Troll Fell (16 page)

She struggled with her cloak and produced from
inside her clothes a small bundle wrapped in cloth. She
unrolled it. Peer gasped. “Is that—?”

“That's the famous cup. Yes,” said Hilde. “Ma hid it.
Good thing she told me where! I had to dig it out of the
grain bin.”

Peer gazed at it in admiration. The gold gleamed
palely in the moonlight, and the moulding winked white
fire as Hilde turned it this way and that.

“The patterns seem to move,” he said, fascinated.

“I know,” said Hilde, not as if she cared. “We'll
see how badly the Gaffer of Troll Fell wants this back.
Come on, let's go.”

She folded the cloth back over the cup and pushed it
back under her cloak. Peer looked around.

“It's getting lighter,” he noticed. The sharp-edged
moonlight was being quenched by the approach of
dawn, and a light mist blurred the slopes.

“It's been a long night,” he said shivering.

Hilde jumped. “Then we've no time to lose! They
won't open the troll gate after sunrise! Quickly!”

She led the way at a run, Peer following and the dogs
trotting resignedly behind.

Reaching the bottom of the cliff, Hilde bent and
picked up a big stone. She pounded on the rock face
with it, shouting, “Open up! Open up! I'm Hilde, Ralf's
daughter!”

“Open up! Open up!” Peer joined in, picking up his
own rock. They hammered on the cliff, shouting.
It sounded like a quarry at work. The dogs began to
bark.

“Wait a minute,” panted Hilde. They stopped to
listen. The echoes died away. It was growing lighter every
moment.

“Open up,” called Hilde distinctly. “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.
Nothing happened. Hilde grimaced at Peer. Her face
looked wan in the cold pre-dawn glow.

“It's not working!” she said, biting her lip. Peer said
nothing. He caught her arm and pointed. A vertical
black seam ran down the rock face: a split, widening to
a gash. They smelled sparks. The soles of their feet tickled
as the ground trembled. The stone door opened: a thick
slab of rock higher than a man, swinging slowly inwards.
No golden light shone from it now. Behind it was
nothing but a gaping darkness.

As Hilde stepped forwards, Peer dragged her back.
“Hilde! You can't go in there!”

“Yes I can!” Hilde jerked her arm free. “Let go!”

“You can't!” Peer panicked. “Look at it – all dark –
you'll get lost – trapped!” He hung on to her. She
twisted a foot behind his leg and tripped him. They fell
together. Peer bashed his elbow on a rock. He grabbed a
fistful of her hair and hung on to it grimly. Locked
together, sobbing and gasping, they struggled on the
uneven ground.

“
Let – me – go!
” Hilde shrieked, her face inches from
his. She glared into his eyes. “
You
don't have to come!
They're not
your
brother and sister! Go away! Go
home!”

Peer let her go and lay back on the ground, eyes
closed, chest heaving. Tears leaked from under his eyelids.
Hilde scrambled to her feet, breathing hard.

“I'm sorry,” she said, between gasps. “I'm sorry.”

Peer looked up as she stood over him. Above her
loomed the cliff and the tall black slot of the troll gate.
Everything was turning round, reeling dizzily as if in a
nightmare. He got up. “If you're going,” he croaked
painfully, “I'm coming with you.”

“Oh, Peer!” said Hilde. She 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 now! You'd better not come with us.”

“Can he take Loki?” asked Peer, fighting to keep his
voice steady.

“Of course,” Hilde reassured him. “Alf? You go home
now and take Loki. You hear me? Find Eirik. Go home.”

“Off you go, Loki,” said Peer, clenching his teeth.

Loki looked anxious. Alf sniffed him, turned and
trotted a few paces downhill. He stopped and looked
questioningly back at Hilde.

“Go home, Alf!” said Hilde loudly. The old dog
barked, and slowly Loki began to follow him.

“Goodbye!” muttered Peer. As he watched the two
dogs going away down the hill, he felt lonelier than he
had ever done in his life. He turned to face the dark
doorway.

“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.

With a great effort, Gudrun steadied Eirik as he
slipped. Struggling down the hill in the deep snow, she
had been amazed at how well he was managing. With
arms linked they had waded through the drifts,
encouraging each other, Gudrun with breathless gasps
of, “Well done, Eirik!” and “Slippy here – hold up!” and
Eirik with snatches of savage battle stanzas.

Once into the wood, Gudrun could barely trace the
path. The pine trees whistled and bent overhead, and
snow came whirling down through the branches. It was
very dark and wild. She clutched Eirik's elbow as his foot
went into a hole under the snow.

“Come on,” shouted Eirik, staggering up. “On to
Trollsvik!”

“Eirik,” panted Gudrun, pressing her hand to her side
where she had a stitch, “we have to go past the mill!”

“What does it matter?” Eirik dragged her along, and
she was astonished at his strength. “Bring on the wolf's
brood! Rouse the steel-storm!”

“What if the millers are there?”

“They won't be,” said Eirik, “and if they are, I'll show
'em a thing or two! And so will you, too, Gudrun my
woman. Eh? Eh?”

“Let me get my hands on them!” Gudrun agreed,
thrilling with anger, and she led the way at a faster pace.
But when they came out of the woods above the mill, it
looked deserted. The moon, hidden behind the
snowclouds, made the fields and the buildings glimmer
in a grey, ghostly fashion. Not a light showed; no smoke
rose from the roof.

Eirik paused, wheezing, and Gudrun hugged his arm
anxiously. “Father-in-law! Are you all right?”

Eirik shook his head like a dog. “I'm fine,” he growled.
“Fine!” And he plunged forwards down the path.

The black buildings of the mill loomed closer. There
was the wheel, toothed with icicles. Gudrun and Eirik
clung to the rail as they shuffled cautiously over the icy
bridge, but they crossed successfully and were passing the
yard when they heard the excited sharp bark of a fox,
followed by an unearthly cackling and screeching.

Fox among the hens
, thought Gudrun at once, but she
certainly didn't care. Serve the Grimssons right if they
lost their hens! And Eirik thought the same, he was
nodding to her. “Foxes! I'll give 'em foxes!” he roared.
“I'll
feed
them to the foxes, in tiny pieces! On we go!”

But he was getting very tired, Gudrun could tell; he
was pressing more and more heavily on her arm, and
slipping and stumbling more often. Still, the path was
smoother now. It wasn't so far to the village. Her scarf
whipped over her face and she pushed it back. Oh, but
her legs were tired, trembling and shaking. What was she
doing down 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 and blurring her sight. Her
woollen skirts dragged, clotted with snow.

Eirik leaned towards her. “Snow's stopped,” he
shouted. “And dawn's on the way.” It was true.

Wiping her tears, Gudrun could see under the
clearing sky the first houses of the village, and smell the
heavy tang of woodsmoke. Letting go of Eirik, she
launched herself in a stumbling run at the nearest door,
and beat on it. “Kersten! Bjørn!” She pushed it open.

There was no one inside. The fire burned cheerfully,
the blankets on the sleeping bench were disturbed, as
though the sleepers had flung them back and left
suddenly. Eirik hobbled up behind her.

“There's no one here!” cried Gudrun piteously.

Eirik leaned on the door, breathing hard. “Try next
door,” he got out between gasps. Gudrun flew past him
and along to the next house. “Arnë!.. Harald!.. Where are
you?” she begged. 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.

“That's Einar's new baby,” she said. “Where are they
all? Is it some evil spell?”

Eirik, who had recovered his breath, pointed to the
ground. Tracks from every house joined to form a trampled
path leading out through the village on the way to the
fjord. “Listen!” he said, holding up his hand. Gudrun
listened. 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 find out!”

Alf went back down the trail at a businesslike trot.
Confidently he wove his way in and out of the boulders
and over the rockfall, and where Alf's plumy tail led,
Loki followed, nose down. Interesting smells lingered
along the trail: the heavy sweaty smell of Baldur and
Grim, the clean smell of the little children, the wild
peppery smell of trolls.

The snow glittered suddenly in the rising sun. Loki
sneezed. The dogs' long shadows ran ahead of them as
they trotted briskly down the fellside. Loki was light
enough to run on the frozen crust of the snow without
breaking through; Alf, heavier, floundered through the
deeper places. At last they came in sight of the tall stone
where Peer and Loki had rested the previous night, at
the top of the big field above the mill. Alf halted, stared
down at the snowy furrows, then flattened himself into
a tense crouch.

Light-footed up the hill the white fox came dancing,
dragging something black by the neck. It stopped close
to the big stone to lay down the burden and get a fresh
grip. Limp and bedraggled, the black cockerel lay dead
on the snow.

Alf surged out of ambush, barking in hatred. The fox
jumped high in the air and came down in the same spot,
bristling its thick white fur. But when it saw Alf and Loki
it sat down impudently and began to scratch.

Alf circled it, glaring and growling, but Loki stepped
nimbly forwards and trotted up to the fox, which
lowered its leg and watched his approach warily. Lightly
they sniffed noses. Loki's tail moved in a tentative wag,
and the fox's brush twitched in reply.

Then its sharp ears pricked and it jerked aside, staring
downhill in the direction of the fjord. The two dogs
swung round. There was nothing to see, but a breath of
wind brought to their acute hearing a distant clamour.
Far away on the shore, many voices were shouting or
cheering.

The fox shook itself, grabbed the cockerel and went
slinking away up the hill. Loki turned his head to watch,
but Alf ignored it. He stood rigidly, his muzzle lifted,
snuffing at the wind, straining after the sounds floating
up from the fjord. Suddenly he gave a hoarse bark and
bounded forwards. His tail waved busily. Loki dashed
after him.

Side by side the two dogs ran over the field, crossed over
the slippery wooden bridge below the mill and
disappeared into the trees on the path down to the village.

*

In the village all was commotion. Torches flared by the
fjord, pale in the dawn, for the shadow of Troll Fell lay
cold across the valley. Beached on the shingle, dwarfing
Bjørn and Arnë's boats, an elegant longship reared its
proud neck. The fierce dragon head was covered in
sacking, so as not to frighten the timid land spirits of the
homeland.

The whole village had turned out. Eirik and Gudrun,
clinging together, made their way down on to the
shingle, where Gudrun shrieked, let go of Eirik and ran
madly down over the pebbles and ankle-deep 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?”

Ralf bent down and scooped her off her feet. “Yes, my
girl.” He gave her a bristly kiss. “It's really me!”

As soon as Peer and Hilde stepped past the entrance, the
stone door began to grind on its pivots, and slowly
swung shut behind them, extinguishing the dawn. The
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 and his chest tightened. He
lurched giddily. “Where are you?” he panted.

“Here!” Their groping hands blundered together, and
they clutched each other. “Oh Peer, I don't like it,”

Hilde whispered. “I thought there would be lights.”

“So did I.” Touching her steadied him. Her fingers
were warm, rough and comforting. She squeezed back,
so hard it hurt.

“Why is it dark?”

“It's daybreak.” Peer remembered something the Nis
had once said. “That's night-time for trolls.”

“You mean they're all asleep? But who let us in?”

Their whispering voices created scuttling echoes.
“Ssh!” said Peer, freezing. They listened tensely. Was
anything there?

In the silence, Peer heard only water dripping, and his
own harsh breath. He opened his eyes wide, shut them
tight. It made no difference. The darkness moulded to his
face, clung and clogged in his throat like black glue…

“This is silly!” Hilde's bold voice startled away his
panic. “I'm not lurking in the dark. Hallo! Gatekeeper!”
Her hand clenched on his. “We want to see the Gaffer.
Bring us a light!”

They held their breath. Just behind them, someone
laughed quietly:
Ho ho!
As they whirled round, there was
a soft clap, and an explosion of brilliant golden light. Peer's
hands flew to his eyes. The tunnel blanched in the intense
glare, and he saw every piece of grit on the floor, sharp-
edged in black. Painfully, through watering eyes he made
out a spindly figure twirling a bright sphere, like a little
sun, on one crooked forefinger. It stood with its back to
the troll door, and its black shadow streamed up the stone.
Glistening rock walls leaned together overhead.

“We want – to see – the Gaffer,” Hilde repeated
breathlessly.

A dark hooked arm bowled the ball of light towards
them. Peer and Hilde dodged. It rolled past them,
quivering and glowing, illuminating the first few yards of
a long tunnel. They looked back towards the stone door,
but their own bodies threw huge shadows, blotting out
the creature guarding it. Phantom colours floated on the
darkness, sickles of purple and blobs of green. Peer
screwed up his eyes, trying to see. Something scraped
along the floor: a long thin foot, with claws back and
front like a bird's. Impatiently it raked and scratched.
High, high above it, up in the black roof, wide wet eyes
blinked white.

Peer and Hilde backed away, step by quiet step. At a
safe distance they turned and scurried further down the
tunnel, away from the entrance.

“Oh my goodness,” panted Hilde. “To think we were
standing right next to that thing, in the dark!”

“What now?” Peer shivered.

Hilde squinted along the passage. “It meant us to
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 just wide enough for them to
walk abreast. The ball of light wobbled along in front, not
quite touching the floor. Peer clumped doggedly after it
in his wet boots. Troll Fell had swallowed him. Now he
was stuck in its long stone gullet. He took deep uneven
breaths. The air was damp in his lungs, still and cold. The
floor rose and fell, and there were unexpected puddles.

“Ugh!” complained Hilde, “the roof dripped on my
head!” A cold splash landed on Peer's neck, too. Once a
water drop plummeted, fizzling, straight through the ball
of light.

From time to time the passage twisted round corners,
or divided into side passages which corkscrewed up or
dived into darkness. Sometimes the roof dipped, and
they had to bend or duck under projecting ledges. Soon
they felt hopelessly confused. The floor rose. The walls
bulged, nipping the passage to a tight cleft. “One at a
time here,” muttered Hilde. She twisted her hand out of
Peer's, and slid sideways between fat stone bellies. For a
moment her body blocked the light. Peer gasped as her
shadow hit him. He stood blind and breathless.

“I'm through. Come on!” Hilde's voice came back
with the light. Heart thudding, Peer squeezed after her.
The stone felt wet and smooth, slick as a cow's tongue,
and he slid through more easily than he expected. As he
reached the far side he heard a strange sound, a sort of
hissing roar. There was a strong upwards draught. 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 light danced
around behind it, so the shadows of the rocks rose and
fell. The only way to get past was along a narrow ramp
by the left-hand wall. Peer craned his neck to look down
into the pit below. The water careered into darkness
which looked absolutely solid.

“We can't!” Hilde's cold hands gripped him.

“We must!” said Peer fiercely. “We can't stay here!”

Hilde hesitated. “We'll slip! What if the light's tricked
us?”

Peer pushed in front. “All right! I'll go first.” He had
to keep moving. When he stood still, he felt the whole
demanding weight of Troll Fell bearing down on his
shoulders. “Look! Keep near the wall, like this, and – ah!”

His foot slipped on the wet stone lip. In panic, he
snatched at the rocks. One hand curled over a sharp rim
and he hung by an arm, kicking, poised over the drop.
The water drummed on his back. He heard Hilde
scream; then her hand bit into his flailing wrist and
hauled. The rock edge ground into his midriff. He
dragged his knee up and over, and clawed himself further
up the slippery shelf. With Hilde following, he crawled
out of the spray to where the ledge widened at the far
side and lay gasping on his face.

There was no time to rest. Darkness leaped at them
and the passage seemed to shrink. The ball of light had
begun to flicker out, bluish and fitful. In fright they
scrambled up. It turned a couple of brisk half spins,
brightened, and whirled off down the tunnel. Bruised
and bedraggled, Hilde and Peer limped after it, and
suddenly noticed that they were climbing. 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 wide,
dark crevice, like many that they had already hurried
past. But this one had been shaped into a rough archway.
Set back into it was a solid wooden door.

Peer looked at Hilde, who gave an anxious nod. He
raised his hand, hesitating, took a deep breath and
knocked on the door as loudly as he could, hurting his
knuckles. In a moment the door opened a crack and a
small troll looked out. It had short pricked ears and
held a smoking pine branch in one fist. When it saw
Peer and Hilde it 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,” he said firmly, though
his teeth clattered.

“The gatekeeper sent us,” added Hilde defensively,
pointing to the floating light, which was drifting to and
fro against the stony ceiling.

The little troll hissed again, and jerked angrily at the
door. Peer got his fingers round the edge and dragged it
back. Feverishly, Hilde unwrapped the golden cup.

“Look here!” she called, holding it up for the troll
to see. “This is for the Gaffer! A present! We want to
see him!”

The troll's eyes grew round and black with
excitement. It l et go of the door and sprang forwards, tail
lashing. “Give! Give!” it squeaked.

“Not likely!” Hilde held the goblet high in the air.
“The Gaffer will be angry,” she warned. “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 sulkily and opened
the door wide. Jostling shoulder to shoulder, Peer and
Hilde stepped in.

They were in a large chamber, gloriously warm and
smelling of pine needles. Peer straightened his bent back
and rubbed his clammy hands. A brazier stood in the
middle of the room, filled with pine logs that flared and
sizzled noisily, bubbling with resin. The troll pitched the
burning branch back into the flames.

On the other side of the brazier was a stone bed. Its
four crooked pillars seemed to have dripped from the
ceiling and grown from the floor. Above it hung folded
curtains, drapes and scallops of curdled stone, gleaming
like soap. The bed was piled with sheepskins. Somebody
lay there, snoring loudly. Hilde and Peer tiptoed
forwards, hearts hammering.

The old Gaffer of Troll Fell seemed to be asleep.

He lay on his back, the sheepskins heaped over him
in a hillock. His bulbous nose sprouted with whiskers.
His mouth hung open a little, and two long, brown,
curving teeth stuck up out of his lower jaw. His eyes
were closed, but in the centre of his forehead another eye
glared open, red-rimmed and weeping, glancing this way
and that. It spotted Peer and Hilde immediately and
rolled round to fix on them.

“Strangers!” croaked a voice, and a black crow
hopped down from the pillow, rattling its feathers.

“Strangers!” squawked the little troll which had let
them in.

“I see the strangers,” the Gaffer mumbled in his sleep.
He yawned, showing a lot of red tongue and ragged
teeth, stretched, and sat up, opening his eyes. As he did
so, the eye in the middle of his forehead fluttered slowly
shut, a red wrinkle fringed with a few scanty bristles.

Hilde and Peer grabbed hands and backed away.

“
Hutututu!
What's this, what's this?” growled the
Gaffer.

Hilde's mouth was dry, but she spoke up bravely. “I'm
Hilde,” she gulped. “Ralf Eiriksson's daughter. My – my
little brother and sister are here somewhere. The miller
of Trollsvik stole them.”

“We came to get them,” added Peer, determined to
help. The Gaffer began to scowl.

“I brought this in exchange!” said Hilde hastily. She
held up the golden goblet so that he could see it, and the
little troll scurried forwards and leaped at her arm,
mewling like a kitten. The Gaffer bounded off the bed
and kicked it in the bottom. It rolled across the floor
shrieking.

“This cup is yours. It was lost years ago,” Hilde raised
her voice. “Let me have my brother and sister and in
return…”

“Lost!” The Gaffer interrupted her. “Stolen, you
mean! Stolen by your father, a thief himself! How dare
you bargain with me?”

“A thief!” screamed the crow.

“What?” Hilde cried, flushing. “You trolls tried to
poison him! How dare you call him a thief?”

“Hilde!” said Peer, anxiously.

“It wasn't poison!” shouted the Old Man of Troll
Fell. “And he never even drank it!”

“Well, it burned all the hair off his pony's tail,” yelled
Hilde furiously. “That sounds pretty poisonous to me!”

“Aark! Aark!” screamed the crow, flapping its wings.

“Hilde, calm down!” Peer called, dismayed at how
things were going. But Hilde had sprung forward. She
grabbed a sheepskin from the Gaffer's bed and shook it
at him.

“See that?” she said, panting. “See that mark? That's
ours. That came from one of our sheep – and so did
that!” She seized another fleece, and another. “So – who's
a thief now?” She threw them down and stood glaring at
him.

For a horrible moment, Peer expected the Gaffer to
call on his trolls and have both of them torn to pieces
then and there. To his surprise, and immense relief, the
huge old troll began to laugh. He screwed up all three
eyes and rocked backwards and forwards on the edge of
his bed, choking and spluttering.

“Well, what's a little borrowing between
neighbours?” he coughed, slapping his knees. “Give me
that!” He snatched the cup from Hilde's limp hand, and
turned it this way and that in his black claws, admiring
it.

“Nice timing,” he grinned at her. “We want this for
the wedding. It's the Bride Cup of Troll Fell, always used
at weddings. Traditional! Belonged to my grandmother.”

“Well, then?” demanded Hilde.

“Not so fast, not so fast,” grunted the Gaffer. “
Skotte!
”

The little troll in the corner gave a shrill squeak of
alarm.

“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 itself up in a bow and
scuttled out. The Troll King yawned again and his
middle eye twitched. He reached out for his cloak,
which was made of cat skins, mostly tabby. There was a
slit in the back. He thrashed about, trying to get his tail
through the hole.