Troll Fell (11 page)

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 could 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.

And he never really felt safe in the mill. As Hilde had
said, it was a spooky place. Once, one evening when he'd
been alone, he'd heard a rap at the mill door, not very
loud. Peer had been about to open it, when he'd noticed
Loki shivering and showing his teeth in a white snarl.

“What's wrong, Loki?” he'd asked, disturbed. Loki had
backed stiffly away from the door, hackles up.

Peer remembered standing absolutely still, listening.
Outside, not a foot stirred. But there had been a sound,
a tiny sound. A light tick, tick, tick of dripping water.

His skin had prickled. He remembered Granny
Greenteeth:
Sometimes I come knocking on the mill door. That
always frightens them!

Peer had crept quietly away from the door and
huddled with Loki in a far corner until his uncles
returned. And later he'd checked the step. There was a
dark wet patch on it, although it had not been raining.

His uncles did not notice. Unless it was under their
noses, they never did. Even though they put out food for
the Nis, they never talked about it, and Peer was sure
they had never seen it.

He wrapped his cloak over his head and fell asleep,
but dark water came spilling into his dreams, and he
believed he was swimming in the middle of the
millpond. He struck out for the bank, but he couldn't
seem to reach it. Below him, Granny Greenteeth came
rising through the water. She wrapped long skinny arms
around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. “Good
boy,” she crooned, “come to me, come to your old
granny. Nobody else cares!” “No, no!” cried Peer. He
struggled to get away, but tangled in her strong arms he
sank deep, and deeper.

He woke sweating and shivering, all wound up in the
cloak. The barn was completely dark, as there was no
moon. Loki pushed a cold nose into his hand. A mouse
whisked over his foot, and a scuffling noise overhead
suggested the Nis. Peer stood up. He needed to go outside.

It was raining gently. A sweet smell of new-mown hay
puffed from the damp fields. No chance of hearing
Granny Greenteeth if she was out prowling through the
wet bushes. The rain sounded like a thousand pattering
troll feet, running towards him from all directions. It 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
soaking wet. He felt his way along the side of the barn to
the privy, a small stone shed built against the wall, pushed
open 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 row of three wooden seats. Rudely, Peer
pictured Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim sitting there side
by side with their trousers round their ankles. But it was
a dry place to go. He sat down on the first seat.

It was really too dark to see anything much.
Just as well
,
thought Peer,
or I might start imagining things
. There was a
black shadow over 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 larger 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. Tearing the
door open he hopped out into the yard, trying to run
and haul his trousers up at the same time. He had the
nasty impression, though he could not have sworn to it,
that a second misshapen head had popped up through
the middle seat as he rushed out.

He went quickly behind the barn after all, among the
wet nettles, and returned to Loki, zinging with nervous
shock.

It was a relief to hear the Nis again after all that. Peer
called out to it and in a trembling voice, asked what he
had seen.

“Lubbers,” replied the Nis with a contemptuous sniff.

“Lubbers?” Peer cleared his throat. “What are they? I
thought they were trolls.”

The Nis would not come down and talk to him. He
was out of favour. It was chasing spiders, and as he lay
back he heard it muttering to itself: “Butter! They all
promises butter to poor Nithing, but promises melt easy
in the mouth!”

Oh dear
. Peer propped himself up on one elbow. “I'm
sorry, Nis. I did ask my friend to get you some butter, but
she hasn't been able to bring me any. 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 shivered. “I hate this place,” he said vehemently.
“Are there any more nasty creepy things living here?
Besides my dear uncles, of course?” The Nis refused to
tell him anything more, but still went stealing about with
sudden little flurries of activity and snatching
movements, which kept Peer awake.

“What
are
you doing?” he asked irritably.

“Collecting spiders,” said the Nis from just overhead.

“Would you stop it and let me sleep?”

“Very well!” said the Nis, highly offended. “Too high
and mighty to work for troll princess is too high and
mighty to talk to poor Nithing!” It flounced away and
silence fell.

“Nis?” called Peer. “Nithing?”

No reply.

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.

The days grew shorter as the summer passed. The
weather took a turn for the worse, and sheets of
stinging rain drove in on strong gales from the sea.
People went about their work with sacks over their
heads. Troll Fell vanished behind thick white mists and
low grey clouds.

Autumn arrived with crisp biting mornings when the
breath smoked on the air. Skeins of wild geese flew over,
heading south. The birch leaves turned a clear pale
yellow and fluttered to the ground. Some mornings the
hilltops were white and the dips in the fields were blue
with frost.

The trolls grew bolder. Things went badly at Hilde's
house. Dishes mysteriously broke and things were
mislaid. The animals strayed, rain came through the roof,
the children quarrelled and old Eirik kept losing his
temper and saying that peace and quiet were what a
poet needed, and could he not have them in his own
son's house? As autumn grew older, the trolls became
very active indeed. The family often saw them now at
twilight, hiding near the walls, sending looks of ill will
on the house, or scuttering short and squat from behind
the cow shed. They often heard their shrill wailing cries.
The little ones, Sigurd and Sigrid, met one rounding a
corner one evening, and were frightened by its
pattering feet and slate-grey skin and odd eyes like live
pebbles.

And, safe inside in the warm, smoky room, the family
sat worrying about Ralf. Gudrun expected him home
daily. Every evening she sat at her loom, weaving a piece
of good woollen cloth to make new clothes for him:
“His old ones will be worn out for sure!” Nobody spoke
of it, but everyone knew he was late, late, late.

And one frosty morning someone knocked at the
door. As Hilde jumped up, it was pushed open and Bjørn
Egilsson ducked inside, followed by his brother Arnë.
They stood awkwardly while Gudrun exclaimed and
fussed, finding them seats and offering them breakfast.

Arnë looked tired and weatherbeaten. His hair and
eyes were startlingly light against his brown tanned skin.
His clothes were water-stained. Hilde smiled at him,
trying to coax an answering smile from his blue eyes, but
he looked down nervously. Alf, the old sheepdog,
shambled stiffly over to greet him, swinging his tail. Arnë
stroked his ears as if grateful to have something to do.

“So – Arnë, tell us your adventures!” said Gudrun
brightly, but Hilde could tell there was a slight edge to her
voice, and her hand shook as she poured ale for the visitors.

Bjørn and Arnë looked at each other. “Go on,” said
Bjørn quietly.

Arnë cleared his throat. “Well – as you know, I wanted
to join Ralf's longship but missed the sailing. It was a
week or two before I followed in my own boat. I was
hoping to catch her at some point further south…”

He stopped and looked down at the floor again.
Gudrun clutched Hilde's arm.

“At first I got plenty of news of her from villages
along the coast. I didn't stop anywhere long and I was
sure I'd catch up with them. Then…”

He took another deep breath.

“One day I got no news of them at all. And no news
the next day. ‘All right,' I thought, ‘they've struck out to
sea at last and I've missed them.' I was disappointed, but
I joined one of those big, pot-bellied cargo ships instead.

“You know how news spreads among sailors?
Everyone seems to know what everyone else is doing this
season, there are no secrets. But I never heard anything
more about
Long Serpent
. It was as though she'd vanished.
And then – well, 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.”

Hilde gasped. Gudrun's fingers dug into her, and
Eirik suddenly looked older than they had ever seen
him. The little ones were pale.

“Is Pa dead?” wailed Sigrid. Hilde knelt and hugged
her.

“We don't know that,” said Bjørn quickly. “We just
thought you ought to hear it from Arnë before the story
got garbled all round the dale.”

“Thank you,” said Gudrun with a great deal of
dignity.

Arnë looked very distressed. “I wouldn't have brought
such news for the world,” he muttered.

“It may not be true,” said Bjørn.

“We must wait for more news,” said Gudrun,
knowing full well that more news was unlikely ever to
arrive. Bjørn and Arnë got to their feet.

“I hope I'm wrong about this,” said Arnë taking
Gudrun's hand. “If there's anything we can do, anything
at all…”

Gudrun nodded quickly, stifling a sob. Bjørn and
Arnë exchanged a glance, and departed.

The household plunged into misery. Gudrun had been
afraid for weeks, ever since the strong winds of early
autumn. Now her weaving hung on the loom gathering
dust while she sat silent by the fire with her head in her
hand. Tears dripping from his face, poor old Eirik went
off into a corner to make a funeral song. He mumbled a
few brave lines, but then broke down. Hilde marched
about furiously, doing the housework that Gudrun
neglected. She made the little ones help, and taught them
games to keep them busy. Spinning, knitting, cleaning,
cooking – through all the endless round, she felt hollow
with helpless fear. Was Pa really drowned? Would he never
come home? Worst of all, would they ever know for sure?

The hardest work was the best. When the house was
as clean as she could get it, Hilde took a pitchfork to the
cow shed and began mucking that out. But at last she
leaned against the smooth wooden rail of Bonny's stall
and buried her hot face in her arms.

Now I know how poor Peer felt when he lost his father
, she
thought drearily. And suddenly she saw just how much
things had changed. If Pa never came home, how could
she help to rescue Peer from his uncles?

She thought about that day in early spring when they
had first met. She remembered Baldur and Grim jeering
that Ralf would never come home. They had gloated
about the dangers of the sea, storms, rocks and sea-
serpents. She had laughed at them scornfully. Well, they
had been right. The Grimsson brothers had won!

Hilde threw up her chin with a rush of anger and
determination. “I won't
let
them win!” she exclaimed
aloud. Bonny the cow looked at her in mild alarm. “They
shan't have our sheep, for a start. If Pa's not coming back,”
she swallowed tears, “then I'll go up Troll Fell and bring
them down myself!” And she marched straight back into
the house to tell her mother so.

Gudrun gasped in horror. “Go up on Troll Fell by
yourself? At this time of year, with the trolls about? And
wolves, and bears? And what about the Grimssons? After
everything you've told us about them, why, I expect
they're up there half of the time, thick as thieves with the
Troll King himself! You're not going, Hilde, not for a
minute. As if we haven't enough trouble!”

“Then what will we do?” asked Hilde in a low voice.
“Just give up? Hand everything over to the Grimssons?
And what about poor Peer Ulfsson?”

“I'm sorry for the boy, but he's not our problem,”
exclaimed Gudrun wildly.

“All right!” said Hilde, very white. “But those are our
sheep up on the Stonemeadow, and Baldur and Grim
have already had the wool off them this year – and it was
Peer who told me so. 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!”
Sudden tears rolled down her cheeks.

Eirik stirred. He had dried his eyes and a grimmer
expression came over his face.

“The girl is right,” he said unexpectedly. “If she was a
boy, you'd let her go, Gudrun.”

“Well she's not a boy!” Gudrun snapped. “She's my
eldest daughter – and Sigurd is too young—”

“Girl or boy,” Eirik persisted, “she can see what needs
doing. The sheep
do
have to come down before winter.
Ralf would be proud of her. Hilde, my lass, you stand up
on your own two feet. That's the way to make them all
respect you!”

Gudrun said with incredulous anger, “Are you
encouraging her, Father-in-law?”

Eirik hunched himself a little and then nodded defiantly.
Hilde mopped her eyes and planted a big kiss on the top of
his head.

“I'll be all right, Ma. I'll take Alf. He'll look after me!”

“How can he? He's too old!” Gudrun protested.

“He knows every inch of the hills. 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. “Well, I suppose
you can go, Hilde – since your
grandfather
approves! But
be careful
! Get back before dark!”

“I'll try, Ma, but it's dark so early now…” Already
Hilde felt better, wrapping herself up in a sheepskin cloak
and pulling on a pair of soft leather boots. She grabbed a
stick. “For cracking trolls on the head!” she joked.

“Oh, dear – is that wise?” Gudrun wrung her hands.

“Why not? Things can hardly get worse.” She
whistled to Alf, whose eyes brightened as he led her
purposefully to the door.

“It doesn't look good,” said Gudrun, looking
anxiously out. The sky was overcast and a chill wind
swept across the farmyard. “It looks like snow.”

“All the more reason to fetch the sheep,” Hilde
retorted. “Look out, Grandpa, it's slippery.” Gudrun
caught Eirik to prevent him from falling on the ice
which the trolls now delighted in laying every night,
smooth as glass, in all the places round the farm where
people most walked.

“Get inside and keep warm,” said Hilde impatiently.
“And don't worry, I'll be fine. Come on, Alf!” She strode
energetically away, the old sheepdog trotting beside her.

Hilde knew that long hours of tramping hills lay
before her. The high open pastures of Troll Fell, such as
the Stonemeadow, were not fenced. The tough,
independent little sheep could roam where they pleased,
and were often widely scattered. She and Alf would have
to gather them all and make sure not to take any that
belonged to a neighbour. Most of the sheep were
marked in some way. Her father's sheep were clipped in
the right ear, and an old ewe with a bell round her neck
led the flock. Hilde hoped that the other sheep would
stay close to her.

As she climbed up 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. Hilde tucked her chin into the sheepskin
and pinned the cloak tighter round her neck. More
flakes blew past. Then a heavy flurry of snow whirled
down from the north-east. It swept about her, erasing the
hillside, leaving nothing visible but a few blurred yards of
wet, bent grass already catching the snow.

“Great!” muttered Hilde aloud. Alf looked at her
questioningly. “On we go,” she told him. “I'm not giving
up yet!”

The sheep seemed to have disappeared. Hilde listened
carefully for the sound of bleating or the clonking of the
sheep-bell, but she only heard the wind hissing, driving
the snow into the grass. The light was failing. Hilde
trudged higher and higher up the hill, stumbling over
stones and rabbit burrows. She began to wonder if
Baldur and Grim had taken the sheep away; perhaps
there were none left to find! Then it dawned on her that
the sheep would shelter from the weather on the
western side of the crags, out of this keen wind. At once
she turned her back to the wind and began plodding in
that direction. Alf seemed to approve. He trotted briskly
ahead of her, the wind blowing his thick fur up and
showing the pale skin at the roots.

A blue, unfriendly twilight descended over Troll Fell,
and the snow grew deeper. Hilde decided not to search
for much longer. Grey shapes were slinking and sliding
about on the edge of sight, and she remembered the
trolls. And then Alf barked, once. He wanted her
attention. He stood with one front paw raised, looking
intently into the swirling snow.

“Have you found them?” Hilde asked. “Good lad! Go
on then – bring 'em down.” Alf leaped forwards and
disappeared into the gloom.

Hilde waited where she was, whistling and stamping
her feet. In a moment a couple of sheep came jogging
into view. The 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.