Troll Fell (2 page)

“I'm worried. About Loki,” he muttered presently,
twiddling a piece of dough between his fingers. He
pulled little bits off, rolled them into balls and flicked
them away. “Uncle Baldur said his dog would eat him.
I don't even know if I'm going to be allowed to keep
him!” His voice shook.

“Now that's silly!” said Ingrid briskly. “Loki will make
friends with your uncle's dog, you'll see! You'll be all
right, won't you, boy?” she said to Loki, who thumped
his tail.

An ox-cart drove up outside. Loki sprang to his feet
barking. The door thudded open and the room darkened
as Uncle Baldur bent his head and shoulders to come
through.

“Boy!” Uncle Baldur squealed. “Are those chickens in
the yard yours? I thought so. I'm taking them. Catch
them and put them in the cart. We're leaving.
Run!
”

Peer fled outside, Loki at his heels. A fine row blew
up indoors as his uncle accused Ingrid of trying to steal
the chickens. Peer began stalking a fat speckled hen, but
she squawked in fright and ran. Peer chased her. Loki
joined in. He dashed at the hens, barking excitedly.
Feathers flew as the hens scattered, cackling wildly. “Bad
dog! Stop it, Loki!” Peer cried, but Loki had lost his head
and was hurtling around the yard with a mouthful of
brown tailfeathers.

The house door slammed open, bouncing off the wall.
Uncle Baldur burst through, bent down, heaved up the
heavy 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
,” he
wheezed savagely. “Now catch them, and tie them up
with this.” He threw Peer a hank of twine. “Be quick!”

The exhausted hens crowded together in a frilly
huddle. Peer captured them and tied their feet together.
“Sorry!” he mumbled to them as he carried them in
pairs to the ox-cart. There they lay on the splintery
boards, gargling faintly. As Peer finished, Uncle Baldur
came up dragging a reluctant Loki along by a string
round his neck.

“Fasten 'im to the tail of the cart,” his uncle ordered.
“He can run along behind.” He grinned, sneering. “It's a
long way. Think he'll make it?”

Loki limped pathetically. “Can't he ride?” Peer
faltered. “Look, he's lame…”

His voice died under Uncle Baldur's unwinking stare,
and miserably he did as he was told. Then he clambered
up into the cart himself. It was time to go.

Ingrid came out to see him off, wiping first her hands
and then her eyes on her apron.

“You poor lamb!” she wailed. “Dragged off at a
moment's notice! And Brand's down at the shipyard,
and can't even say goodbye. What he'll say when he
hears, I don't dare to think! Come back soon, Peer, and
see us!”

“I will if I can,” he promised glumly. The cart tipped,
creaking, as Uncle Baldur hauled himself up. He took a
new piece of twine from his pocket, and tied one end
round the rail of the cart. Then he tied the other end, in
a businesslike manner, around Peer's right wrist. Peer's
mouth fell open. He tried to jerk away, and got his ears
slapped.

“What
ever
are you doing?” shrieked Ingrid, bustling
forwards. “Untie the boy, you brute!” Uncle Baldur
looked round at her, mildly surprised. “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. She looked at Peer. Peer looked
back.
See?
he told her silently.

“Gee! Hoick!” screamed Uncle Baldur, climbing on
to the driving seat and cracking his whip over the oxen.
The cart lurched. Peer stared resolutely forwards. He
didn't wave goodbye to Ingrid.

Soon the town of Hammerhaven was out of sight.
The steep, rough road twisted up into stony and boggy
moorland, looping round white rocks and black pools of
peatwater. Low woods of birch and spruce grew on both
sides of the road, and rough clumps of heather and
bilberry. If the oxen tried to snatch a mouthful as they
passed, Uncle Baldur's whip snapped out.

“Garn! Grr! Hoick, hoick!” The cart tilted like the
deck of a ship as one wheel rose over a huge boulder,
then dropped with a crash that nearly drove Peer's spine
right through his skull. The oxen snorted, straining to
drag not only the cart, but big fat Uncle Baldur up the
steep slope.

“Uncle,” Peer hinted. “Shall I get out and walk?”

But his uncle ignored him. Peer muttered a bad word
under his breath and sat down uncomfortably on a pile
of sacks. His arm was stretched awkwardly up, still tied
with twine to the rail of the cart. The pile of chickens
slid about, flapping as the cart jolted. He counted them.
They were all there: the little black one with the red
comb, the three speckled sisters, the five big brown ones.
They rolled red-rimmed eyes at him and squawked.

“It's not my fault,” he told them sadly.

Over the end of the cart he could see Loki, trotting
along with his head and tail low. Peer called. Loki
glanced up briefly. He looked miserable, but the limp
had gone – he'd been faking it, Peer decided.

They came round a bend in the road. Peer turned his
head, then pulled himself up on to his knees and gazed.

In front, dwarfing Uncle Baldur's bulky shoulders, the
land swooped upwards. In heaves and hollows and
scallops, crag above crag, upland beyond upland: in
murky shouldering ridges, clotted with trees, tumbling
with rockfalls, the flanks of Troll Fell rose before him.
The narrow, rutted track scrambled breathlessly towards
the skyline and vanished.

Tipping his head back, Peer stared upwards at the
summit, where he thought he could discern a savage
crown of rocks. But as he watched, the clouds came
lower. The top of Troll Fell wrapped itself in mist.

The light was fading. Fine cold rain began to soak
into Peer's clothes. He dragged out a sack and draped it
over his shoulders. Uncle Baldur pulled up the hood of
his thick cloak.

Great shadowy boulders loomed up out of the drizzle
on both sides of the track. They seemed to stare at Peer
as he huddled uneasily in the bottom of the cart. One
looked like a giant's head with shallow scooped-out eyes
and sneering mouth. One had a blind muzzle poking at
the sky. Something bolted out from under it as the cart
passed, kicking itself up the hillside with powerful leaps.
Peer sat up, startled, as it swerved out of sight. What was
that? Too big for a hare – and he thought he'd seen
elbows
…

From the hidden crest of Troll Fell rolled a sinister
chuckle of thunder. A wind sprang up, hissing through
the rocks. Mud sprayed from the great wooden
cartwheels. Peer clutched the sodden sack under his chin
and sat jolting and shivering.

At last he realised from the angle of the cart that they
were over the saddle of the hill, beginning to descend
towards Trollsvik. Leaning forwards, he looked down
into a great shadowy basin. A few faint lights freckled the
dim valley. That must be the village. Frozen and soaked,
he thought longingly of dry clothes, a fire, hot drinks
and food. 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 jerked his head to the left and pointed.
“Down there, among the trees yonder. A matter of half a
mile. Beside the brook.” He sounded quite civil for once,
and Peer was encouraged. Perhaps his uncle could be
normal, after all.

To his surprise, Uncle Baldur spoke over his shoulder
again. “Home!” he cried in his shrill toad's croak. “Lived
there all me life, and me father before me, and
his
father
before
him
! Millers all.”

“That's nice,” Peer agreed, between chattering teeth.

“Needs new machinery,” complained his uncle. “And
a new wheel, and the dam repaired,” he added. “If I had
the money – if I had my rights—”

Well you've got my money now
, thought Peer bitterly.

“A pity your father was dirt-poor,” his uncle went on.
“I'm proud of that place. I'd do a lot for that place. I'm
the miller. The miller is an important man. I
deserve
to be
rich. I
will
be rich. Hark!”

He leaned back hard, forcing the oxen to stop. The
track here plunged between steep banks, and the cart
slewed, blocking the road. Loki yelped as the string
yanked him off his feet. Peer cried out in distress, but
Uncle Baldur twisted round, straining his thick neck and
raising one hand.

“Quiet!” he muttered. “Hear that? Someone coming.
Catching us up.”

Peer stared uneasily into the night, listening. It was too
dark to see properly. What had Uncle Baldur heard? Why
would he stop on this wild, lonely road? He held his
breath. Was that a bird shrieking – that long, burbling cry
drifting on the wind?

“Who is it? Who is 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,
and Peer's skin crawled. The darkness, the whole wild
hillside – suddenly anywhere seemed safer than staying
with Uncle Baldur in this cart. He tugged the twine that
held his wrist, testing it. It felt tight and strong. He
couldn't jump out and run.

Stones clattered on the track close behind. Loki
scuttled under the tail of the cart, and Peer heard him
growling. He braced himself. What was coming?

There was a loud, disapproving snort. Out of the rain
emerged the dim shape of a small, wet pony picking its
way downhill, carrying a rider and a packsaddle. On
seeing the cart, it flung up its head and shied. There was
no room to pass. The rider shouted, “Hello there! Can
you move that cart? I can't get through.”

Uncle Baldur sat motionless for a second, taking deep
breaths of fury. To Peer's amazement, he then flung down
the reins and surged to his feet, teetering on the cart's
narrow step. His shock of black hair and tangled beard
mingled with the thunderclouds: he looked like a
mighty headless pillar.

“Ralf Eiriksson!” he screamed. “I know you, you
cheating piece of stinking offal! How dare you creep
around up here, you – you crawling worm!”

“Baldur Grimsson!” muttered the rider wearily. “Just
my luck! Shift your cart, you fat fool. I'm trying to get
home.”

“Liar!” Uncle Baldur swayed dangerously, shaking his
fist. “Thief! You watch out. If the trolls don't get you, I
will! You'll steal no more. That's finished! If the Gaffer—”

Troll Fell cracked out a blinding whip of lightning and
a heart-stopping jolt of thunder. The rain began falling
twice as hard. Beaten by the downpour, Uncle Baldur
threw himself back on to his seat and grabbed for the
reins. The oxen slowly plodded forwards. Without another
word, the rider trotted briskly past, and soon struck off
along an even rougher track that led away to the right.

Gritting his teeth, Peer clung to the side of the cart as
it crashed and slithered down the slope.

Well, that's it
, he said to himself.
Uncle Baldur is mad
.
Completely crazy
.

Sick, cold and miserable, he tried to picture his father, as
if the memory could blot out Uncle Baldur. He thought of
his father's bright, kind eyes, his thin shoulders hunched
from bending over his chisel and plane. What would he say
now, if only he knew?

I can guess
, he told himself sternly.
He'd say,
“
Keep your
heart up, Peer!
”
Like Ingrid said, I've got another uncle at the
mill, and he can't be as bad as this. There can only be one Uncle
Baldur. Maybe Uncle Grim will take after my side of the
family. Maybe – just maybe – he might even be a little bit like
Father!

The cart rattled down one last slope and trundled
over a shaky wooden bridge. Peer looked down
apprehensively at the black glancing water hurtling
underneath. “Gee!” howled Uncle Baldur, cracking his
whip. The sound was lost in the roar of the stream. On
the other side of the bridge, Peer saw the mill.

It crouched dismally on the bank, squinting into the
stream, a long black building that looked as if it had been
cold for ages and didn't know how to get warm again.
Wild trees pressed around it, tossing despairing arms in the
wind. Uncle Baldur drove the cart round the end of the
building, into a pinched little yard on the other side. As the
sky lit up again with lightning, Peer saw to his right the
stained frontage of the mill, with dripping thatch hanging
low over sly little black windows. To his left lurked a dark
barn, with a gaping entrance like an open mouth. Ahead
stretched a line of mean-looking sheds. The weary oxen
splashed to a halt, and a wolf-like baying broke out from
some unseen dog. Uncle Baldur dropped the reins,
stretching his arms till the joints cracked.

“Home!” he proclaimed, jumping down. He strode
across to the door of the mill and kicked it open. Weak
firelight leaked into the yard. “Grim!” he called
triumphantly. “I'm back. And I've
got him
!” The door
banged shut behind him. Peer sat out in the rain,
shivering with hope and fear.

“Uncle Grim
will
be different,” he muttered aloud
desperately. “I know he will. There can't be another
Uncle Baldur. Even his own brother couldn't—”

The latch lifted with a noisy click, and he heard a
new, deep voice saying loudly, “Let's take a look at him,
then!”