrefell,” she said.
“With two human wedding presents,” Peer nodded.
“It’s unusual. I wonder what a troll servant has to do?”
“I don’t want to find out. I couldn’t bear —” Peer bit off his words. No need for Hilde to know how he dreaded being shut up in the dark.
Hilde began to speak, but was interrupted by excited shouts from Sigurd and Sigrid, who were playing around the boats. “Look! Look!” Another small boat was dancing in from the sea. Hilde jumped up, shading her eyes.
“That’s Bjørn’s faering. Look – can you see the seal following behind him?”
Squinting, Peer made out a dark dot in the waves.
“There’s always a seal or two following Bjørn,” Hilde told him. “People say they drive the herring to him. Some people even say that his wife Kersten was a seal woman, but my pa doesn’t think that’s true. Still, Bjørn and his brother Arne know more stories about the sea than anyone else. I wonder where Arne is? I can’t see him.”
Together they ran to help pull the boat up the beach. Bjørn was a short, stocky fellow with a strong friendly face, blue eyes, and untidy hair falling over his shoulders.
“Hello Hilde, my lass, who’s your friend? Hello sprats,” he said to Sigurd and Sigrid.
“Hello Bjørn. This is Peer Ulfsson, who now lives at the mill.”
Bjørn put out a calloused hand and Peer took it, liking him already. “The mill, eh?” was all he said, but his smile was sympathetic.
“Where’s Arne?” asked Hilde.
“Haven’t you heard?” Bjørn scratched his head. “He’s gone off south, and it’s your doing, Hilde, you and your father between you. He went on so much about how he wished he could have sailed on that blessed longship, that in the end I told him to go after it. ‘Take your boat,’ I said. ‘Ten to one you’ll catch them up, and even if you don’t, you’ll find another one to join. It’s the sailing season.’ So off he went. He’ll be back before winter.” He smiled at Hilde’s disappointed face. “But what’s this? A holiday? Light a fire, and I’ll join you. We can cook some fish.”
Sigrid and Sigurd ran to collect armfuls of driftwood and dry seaweed. When they had assembled a tangled pile, Bjørn struck sparks from his strike-a-light, and a fire was soon blazing. The fish were delicious. They all burned their fingers, but it was worth it. Even Loki gobbled his fill of the rich white meat and flame-blackened skins, and lay contentedly afterwards, licking his paws.
“Tell us a story,” begged Sigrid.
Bjørn lay on his back with his arms behind his head, soaking up the sunshine. “What sort of story?”
“A scary one!” said Sigurd.
Bjørn looked sideways under his lashes. And he told them about the draug, the phantom fisherman who sails the seas in half a boat and can be heard wailing in the storm winds when someone is about to drown. “Have you ever heard him?” breathed Sigurd. But Bjørn refused to say.
A cloud passed over the sun and a chill breeze sprang up. Hilde rubbed her arms and shivered. “I wish you hadn’t told that story,” she said to Bjørn, half-laughing. “I shall think about it now, and worry. I wish…” But she didn’t finish. “We’d better go. Thank you for the fish, Bjørn.”
“You’re welcome,” said Bjørn. He tousled the little ones’ heads, patted Hilde on the shoulder and clapped Peer on the back. “Good luck, friend!” he said.
“Thanks, I’m going to need it,” said Peer ruefully. He didn’t like to think what his uncles would do to him when he got back.
Chapter 9
More Trouble at the Mill
HILDE WAS UNCHARACTERISTICALLY quiet as they led the pony away from the village. “What’s the matter?” Peer asked at last.
“Nothing.” Hilde hesitated. “To tell you the truth,” she admitted, “I know it’s silly, but when Bjørn told that story I started thinking about Pa. I’m not worried! I’m just —”
“Worried!” Peer finished. “But don’t be, Hilde. I’m sure he’s all right.”
“I know,” she agreed, still rather glum. “But nothing’s really gone right since he left. And the trolls – besides what you told me - they’re such a nuisance. They’re round the house every night, stealing and spoiling things.”
“A pity your father didn’t know that before he left,” offered Peer.
“He did know,” said Hilde. “I mean, it’s got worse, but he did know.”
“Ah.” Peer paused, and Hilde imagined him thinking, Ralf knew, and he left all the same?What kind of a father is that? She bit her lip. Peer gave her a sideways look and suddenly squeezed her hand.
“You’re just missing him,” he said gruffly. “I know how it feels.”
Hilde smeared a hand across her eyes. “I’m not crying, I never cry. Don’t tell the twins.” She looked back at Sigurd and Sigrid, coming along behind with Loki, teasing him with a slippery ribbon of seaweed. “At least they’re having fun.”
“And Loki and I got something to eat today,” said Peer. “I don’t suppose we’ll get much supper tonight. Not that we ever do.”
Hilde flashed him a glance, opened her mouth, sighed, and shut it again. They plodded on up the track, the pony clopping beside Hilde with its neck low. “I wish you could live with us,” Hilde muttered at last.
“Thanks,” said Peer sadly, “but it wouldn’t work. They’d only come and get me.”
Hilde stopped suddenly. “Yes – they would now. But Pa will be home by midwinter. Of course!” She danced in excitement. “Pa won’t let them sell you to the trolls. You can stay with us and be perfectly safe. He’ll be home long before then!”
Peer lifted his head. “Really? Would your father really take me in?”
“I know he would.” Hilde assured him. “Loki too. Don’t worry any more, Peer.”
Peer drew a deep breath. He could hardly believe the problem had been solved so easily. Hilde beamed at him and they talked cheerfully as they went on up the path. By now the little ones were straggling.
“I’m tired,” Sigurd complained. “My feet ache.”
“Get on the pony,” said Hilde, lifting him up.
“I’m tired too,” wailed Sigrid.
Peer felt strong and capable. “I’ll give you a ride!” he said, bending down, and Sigrid gleefully scrambled on to his back. She was very light. He bounded up the track, bumping to make her laugh, till they came in sight of the mill. A figure like a dark stone tower stood at the entrance to the yard, glaring down the road.
Heart thudding, mouth dry, Peer uncurled Sigrid’s warm little hands from their stranglehold around his neck and lowered her gently to the ground.
“I’m for it,” he whispered to Hilde. “Better get out while you can.”
“Boy!” Uncle Baldur’s voice cracked, shooting into a scream. “Come here AT ONCE!”
“Who is that nasty man?” asked Sigrid in a high, alarmed little voice.
“The miller,” said Hilde crisply. “Come here, Sigrid.”
“Go home,” said Peer distractedly. “Go on, Hilde – go!”
He went warily forwards. Behind him Sigrid was asking piercingly, “Why is the nasty man angry with Peer?”
“Just wait till I get my hands on you,” Uncle Baldur shrieked. “Corn to grind and work to do, and you run off to play?” He lunged, and Peer instinctively dodged him. Even madder, Uncle Baldur grabbed again, got Peer by the wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. Peer gasped.
“Wastrel!” Uncle Baldur shook him. Through the drumming blood in his ears Peer heard Loki barking, Hilde shouting, “Let go of him!” and above it all little Sigrid screaming, “I don’t like that nasty man! I hate him!”
“Hilde!” he yelled, struggling to see through a red flood of shame. Uncle Baldur had him doubled over now, and was raining blows on him. And Hilde was witnessing it all! “Hilde, for goodness’ sake, get those kids away from here!”
The noise attracted Uncle Grim. He stood watching for a moment and then roared, “Let go of ’im, Baldur. Let ’im go!”
Uncle Baldur stopped in astonishment. He looked at his brother. Grim simply jerked his head towards Hilde, who was hurriedly lifting the shrieking twins on to the pony. Then he turned and walked away.
“Ha.” Uncle Baldur let Peer go. Peer fell to the ground. Baldur’s little piggy eyes twinkled, dark and calculating. He scratched his beard.
“Maybe I was hasty,” he puffed. “A boy has to have friends, eh? I like a lad of spirit. Don’t you be scared of me, my dear,” he cooed to Hilde, who was dragging the pony towards the bridge. “This lad of mine is the apple of my eye. He is! I used to play truant myself, once, and my dear old dad used to beat me for it. Made me the man I am today!”
“Goodbye,” said Hilde quickly to Peer.
“Boys will be boys,” went on Uncle Baldur, following her around the end of the building. “Don’t go yet! How about a bite to eat, or a drink of, er – a drink of – of buttermilk?” He stopped, watching as Hilde urged the pony across the bridge and uphill towards the wood.
“Come again to play with the boy!” he shouted after her. “Bring the kiddies. Don’t be shy!” Sigurd and Sigrid were still crying. Uncle Baldur stood staring after them until they disappeared into the trees. At last he turned on his heel and strode back to the yard.
“I’m a fair man, see,” he said to Peer, showing his teeth. “You deserve a bit of fun. Bring your friends here any time you like. Make sure you tell them. Any time! Show them how the mill works. They’ll like that.”
“Yes, Uncle.” Peer was determined to do no such thing. Baldur opened his mouth as if to say something more, and changed his mind. He swung away, aiming a kick at Loki, who jumped deftly aside.
Peer lay in the straw that night, wrapped in the worn old cloak Hilde had given him. Though his bruises hurt, he didn’t mind them, because now he had a future. At midwinter – or sooner, as soon as Ralf Eiriksson came home – he and Loki would escape up the valley.
Ralf would protect them. Secretly Peer hoped that Ralf would let him stay. Surely a boy could help on the farm? Peer wouldn’t eat much. He would train Loki to herd sheep. As for his uncles – well, perhaps once their plan had failed, they would not care enough to try and recapture him.
He pulled the cloak over his head and fell asleep. But dark water came spilling into his dreams. He was swimming in the middle of the millpond, far from the bank. Below him, Granny Greenteeth came rising through the water. She wrapped long skinny arms about his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. “Come to me,” she crooned. “Come to your old granny. Nobody else cares!”
“No, no!” cried Peer. But tangled in her strong arms he sank deeper and deeper.
He woke sweating, all wound up in the cloak. The barn was completely dark. Loki pushed a cold nose into his hand, a mouse whisked over his foot, and a scuffling overhead suggested the Nis. Peer stood up. He needed to go outside.
It was raining. A sweet smell of new hay puffed from the damp fields. The rain came on harder, as if it had been just waiting for him to step outside. Peer could not afford to let his only cloak get soaked. He felt his way along the side of the barn to the privy, a small stone shed built against the wall, pushed at the creaky old door and slipped inside.
Here it was warm and smelly. Some Grimsson ancestor had built it years before, dug a deep trench and erected a plank seat with three holes in it. Peer wrinkled his nose. But it was a dry place to go. He sat down on the first seat.
It was too dark to see much. Just as well, thought Peer, or I might start imagining things. There was a black shadow away to his left that was just the shape of a person sitting there. Probably a stain on the wall. He stared at it harder. Actually it wasn’t so like a person. No one could really have such a short body and lumpy head, with one ear much, much bigger than the other. No one could really —
The shadow sitting on the third seat coughed quietly, and Peer’s hair stood upright on his head. He burst into the yard trying to run and haul his trousers up at the same time. He had the nasty impression, though he could not swear to it, that a second misshapen head had popped up through the middle seat as he rushed out.
He went quickly behind the barn, among the wet nettles, and returned to Loki, zinging with nerves.
It was a relief to hear the Nis skipping about again after all that. Peer called to it, and in a trembling voice, asked what he had seen.
“Lubbers,” replied the Nis with a contemptuous sniff.
“Not trolls?” Peer cleared his throat. “What’s a lubber?”
The Nis would not come down. It was chasing spiders, and he heard it muttering to itself: “Butter! They all promises butter to poor Nithing. But promises melt easy in the mouth.”
“I’m sorry.” Peer saw he was out of favour. “I did ask my friend to get you some butter, but she hasn’t been able to. Please, what’s a lubber? Would they hurt me?”
“Hurt you? Only if they catches you. Lubbers is stupid, slow,” said the Nis impatiently. “Lubbers is low. Look where they live!”
Peer shuddered. “Are there any more nasty creepy things living here? I hate this place.”
The Nis refused to tell him anything more. It stole about overhead with sudden flurries of activity and snatching movements, keeping Peer awake.
“What are you doing?”
“Collecting spiders.” Its voice floated down.
“Would you stop it and let me sleep?”
“Very well!” said the Nis, highly offended. “Everyone must hush, everything keep still as a stone while Peer Ulfsson sleeps!” It flounced away and silence fell.
Next day there was an unaccountable plague of spiders in the mill. Big, small and medium-sized, they scuttled here and there across the floor, ran out from every crack and cranny, and wove webs in every corner. Uncle Baldur set Peer to get rid of them. It took him all day.
Chapter 10
Bad News
AUTUMN ARRIVED WITH crisp biting winds and skeins of wild geese flying south. The birch leaves turned a clear pale yellow and fluttered to the ground.
The trolls grew bolder. Things went badly at Hilde’s house. Animals strayed, rain came through the roof, the children quarrelled, and things were mislaid. As autumn grew older the trolls became very bold indeed. The family saw them often now at twilight, hiding near the walls, sending looks of ill will on the house. The twins met one scuttling short and squat around a corner one evening, and were frightened by its pattering feet and slate-grey skin and odd eyes like live pebbles. And sleepless at night in their warm beds, the family lay worrying about Ralf. Nobody spoke of it, but everyone knew he was late, late, late.
One frosty morning Bjørn Egilsson knocked at the door with his brother Arne. They came in and Arne stood awkwardly while Gudrun fussed and exclaimed and offered them breakfast.
Arne looked tired and weatherbeaten; his clothes were waterstained and faded. When Hilde smiled at him he looked at the floor. Alf, the old sheepdog, ambled stiffly to greet him, and Arne stroked his ears as if grateful for something to do.
“Tell us your adventures, Arne,” said Gudrun brightly, but her hand shook as she poured ale for the visitors.
Bjørn and Arne exchanged glances. Arne cleared his throat. “Well – you know I wanted to join Ralf ’s ship but missed the sailing? I followed in my own boat, hoping to catch her at some place further south. For a while I got plenty of news of her from villages along the coast. I was sure I’d catch up. Then – well, then the news dried up. Nobody knew anything about her.”
“‘All right,’ I thought, ‘they’ve struck out to sea at last, and I’ve missed them.’ I was disappointed, but I got a place on one of those pot-bellied cargo ships instead. But now…”
He stopped and went on with a rush. “I hate to tell you this, Gudrun. I’m afraid there’s been news of a wreck. Part of a dragon-prowed longship was washed up on rocks south of Hammerhaven. No survivors.”
Gudrun flinched, and Eirik suddenly looked very old. “Is Pa dead?” wailed Sigrid. Hilde hugged her.
“We don’t know that,” said Bjørn hastily. “We just thought you ought to hear it from Arne before the story gets garbled all around the dale.”
“Thank you,” said Gudrun quietly.
“I wouldn’t have brought such news for the world,” Arne muttered.
“It may not be true,” said Bjørn.
“We must wait to hear more,” said Gudrun, knowing full well that more news was unlikely ever to arrive.
“I hope I’m wrong.” Arne took Gudrun’s hand. “If there’s anything we can do, anything…”
Gudrun stifled a sob. The two brothers looked very troubled as they departed.
Hilde took a pitchfork out to the cowshed. Where no one could see her, she leaned on the smooth wooden rail of Bonny’s stall, and buried her head in her arms.
Now I know how Peer felt when he lost his father.
Hot-eyed, she thought about Peer. She remembered that day in early spring when they had first met. The day Baldur Grimsson had threatened her; the day he had told her to keep off the Stonemeadow; the day he had claimed Ralf ’s sheep. He had said Ralf would never come back; and he had been right. Drearily she realised how different everything would be from now on. She wouldn’t even be able to help Peer escape from his uncles. The Grimsson brothers had won.
She gritted her teeth. “No they haven’t! They shan’t have the sheep, for a start. I’ll go up to the Stonemeadow and fetch them down myself!” And she marched straight back into the house to tell Gudrun so.
Her mother gasped in horror.
“Go up the mountain by yourself? At this time of the year, with trolls about? And wolves, and bears? And the Grimssons, up there all hours of the day and night, thick as thieves with the Troll King himself ? I won’t allow it. Hasn’t this house seen enough trouble?”
“Then what will we do?” asked Hilde in a low voice. “Hand everything over to the Grimssons on a plate? And what about poor Peer Ulfsson?”
“I’m sorry for the boy, but he’s not our problem,” cried Gudrun.
“All right!” said Hilde, very white. “But those are our sheep up there, on our land. And the Grimssons have had the wool off them already this year – and it was Peer who told me. Oh Ma! If I don’t bring them down to our sheepfold, we’ll lose them altogether. Pa would have done it weeks ago – if he’d been here.”
Hunched over the fire, old Eirik stirred. “The girl is right,” he said unexpectedly. “The sheep do have to be brought down. She’s a brave girl, and sensible. She can manage.”
“I’ll be all right,” Hilde added eagerly. “I’ll take Alf. He’ll look after me.”
“He’s too old!” Gudrun protested.
“Ma, he knows every inch of the hills, and he knows the sheep. I can’t get lost with Alf. Look at him!”
The old dog had heard his name and was looking up enquiringly. Eirik slapped his thigh. “Knows every trick. The old ones are the good ones!”
With bad grace Gudrun gave way. “I suppose you may go, Hilde – since your grandfather approves… But be careful. Get back before dark!”
“I’ll try.” Already Hilde felt better, wrapping herself up in a sheepskin jacket and pulling on a pair of soft leather boots. She grabbed a stick. “For cracking trolls on the head,” she joked.
“Oh dear.” Gudrun looked anxiously out. The sky was overcast and a chill wind swept the farmyard. “It looks like snow.”
“Get inside and keep warm,” said Hilde impatiently. “Keep Grandpa off the ice. And don’t worry about me. Come, Alf!” She set off, the old sheepdog trotting beside her.
Hilde knew that long hours of tramping hills lay before her. The tough, independent little sheep roamed where they pleased and were often widely scattered. As she climbed the shoulder of Troll Fell, the wind hit her, burning her ears and forcing tears from her eyes. More ominously, the first grey flakes of snow came whizzing past.
The sheep seemed to have disappeared. Hilde listened for the sound of bleating, or the clonking of the sheep bell worn by the old ewe who led the flock. A flurry of snow whirled down from the north-east, erasing the hillside, leaving nothing visible but a few blurred yards of wet bent grass already turning white.
Hilde trudged on, unwilling to give up. She began to wonder if Baldur and Grim had already taken the sheep away. Perhaps there were none to find. Then it dawned on her that the sheep would shelter from the weather on the western side of the crags. She turned in that direction. Alf trotted ahead, the wind blowing up his thick fur to show the pale skin at the roots.
A blue, unfriendly twilight descended on Troll Fell, and the snow grew deeper. Grey shapes were slinking and sliding about on the edge of sight, and Hilde remembered the trolls. And then Alf barked, once. He stood with one front paw raised, listening intently.
“Have you found them?” Hilde gasped. “Good lad! Go on, then – fetch ’em down!” Alf sped away into the gloom.
Hilde waited, stamping her feet. In a moment a couple of sheep came jogging into view. Snow was piling up on their backs, but Hilde knew they couldn’t feel it under their thick fleeces. Two more arrived at their heels – black faced and scrawny, but to Hilde a beautiful sight.
She whistled. Alf came running, head low, snaking along behind another little group of startled, put-out looking sheep. A bell clonked dismally – he had found the old ewe. Alf looked extremely pleased with himself and grinned at her, panting.
“Good lad!” Hilde did a quick head count and decided there should be some more. “Go on Alf. Seek ’em out!” Alf whisked around the sheep he had gathered, nudging them into a compact group, and dashed off into the storm.
Hilde was smiling to see the old dog so proud of his work, when something small and solid hurled itself into her back and knocked her down. She grovelled on the wet ground, twisting and grappling. The unseen attacker let go, and she scrambled up dizzily, looking for her stick, which had spun away into the snow. Before she could find it, the creature scuttled back and gripped her around the thighs. She looked down into the enigmatic yellow eyes of a small troll, doing its best to heave her off her feet. She hammered it on the head and yelled, then stuck two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle.
Alf came streaking downhill so fast that he overshot. His back legs slid from under him as he turned, snarling, to attack. The troll let go abruptly and melted into the darkness. Alf pursued it for a few yards, hackles up, before returning to Hilde to check that all was well.
“Hey,” said Hilde gently. “You brave old boy, what a good dog!” She rubbed his chest and neck. His heart was thudding against his ribs, but his eyes were bright. It was Alf ’s glory to be useful, and this was his great day.
“Let’s just round up the ones we’ve got, and go.” They were near the western edge of the Stonemeadow, where the ground broke up into dangerous clefts, rocks and cliffs. It was now too dark to see where she put her feet. The best thing was to go slowly and let Alf and the sheep pick their own path.
A gust of wind parted the whirling snow. Not too far ahead a light waved, dim and smeary, such as might come from a traveller’s lantern. Hilde’s heart lifted. Perhaps Arne or Bjørn had come looking for her! “Over here!” she shouted, and heard an answering shout, blurred by the wind.
“Coming!” If only she had a lantern to signal back. The wind flung snow in her face like handfuls of grey soot. Alf barked, and the sound was whipped away.
The light glimmered again, further off and weaker. “Wait!” Hilde cried. She struggled on, panting. Each gasp filled her mouth with snowflakes like feathers. She coughed. “Wait for me!” She ran, Alf bounding at her heels, overtaking the sheep. The ground sloped. She slowed, afraid to go too fast. “Where are you?” she bellowed between cupped hands.
Alf sprang up and grabbed her sleeve in his teeth. He tugged, and she sat down hard. “What on earth –!” But the far-away light was returning, impossibly fast. No human being could run so smoothly over such rough ground. The light hurtled towards her, growing brighter and brighter, and halted in the air overhead. Hilde threw herself flat. Alf cowered beside her, growling. With a soft puff! the light went out. There was a wild laugh. Something rushed past them in the darkness and receded up the slope.
Hilde stood up on wobbling legs. She was on the edge of a cliff. If Alf hadn’t caught her sleeve, she would have pitched straight over. The creature, whatever it was – troll or mountain spirit – had led her completely astray.
Alf shook himself, as if telling her the danger was over. She patted his rough coat. “Good old Alf! They haven’t done for us yet. That’s the second time you’ve saved me tonight.”
As she turned to follow the old dog back to the sheep, the dark night and racing snow lit up as if a door had opened. And indeed it had. A few hundred yards up the slope, yellow light poured from a rift in the crag. In fear and amazement, she watched a dark silhouette approach the lighted gap and disappear inside. Spindly limbs and a large head – was that the troll-thing which had misled her? And was it going home?
Icy fragments of hail flew into her face. She shielded her eyes and looked again. The light was failing. A huge stone door swung ponderously shut. The hillside trembled at the shock, and all was dark.
Hilde touched Alf ’s neck. “Come!” she murmured.
At the bottom of the Stonemeadow the snow lay only ankle deep, and Alf drove the little flock briskly along the road till they reached the track to the farm.
Gudrun had the farmhouse door open in a flash. “You clever girl! You found them! Come inside at once!” She began to hug Hilde but then held her off. “Get those wet things off – you’re frozen! I’ll put the sheep away. There’s hot soup in the pot.”
“Alf shall have some,” declared Hilde. The old dog lay stiffly down by the fire. He gave a perfunctory lick to his bedraggled fur and laid his head between his paws.
“Dry him and give him some soup,” Hilde called to the twins, rubbing her hair vigorously. “He was marvellous. He saved my life! Ma, just wait till you hear our adventures. We found the door into Troll Fell!”
Chapter 11
The Dogfight
PEER WAS SITTING by the hearth one dark afternoon, cleaning his uncles’ boots. Several pairs lay scattered about and he was scraping the mud off and greasing them to keep them waterproof and supple. The best pairs were thick, double-stitched reindeer hide with the fur inside.
Peer handled them enviously. His own shoes were worn and split, wrapped around with string and stuffed with hay to try and keep his feet warm. They were always wet. His toes were red with chilblains.
He sat as close to the fire as he could. He’d been out for hours shovelling snow and carrying feed to the animals. There were a lot of them now. Grim had taken Grendel one morning and brought down some sheep he claimed were all his, though Peer, looking suspiciously, spotted a variety of different marks. The sheep were penned behind a wattle fence in a corner of the yard, where their breath hung in clouds over their draggled woolly backs.
The mill had been silent for a week. The millpond was freezing. Already the weir was fringed with icicles, and the waterwheel glazed with dark ice. No power. While the ice lasted, Uncle Baldur was a miller no longer. Only a farmer.
Bored and lonely, Peer smeared more grease on to the toe of the fifth boot. Uncle Grim lay snoring in his bunk. Baldur was out. Peer guessed he was down in the village, drinking with his cronies – if he had any.
There was no one to talk to. He hadn’t seen Hilde for weeks, and since the spider episode, the Nis had ignored him, though he often heard it skipping about at night. Peer remembered last winter’s fun, snowball fights and skating with the other boys in Hammerhaven. It felt like another life.
The door crashed open, and Uncle Baldur stamped in, beating snow from his mittens. “He’s dead!” he cried.
Uncle Grim jerked awake in mid-snore. He struggled up. “Who’s dead?”
“Ralf Eiriksson. It’s all around the village,” shrilled Uncle Baldur. “His ship was wrecked and they were all drowned. Just as I thought!”
The brothers flung their arms around each other and began a sort of stamping dance. Peer dropped the boot he was holding and sat in open-mouthed horror.
“Dead as a doornail,” chortled Uncle Baldur.
“A drowned doornail,” Grim wheezed, and Grendel leaped around them shattering the air with his barks.
“Is this sure?” asked Grim, sobering suddenly.
“Certain sure,” Baldur nodded. “Arne Egilsson’s been saying so. I went specially to ask him as soon as I heard. He didn’t like telling me, but he couldn’t deny the facts. The ship’s long overdue, and her timbers have been washing up further down the coast. She sank, it’s obvious.”
Grim smacked his brother on the shoulder. “Then the land’s ours! No one will argue about that if Ralf ’s dead.”
Baldur laughed. He paced up and down, slapping his great thighs. “We’ll be rich, brother. We’ll own the best half of Troll Fell. And after tonight, with the Gaffer’s gold —”
Uncle Grim nodded at Peer. “The boy’s listening,” he growled.
“Who cares?” Uncle Baldur caught Peer by the scruff and shook him. “He don’t know what I’m talking about. We’ll get the goods for the Gaffer now, all right. Who’s to stop us? With Ralf out of the way, we can do whatever we like!”
He whacked Peer on the ear and dropped him. Peer felt sick. Poor, poor Hilde. Poor Ralf! And his father’s lovely ship, smashed on the rocks and lost for ever! Then with a stab of fear he saw what this meant for himself. No safety up at the farm. No escape from Baldur and Grim.
“This calls for a drop of ale!” Baldur declared, rubbing his hands.
“Mead,” Grim suggested.
“You’re right.” Uncle Baldur licked his lips. “Something strong!”
Soon the two brothers were singing noisily, banging their cups together. Mechanically, Peer finished cleaning the boots. He lined them up by the door and sank to the floor. Something gnawed at his mind. Tonight? Had Uncle Baldur said “tonight”?
Midwinter! He’d been talking and thinking and planning about it for months. Now, with a shock like icy water dashed in his face, he realised he had no idea how close midwinter was. He thought back, counting on his fingers. How long since the first snow? Weeks? It seemed a long time. And the days were so short now; it was dark outside already. Midwinter must be nearly upon them.
There was a bang at the door. Peer looked at his uncles. They were singing so loudly that neither they nor Grendel had heard. Peer shrugged and went wearily to open it. With his hand on the latch he paused. What if it was Granny Greenteeth, come to pay a visit before the ice locked her in for the winter? Well, let her come! He jerked the door open.
A cutting wind whirled in. There stood two ordinary men, muffled up against the cold. They stepped quickly in and shook snow from their clothes.
“Shut that DOOR!” Uncle Baldur yelled. Then he saw the visitors and staggered to his feet. “Look who’s here.” He prodded Grim. “It’s Arne and Bjørn.”
“Give ’em a drink,” hiccupped Grim.
But Bjørn’s good-natured face was stern. “Hey, Peer,” he said quietly, dropping a friendly hand on Peer’s shoulder. “Grim, Baldur,” he went on, “we’ve not come to drink with you. We’ve come to say one thing. Leave Ralf ’s family alone!”
Uncle Baldur sprawled back on the bench. He gave an unpleasant laugh. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do,” said Arne. “You’re after Ralf ’s land on Troll Fell.”
“But you won’t get it,” said Bjørn. “Arne and I will stand witness against you. It was never yours, and you know it!”
Peer felt like cheering. He glowed with admiration for the two young men. They looked like heroes to him as they stood there together, their faces tight with anger. Baldur and Grim exchanged glances.
“Why are you interfering?” asked Baldur with a suspicious scowl. “What’s in it for you?”
“Why?” exploded Bjørn. “Because Ralf was our friend. Because the land was his. Because you’re a couple of cheating pigs who’d rob a widow and her family!”
“Don’t bother trying to understand,” added Arne.
“Get out!” Baldur surged to his feet. “Out, before I set the dog on you!”
“Oh, we’ll go,” said Bjørn coldly. “I wouldn’t stay in your stinking mill for all the gold on Troll Fell.”
He strode for the door, but Uncle Baldur grabbed his arm. “Gold?” he croaked. “What do you mean? What do you know about troll gold?”
Bjørn stared at him and whistled. “That’s your game, is it? Don’t you worry, Grimsson. The only thing I know about troll gold is this: it’s unlucky and I don’t want anything to do with it. And if you’ll take my advice, neither will you. Goodnight!”
Peer stepped hopefully forwards. If he could only catch Bjørn’s eye; if he could only go with him! But this time, Bjørn did not notice Peer. He and Arne slipped through the door and vanished into the night.
Uncle Baldur sat down heavily. He tried to pour himself another drink, but the bottle was empty. He swore.
“There’s no fun for a man round here,” he grumbled. “Nothing but trouble and work —”
“Let’s have a dogfight,” suggested Grim. Peer looked up.
“What with?” asked Uncle Baldur scornfully. “That thing of the lad’s? He wouldn’t last a minute with Grendel.”
“He’s nippy,” offered Grim. “Bet you he’d last five.”
A grin spread over Baldur’s face. “All right!” he said.
“No!” Peer shrieked. “You can’t! You can’t, you bullies!” He hurled himself at Uncle Baldur, kicking and biting.
“The boy’s mad!” Uncle Baldur twisted Peer’s wrist up behind his back. “Keep still, or I’ll break yer arm. You go and fetch the dog, Grim. The boy might turn him loose.”
“Let go of me,” panted Peer, still struggling as Grim nodded and went out. “Let me go!”
Loki trotted in at Uncle Grim’s heels, looking wary and puzzled.
“They can’t fight in here,” said Uncle Baldur over Peer’s head.
“No,” Grim agreed, “we’ll have it in the yard. I give you ten to one he lasts a good five minutes before Grendel grips him. He’s quick, you see.”
“Done!” Baldur grinned. “Speed won’t save him from Grendel. One good crunch and it’ll all be over.” Peer couldn’t believe they were talking about his beloved dog.
“Loki can’t fight, he won’t fight,” he cried. “He doesn’t know how.”
Paying no attention, Uncle Baldur dragged him outside with Loki, while Uncle Grim brought Grendel along by the collar, holding a flaring torch in the other hand to light the dogfight. The snow had stopped falling, but was blowing about the yard chased by a cruel little wind. It was an unbearably cold night.
Peer looked at the two dogs in despair. Grendel dwarfed little Loki. He was built like a wolf, but thicker and taller, with massive head and powerful jaws. Loki curled his tail between his legs and trembled.
“Three… two… one! Eat him, Grendel!” yelled Uncle Baldur, releasing Loki. At the same moment Uncle Grim let go of Grendel, who sprang forward snarling.
Loki took one look and ran for his life. But Grendel’s long legs gained on him. At the edge of the sheepfold Loki doubled back, his front and back legs crossing each other in his efforts to escape, and the two dogs merged in a rolling tangle near the barn wall, falling over and over in a spray of snow. “Gren-del! Gren-del!” shouted Baldur.
“Loki! Run!” screamed Peer.
Suddenly an avalanche of snow slumped off the barn roof on top of the two dogs, burying them. There was a moment’s surprised silence as they struggled to rise, shaking themselves free. Peer caught a flicker of movement running along the barn roof, and was sure it was the Nis. “Oh, thank you,” he breathed.
Loki got his wits back before Grendel did. He jumped out of the drift and raced across the yard towards the road. “Head him off!” shouted Uncle Baldur, and Grim tried to bar his way, swinging the blazing torch. Loki whizzed between his legs and was out of the yard and over the wooden bridge before Grendel could catch him. Grim slipped and fell, cursing. Peer and Uncle Baldur ran past, following the two dogs over the icy bridge. They were already out of sight. Where, oh where was Loki?
A shivering howl of triumph quivered up and up until it seemed to reach the frosty stars. It lingered in the cold air, holding Peer motionless till it died away. Uncle Baldur too, was frozen in his steps. Grim came limping up, the blazing branch in one hand, the other hand pressed to his hip.
“He’s got the little beggar,” he said.
Tears of horror rose in Peer’s eyes. He stumbled along the kicked-up path to the millpond, and his uncles followed, Baldur grumbling: “Didn’t get to see anything. No fun at all. Call that a fight?”
Peer blundered out of the bushes on the edge of the millpond, and stopped dead. A few yards away Grendel stood with his back to Peer, hackles raised and head lowered threateningly. At the very brink of the millpond, Loki faced him at bay. Loki’s head was up and he looked this way and that with quick, desperate movements.
No wonder Grendel had howled in triumph. Loki was cornered. Behind him, the millpond reflected the starlight with a thin layer of milky ice. To his left, the dark waters of the sluice poured in icicles down to the rapidly freezing stream.
Grendel’s breath steamed. The flames from Grim’s torch lit the snow to rosy warmth and glistened on every yellow tooth in Grendel’s head. He was waiting for his master’s signal to bring the fight to its end. Even across the yards of snow, Peer could see Loki shaking.
“Good lad, Grendel,” puffed Uncle Baldur. “Get him!”
Peer clapped his hands over his eyes, but lowered them at a shout from Baldur. Loki had turned and leaped out on to the ice. Amazingly, it held him. He slithered across it, paws scrabbling.
“Oh Loki – go on, go on,” panted Peer. Uncle Grim gave a bellow of alarm. “Grendel! Stop!”
He was too late. Grendel launched himself after Loki. With a splintering crash he went straight through the fragile ice and was struggling in the black water.
Grim ran to the edge. He plunged the branch he held into the water. The flames sizzled out. “Here Grendel! Grip hold!” he shouted, but Grendel took no notice. He tried to follow Loki, snarling and raking at the ice with his claws. It broke into crazy pieces. He could smash his way across!
Loki had reached the far bank. It was steep; he scrambled up, clinging desperately with his front paws, kicking with his back legs, but the loose snow collapsed under him and he tumbled back on to the ice.
“Pay up,” said Grim to Baldur.
“He’ll catch him yet,” said Baldur, watching Grendel crashing his way across.
Loki flung himself a second time at the bank. Again his twisting body fell back on to the ice. Grendel was halfway over by now, his great strength breaking a jagged passage. Peer could not stand it. Without even thinking he filled his lungs and ran forward. “Granny!” he yelled, so loudly his voice cracked. “Granny Greenteeth!”
Baldur and Grim glanced at him in angry surprise. Then Baldur bit off an exclamation and pointed.
Something was happening to Grendel, out there in the middle of the pond. He writhed, splashing, biting at something that seemed to have risen beside him. It was hard to see in the bitter starlight. Could those be skinny white arms twining about Grendel’s neck, pulling him under? The chunks of broken ice danced and clashed. There was a thrashing struggle just below the surface, a choked-off bark – and Grendel was gone.
“Granny Greenteeth!” Peer whispered, hugging himself and shuddering.
There was a loud wail from Uncle Grim. “Grendel!”
“She’s got him,” said Uncle Baldur, shrugging, but his mouth was set.
On his third try, Loki reached the top of the bank and hurtled away into the woods. Uncle Grim forgot his sorrow. “You owe me, Baldur. Pay up!”
“Later,” said Baldur. “When we’re rich. And we’d better get on with that.” He stared at Peer, who quailed, expecting to be blamed for Grendel’s awful fate. But it seemed that Uncle Baldur had taken Peer’s shout for a warning, and wasn’t thinking about that.
“Tonight is midwinter’s eve,” he said softly, still staring at Peer. “Don’t forget, Grim, we’re invited to a wedding. It’s time we went to get the presents!”
Peer tried to dash for it, but Uncle Baldur caught his arm. “What shall we do with him, Grim? We don’t want to take him along with us.”
“Lock him up. Shut him up in the privy,” Grim growled. “There’s no window, and we can block up the door.”
Peer struggled, but the two big men dragged him down the path to the mill. Uncle Baldur hauled open the privy door and thrust him inside. “You’ll not die of cold,” he joked. “Where there’s dirt there’s warmth.” He shoved the door shut and Peer heard logs being piled against it. With a last effort he beat his fists on the rough planks, screaming, “Let me out! Where are you going?”
“To pay a little visit to Ralf ’s farm, of course,” came Baldur’s muffled voice. They clumped away, leaving Peer to gasp for his breath in the cold and stinking darkness.
Chapter 12
Stolen in the Storm
“THERE’S A HEAVY snow coming,” Eirik said to Gudrun. “I can feel it in my bones.”
“And what if there is?” Gudrun slapped the dough she was kneading. “I don’t have to worry about the weather any more.”
Hilde, pulling on her thick-fur lined boots, looked anxiously at her mother. Gudrun was very pale these days.
“It’s not snowing yet,” she said. “Just freezing hard.” She belted her sheepskin jacket with a piece of string, and took the lantern from its hook. “I’m going to feed the cows.”
Eirik looked up. “I’ll help,” he offered.
“Oh, I don’t need any help, Grandpa…”
“Don’t be an old fool, Eirik,” Gudrun snapped. “Stay in the warmth.”
Eirik was offended and hurt, and Hilde saw it. “If Sigurd and Sigrid come out with me, Eirik could keep an eye on them. They need some fresh air.”
“No we don’t,” objected Sigrid.
“You’ll do what you’re told!” Hilde hissed.
“Can we have a snowball fight?” asked Sigurd.
“Certainly, if you don’t go out of Grandpa’s sight,” said Hilde briskly. She pushed their boots on and pulled their woolly caps over their ears. Gudrun wrapped up Eirik till he was almost circular.
Hilde filled her pockets with stones – handy for throwing at trolls – and bundled the little ones ahead of her out of the door. They screamed with delight and slid off across the icy yard. Gudrun appeared in the doorway supporting Eirik, who shook her off irritably and stepped after Hilde. He staggered, and Hilde leaped to help him. “Leave me alone, girl,” he growled at her. “I can manage!”
“Now Father-in-law, do take care!” shrilled Gudrun.
Eirik really lost his temper. “Women, women,” he shouted, “cluck, cluck, never leave you alone. I wish my son was here. He’d know I’m not in the grave yet!” He slipped on a particularly glossy patch of ice and sat down hard.
Hilde rushed to pick him up. Sigurd and Sigrid threw snow about, quarrelling. Gudrun clung to the doorpost, calling out instructions. Eirik sat puffing with shock.
There was an apologetic cough. “Can we help?” Hilde looked up to see Bjørn and Arne climbing over the gate. The two young men pulled Eirik to his feet and dusted the snow off him tactfully. Eirik dabbed at himself, muttering.
“It was the ice,” Hilde explained awkwardly. “It was so slippery that he – he slipped.”
“Ah yes, it’s slippery stuff, ice,” said Arne with a grin. He became serious again. “We’ve brought some news.”
“Come inside then, before you freeze,” snapped Gudrun, holding the door open. “Hurry! I’m losing all the warmth.”
They all trooped into the house. “It’s nothing much,” Bjørn began, but Gudrun stopped him. “Not a word! Not a word of your news do I wish to hear till we’ve shown you some hospitality. We still know how to welcome our neighbours here, I hope. Hilde, where’s your manners? Fetch some ale.”
“In some houses,” Eirik grumbled under his breath, “it’s the man who calls for ale!”
The ale was drunk in an atmosphere of polite discomfort. “Well,” said Arne, when Gudrun finally allowed him to speak, “we spoke to the Grimsson boys today. We came straight on from the mill, in fact. They’ve heard about Ralf. They were – celebrating, I’m afraid.”
“Boasting about how they’re going to steal Ralf’s land,” Bjørn added.
“We wiped the smile off Baldur’s fat face. We told him to leave you alone.”
“Did you see Peer? Was he all right?” asked Hilde anxiously.
Bjørn looked thoughtful. “Yes, we saw him. I hope so. There was a little noise going on when we left, and I forgot to speak to him.”
“Bjørn lost his temper,” Arne grinned.
Gudrun’s eyes were wet. She mopped them quickly with her apron. “You’re such good friends,” she exclaimed, stretching out her hands. The young men flushed.
“So we’ll keep a close eye on the Grimssons for you,” Arne went on hastily, “if Eirik has no objection, that is?”
Everyone looked at Eirik. “What?” said Eirik. “No, er – of course not. Keep an eye on them for all you’re worth, young fellow!”
“Good,” said Arne. “If they start any trouble, let us know.” He stood up.
“I’ll come out with you,” said Hilde. She slipped out ahead of Bjørn and Arne, surprising three small trolls who were sneaking across the yard.
“Get out!” she yelled, scrabbling in her pocket for stones. They bolted under the gate, and Arne and Bjørn ran up. “Are you all right? We heard you shout.”
“Quite all right, Bjørn, thank you. I was frightening away a few trolls.”
Arne looked at her admiringly. “So you know how to deal with trolls?”
“I’m a pretty good shot,” Hilde boasted.
“But where are you going? To feed the cows? Can I help?”
“No, no!” said Hilde, blushing as Bjørn nudged his brother and grinned. “You should both get home. Grandfather’s bones tell him a snowstorm is coming.” As she spoke she realised it was already snowing again. “And it looks as if he’s right,” she added.
Arne and Bjørn said goodnight, and Hilde dived into the dark cowshed. She pulled down hay for Bonny and her calf, and threw down fresh straw. When the animals were comfortable, she left the sheltered shed, tramped across the wild white yard and banged on the farmhouse door. She waited, shivering, while Gudrun unbarred it, and then jumped inside, gasping and laughing and brushing off snow.
“Brrr! Shut the door, mother! Whatever are you waiting for?”
“The twins, of course. Aren’t they with you?”
“No!” said Hilde, alarmed. “Weren’t they with you?”
Gudrun slammed the door. “I thought they went out after you the second time. They went out just before Bjørn and Arne.”
“They never joined me. I’ve been in the shed.”
They looked at each other.
“Listen,” said Gudrun in a low voice. She pointed to Eirik, asleep by the fire. “Don’t wake him yet. Take the lanterns and go round the steading – call them. They may be building a snow fort or something. If not – ah!” She moved her hands despairingly. “What then?”
“What next?” said Hilde grimly. “Don’t worry, mother. I’ll find them.” She plunged back out into the darkness.
The lantern shone on to snow whirling on the ground, picked up and flung about by the wind. It was hard to walk in a straight line.
“Sigurd?” she shouted. “Sigrid? Where are you? Come in at once, supper’s ready!
“Sigurd! Come here now!
“Children! I’ll smack you if you don’t come!”
A night bird shrieked. What bird would be out in such a night? Huuu – hutututu! She shivered. That was no bird; the trolls were out. The wind swept snow into her eyes. She went round to the sheepfold, swinging the lantern. The sheep lay huddled in the shelter of the fence, drifted snow on their backs.
“Sigurd? Sigrid?”
She held the lantern close to the ground, searching for tracks. Her own were obvious, and there were a lot of larger half-filled prints which must belong to Bjørn and Arne. The small light tracks of the little children had disappeared as completely as they had themselves.
“Oh where are you?” she cried – and stealthy movements caught her eye. She whirled. Trolls were creeping up to the very edge of her lantern’s pool of light, and their eyes reflected flashes of green and red. Hilde stamped her foot and shouted. They scattered, but a moment later a hail of snowballs flew at her, some loaded with stones. She stumbled back to the house.
Gudrun pulled the door open. “Have you found them?”
“No! Ma, the trolls are out there. They’ve been snowballing me. Ma, can the trolls have stolen them?” She clutched her mother’s arm, and they stared at each other, white-faced.
“We must tell Eirik,” said Gudrun. She ran to shake his shoulder. “Eirik, wake up! Wake up! Sigurd and Sigrid are missing!”
Eirik opened his eyes with a start and listened, bewildered, while Hilde and Gudrun gabbled.
“They’re missing!”
“It was after Bjørn and Arne left!”
“No, it was before!”
“They went out with you the first time.”
“I know, but —”
“Did they ever come back in?”
“I don’t remember. Did they, Grandfather?”
Eirik slapped his knee in irritation. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
Hilde repeated the story in desperation. “They’re lost! In the snow! And the trolls are out! And I made them go! Oh, if only they come back, I’ll never be mean to them again!” She began to cry.
“Have you looked for them?” Eirik asked. Gudrun’s control broke.
“Of course she’s looked for them! Why can’t you listen? Oh what shall we do? My poor little twins, lured away to die in the snow! I told Ralf there’d be trouble with the trolls, I told him, but would he listen? Oh, what shall we do?” She threw her apron over her head and sat down crying hysterically.
Eirik struggled upright in his chair. “Hush, Gudrun, hush,” he began, but as she paid no attention he cleared his throat and thundered, “Woman!”
It worked. Gudrun raised a startled face.
“Will you be quiet?” Eirik demanded. He got to his feet in great excitement. “It’s not the trolls. It’s not the trolls, I say. It’s the Grimssons who’ve stolen our children away!”
“The Grimssons?” Gudrun asked in wonderment.
“Of course it is!” Eirik raised his stick and whacked it down. “What did you tell us about them, Hilde? Didn’t they want a pair of children? And isn’t tonight midwinter’s eve?”
“They’ve taken Sigrid?” screamed Hilde. “They’ve taken Sigurd and Sigrid?”
Alf sprang up, barking. “I’ll kill them!” Hilde yelled.
Eirik was still explaining. “…crept up under cover of darkness – probably followed Arne and Bjørn – lay in wait –”
“All that fuss when you fell over,” gasped Hilde. “Perhaps they grabbed them then. There did seem a lot of big footprints, but I never thought! Oh, I can’t bear it! They’ll be so frightened!” She turned. “Mother, where are you going?”
Gudrun, white-lipped, was wrapping herself up. “To look for them, of course. You stay here and look after Grandpa.”
“By Odin,” shouted Eirik furiously, “you take me for a dotard, you do. Hilde will stay here. Gudrun, you will come with me. We shall go to Arne Egilsson’s and raise the village. Ha!” He stamped his foot down into a boot and broke into an old battle chant.
Gudrun shrugged. Her pale face softened into a very faint smile.
“He’s exactly like his son,” she remarked proudly.
Chapter 13
The Nis to the Rescue
PEER CROUCHED ON the frozen privy floor, wrapping his arms around his knees. He was so cold that in spite of Uncle Baldur’s last words to him, he rather thought he might die before morning. That would spoil their plans, he thought bitterly.
The only comfort was that Loki had got away. Everything else was a disaster. He imagined Baldur and Grim kicking open the door of Hilde’s house and dragging her out – her mother and her old grandfather would be unable to stop them. With Hilde in their power they would return to the mill for him, Peer, and take the pair of them away up Troll Fell. The Grimssons would collect their golden reward, and he and Hilde would become slaves of the trolls.
As for Loki, he would probably die in the woods, lost and cold and starving. Peer groaned in anguish…
…and heard a slithering sound somewhere over in the corner. He went very still. New fear tingled through him. He had completely forgotten about the other inhabitants of this privy.
The sound came again, accompanied by a creaking noise. Peer could imagine somebody hoisting themselves through one of the holes in the wooden seat. He tried not to breathe.
A voice spoke suddenly. “’Oo’s there?” it squeaked.
Peer dared not answer. A second voice spoke up from the pit below, hollow and muffled. “What’s up?”
“There’s someone ’ere!” squeaked the first voice.
“Light coming up,” boomed the second voice. In utter amazement Peer saw the three holes in the long wooden seat light up, throwing three round patches of light on to the rough roof. An arm came up through the middle hole, carrying a bluish flame.
The creature in the corner reached out and took it; the flame transferred easily from the first hand to the second and seemed not to belong to any oil lamp or taper. It was just a flame, flickering away by itself.
The second creature’s head now appeared through the hole. It spotted Peer and squealed. “Ooh! Look at that!”
“It’s a boy,” declared the first one in deep disgust.
Peer had never seen such strange beings. Their heads reminded him of turnips. They were lumpy and blotchy and bewhiskered. The one in the corner had an ear that stuck out like a cabbage leaf on one side of its head, while the other ear was small and knobbly. The one peering out of the hole seemed to have no ears at all. And the nose on it! And the mouth! Like a thin line with no lips.
“Are you – lubbers?” Peer quavered.
The first one jumped and the flame swerved and nearly went out. “It talks!”
“Of course it talks,” growled the second lubber. “All boys talk, you fool. Give me that!” It clambered nimbly through the hole and snatched the flame back. Then it crossed its legs and sat on the edge of the seat, looking at Peer.
“Whatcher doing here, then?” it asked chattily, but its bald turnip head and slit-like features did not reassure him.
“My – my uncles locked me in,” Peer explained.
The lubber seemed astonished. “You mean you can’t get out?”
“N-no,” Peer faltered, aware of making a mistake. The lubber in the corner nudged its friend.
“He can’t get out,” it said.
“Yeah,” said the lubber with the light. “I heard.”
They both stared at Peer, and then as if by unspoken agreement they both shuffled a bit closer to him along the bench.
“So,” said the lubber with the light. “Right cosy little party, this.”
There didn’t seem any reply to that. During the next minute’s silence, both lubbers came a little bit closer again.
Peer shifted anxiously. He pushed the door, testing it. It would not move. The Grimssons must have stacked half the woodpile against it.
“That’s an interesting trick,” he said quickly. “Your light, I mean. H-how does it work?”
“Watch this,” said the lubber with the light. He opened his mouth, wider and wider, till it looked as if his throat had been cut. He placed the flame inside his mouth and shut it. For a moment his cheeks glowed purple and red like a lantern. He gulped, and the flame went out.
In the ensuing darkness Peer felt both the lubbers scuffling much, much nearer.
“Then I snap my fingers,” said the lubber’s voice, close to his ear, “and back comes the light. Neat, or what?”
The bluish, bobbing flame appeared not far from Peer’s nose.
“It’s his party trick,” said the other lubber. They were now one on either side of Peer, and he did not know which way to look.
“It’s very clever,” he said desperately.
“It is clever,” agreed the lubber. “It’s very, very clever, but you know what? It always – makes me – hungry!”
Its mouth yawned open next to Peer’s shoulder. He leaped aside, cannoning into the other lubber. The touch of it made his flesh crawl: it was clammy and cold.
“Grab him,” shouted the lubber with the light, “the first square meal in ages, I’m sick of beetles and slugs —”
It would be like being eaten by frogs. Mad with loathing, Peer raised his arms to ward the hideous creatures off – and felt something hard being slipped into his hand from above. His fingers knew what it was, they closed over the hilt instinctively.
“Look out!” shrieked the second lubber. “He’s got a knife!”
The two lubbers rushed for the holes. There were two splashes, and the light went out. Peer was alone in the dark, though a mumbling, grumbling conversation was going on in the pit below.
A small pearly light dawned near the roof. Peer looked up. “Thank you, Nis!” he said in heartfelt gratitude.
The Nis giggled. “Lubbers is fools, no match for me!”
“I’m sure they’re not.” Peer’s legs gave way and he sat down.
“Get up! Get up!” hissed the Nis.
“What for?” Peer groaned.
“What for?” The Nis clicked its tongue in disbelief. “For to escape, of course. Hurry! Hurry!”
Peer didn’t move. “Nis, I can’t get through little holes like you do. The door’s barred. I can’t get out.”
“The door is barred, I can’t get out!” the Nis mimicked. “What is the knife for? To cut your way out through the thatch, of course!”
“Of course!” cried Peer. He climbed on to the wooden seat, hoping no lubber would grab his ankles, and began chopping at the bundles of reeds that made up the low roof. They were almost rotten, riddled with rat-runs, bird’s nests and passages. He soon broke through, cursing as the thick snow outside fell down his neck and on to his shoulders, and half slithered, half fell down into the yard, where a bundle of hysterical doggy joy leaped upon him and pushed him flat.
“Loki!” spluttered Peer. “Loki, you’re safe! All right now, stop it. Let me get up!”
He got up, gulping fresh air in freezing lungfuls. It was snowing again. The Nis scampered past like a little whirlwind and opened the mill door. Peer and Loki ran inside, and the Nis closed the door behind them.
It was blessedly warm. For a few moments all Peer could do was lean shuddering over the long hearth. The fire was dying; the red and violet embers gave little light, but they were still hot. His uncles must have been away for at least an hour. Peer was afraid they would soon be back. He turned around to get warm all over, and saw the Nis perching on the back of Uncle Grim’s big chair. It looked at him steadily, eyes gleaming.
“You saved my life,” said Peer. “And you saved Loki earlier, didn’t you? You pushed that snow off the roof.”
The Nis scratched itself. It skipped to the floor and spread its long spindly fingers over the fire.
“Why did you do it?” Peer asked. “I thought you were so keen on this wedding.”
“They hasn’t invited me,” said the Nis sadly.
“Oh…”
“Such a big wedding.” The Nis looked miserable and its mouth turned down. “The hill to be raised on red pillars. So much food… but they forgets to invite the poor Nis.”
“Perhaps they’re only inviting trolls.”
But the Nis shook its head. “Stromkarls, nixies, merrows even, all are going!”
Peer bit his lip. “I’m sure it’s been a dreadful oversight. But Nis – Loki and I have to escape before my uncles come back. They’ve gone for Hilde, so they can take the two of us up Troll Fell and give us to the trolls. But it’s not going to happen!” he went on fiercely. “If I’m not here, they won’t have the pair they need. And I’m leaving! I’ve had enough of Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim! I’m going back to Hammerhaven.” Brand and Ingrid would take him in for a while, he was sure. “But first I want what’s mine.” He strode over to the locked bin where the money was and rattled the lid. “I need to break into this. Any ideas?”
The Nis darted him a mischievous look. It reached out a long arm and hooked its wooden bowl out of the ashes. It was empty. Baldur and Grim had forgotten to fill it. “I has had enough too, Peer Ulfsson,” the Nis announced importantly. “See me!”
It scampered up the ladder and disappeared over the edge into the loft, where it began puffing and groaning. Bewildered, Peer climbed up to find it heaving away at the upper millstone, trying to lift it from its spindle.
“What on earth?” Peer began, and then he saw. If they could roll the millstone over the edge, it would fall on the chest below. But it must weigh half a ton. They could never lift it.
The Nis doubled limply over the millstone and lay panting. Peer looked about for something else to use. He clenched his fist in triumph. Standing upright against the wall, dark with dust, was the old worn millstone that had been replaced in Baldur’s father’s time. No need to lift it: it was already on its rim, with just a couple of chocks driven in on the underside to stop it rolling.
The Nis saw, and the sparkle came back into its eyes. It probed under the old millstone, pulling out the chocks. Peer grabbed the top of the stone and felt it roll forward. Between them, they guided it to the edge of the loft. At the very brink they paused and looked at each other. The Nis giggled. Peer grinned and pushed.
There was an ear-splitting crash, and pieces of wood flew like daggers. Loki fled under the table. Peer looked over to see the damage. The millstone had cracked in two, and the wooden bin was firewood. He jumped down, reached into the wreckage, and pulled out a soft leather bag.
It was all there, his father’s hard-earned wages – thin copper pennies, and worn silver pieces that slipped gently through his fingers. At the bottom of the bag was his father’s old silver ring. He shut his eyes and pushed it on to his own finger. Father, are you there? Can you hear me? I’m doing what you did, Father. I’m running away. He waited, as if there could be an answer, before opening his eyes.
He pulled on one of Uncle Baldur’s old tunics. It was smelly but warm, and came down to his knees. He seized the best of the blankets from Grim’s bed and wrapped it around his shoulders like a cloak. Next he chose the smallest pair of boots. They were still huge, so he stuffed the toes with straw and laced them up tightly.
“We need some food,” he said, taking a loaf from the bread crock. He tore some off to munch and gave half to Loki. The Nis watched, bright-eyed.
“Want some?” asked Peer. The Nis sprang into the rafters and sat nibbling like a squirrel. Peer took a last look at the dark room, the glowing bed of the fire, the shattered millstone and broken bin. “I’m off. Goodbye, Nis. I’ll never forget you. But I have to go now, before they get back.”
Snow was falling thickly in the yard. Peer crossed the bridge and decided to leave the road. He did not want to meet his uncles on the way home. Somewhere behind the snow-laden clouds the moon had risen, and he could pick his way up over the glimmering white fields. In spite of the cold and the dangerous journey ahead, he felt he had come to life.
“I’m free!” he said, savouring the word. It was a pity he was leaving the Nis behind. And Hilde. He desperately hoped Hilde would be all right. But leaving seemed to be the only thing he could do for her now. Hilde and her family belonged here: the neighbours would look out for them. Arne and Bjørn would, for example. But Peer? He was nobody’s business. We’re just strays, Loki and me. We’d better look out for ourselves. Nobody else will.
At the top of the big field above the mill, the same field Ralf had galloped across escaping from the trolls all those years ago, he stopped for breath, leaning against the tall stone called the Finger. Out of the steadily falling snow, a white fox came trotting downhill. Loki pricked his ears, whining, and Peer caught his collar. The fox froze with one foot lifted and looked sharply at the boy and his dog.
“Hello!” said Peer, amused. “Going down to the farms to see what you can find? There’s a black cockerel at the mill. You can have him and welcome!”
The fox shook its head and sneezed. It sprang away with flattened ears, disappearing into the white world in seconds. Peer laughed. But beside him, Loki growled. A moment late, Peer realised why.
Only a few yards away, two huge shapes emerged from the greyness, plodding uphill. He heard the grumble of two familiar and hated voices. His heart nearly stopped.
Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim!
Chapter 14
Peer Alone
PEER CROUCHED, his mind spinning. Were they after him? How could they know where he was?
Had they caught Hilde? Were they taking her to the Troll King all by herself?
Cheek pressed to the stone, he looked around the edge. And one thing was clear: his uncles had no idea he was there. Their hoods pulled well down, they trudged past his hiding place without looking left or right. And Hilde wasn’t with them. He sighed in relief. But each of them carried a large bundle over his shoulder.
What were those bundles? Was it just the poor light, or were they moving? Peer strained his eyes. With a jolt of horror he suddenly saw what they were. Two small children, bundled in sacking and swathed in ropes.
“Sigurd and Sigrid!” Peer breathed. A girl and a boy. Twins.
A matching pair!
He stood in the snow, in full view if his uncles turned around, his mind racing. What could he do? What could he possibly do, all by himself? How could he rescue the twins from two huge, powerful men – or from a whole hill full of trolls?
If he had been slower leaving the mill, or if he had gone by the road, he would never have known – never have seen what his uncles were doing. He gazed after their disappearing backs. It was nearly too late. In a moment they would vanish into the dim night and falling snow. He could go on to Hammerhaven as if nothing had happened.
But into his head slipped a memory, the memory of Sigrid’s high little voice in the summer, screaming at Uncle Baldur: “I don’t like the nasty man! I hate him!” Sigrid and Sigurd were only little, but they were his friends.
Peer stood as still as the big stone. He knew what he should do. He should follow, and see where his uncles were taking the children. He should tell the whole village what they had done. If he didn’t he would blame himself for ever.
“Loki!” he said with a furious sob. “This way!”
Loki gambolled along at his heels, thinking this was a game. Peer was terrified he would bark and give them away. He was afraid of losing his uncles, and afraid of getting too close. Already their shadowy shapes were disappearing into a little valley. Peer ran, as if in a bad dream. His cumbersome boots dragged half off at each stride.
The valley was no more than a dimple on the hillside, but it was full of drifted snow. Both Peer’s boots came off as he ploughed through it. There was no time to empty out the snow; he just shoved his numb feet back in and plunged on. The tracks turned uphill again. Peer dropped into a plod, forced himself to run, fell to plodding again. On and on he went. It stopped snowing, and the moon sailed out over a landscape of white slopes and black rocks. Deep dragging marks showed where his uncles had turned aside towards the foot of a cliff – twenty feet or so of glistening stone capped with a snowy overhang. The tracks continued along the base to a place where a rockfall of boulders offered a way up. Peer and Loki picked their way, slipping and bruising themselves on half-buried stones.
At the top of the cliff, the ground levelled out into a wide ledge. Peer reached it, gasping. A few hundred yards ahead, clear in the moonlight, two dark figures strode towards a narrow ravine. If they turned around, Peer would be in plain view. But they didn’t turn.
He looked back, realising he was not far from the top of Troll Fell. The land fell away in all directions, and he could sense the bulk of the mountain below him. Other lonely peaks reared up white in the dark sky to the north. An inhuman silence reigned.
Loki pawed at his legs. Peer was suddenly very thankful for his dog. “Good boy. Come on!”
The snow was shallow here, combed thin by the wind. Peer hurried up the slope in his uncles’ tracks, determined to keep them – and the twins – in sight to the end. They were heading into the ravine. Steep cliffs leaned over, slashed black with shadows. And then a shrill yell rang out, ringing off the rocks. Uncle Baldur was shouting to the gatekeeper of Troll Fell: “Open! Open up!”
The troll gate opened.
A hairline of light appeared in the dark root of the cliff. Silently and swiftly it widened as the stone door turned on unseen pivots. Spellbound, Peer crouched in the snow as golden light spilled down the mountain.
The dark shapes of his two uncles, carrying the bundles that were Sigurd and Sigrid, stood out black for a moment against the gold, then vanished inside. Smoothly, silently, the door swung shut. The rectangle of light shrank to a line, narrowed to a filament, and was gone. The shock passed through the ground as though Troll Fell shivered, and prickled over Peer’s skin.
He ran, scrambling over the pebbles at the base of the cliff and threw himself at the cold face, patting and fumbling for the door. Nothing. Solid stone without a crack. His legs gave way. He sank to the ground, ashamed to have come so far and been so useless. His hand felt something in the snow beside him. It was Sigrid’s woolly cap, gritty with melting snow crystals, but still warm.
Peer bent his head on to his knees.
Loki sensed Peer’s despair. He lifted his muzzle to the sky and let the misery within him float away in a long, musical howl. The eerie sound echoed in the cliffs, and brought Peer back to his feet. “Quiet, Loki. Hush!” But Loki, surprised and impressed by the noise he had made, was doing it again.
“Oooo…ooo…ooo…!” The sound trailed away. To Peer it seemed as though all the mountains were looking at them. It was awful. The rebounding echoes came fainter and fainter. And then came an echo that was not an echo.
Peer froze. “Was that – a bark?”
Unmistakably, a second bark came from somewhere below them on the hill. Loki shot off. Moments later he reappeared, leaping crazily around another dog – an old sheepdog, by the look of it – that was trotting steadily uphill. Peer couldn’t believe his eyes. A shepherd? On top of Troll Fell at this hour?
Somebody was coming, all right, puffing up the slope. Somebody too small to be a shepherd…
“Loki!” cried a clear, incredulous voice. “Peer? What are you doing here?”
“Hilde!” yelled Peer. He rushed to meet her; he grabbed her hands. Words tumbled out. “It was Uncle Baldur – Uncle Grim. I was escaping – I saw them carrying the twins. They went into the mountain, Hilde, I couldn’t stop them. What shall we do?”
Hilde pulled off her cap and pushed the hair out of her eyes. “You saw them? And you followed? Oh well done, Peer!”
“How did you know where to come?” Peer still couldn’t believe it.
“Alf and I discovered this place when we were gathering sheep at the beginning of winter,” Hilde told him. “Alf. My dog.” Alf licked her mittened hand. “Tonight, when we realised the twins had been stolen —” her voice shook, “Mother and Grandfather went to the village to rouse everyone. I was supposed to stay behind in case – in case the twins came back; but I knew they wouldn’t. I couldn’t bear to wait. I decided to come here. Alf knows the way.”
“The door’s shut,” said Peer. “I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t.”
“Well, if the door’s shut, let’s go and knock on it,” said Hilde.
“I found this,” said Peer unhappily. He handed her Sigrid’s cap. Hilde looked at it silently and tucked it into her pocket.
“But even if they hear us knocking,” Peer went on, “why should they let us in?”
“They’ll let us in,” said Hilde with strange confidence, “when they know I’ve got this!”
She pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth and unrolled it. Peer gasped. “Is that —?”
“The famous cup? Yes,” said Hilde. She turned it this way and that. The gold gleamed pale in the moonlight and the moulding winked white fire. “Let’s see how badly the Gaffer of Troll Fell wants it back! Let’s go. It’ll soon be dawn, and they won’t open the troll gate after sunrise. Hurry!”
She picked up a stone and pounded the rock face, shouting. “Open up! Open up! I’m Hilde, Ralf ’s daughter!”
“Open up!” Peer joined in. They hammered on the cliff. The dogs barked.
“Wait a minute,” panted Hilde. They listened. The echoes died away. It was growing lighter every moment.
“Open up!” called Hilde. “Tell the Gaffer I’ve brought his cup. Remember? The cup Ralf Eiriksson took, years ago!”
Years ago! Years ago! The echo sprang to and fro. Hilde bit her lip. “It’s not working.” Her face was wan in the cold pre-dawn glow.
Peer caught her arm. A vertical black seam ran down the rock face. It split apart. They smelled sparks. The soles of their feet tickled. The stone door swung slowly inwards, revealing nothing but a gaping darkness.
Hilde stepped forwards, but Peer dragged her back. “You can’t go in there!”
“Yes I can. Let go!”
“Not in the dark! You’ll get lost – trapped!” He hung on. She twisted a foot behind his leg and tripped him. They fell together, sobbing and struggling.
“Let – me – go!” Hilde shrieked, her face inches from his. “You don’t have to come! They’re not your brother and sister! If you’re such a coward, go home!”
Peer let go. He lay back on the ground, chest heaving. Tears leaked from under his eyelids. Hilde scrambled up. “I’m sorry,” she said between gasps. “I’m sorry.”
Behind her loomed the cliff and the tall black slot of the troll gate. The thought of disappearing into it filled Peer with terror, but he got to his feet. “You’re not going alone,” he said fiercely, “I’m coming with you.”
“Oh Peer!” Hilde wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. “Come on then. Wait! Just a minute.” She bent to the dogs. “Go home, Alf. Good boy. Go home, you hear me? And take Loki. You can’t come with us.”
“Off you go, Loki,” said Peer, clenching his teeth.
Alf sniffed Loki. He turned and trotted a few paces downhill. He stopped and looked round. “Go home, Loki!” said Peer loudly. The old dog barked, and slowly Loki began to follow him. “Goodbye!” muttered Peer. He watched the two dogs going away down the hill and felt lonelier than ever before in his life.
“Come on!” Hilde beckoned anxiously. The moon was paling and the sky was pink.
Sucking in a huge gasp of the cold, fresh air, filling his lungs as if it was the last breath he would ever take, Peer turned his back on the sunrise and followed Hilde into Troll Fell.
Chapter 15
Torches by the Fjord
GUDRUN STEADIED EIRIK as he slipped. With arms linked, they waded through the drifts, encouraging each other – Gudrun with breathless gasps of, “Well done,” and “Slippy here – hold up!” and Eirik with battle cries of “Bring on the wolf ’s brood! Rouse the steel-storm!” The pine trees whistled overhead and snow whirled through the branches.
When they came out of the woods above the mill, it looked deserted. The buildings glimmered grey and ghostly in the snow. Not a light showed. No smoke rose from the roof.
Eirik paused, wheezing, and Gudrun hugged his arm. “Father-in-law! Are you all right?”
Eirik shook himself like a dog. “I’m fine,” he growled. “Fine!” And he plunged on down the path.
The black waterwheel was toothed with icicles. As Gudrun and Eirik shuffled over the icy bridge, they heard the excited bark of a fox from the mill yard, followed by an unearthly cackling.
Fox among the hens, thought Gudrun at once, but she didn’t care. Serve the Grimssons right if they lost their hens! And Eirik thought the same, he was nodding at her. “Foxes! I’ll give ’em foxes,” he roared. “I’ll feed them to the foxes, in tiny pieces. On we go!”
He was getting very tired though, Gudrun could tell, leaning more and more heavily on her arm. Still, the path was smoother now. It wasn’t so far to the village. Oh, but what was she doing here, when Sigurd and Sigrid must be far up the mountain? Why hadn’t she sent Hilde with Eirik and gone after them herself? She began to cry, big tears spilling over her cheeks. Her woollen skirt dragged, clotted with snow.
“Snow’s stopped,” Eirik shouted. “Dawn’s on the way.” It was true.
Wiping her tears, Gudrun saw the first houses and smelled the heavy tang of woodsmoke. She let go of Eirik’s arm and ran stumbling to the nearest door. “Einar!” She beat on it and pushed it open.
There was no one there. The fire burned cheerfully, the blankets on the sleeping bench were disturbed as though the sleepers had flung them back and left suddenly. “No one’s here!” cried Gudrun as Eirik hobbled up behind her.
“Try next door,” Eirik gasped.
Gudrun flew past him. “Arne – Harald! Where are you?” she begged. “Bjørn – Kersten?” House after house was empty, though cats yowled from corners and in one a baby cried, alone in its cradle. Gudrun came out looking bewildered. “Where are they all? Is it some evil spell?”
Eirik held up his hand. “Listen!” Gudrun obeyed. It seemed she could hear a far-off shouting.
“Is it an attack?” she gasped. “Is it war?”
“Onwards to battle!” shouted Eirik. “Let’s go see!”
Alf and Loki trotted briskly down the hill. As they came in sight of the tall stone where Peer had sheltered the night before, the sun rose over the hill. The snow glittered, and the stone’s long shadow fell across the slope.
Light-footed up the hill, the white fox came dancing, dragging something by the neck. Close to the big stone it stopped to lay down the burden and get a fresh grip. Limp and bedraggled, the black cockerel lay dead on the snow.
Alf circled the fox, glaring and growling. But Loki trotted nimbly right up to it, and touched noses. His tail moved in a tentative wag, and the fox’s brush twitched in reply. Then its sharp ears pricked. It glanced up. The dogs stiffened. A breath of wind brought to their acute hearing a distant clamour. Far away on the shore, many voices were shouting.
The fox grabbed the cockerel and slunk off up the hill. Alf stood rigid, his muzzle raised, snuffing the wind, straining at those sounds floating from the fjord. With a hoarse bark he bounded forwards, his bushy tail waving. Loki dashed after him. Side by side the two dogs crossed the wooden bridge and disappeared into the trees on the path to the village.
Torches flared by the fjord, pale in the dawn. Beached on the shingle, dwarfing Bjørn and Arne’s boats, an elegant longship reared its proud neck. The fierce dragonhead was covered in sacking, so as not to frighten the timid land spirits of the homeland.
The whole village had turned out to greet it. Clinging together, Eirik and Gudrun made their way on to the pebbles, where Gudrun shrieked, let go of Eirik and ran into the water to seize the arm of a tall burly man who vaulted laughing out of the ship.
“Ralf! Ralf, my man, is it really you?” She pounded his chest with her fists, laughing and crying. “Is it really you?”
“Yes, my girl!” Ralf scooped her off her feet and gave her a bristly kiss. “It’s really me!”
Chapter 16
In the Hall of the Mountain King
THE TROLL DOOR closed with a boom and a suck of air, as if a giant mouth had breathed in.
It was dark.
Peer’s breath shortened. “Hilde! Where are you?”
“Here!” Their groping hands met. “I thought there would be lights,” she whispered, gripping him. “Why is it dark?”
Her touch steadied him. “It’s daybreak.” Peer remembered something the Nis had once said. “That’s night-time for trolls.”
“If they’re all asleep, who let us in?”
“Ssh!” said Peer, freezing. They listened, tense. Was anyone there? Peer heard water dripping, and his own harsh breath. He closed his eyes, opened them wide. It made no difference. The darkness moulded to his face, clung to him, caught in his throat like black glue…
“Hello!” Hilde’s bold voice rang out. “Gatekeeper! We’ve come to see the Gaffer. Bring us a light!”
There was a soft clap and an explosion of light. The tunnel blanched. Painfully, through watering eyes, Peer saw a spindly figure twirling a bright sphere, like a little sun, on one crooked forefinger. It laughed quietly: “Ho, ho!”
“We want – to see – the Gaffer,” Hilde gasped.
A dark hooked arm bowled the ball of light towards them. They dodged, and the quivering light rolled past, illuminating the first few yards of a long passage. They looked back at the stone door, trying to see the gatekeeper, but their own shadows blotted it out – except for a long clawed foot, like a bird’s, scraping along the floor.
Peer and Hilde turned and ran. “Oh my goodness,” panted Hilde. “It must have been standing right behind us in the dark!”
“What now?” Peer demanded. “What do we do?”
“Follow the light, I think. Come on!” She tugged his hand. Peer came, throwing a nervous glance over his shoulder. But only darkness followed them.
At first, the passage was wide enough to walk abreast. Peer clumped along in his wet boots, trying not to shiver. Troll Fell had swallowed him and here he was in its long stone gullet. The air was chill. The floor rose and fell, with unexpected puddles.
Sometimes the passage twisted, or branched into side passages, which corkscrewed up or dived into darkness. Sometimes the roof dipped, and they had to duck. Or the walls bulged, nipping the passage into a tight waist. “One at a time here,” muttered Hilde, sliding sideways. “Come on!” Peer squeezed after her: the stone felt wet and smooth, slick as a cow’s tongue.
On the other side Hilde clutched him, shouting. “Look at that!”
A rough cataract of yellow water shot from a hole in the ceiling and hurtled into a pit. The only way past was along a slanting ledge on the left-hand wall. Peer looked down the shaft. The water careered into darkness.
“I’ll go first!” he said grimly. He needed to keep moving. When he stood still, he felt as though the whole weight of Troll Fell was pressing on his shoulders. “It’s not too bad,” he shouted. “Keep near the wall like this, and – ah!”
His foot slipped and in panic he snatched at the rocks. One hand curled over a sharp rim and he hung over the drop, kicking. Water drummed on his back. Hilde screamed; then her hand caught his flailing wrist and she hauled. He dragged his knee up and over, and clawed his way further up the slippery shelf. Together they crawled out of the spray to where the passage opened again on the far side of the shaft.
The ball of light was loitering there, bluish and fitful. As they scrambled to their feet it turned a couple of brisk spins, brightened, and whirled off down the tunnel. Bruised and bedraggled, Peer and Hilde limped along. They stumbled up a flight of shallow steps. At the top the light sprang up and hung overhead, rotating lazily.
Deep in the rock of the left-hand wall was a crevice, shaped into a rough archway. Set back into it was a solid wooden door.
Peer looked at Hilde. She gave him an anxious nod. He knocked.
In a moment the door opened a crack and small troll looked out, holding a smoking pine branch in one fist. It saw them and hissed, exposing needle sharp teeth and began to shut the door again, but Peer stuck his foot in the way.
“We want to see the Gaffer!”
The troll jerked at the door. Peer got his fingers around the edge and dragged it back. Feverishly, Hilde unwrapped the golden cup.
The troll’s eyes grew round and black. It let go of the door and sprang up and down, tail lashing. “Give! Give!” it squeaked.
“It’s not for you.” Hilde held the cup high in the air. “It’s for the Gaffer. We want to see him – now!”
The little troll’s claws shot out and its ears folded flat like an angry cat’s, but it stood back and opened the door wide. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, Peer and Hilde stepped in.
It was a large chamber, gloriously warm and smelling of pine needles. In the middle of the floor a brazier glowed red, filled with logs. The troll pitched the burning branch back into the flames.
Beyond the brazier was a stone bed. Its four crooked posts seemed to have dripped from the ceiling and grown from the floor. Peer and Hilde tiptoed closer. On it, snoring loudly under a pile of sheepskins, the old Gaffer of Troll Fell lay – apparently asleep. His mouth hung open, showing two long brown curving teeth like tusks. His eyes were closed. But in the middle of his forehead a third eye glared, red-rimmed and weeping. It rolled around and fixed on Peer and Hilde.
“I see strangers,” the Gaffer mumbled in his sleep. He yawned, stretched and sat up, opening his other eyes – and as he did so, the eye in the middle of his forehead fluttered slowly shut.
“Hutututu! What’s this, what’s this?” growled the Gaffer. Peer and Hilde grabbed hands.
“I’m Ralf Eiriksson’s daughter.” Hilde spoke up bravely. “I’ve come for my little brother and sister. The millers of Trollsvik stole them.”
“We brought you something in exchange,” Peer added as the Gaffer scowled.
Hilde held up the golden cup. “This! You lost it years ago. Give me back my brother and sister, and in return —”
“Lost it?” the Gaffer interrupted. “It was stolen! Stolen by your father, a thief if ever there was. How dare you make bargains with me?”
“How dare you call him a thief?” Hilde cried. “You trolls tried to poison him!”
“Hilde —” said Peer.
“It wasn’t poison!” shouted the King of Troll Fell.
“Then why did it burn all the hair off his pony’s tail?” Hilde yelled.
“Hilde —”
Hilde grabbed a sheepskin from the Gaffer’s bed and shook it in his face. “See that?” she panted. “See that mark? That came from one of our sheep – and so did this!” She seized another fleece, and another. “Who’s the thief now?” She threw them down and stood glaring at him.
Peer expected the Gaffer to call his trolls and have both of them torn to pieces. To his immense relief, the huge old troll began to laugh. He screwed up all three eyes and rocked to and fro on the edge of his bed, choking.
“Well, what’s a little borrowing between neighbours?” he coughed, slapping his knees. “Give me that!” He snatched the cup and turned it in his claws, admiring it.
“Nice timing,” he grinned at Hilde. “We need this for the wedding. It’s the Bride Cup of Troll Fell, always used at weddings. Traditional! Belonged to my grandmother. Skotte!”
The little troll in the corner gave a shrill squeak and stood to attention.
“Get everyone up,” said the Gaffer. “If I’m awake, no one else sleeps. There’s plenty to do. I want the Hall ready before midnight. Wake up the princess. I want to see her.” The little troll doubled over in a bow and scuttled out.
The troll king reached for his coat, which was made of sewn-together cat skins, mostly tabby. There was a slit in the back for his cow-like tail. He thrashed about. “Help me!” he growled, and Peer gingerly bent and hooked the tail through.
“Follow me,” the Gaffer commanded. He threw open the door and stumped out. The ball of light, idly drifting against the ceiling, brightened rapidly and bounded ahead of him as he marched along the tunnel.
Peer and Hilde began to hear noises ahead: bangs, crashes and whoops. The passage ended in some steps, and they found themselves looking into the splendid Hall under Troll Fell.
It was a huge cavern. The roof was an arch of darkness, patrolled by many floating lights, golden and blue. Their own ball whirled aloft to join the others.
Opposite them, a waterfall found its way in white threads down between rocks. At the foot of the waterfall was a stone chair. The water divided around it and flowed away in a channel under an archway.
The Hall was filling with trolls. Some tumbled from dark chimneys in the roof and dropped to the floor like bouncing balls. Others scrambled out from underneath boulders. Gangs rushed in with tables and benches, dragging them here and there, setting them in order. Over by the river a group of dripping water spirits, or nixies, scoured a pile of golden plates with handfuls of fine white sand. Everyone was shouting at once:
“Fetch a high-seat for the King of the Dovre!”
“A special table for his son and daughter!”
“How many tubs of water for the merrows?”
“We need to have just as many for the nixies!”
“Couldn’t they sit on wet stones…?”
Peer scanned the crowd for a sight of Sigurd or Sigrid. He saw trolls with pigs’ snouts, trolls with owls’ eyes, trolls with birds’ beaks. There was not a human face among them – except for the nixies whose beautiful faces were narrow and sly with curious slanting eyes.
Then he saw them – slouching on rocks at the bottom of the waterfall – not the children, but the burly, black-haired figures of the Grimsson twins. He winced.
“Don’t worry, Peer,” whispered Hilde beside him.
“I’m not,” he lied. The Gaffer set off across the uneven stone floor. They followed. The trolls fell back for them, muttering.
Cold with fright, Peer threw his head back and stared at his two uncles. They hadn’t seen him yet, and he wasn’t looking forward to the moment when they did. Baldur noticed the Gaffer and got to his feet, jogging his brother’s elbow – and then he spotted Peer. His jaw dropped. So did Grim’s. Their faces registered blank astonishment changing to pop-eyed fury. Scared though he was, Peer had to giggle.
The Gaffer walked past the Grimsson brothers, ignoring them, and climbed on to his throne. He swept his tail out of the way and settled himself. But as Peer and Hilde drew near, the two men came out of their trance. Baldur shot out a thick arm. He caught Peer by the scruff and shook him like a puppet.
“Let him go!” Hilde shrieked, trying to pull him free. Grim kicked her, and there was a hiss of delight from the assembled trolls: “Bite them and tear them! Pull them to pieces!”
“QUIET!” bellowed the Gaffer. He folded his arms. “Huuuu! If we’re not ready by midnight for the King of the Dovre, I’ll look at you all with my other eye and shrivel you into earthworms! Get on with your work.” The trolls began to bustle about very busily.
Baldur dropped Peer and turned blustering to the Gaffer. “Whatever the boy’s said to you, don’t listen to him! We’ve done what you asked, haven’t we? We’ve got you those children – just what you wanted!”
“S’right!” added Grim. “Give us our gold – as much as we can carry!”
“I’ll do as I please,” said the Gaffer, growling.
With a discordant blast, horns sounded in a corner of the Hall. The little troll came hurrying in and bowed several times, out of breath. “The princess!” it gasped. “And the prince!”
Into the Hall came the Gaffer’s eldest daughter. She was in a bad temper, for the occasion was so great: she had never been married before! She was pretty; her mother had been a nixie. Her eyes were large, slanted like birch leaves, and her tail was as delicate as a cat’s.
“The spiders haven’t finished my wedding dress,” she complained. “And look at all the dust! You should have raised the hill yesterday and aired the place. Then North Wind could have swept in here. We shall never be ready in time, and the King of the Dovre will think I’m a bad housewife.”
“He won’t think that as long as there’s enough beer,” chuckled the Gaffer. “Besides, my dear, look what I have for you! The Bride Cup you so foolishly lost, long ago.”
The troll princess looked at it carelessly. “That old thing? You’ve got it back? So at last you’ll stop fussing?”
“It’s an heirloom, my dear!”
Up came her brother the troll prince, a sulky expression on his piggish face. “Those two children you’ve got for us are terrible,” he burst out. “They won’t fetch or carry or dance or sing. They won’t do anything but scream and cry. I can’t possibly give the girl to my bride.”
“I can’t possibly give the boy to my husband!” agreed the troll princess.
They glared at their father who in turn scowled at the Grimssons.
“‘Just what I wanted,’ eh?” he growled, and the eye in the middle of his forehead flickered in a red blink. The two big men shuffled their feet.
“How can they sing when they’re unhappy? Where are they?” cried Hilde, imagining the children locked in some dark cave. But Peer pulled her arm and there, creeping into the Hall, holding hands tightly, were Sigurd and Sigrid. Their dirty tear-streaked faces brightened as they saw Hilde, and they raced to meet her. She grabbed one in each arm and hugged them close. “This’ll teach you to go running off,” she choked. “I told you to stay with Grandpa!”
Sigrid sobbed. Peer tousled her hair, a brotherly lump in his throat. “Don’t scold, Hilde,” he whispered.
“I’m not,” sniffed Hilde. “Don’t cry any more, Siggy. We’re taking you home.”
“Are you, now?” asked the Gaffer drily.
Hilde turned on him. “I brought you the cup!”
“And the prince and princess don’t want the children,” Peer added.
“It’s what I want that counts!” the Gaffer snarled. “And it boils down to this. I want a pair of you for the Dovreking’s son and daughter. So two of you may go – but two must stay.
“I’m feeling generous,” he added genially, “so I’ll let you choose.”
“You don’t mean it,” said Hilde in horror.
The Gaffer looked at her.
“But —” She stopped, gasping. “How can we choose?”
“Take your time,” the Gaffer advised merrily. “Think hard. Don’t decide in a hurry!”
“Can’t we go home?” Sigrid wept, her mouth turned down. “I want to go home!”
“So do I!” cried Sigurd. They buried themselves in Hilde’s clothes. She looked down at them and bit her lip.
“I – I suppose I had better stay,” she whispered.
Sick with shock, Peer opened his mouth, and closed it again, unable to say the words that would condemn him to a life of slavery. He imagined living here, trapped – never seeing Loki again, never seeing anyone but trolls – and choked. He looked at Hilde and she turned away. Peer thought it was scorn. He gritted his teeth. It was easy for her to be brave. The twins were her family!
He stole another glance. Hilde’s head was bowed, her fists clenched. Peer was ashamed of himself. Of course it wasn’t easy.
He stared dizzily around the Hall – the scurrying trolls, the white strands of the waterfall, the moving lights in the dark roof. It all seemed horribly strange and meaningless. I’ve got to get out! Out, where the sun shines and the wind blows!
Again he looked at Hilde, who still would not look at him. And then his eyes came to rest on the stupid, brutal, calculating faces of Baldur and Grim. A cold thought penetrated. What sort of life would it be, to go back to the mill with those two? How could he live, knowing he had abandoned Hilde?
I’d be as bad as they are, he thought in revulsion.
He pressed his hands over his eyes. It was the same choice he had made on the mountain, but this time it was much harder. Who would have thought you had to keep on choosing and choosing? I can’t keep running away, Father, he said silently in the blackness behind his closed lids. It doesn’t work. It’s time to stand up to them. And he opened his eyes.
“I’ll stay here too.”
Hilde shot him a look of amazed and shining gratitude. Peer turned to the Gaffer. “I’ll stay,” he repeated, bleak but firm. “So don’t give my uncles any treasure. They haven’t earned it. Sigurd and Sigrid are no good to you, and we’re staying of our own free will.”
The Gaffer howled with laughter, opening his mouth so wide he showed every jagged tooth. “Good boy – excellent!”
“Our reward – our gold!” Baldur squeaked in horror. “Besides, that boy’s my own nephew. You have to pay me for him.”
“Not – a – penny!” said the Gaffer, and his mouth snapped shut. The Grimssons looked completely confounded, Peer saw. It was some consolation.
“When can the children go home?” Hilde demanded.
“After the wedding,” said the Gaffer. “We’re busy till then.”
“And keep them quiet,” ordered the troll princess. “Or I’ll bite them!” She cast a critical eye over Hilde and Peer. “Come here!” She looked them up and down. “Humph! These two are bigger and stronger. I suppose that’s better. Oh! Look at her boots! Why, they’re better than mine!”
Hilde looked down. It was true she was wearing a good pair, made by her father and embroidered round the tops in blue and red thread.
The princess hoisted her skirts and showed a foot shod in a clumsy wooden clog.
“Let her have ’em,” Peer advised from the corner of his mouth.
“Take them,” said Hilde quietly. She pulled them off and gave them to the princess, who kicked off her clogs. Hilde slipped her own feet into them with a slight shudder.
The princess tugged the boots on. She stuck out her feet. “Now I shall be finer than the Dovreking’s daughter. They pinch, it’s true – but that’s the price of elegance!”
“Now there’s plenty to do!” the Gaffer shouted. “Has the beer come in yet?”
“Not yet. The bog wife has been brewing for us all week. I ordered twelve barrels of strong black beer. When the steam rises from her vats, the humans say, ‘Oh, there’s mist on the marshes!’” laughed his son.
The Gaffer licked his lips with a long red tongue and turned to his daughter. “Take the girl away. She can help you to dress. As for you, boy —” he waved at Peer, “roll barrels or move tables. Make yourself useful.”
They were being separated! As Hilde was led reluctantly away, Peer startled at a touch on his shoulder. He looked round into the face of a small troll with huge eyes and a long thin beak like a curlew. “Come to the kitchens!” it piped. “Help the cooks!”
It rushed him over to a dark crack in the floor. Hot air rose from it, and the strangest smells. Peer teetered on the edge; the troll pushed him, and with a cry he shot into the darkness, whipping down a natural slide, and was spat out into a lower cavern filled with a red mist of steam and smoke. The troll popped out beside him.
Peer got up, rubbing his bruised knees. “Whatever are they cooking?” he coughed. The troll piped something hard to hear – had it really said, “Frog soup, eel pie, spittle cakes – bone bread?”
Hot fires blazed. Frenzied trolls rushed about with ladles, spoons, colanders and platters. From one corner came a rhythmic thumping where a couple of trolls were working a huge pestle and mortar, pounding a pile of bones into smaller and smaller fragments. Nearby was a stone quern for grinding them into flour, and a series of wooden troughs where several small trolls danced up and down on the dough. Batches of gritty bread were being lifted out of ovens.
Great pots hung over the fires. Peer glanced into one. It held a bubbling mess that looked like frogspawn. And a greasy little troll turned the handle of a spit on which a whole pig was roasting. Or was it a —?
“Dog!” squeaked the troll. That wasn’t – Grendel, by any chance, he wondered? It looked big enough. He backed away, feeling ill. How would he and Hilde live? Never, never could they eat such food.
We’ll escape, he swore to himself. They can’t guard us for ever. Perhaps we can follow the stream. It must find its way out somewhere!
Through streaming eyes he spotted a flight of steps. His troll had forgotten him, and he darted across and ran up the twisting spiral. Emerging into the cool Hall he blinked. He must have been in the kitchens longer than he’d thought, for the tables were all prepared and the guests were arriving and being shown to their places. Everywhere, gold gleamed and silver shone. Jewels winked in the crowns of the Gaffer of Troll Fell and his son and daughter, who stood in front of the throne, welcoming the arrivals.
Where was Hilde? Over there, sitting forlornly on the rocks by the waterfall with Sigurd beside her and Sigrid on her lap. And there were Baldur and Grim, seated at a table, heads together, deep in some grumbling conversation. They wouldn’t go without their gold. Peer smiled grimly. He thought they would have to wait for a very long time. A group of pig-snouted musicians struck up. One blew a twisted ram’s horn; another sawed notes from a one-stringed fiddle. The third rattled a stick up and down a sheep’s jawbone. There was a shout.
“The King of the Dovrefell! He’s arriving, he’s here!”
“Raise up the hill!” shouted the Gaffer of Troll Fell. “Time for some fun!”
Chapter 17
Raising the Hill
WITH A RUMBLING and a rattling of all the dishes on the table, the roof began to rise. All around the Hall a gap appeared, a widening strip of night sky fringed with trailing roots and ragged earth. Clods rained from the edges, and a draught of cold air rushed into the Hall, smelling of snow, fresh earth and freedom. Hoisted up on four strong red pillars, the hill stood open to the midwinter night, spilling light to all sides.
As the musicians launched into a lively jig, the King of the Dovrefell and his party swept down into the Hall on the night wind. They landed in a chattering group, collecting themselves and adjusting their clothes. The King of the Dovrefell was tall and dignified. He threw back the hood of his white bearskin cloak and strode forward with his son behind him and his daughter clutching his arm. Peer couldn’t see her face. Hadn’t the Nis said she was beautiful? She lifted her veil, and a murmur of admiration ran around the Hall. The Troll Fell princess was looking as cross as two sticks. Peer edged around curiously.
The princess had three tails. Two were draped elegantly over her elbows; the third sprouted from the middle of her forehead and was tied up in a bow to keep it out of her eyes. The Troll Fell prince greeted her eagerly, looking smitten already. Peer closed his eyes and shook his head.
The Gaffer and the Dovreking clasped hands. “Welcome!” boomed the Gaffer. He slapped the Dovreking on the back. “A drink to warm you after your journey! And we’ll let the young people get to know each other, hey?” He laughed loudly.
The two princesses bristled at each other like a couple of cats.
“What a funny little place you have here,” observed the Dovre princess. “Quite rustic. I see you have a sod roof. At home in the Dovrefell, our hall is so high that the roof is carved from ice.”
“That must be very chilly,” the Troll Fell princess smiled. “Here we enjoy simple comfort, and despise ostentation.”
“I imagine you have to,” replied the Dovre princess.
“Will you dance?” asked the Troll Fell prince hastily. But his bride said she was tired and would rather sit. The couples sat stiffly down together, and the Troll Fell princess yawned.
“Now then! Brighten up!” shouted the Gaffer. He and the Dovreking were laughing and drinking, and seemed to be getting along famously. “You’re not allowed to quarrel till after you’re married, remember. You boys, give your brides a hug and a kiss. Don’t be shy!”
“Vulgar old fellow,” muttered the Dovre princess.
“Let’s exchange gifts,” boomed the King of the Dovrefell. “That’ll cheer them all up. We brought a few small things from the Dovrefell.”
He snapped his fingers. Two stout trolls stepped forward with a heavy sack. The untied the neck and poured out a stream of jewels. Diamonds, rubies, amethysts, emeralds, rattled out like peas and lay on the floor in a shimmering drift – or bounced and rolled under the tables. Baldur and Grim crashed heads as they lunged to pick up a skipping diamond.
“Very pretty,” said the Gaffer. He beckoned to various servants who came staggering out with piles of gold: necklaces, rings, bracelets, chains and crowns. “Part of a dragon’s hoard,” said the Gaffer, waving a casual hand. Peer glanced at his uncles. Their mouths were wet with excitement.
The Dovreking frowned and snapped his fingers again. This time his trolls laid out heaps of beautifully woven and embroidered clothes, each one of which would have taken a human seamstress a year to make. But these were not made by mortals. There were scarves snipped from the trailing ends of the Northern Lights; petticoats trimmed with the most delicate frost; seven-league boots lined in ermine. The Troll Fell princess got a cloak of moonshine that pleased her so much she threw her arms around the Dovreking and gave him a kiss.
“Aha!” said the Dovreking, pinching her cheek. But the Gaffer grinned triumphantly and signalled to Peer and Hilde.
“Now for a little extra – a special present,” he gloated. “You won’t have brought anything like this from the Dovrefell!”
Peer caught Hilde’s eye. Together they stepped forward. Better make a good job of it, thought Peer gloomily, and he bowed low. Hilde curtsied. The three-tailed princess screamed in mock terror and clutched her bridegroom’s arm. “Oooh! What is it? What are they for?”
“Something you don’t see every day,” the Gaffer boasted. “Your new servants!”
“Humans!”
“Yes, of course,” broke in the Troll Fell princess. She pushed the pile of jewels with a contemptuous toe. “We see so much of this kind of thing. We wanted to be original!”
The two free tails of the Dovre princess swished angrily; the one knotted up above her face could only twitch. “What a strange idea. They’re very pale. All that unhealthy daylight, I suppose. Is this the girl? Turn around. I thought so! This ugly creature has no tail at all. Take her away at once and fix one on!”
“No!” Hilde cried.
“We don’t have tails,” Peer shouted. “We think they’re ugly!”
The Dovre princess screamed. “Oh, what an insult!”
The Gaffer stepped in, bowing as gallantly as he could. “Now, now,” he rumbled. “No cause for concern. We all appreciate your beauty, my dear. I myself have three eyes,” he coughed modestly, “but three tails are rare indeed.”
His own daughter scowled. The Dovre princess simpered.
“No,” the Gaffer went on, “we’ve simply neglected one small ceremony. After that, these humans will see things as we do. Here, you two!” He snapped his fingers and led them aside.
“Ceremony?” asked Peer apprehensively.
The Gaffer nodded. “You haven’t yet tasted our beer. A single sip of the bog-wife’s brew, and you’ll see things our way for ever and ever!”
“For ever?” Peer repeated slowly.
“Excuse me – but we’ll think the Dovre princess is beautiful?” asked Hilde.
“You will indeed,” said the Gaffer.
“And the food?” Peer was too shaken to mince his words. “We’ll enjoy eating frog soup and rat stew? And the music? It sounds like – like a cat on the roof, or a cow in pain.”
“It’s giving me a headache,” Hilde added.
“I’m getting annoyed!” The Gaffer squared up to them. “See here! We can’t have servants that don’t admire us. Once you’ve drunk our brew you’ll think black is white. You think night is day and day is night. And so they are! It’s only another way of seeing.”
“But then,” said Hilde, appalled, “we won’t be us. We are what we think!” She looked around wildly. “We won’t be humans any more. Inside, we’ll be trolls!”
“AND WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH THAT?” roared the Gaffer.
Peer and Hilde stared at the glittering crowds, and then at each other. Everything was very sharp and clear, and also a little distant. Peer tasted fear, sour in his mouth. Between the red pillars supporting the roof he could see the dark spaces of the night sky. Out there lay freedom, the snowy slopes, the stars. But he would never reach it.
We’ll never escape, he thought. We’ll never follow the stream out of the hill.
Once he and Hilde had drunk a drop of the bog-wife’s beer, they wouldn’t even want to leave. They would live the rest of their lives like earthworms buried under Troll Fell. They would still look the same, but on the inside they would have changed completely. Peer thought he would rather be dead.
One of the Gaffer’s trolls came trotting up. Dimly Peer recognised it: the kitchen troll with the long beak. It bowed to the Gaffer, presenting a golden cup. The cup was Ralf ’s cup – the Bride Cup – and it was half full of brown beer.
“Right!” Briskly the Gaffer lashed his tail. “Who’s going first?”
Hilde met Peer’s eyes, despairing but steady. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Peer.”
“You didn’t,” said Peer. “I wanted to come.”
She reached for the cup, but Peer was quicker and snatched it up. “Wait!” he said breathlessly.
He looked into the cup. The dark liquid swirled, a bottomless whirlpool. He glanced up, to see the world for the last time as himself. His throat closed up. There was a drumming in his ears – or was that the Gaffer growling? He bent his head, lifting the cup reluctantly to his lips, spinning out the seconds…

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