Troll Fell (15 page)

The Nis darted him a mischievous look. It reached
out a long arm and hooked its wooden bowl out of the
ashes. Tonight it was completely empty. Baldur and Grim
had forgotten to fill it. The Nis showed him, dropped the
bowl and sat down again. “I has had enough too, Peer
Ulfsson,” it said importantly. “See me!” It scampered up
the ladder to the loft and disappeared from view over the
edge. It began puffing and groaning.

Bewildered, Peer climbed the ladder to see the fragile
little Nis heaving away at the upper millstone, trying to
lift it from its spindle. Its eyes popped and its thin arms
stretched to snapping point as it tugged – uselessly. It had
about as much chance of succeeding as a piece of
thistledown.

“What
on earth
are you doing?” asked Peer
incredulously. 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 never could lift it, not
even with a lever.

The Nis doubled up limply over the edge of the
millstone and lay panting with its tongue hanging out.
Peer looked about. Was there anything else they could
use?

He clenched his fist in triumph. There was! Standing
upright against the wall, dark with dust and cobwebs,
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 wooden chocks driven in
on the underside to stop it rolling.

“Nis!” he called excitedly. The Nis looked, and the
sparkle came back into its eyes. It skipped across and
probed with long spidery fingers under the old
millstone, pulling out the chocks. Peer grabbed the top
of the stone and felt it stir. It rolled ponderously
forwards. Between them, Peer and the Nis trundled it
to the edge of the loft, keeping their toes well back. At
the very brink they paused and looked at each other.
The Nis giggled. Peer grinned, and pushed. The
millstone fell.

There was an ear-splitting crash, and pieces of wood
flew like daggers. Loki yelped and fled under the table.
Peer opened his eyes – he had screwed them up at the
crash – and peeped over to see the damage. The old
millstone had cracked in two. The wooden bin was
firewood. He jumped down, reached gingerly into the
wreckage and pulled out a soft leather bag. It jingled.

The Nis was skipping about behind him, looking
smug. “I is strong, very strong, Peer Ulfsson, to move a
millstone like that!” it crowed.

“You must be!” Peer agreed laughing, and added
admiringly, “That was a wonderful idea! Very, very
clever!”

The Nis nearly purred.

Opening the bag, Peer checked the money. 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 something else. He
knew it before he saw it: his father's old silver ring. He shut
his eyes and pushed it on to his own finger.
Father
, he
thought softly.
Are you there? Can you hear me? I'm doing
what you did, Father. I'm going to run away
.

He waited for a moment, as if there could be an
answer, before opening his eyes.

Next he pulled on one of Uncle Baldur's old tunics.
It was smelly but warm, and came down to his knees. He
looked around and grabbed the best of the blankets from
Grim's bed.

“Shake out the fleas!” chirped the Nis. Peer grinned,
gave the blanket a flip and wrapped it round 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 whole flat loaf
from the bread-crock. He tore off a bit to munch and
gave some to Loki. The Nis watched with bright eyes.

“Want some?” asked Peer through a mouthful. The
Nis stretched out a hand and took a piece. It sprang into
the rafters and sat nibbling like a squirrel.

“I'm off,” said Peer, looking up. “Goodbye, Nis, I'll
never forget you, but I have to go now before they get
back. Come on, Loki!”

He took one last look round at the dark shadows, the
glowing bed of the fire, the shattered millstone and
broken bin.

“I'm on my own, now,” he said loudly. “And I'm
never coming back!”

The snow was falling thickly in the yard. Peer trudged
through it, pleased to find his feet warm and dry. All that
rubbing in of grease was going to be useful to him now!
Loki trotted springily alongside, his tail half raised.

They crossed the bridge carefully, and set off uphill.
Peer decided to leave the road and cut up over the
muffled fields. He did not want to meet his uncles on
their way home. Somewhere behind the snow-laden
clouds the moon had risen. Even through the falling
snow the white fields glimmered faintly. He could pick
his way.

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. His heart beat
with excitement. It was a pity he would not see the Nis
again, though. Or Hilde. He desperately hoped Hilde
would be all right.

But leaving seemed to be the only thing he could do
for Hilde, now. And plenty of people would look out for
her. Arnë and Bjørn, for example. It was a sharp memory,
how they had walked out of the mill without a word to
him. Of course, Hilde and her family belonged here;
they were neighbours. But Peer? He was nobody's
business.

We're just strays, Loki and me
, he thought defiantly.
I'd
better look out for myself. No one else will
.

By now he had reached the top of the big field above
the mill, the same one that Ralf had ridden over at a mad
gallop, escaping from the trolls all those years ago. Peer
stopped for a breather, leaning against the tall stone
called the Finger. The snow was falling steadily, but the
wind had dropped.

A white fox came trotting downhill from the
Stonemeadow. Loki saw it and whined, pricking his ears.
Peer caught his collar. The fox paused with one paw
lifted and looked sharply at the boy and the dog.

“Hallo!” said Peer, amused. “Going down to the farms
to see what you can find?”

The fox did not startle but continued to stare at
him.

“There's a black cockerel at the mill,” went on Peer.
“You can have him and welcome!” The fox gave him a
quizzical look. It shook its ears and sneezed. Then
suddenly it took fright and sprang away with flattened
ears, disappearing into the white world within seconds.

Peer laughed. But beside him, Loki was growling. A
moment later Peer realised why.

Only a few yards away, two huge shapes emerged
from the greyness, plodding uphill through the snow. He
heard the grumble of two familiar and hated voices. His
heart nearly stopped.

Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim!

Peer dragged Loki round behind the big stone. He
crouched, holding his breath. His mind was spinning.
Were they after him? How could they know he was
running away? What was happening?

His next thought was – had they got Hilde? Were
they taking her to the troll king after all?

Pressing his cheek to the cold stone, he looked
cautiously round the edge. And one thing was sure: his
uncles had no idea he was there. Their hoods were pulled
well down, and they had already trudged past his hiding
place without looking left or right. He sighed with
relief. They hadn't got Hilde, either. But each of them
carried a large bundle over his shoulder.

“Now what are they up to?” muttered Peer. It didn't
matter. He only had to wait until they were well out of
sight, and then go on his own way. But he was curious.
What
were
those bundles? He strained his eyes; was it just
the poor light, or were they moving?

With a jolt of horror he suddenly understood what he
was seeing. Two small children, bundled up in sacking and
swathed in ropes, being carried head down over his uncles'
shoulders. They were mostly lying limp, but an occasional
kick accounted for the jerking movement he had seen.

“Sigurd and Sigrid!” Peer breathed the words. A girl
and a boy. Twins.

A matching pair!

Once again his plans lay in wreckage. He stood in the
snow, in full view if his uncles turned round, his mind
racing. What was he to do?

Forget about it, go on to Hammerhaven, pretend it
had nothing to do with him?

Or follow his uncles, risk being caught and dragged
back to a life of drudgery? He groaned. 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 only he had been slower leaving the mill, or if he
had gone by the road, he would never have seen his
uncles – never have known what they 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.
What can you do? Forget you saw it
, a
little voice seemed to murmur in his ear.
No one will
ever know
.

Slowly Peer turned away. It was useless. No one could
blame him. “Come on, Loki,” he muttered in despair.
“Let's go.”

But into his head slipped a memory, the memory of
Sigrid's high little voice back in the summer, screaming
at Uncle Baldur: “I don't like the nasty man! I hate him!”
And he remembered carrying her on his back and the
feel of her small hands clutching his neck. Sigrid and
Sigurd were only little, but they were his friends.

Peer stood, as still as the big stone. He felt he was
turning
to stone. He saw now just what he should do. At
the very least he should follow, and tell everyone where
his uncles had taken 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. “Let's go!
This
way!” And as the startled Loki bounded back after him,
Peer began running, stumbling, labouring uphill on the
track of his two wicked uncles.

The way was steep. As he feared, the men were out of
sight, but their trail was easy to follow in the deep snow.
Peer ran, as if in a bad dream. His cumbersome boots
dragged half off at each stride. He could get no speed up.
Loki gambolled along at his heels, thinking this was a
game. Peer was terrified he would bark in excitement
and give them away. Panting, he dropped into a slow
plod, then forced himself to run again. Gradually the
ground became less steep. He crested a rise and paused
to rest a moment, head drooping. His breath came in
painful, wheezing gasps.

He was afraid of getting too close to his uncles.
Shading his eyes he stared ahead and just made out their
shadowy shapes disappearing down a little valley. Peer
gave himself another minute, and set off after them.

The valley turned out to be no more than a dimple
on the hillside, but it was full of drifted snow. Peer's boots
both came off as he ploughed through it. Sweating and
cursing, he burrowed around in the drifts to find them
again. There was no time to empty out the packed-in
snow; he just shoved his numb feet back in and plunged
forwards. All the time as he ran, a miserable little voice in
his head kept wailing: “Why? Why me? Why did this
have to happen? Why? Why me? It simply isn't
fair
!” He
shook his head furiously, banishing the voice, and
floundered stubbornly on.

The tracks turned steeply uphill again. This time Peer
was reduced to a plod. Like a terribly old man, he
struggled just to lift each foot and place it ahead of the
other. Plod. Rest. Breathe. Plod. Rest. Breathe. The slope
seemed endless.

It had stopped snowing. The moon sailed out
overhead, and the flanks of Troll Fell revealed themselves:
black rocks and white slopes, cold and desolate.

In front of him, the snow through which he was
wading was unmarked. It looked soft and smooth,
delicate as the surface of a new mushroom. There were
no footmarks.

He had lost the trail.

It was like having a bucket of water thrown over him.
Peer gasped and shook his head, and came awake. He
swung round. Loki cowered behind him, obviously cold,
his tail curved under his belly.

“We've got to go back,” said Peer. He pushed past
Loki and started off downhill. Loki picked his way after
his master, as if wondering what all this was about. Had
Peer gone mad?

“It's my fault, Loki,” Peer muttered. “I wasn't
watching the trail. They must have branched off, and I
never noticed… Ah! Here it is!”

Deep dragging marks showed where his uncles had
turned aside towards the foot of a cliff, twenty feet or so
of glistening wet stone, capped with an overhang of
snow. At the base the tracks turned right, and continued
to a place where the cliff was lower. Peer scrambled up
over a rockfall of boulders half smothered in snow,
slipping and bruising himself on buried stones.

Now the moon was out, it should be easy to see. But
hypnotic patterns seemed to dance in the air over the
featureless white slopes, playing tricks with his eyes.
He began to shiver, and the clammy sweat froze under
his clothes.

At the top of the cliff the ground levelled out
temporarily. There was a wide ledge. Peer doubled over,
gasping for breath. Straightening up he looked along the
trail he was following. Clear in the moonlight, a few
hundred yards ahead, two dark figures strode up the
slope towards a narrow ravine. If they turned round, Peer
would be plainly visible. But they didn't turn. He
watched for a moment, not sure what to do.

Looking around he saw he was not far from the top
of Troll Fell. The land curved 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.

Peer shuddered. And Loki whined and pawed at his
legs.

“That's right, Loki,” said Peer, suddenly very thankful
for company. “
Good
dog. Come on!”

Crouching a little for fear of being seen, he hurried
up the slope in his uncles' tracks. The snow was shallow
here. The wind had combed it thin between the boulders
and bitter rocks. Peer scurried upwards, not knowing in
the least what he was going to do, just determined to
keep his uncles – and Sigurd and Sigrid – in sight to
the end.

Baldur and Grim were heading directly into the
ravine. A steep cliff leaned out at one side, slashed black
with shadows.

A shrill yell rang out, bouncing and reverberating off
the rocks. Peer cowered. Uncle Baldur had reached his
goal. He was shouting to the gatekeeper of Troll Fell to let
him in. Again he shouted, and again: “Open up! Open up!”

And the troll gate opened.

A vertical hairline of light appeared in the dark root of
the cliff. Silently and swiftly it yawned wider 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 Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim,
and the dark bundles that were Sigrid and Sigurd, stood
out black for a moment against the gold as they vanished
inside. Smoothly, silently, the door swung shut. The broad
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 Peer's skin
came out in goose bumps.

The troll gate was shut.

Peer ran forwards. He scrambled over the pebbles at
the base of the cliff and threw himself against the cold
face, patting and fumbling, feeling for the door. Nothing.
Not a crack anywhere in the solid stone. He dared not
shout. He felt tired and sick, ashamed to have come so
far and been so useless. There was nothing to show
anyone, except the trail of footsteps, and the next snow
shower would cover those.

His legs buckled and he flopped wearily down on the
ground. His hand felt something in the snow beside him.
He picked it up. It was Sigrid's woolly cap, gritty with
melting snow crystals, but still warm. He bent his head
on to his knees.

A few yards away Loki sensed Peer's despair. Sitting
bolt upright in the snow, he lifted his muzzle to the sky,
and let the misery within him float away in a long,
musical, mournful howl.

It was an eerie sound, re-echoed by the cliffs, and it
brought Peer back to his feet. “Quiet, Loki,” he said.
“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. “Loki, stop it!”

The rebounding echoes came fainter and fainter,
while Peer held Loki's muzzle to stop him trying again.
And then came an echo that was not an echo.

“Loki!” Peer froze. “Was that – a
bark
?”

He strained his ears. Unmistakably, a second bark,
from somewhere below them on the hill. Loki stiffened,
pulled free of Peer's hand, and shot off down the slope.
A minute later he came back into sight, leaping crazily
round another dog – an older, bigger dog, a 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? He ran forwards to see.

Somebody was there all right, puffing up the slope.
Somebody too small to be a shepherd. It wasn't – it
couldn't be—!

“Loki!” cried a clear, incredulous voice. “Peer! What
on earth are you doing up here?”

“Hilde!” yelled Peer. He rushed to meet her and
almost flung his arms around her, but restrained himself
in time: he grabbed her hand instead and pumped it up
and down. He had never been so glad to see anyone in
his life. Words tumbled out of him.

“It's Uncle Baldur! – Uncle Grim! – I was escaping
– I saw them carrying the twins – they took them
inside, Hilde, I couldn't stop them! Why shall we do?”

Hilde pulled off her cap and pushed the hair out of
her eyes.

“We're going to get my little brother and sister back,”
she promised. “You saw them, did you? And you
followed? Oh, good for you, Peer!”

Peer flushed, remembering how he had nearly gone
on his way.

“How did you know where to come?” he asked, still
hardly able to believe she was here.

“Alf and I discovered this place when we were
gathering sheep at the beginning of winter,” Hilde told
him. “Alf. My dog.” Alf turned his grizzled head and licked
her mittened hand. “We saw the door in the cliff open.
Tonight when we realised the twins had been stolen—”
her voice shook, “Mother and Grandpa went off down 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 knew what was happening. I couldn't bear to
wait. I decided to come here: Alf knows the way.”

“The door's shut,” said Peer. “They went in not long
ago. 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. She pulled her cap back on.

“Oh. I found this,” said Peer unhappily. He handed her
Sigrid's cap. Hilde looked at it silently and tucked it in her
pocket.

“But, Hilde,” Peer went on anxiously, “they won't
open the door for us, and even if they do, what can we
say?”

“I think they will,” said Hilde with strange
confidence. “Look at this!”