Troll Fell (4 page)

Soot showered into the fire. Alf, the old sheepdog,
pricked his ears uneasily. Up on the roof the troll lay flat
with one large ear unfurled over the smoke hole. Its tail
lashed about like a cat's, and it was growling. But none
of the humans noticed. They were too wrapped up in
the story. Ralf wiped his face, his hand 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 Sigrid.

“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 on to the big ploughed
field above the mill. The pony could go quicker over the soft
ground, you see, but the trolls found it heavy going across
the furrows, and I guess the clay clogged their feet. I got to
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, shivering.

“Spitting like cats and hissing like kettles!” said Ralf.
“They threw stones and clods at me, but it was nearly
daybreak and off they scuttled up the hillside. The pony
and I were spent. I staggered over to the mill and banged
on the door. They were all asleep inside, and as I banged
again and waited 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.”

He stopped thoughtfully.

“And then?” prompted Hilde.

“The old miller, Grim, threw the door open
swearing. What was I doing there so early, and so on –
and then he saw the golden cup. His eyes nearly came
out on stalks. A minute later he couldn't do enough for
me. He kicked his sons out of bed, made room for me
by the fire, sent his wife running for ale and bread, and
it was ‘Toast your feet, Ralf, and tell us what happened!'”

“And you did!” said Gudrun grimly.

“Yes,” sighed Ralf, “of course I did. I told them
everything.” He turned to Hilde. “Fetch down the cup,
Hilde. Let's look at it again.”

Up on the roof the troll got very excited. It
skirmished round and round the smoke hole, like a dog
trying to see down a burrow. It dug its nails deep into
the sods and leaned over dangerously, trying to get an
upside-down glimpse of the golden goblet which Hilde
lifted from the shelf and carried over 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 so richly in the firelight, it looked as if it
could melt over his fingers like butter. Ralf stroked it
gently, but Gudrun tightened her lips and looked away.

“Why don't we ever use it?” asked Sigrid admiringly.

“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.”

“It's so pretty,” said Sigrid. She stretched out to touch
it, but Gudrun smacked her hand away.

“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,” said Ralf seriously. “‘Troll treasure!' said old
Grim, ‘We could do with a bit of that, couldn't we, boys?'
I began to feel uncomfortable. After all, nobody knew
where I was. I got up to go – and there were the two
boys in front of me, blocking the door, and old Grim
behind me, picking up a log from the woodpile!”

Hilde whistled.

“There I was,” said Ralf, “and there was Grim and his
boys, big lads even then! I do believe there would have
been murder done – if it hadn't been for Bjørn and Arnë
Egilsson who came to the door at that moment with
some barley to grind. Yes, I might have been knocked on
the head for that cup.”

“And that's why the millers hate us?” asked Hilde,
pleased at her success in changing the subject. “Because
you'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 just like it. He
came round pestering your father to show him the exact
spot on the fell where he saw all this. Wanted to dig his
way into the hill.”

“Old fool!” Ralf growled. “Dig his way into a nest of
trolls?”

“We said no, and wished him good riddance,” said
Gudrun. “But next day he was back. Wanted to buy the
Stonemeadow from your father and dig it up!”

“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. I won't sell!'”

“Now that was sense!” said Gudrun. “But what
happened? Next day, old Grim's telling everyone who'll
listen that Ralf's cheated him – taken the money and
kept the land!”

“A dirty lie!” said Ralf, reddening.

“But old Grim's dead now, isn't he?” asked Hilde.

“Oh yes,” said Ralf, “he died last winter. But you
know why, don't you? He hung about on that hill in all
weathers, searching for the way in, and he got caught in
a snowstorm. His two sons went searching for him.”

“I've heard they found him lying under the crag,
clawing at the rocks,” added Gudrun. “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 blame your father for
his death, 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 and leaving
me to cope with it all.”

Hilde groaned inwardly. Now the quarrel would
begin all over again!

“Ralf,” Gudrun begged. “You know these trips are a
gamble. Ten to one you'll make no profit!”

Ralf scratched his head uncomfortably. “It's not just
for profit,” he tried to explain. “I want – I want some
adventure, Gudrun. All my life I've lived here, in this
little valley. I want—” he took a deep breath, “new skies,
new seas, new places!” He looked at her pleadingly.
“Can't you see?”

“All I can see,” Gudrun flashed, “is that you're
throwing good money after bad, for the sake of a selfish
pleasure trip!”

Ralf went scarlet. “If the money worries you, sell
this!” he roared, seizing the golden cup and brandishing
it at her. “It's gold, it will fetch a fine price, and I know
you've always hated it! There's security for you! But I'm
sailing on that longship!”

“You'll drown!” sobbed Gudrun. “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. The little ones stared with
big, solemn eyes. Hilde bit her lip. Eirik coughed
nervously and took a cautious spoonful of his cooling
groute. Ralf put the cup quietly 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!”

A gust of wind buffeted the house. Draughts crept
and moaned through cracks and crannies. Gudrun drew
a deep, shaky breath.

“When do you go?” she asked unsteadily. Ralf looked
down 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!”
she murmured. “It's no weather for sailors!”

“This will be the last of the spring gales,” Ralf consoled
her.

Up on the roof the troll lost interest in the
conversation. It sat riding the ridge, waving its arms in
the wind, and calling loudly, “Hoooo! Hututututu!”

“How the wind shrieks!” said Gudrun, and she took
the poker and stirred up the fire. A stream of sparks shot
up through the smoke hole. The startled troll threw itself
into a backwards somersault and rolled down off the
roof, landing on its feet in the muddy yard. 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 tutted and
muttered, and made a detour around it. But it went on,
prying into every corner of the farmyard, leaving smears
of bad luck, like snail-tracks, on everything it touched.

There can't be another Uncle Baldur!
After the first stunned
moment, Peer began to laugh, tight, hiccuping laughter
that hurt his chest. Unable to stop, he bent over the rail
of the cart, gasping in agony.

Uncle Grim and Uncle Baldur were identical twins.

Side by side they strutted up to the cart. He looked
wildly from one to the other. Same barrel chests and
muscular, knotted arms, same thick necks, same mean
little eyes peering from masses of black tangled beard and
hair. One of them was still wrapped up in a wet cloak,
however, while the other seemed to have been eating
supper, for he was holding a knife with a piece of meat
skewered to the point.

“Shut up,” said this one to Peer. “And get down.”
Only the voice was different – deep and rough.

“Now let me guess!” said Peer with mad recklessness.
“Who can you be? Oooh – tricky one! But wait, I've got
it! You're my Uncle Grim! Yes? You
are
alike, aren't you!
Like peas in a pod. Do you ever get muddled up? I'm
your—”

“Get down,” growled Uncle Grim, in exactly the
same way as before.

“—nephew, Peer!” Peer finished, impudently. He held
up his wrist, still firmly tethered to the side of the cart,
and waggled his fingers.

Uncle Grim snapped the twine with a contemptuous
jerk. Then he frowned, lifted his knife and squinted at
the point. He sucked the piece of meat off, licked the
blade, and sliced through the string holding Loki. He
stared hard at Peer.

“
Now
get down,” he ordered, through his food. He
turned to his brother as Peer jumped stiffly down. “He's
not much, is he?”

“But he'll do,” grunted Uncle Baldur. “He can start
now. Here, you!” 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 his brother's
shoulders, and as the two of them slouched away
towards the mill Peer heard Baldur saying, “What's in
the pot? Stew? I'll have some of that!”

The door shut. Peer stood in the mud, the rain
drumming on his head, the lantern shaking in his hand.
All desire to laugh left him. Loki picked himself up out
of the puddle and shook himself wearily. He whined.
Peer drew a deep breath. “All right, Loki. Let's get on
with it, boy!”

Struggling with the wet harness he unhitched the
oxen and led them into their stalls. He tried to rub them
dry with wisps of straw. He unloaded the hens and set
them loose on the barn floor, where an arrogant, black
cockerel and a couple of scrawny females came strutting
to inspect them. He found some corn and scattered it.
By now the stiffness had worn off, but he was damp, cold
and exhausted. The hens found places to roost, clucking
suspiciously. Loki curled up in the straw and fell fast
asleep. Peer decided to leave him there. He hadn't
forgotten what Uncle Baldur had said about his dog
eating Loki, and he certainly had heard a big dog barking
inside the mill. He took up the lantern and set off across
the yard, picking his way through the mud. The storm
was passing, and tatters of cloud blew wildly overhead. It
had stopped raining.

The mill looked black and forbidding. Not a
glimmer of light escaped from the tightly closed shutters.
Peer hoped he hadn't been locked out. His stomach
growled. There was stew inside, waiting for him! But he
stopped at the door, afraid to go in. Did they expect him
to knock? Voices mumbled inside. Were they talking
about him?

He put his head to the door and listened.

“Not worth much!” Baldur was saying.

There was a sort of thump and clink. “Count it
anyway,” said Grim's deep voice, and Peer realised that
Uncle Baldur had thrown a bag of money down. Next
came a muffled, rhythmical chanting. His uncles were
counting the money together. They kept stopping and
cursing and getting it wrong.

“Thirty, thirty-one,” Baldur finished at last. “Lock it
up!” His voice grew fainter, as he moved further from
the door. “We don't want the boy getting his hands
on it.”

Peer clenched his fists. “That's my money, you
thieves!” he whispered furiously. A lid creaked open and
crashed shut. They had hidden his money in some chest,
and if he walked in now, he might see where it was.

“About the lad,” came Baldur's voice. Peer stopped.
He glued his ear to the wet wood. Unfortunately Baldur
seemed to be 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
something like,“…no point in taking him too soon.”

The Gaffer? He said that before, up on the hill
, thought
Peer with an uneasy shiver.
What does it mean?
He strained
his ears again. Rumble, whistle, rumble, went the two
voices. He thought he heard something about “trolls”,
followed quite clearly by: “Plenty of time before the
wedding.” A succession of thuds sounded like both of his
uncles taking their boots off and kicking them across the
room. Finally he heard one of them, Grim it must be, say
loudly, “At least we'll get some work out of him first.”

That seemed to conclude the discussion. Peer
straightened up and scratched his head. A chilly wind
blew round his ears and a fresh rainshower rattled out of
the sky. Inside the mill one of the brothers 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 its place by
the fireside directly at his throat. Huge rows of yellow,
dripping teeth were closing in on his face when Uncle
Grim put out a casual arm and yanked the monster
backwards off its feet, roaring, “Down, Grendel!”

The huge dog cringed. “Come in and shut the door,”
Grim growled roughly to Peer. “Don't stand there like a
fool. Let him smell you. Then he'll know you.”

Nervously Peer held out his hand, expecting the
animal to take it off at the wrist. Grendel stood taller
than a wolf. His coat was brindled, brown and black, and
a thick ruff of coarse fur grew over his shoulders and
down his spine. Hackles up, he lowered his massive head
and smelled Peer's hand as if it were garbage, rumbling
distrustfully. Uncle Grim gave Grendel an affectionate
slap and rubbed him round the jaws. “Who's a good
doggie? Who's a good boy, then?” he cooed admiringly.
Peer wiped a slobbery hand on his trousers. He thought
that Grendel looked a real killer – just the sort of dog the
Grimsson brothers
would
have.

“This dog's a killer,” boasted Uncle Grim, as if he
could read Peer's mind. “Best dog in the valley. Wins
every fight. Not a scratch on him. That's what I call a
proper dog!”

Thank goodness I didn't bring Loki in!
Peer shuddered.
Uncle Grim fussed Grendel, tugging his ears and calling
him a good fellow. Grateful to be ignored, Peer looked
around at his new home.

A sullen fire smouldered in the middle of the room.
Uncle Baldur sat beside it on a stool, guzzling stew from
a bowl in his lap, and toasting his bare feet. His wet socks
steamed on the black hearthstones. He twiddled his vast,
hairy toes over the embers. His long, curved toenails
looked like dirty claws.

The narrow, smoke-stained room was a jumble of
rickety furniture, bins, barrels and old tools. A table,
crumbling with woodworm, leaned against the wall on
tottering legs. Two bunk beds trailed tangles of untidy
blankets on to the floor.

At the far end of the room a short ladder led up to a
kind of loft with a raised platform for the millstones.
Though it was very dark up there, Peer could make out
various looming shapes of 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.

Uncle Baldur belched loudly and put his dish on the
floor for Grendel. Suddenly the room spun around Peer.
Sick and dizzy, he put his hand against the wall for
support, and snatched it quickly away, his palm covered
in grey dust and sticky black cobwebs. Cobwebs clung
everywhere to the walls, loaded with old flour.
Underfoot, the dirt floor felt spongy and damp from a
thick deposit of ancient bran. A sweetish smell of rotten
grain and mouldy flour blended with the stink of Uncle
Baldur's cheesy socks. There was also a lingering odour
of stew.

Peer swallowed queasily. He said faintly, “I did what
you said, Uncle Baldur. I fed the animals and put them
away. Is there – is there any stew?”

“Over there,” his uncle grunted, jerking his head
towards a black iron pot sitting in the embers. Peer took
a look. 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!”

“There's plenty there,” growled Grim. “Wipe out the
pot with bread and be thankful. Waste not, want not.”

Silently, Peer knelt down. He found a dry heel of
bread and scraped it round inside the pot. There was no
meat left, barely a spoonful of gravy and a few fragments
of onion, but the warm iron pot was comforting to hold,
and he chewed the bread hungrily, saving a crust for
Loki. When he had finished, he looked up and found
Uncle Baldur staring at him broodingly. His uncle's dark
little eyes glittered meanly, and he buried his thick fingers
in his beard and scratched, rasping slowly up and down.

Peer stared back uneasily. His uncle convulsed. He
doubled up, choking, and slapped his knees violently. He
jerked to and fro, snorting for breath. “Ha, ha, ha!” he
gasped. His face turned purple. “Hee, hee! Oh, dear. Oh,
dear me!” He pointed at Peer. “Look at him, Grim! Look
at him! Some might call him a bad bargain, but to me –
to me, he's worth his weight in gold!”

The two brothers howled with laughter. “That's
funny!” Grim roared, punching his brother's shoulder.
“Worth his weight in – oh, very good!”

Peer looked at them darkly. Whatever the joke was, it
was clearly not a nice one. But what was the good of
protesting? It would only make them laugh louder. He
gave a deliberate yawn. “I'm tired, Uncle Baldur. Where
do I sleep?”

“Eh?” Uncle Baldur turned to him, tears of laughter
glistening on his hairy face. He wiped them away and
snorted. “The pipsqueak's
tired
, Grim. He wants to
sleep
.
Where shall we put him?”

“On the floor with the dog?” Peer suggested
sarcastically. The two wide bunks belonged to his uncles,
so he fully expected to be told something of the kind.
But Uncle Grim lumbered to his feet.

“Under the millstones,” he grunted. He tramped
down the room towards the loft ladder, but instead of
climbing it, he burrowed into a corner, kicked aside a
couple of dusty baskets and a broken crate, and revealed
a small wooden door not more than three feet high. Peer
followed him warily. Uncle Grim opened the little door.
It was not a cupboard. Behind it was blackness, a strong
damp smell, and a sound of trickling water.

Before he could protest, Uncle Grim grabbed Peer by
the arm, forced him to his knees and shoved him
through into the dark space beyond. Peer pitched
forwards 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 jerked and kicked to free his legs. He
stopped breathing. His throat closed up. He scrambled to
his feet and hit his head a stunning blow. Stars spangled
the darkness. He felt above him madly. His hands
fumbled along a huge rounded beam of wood and found
the cold blunt teeth of an enormous cogwheel. He
turned desperately. A thin line of light indicated the
closed door. His chest heaved. Air gushed into his lungs.

“
Uncle Baldur!
” Peer screamed. He threw himself at
the door, hammering on it. “Let me
out!
Let me
out!
”

He pounded the door, shrieking, and the rotten catch
gave way. The door swung wide, a magical glimpse of
firelight and safety. Sobbing in relief, Peer crawled out
and leaped to his feet. Uncle Baldur advanced upon him.

“No!” Peer cried. He ducked under Uncle Baldur's
arm and backed up the room, shaking. “Uncle Baldur,
no, don't make me sleep in there. Please! I'll sleep in the
barn with Loki, I'd rather, really!”

“You'll sleep where I tell you to sleep!” Uncle Baldur
reached out for him.

“I'll shout and yell all night!” Peer glared at him
wildly. “You won't sleep a wink!”