Troll Fell (5 page)

Uncle Baldur stopped. He frowned at Peer. “What's
wrong with you?” he sneered. “Bedding down near all
that fine machinery – I'd have loved it when I was a lad!”

“On nice soft sacks!” Grim offered.

“It's too small – I can't breathe. Cramped – dark!”
panted Peer, shamefaced, his heart still pounding.

His uncles stared at him unbelievingly. Slowly, Baldur
began to grin. “Cramped! Dark!” he mimicked. His grin
developed into a chuckle. “D'you hear that, Grim? He's
afraid of the dark! The boy's
afraid of the dark
!”

For the second time that night, the two brothers
roared with laughter, while Peer glowered at the floor.
They pounded one another on the back, they coughed
and choked and staggered about. At last, Uncle Baldur
recovered. The old, bad-tempered scowl settled back on
his face.

“So go and sleep in the barn!” he snarled at Peer, who
nodded speechlessly, his cheeks flaming.

“It's late, you know!” yawned Grim.

“Bedtime,” nodded his brother. They sat down
heavily on their bunks, wrestled with the blankets,
wrapped themselves up and turned over.

Peer tiptoed past. On his way to the door he had to
step over Grendel, who opened one glinting red eye and
wrinkled his lips in a silent snarl. Quickly and quietly
Peer got through the door and crossed the yard.

The barn was dark, but it felt high and sweet and airy.
Peer pulled crackling straw up over his knees and woke
Loki, who gobbled the crust Peer had saved for him.

“There's no more,” said Peer. He pushed aside Loki's
hopeful nose, and lay down, exhausted.

It was not completely dark in the barn. Outside the
sky had cleared and the moon had risen. A few bright
stripes of moonlight lay across the floor and wooden
stalls. Peer lay on his back, too tired to sleep, his mind
working restlessly.

There's something funny going on
.

What does Uncle Baldur want me for?

He tossed and turned, pulling more straw over him.
Gradually he fell into uneasy dreams. Beside him Loki
slept, whimpering and twitching.

A strange sound crept into Peer's sleep. He dreamed of
a hoarse little voice, panting, and muttering to itself, “Up
we go. Here we are!” There was a scrabbling like rats in
the rafters, and a smell of porridge. Peer rolled over.

“Up we go,” muttered the hoarse little voice again, and
then more loudly, “Move over, you great fat hen. Budge, I
say!” This was followed by a squawk. One of the hens fell
off the rafter and minced indignantly away to find another
perch. Peer screwed up his eyes and tried to focus. He
could see nothing but black shapes and shadows.

“Aaah!” A long sigh from overhead set his hair on
end. The smell of porridge was quite strong. There came
a sound of lapping or slurping. This went on for a few
minutes. Peer listened, fascinated.

“No butter!” the little voice said discontentedly. “No
butter in me groute!” It mumbled to itself in
disappointment. “The cheapskates, the skinflints, the
hard-hearted misers! But wait! Maybe the butter's at the
bottom. Let's find out.” The slurping began again. Next
came a sucking sound, as if the person – or whatever it
was – had scraped the bowl with its fingers and was
licking them off. There was a silence.

“No butter,” sulked the voice in deep displeasure. A
wooden bowl dropped out of the rafters straight on to
Peer's head.

“Ow!” said Peer.

There was a gasp and a scuffle. The next time the
voice spoke it was from a corner on the other side of
the barn.

“Who's there?” it quavered.

“I'm Peer Ulfsson,” said Peer. “Who are you?”

“Nobody,” said the voice quickly. “Nobody at all.”

Loki had woken up when the bowl fell, but Peer
stroked him gently to reassure him. He didn't want any
barking.

“I think you're a nis,” he said to the voice. A nis was
a sort of house-spirit. Peer had heard about them, but
never expected to meet one. “Are you a nis?” he
persisted.

There was a bit of a silence. “What if I am?” the voice
asked huffily.

Peer wanted to be friends with
someone
in this place,
and now he thought he knew a way. “Didn't they give
you any butter?” he asked sympathetically.

This set the creature off. “Plain groute,” it exclaimed
bitterly. “Nary a bit of butter for poor Nithing, but plain
barley porridge! Me that does half the work round here,
me that sweeps and dusts and cleans, me that polishes
away cobwebs!” Remembering the dust and dirt he had
seen earlier, Peer doubted that it did any of these things
well, but he did not say so. Probably the Nis would work
better if it was fed well.

“And they has mountains of butter,” went on the Nis,
working itself up, “in the dairy. In a wooden barrel,” it
added darkly, “to keep off cats and mice and the likes of
me. Plain groute they gives me, in a bowl by the fire, and
I sees it and I fetches it away, and I tastes it – and no
butter.”

“I know how you feel,” said Peer, “they didn't give me
any stew either.”

The idea that somebody else might be hard done by
seemed to take the Nis by surprise. Peer still could not
see it, but he heard it jumping lightly closer among the
rafters. “Close your eyes and hold out your hand,” it
chanted in its scratchy little voice. Peer did so. Something
warm and smooth was slipped into his hand.

“Have an egg,” said the voice with a squeak of
laughter. Peer closed his fingers over the egg. He did not
really want to eat it raw, and saw no way of cooking it.
He decided to give it to Loki for his breakfast. He
thanked the Nis. It skipped about above.

“No butter.” It was still brooding over its wrongs. “I
has a cousin, Peer Ulfsson – I has lots of cousins – but I
has a cousin over in Jutland who wrung the neckses of
the very best beasts in the stable because they forgot his
butter. I could do that.”

Peer thought the Nis was probably boasting, but to
please it, he begged it not to. “After all, it's not the
animals
' fault,” he pointed out. “It's the Grimssons'.”

“Could you get me butter?”

“I shouldn't think so,” said Peer gloomily, “if they
caught me stealing butter I should think they'd half kill
me. I don't think I'm going to get much to eat here
either. I'm sorry,” he added.

“Hmm!” said the Nis. And it spoke no more that
night. In the morning when Peer woke up, he wondered
if it had been a dream.

Then he looked at the straw beside him. Loki looked
eagerly as well, his brown ears pricked. He knew what an
egg was. Peer broke it for him and he lapped it up
noisily. “You sound like the Nis,” said Peer, stretching stiff
arms and brushing pieces of hay off his clothes. The oxen
moved restlessly in their stalls, waiting to be fed. Peer
opened the barn door and let out the hens to forage for
themselves. He forked some hay down for the oxen. It
was still very early morning and there was no sign of his
uncles. Peer didn't fancy waking them up.

“Let's go and explore, Loki!” he said to the dog.
“Walkies! Come on!” He pushed open the barn door,
and Loki bounded cheerfully out.

Although the sky was fresh and clear, the yard still lay in
chilly shadow. Peer splashed through the puddles,
keeping a wary eye on the silent mill, its blind shutters
and tattered thatch. The reed thatching had once been
twisted into fancy horns at each end of the roof, now so
damaged they looked like crooked ears. A dismal thread
of smoke wavered from the smoke hole and trickled into
the yard, as if it were too tired to rise. There was no sign
of anyone awake.

Peer walked out of the yard and round the end of the
building to the bridge. He leaned on the rail, looking
upstream at the big wooden waterwheel. It towered
higher than his head, a motionless monster, its dark teeth
dripping. The central shaft, thick as a man's thigh, ran
through an aperture into the side of the mill. Peer
recognised it, wincing. No wonder his head felt bruised!

He stared up the narrow channel of the mill race
and shivered. A cold breath came off the water, which
flowed listlessly under the wheel in inky creases, since
the sluicegate was shut. Beside the wheel, the overspill
from the millpond plunged into white fury over a little
weir and went boiling down under the bridge. Hesitant
swirls of foam detached themselves and went venturing
up the millrace on back eddies, before losing heart and
hurrying off downstream again. Peer watched the
changing patterns until he felt dizzy. Then he crossed
over and turned left up the bank to take a look at the
millpond.

It was a gloomy place, even on this sunny morning.
Twisted willows frowned into the water, as if they were
studying their own reflections and disliked what they
saw. Patches of green slime rotated slowly on the dark
brown water, which seemed hardly to move except at
the very edge of the weir, where it developed glassy
streaks and furrows and tumbled smoothly over into the
ferment below. Peer sniffed. There was a damp, cold reek
about the place.

He walked further along the bank, till his way was
blocked by a narrow, deep-cut channel, fed by an open
sluice in the side of the millpond. The water sprayed in
a glittering arc over a sill slotted between wooden posts,
and dashed noisily away to join the tailrace below the
bridge. Peer threw a leaf on to the surface of the pond
and watched it move imperceptibly towards the open
sluice, before suddenly flashing over and down.

He turned back. Loki had run off, nosing into the
reeds with his tail high. He dashed back and jumped at
Peer with muddy paws.

“Get down!” Peer pushed him off. “Phew! That
mud stinks!” It was fine, thick, black mud, the sort that
dries to a hard, grey shell. Peer grabbed Loki and tried
to wipe his paws with a handful of grass, and Loki
tried to help by lavishly licking both his own paws and
Peer's fingers. In the middle of this mess Peer heard a
pony coming down the road towards the mill, and
looked up.

A girl of about his own age was riding it, brightly
dressed in a blue woollen dress with red stitching. On
her head she wore a jaunty red and yellow cap, and her
hair was done in two long plaits tied with pieces of red
and blue wool. She sat sideways on the shaggy little pony,
with a basket on her knee. Her eyes widened when she
saw Peer, and she pulled the pony to a stop.

“Hello!” she called. “Who are you?”

She looked clean and colourful. Peer looked down at
himself. His old clothes were drab and torn, and his
hands were smeared with mud.

“My name's Peer Ulfsson,” he mumbled.

“
Ulf's
son?” said the girl. “Now wait, I know
everyone, don't tell me. I'll get it. Yes! There was an Ulf
who was old Grim's stepson. Is that him?”

Peer nodded. “But he died last week,” he told her.

“Oh, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Peer. Is that why you're
here? Have you—?”

“I've come to live with my uncles,” Peer agreed
stolidly.

“That's terrible for you!” the girl cried. “Whoops!”
She clapped a hand over her mouth, but her eyes
gleamed. “Perhaps you like them?”

“No, not much,” said Peer cautiously. “What's your
name?”

“Hilde, Ralf 's daughter. Welcome to the valley!” said
Hilde with a flourish. “Come and visit us if you like.
Ours is the highest farm in the valley, we own most of
the north side of Troll Fell. You won't meet my father
Ralf, though, because he went away this morning. My
mother's really upset. He's gone off to Hammerhaven to
join some wretched new longship they've been building,
and he's going to be away all summer. What's the
matter?”

“Nothing!” Peer growled. “It's the ship my father
helped to build, that's all!”

“Oh!” Hilde went red. She said awkwardly, “Then
you and I ought to be friends. Pa says the ship is
wonderful – he's so proud to be sailing on her. Hey!” She
pointed at Loki. “Look at your dog!”

They both laughed in relief. Loki and the pony had
stretched out their necks as far as they could and were
sniffing each other, nose to nose. The pony snorted
loudly and Loki nearly fell over backwards in fright.

“Don't let him go near that millpond,” Hilde warned
seriously.

“Why not? He can swim.”

“I know, but Granny Greenteeth lives in there. That's
why there aren't any ducks or moorhens. She pulls them
under and eats them. So people say.”

“Really?” asked Peer with a shiver. He turned and
looked at the sullen, brown water with its oily
reflections. It was easy to believe that Hilde could be
right.

“What's she like?” he asked anxiously.

“She has green teeth, of course,” said Hilde. “Pointed.
Some people say she has webbed feet. Green weedy hair.
I don't know, I've never seen her, but a man in the village
met an enormous eel one night, sliding along in the grass
– and that was her, too!”

“How did he know?” asked Peer reasonably.

“He just did! And that's not all,” said Hilde darkly.
“There are all sorts of spooky stories about this mill. I
don't envy you, living here. Still, you probably won't
have very much to do.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing I'm afraid your uncles are so
unpopular that a lot of us went back to hand-grinding at
home.” She pulled a face. “Mother makes me do it. I hate
it. You see, the Grimssons are lazy. They think they're
so
important just because they're the millers, and yet the
mill only runs once in a while. They're always cheating
people and not giving fair measure. Our flour used to
come back full of chaff and dirt, which they put in on
purpose. We even found a dead mouse once.”

“Why would they do that?” asked Peer in irritated
disbelief. He began to think he didn't like this girl.
Couldn't she say anything good about the place?

“We have a feud with them,” said Hilde cheerfully.
“They claim they own one of our fields. They don't, of
course.” She grinned at him. “I suppose that means we
have a feud with you, too, if you're family.”

“A feud!” Peer exclaimed, ignoring the last bit. “And
your father's called Ralf?”

“Ralf Eiriksson.”

“I saw him last night! Didn't he come over Troll Fell
in all that rain? So
that's
why my uncle was yelling. I
thought I'd seen your pony before!”

“You were there? Pa never said. What happened exactly?”

“It was so dark and wet, he probably didn't see me,”
Peer told her. “I was getting soaked in the bottom of the
cart. He came up behind us where the road is narrow. I
don't know who my uncle thought was coming, but as
soon as he heard your father's voice he went crazy. He
stood up and began shrieking and yelling—”

“Yelling what?”

“He called him a crawling worm,” said Peer. “And a
thief.”

“
Did he!
” Hilde flashed. She clenched her knuckles
on the reins and prepared to ride on.

“Hey, you asked!” said Peer. “It's not my fault. And if
you hate them so much, why are you here this morning?”

Hilde laughed scornfully. “I'm not coming to your
precious mill! I'm riding past, on my way down to the
village.” She patted her basket. “I'm going to see Bjørn
the fisherman, and trade some cheese and butter. Mother
wants fish and my grandfather Eirik fancies a roast crab
for his tea.”

Cheese! Butter! Roasted crabs! Peer swallowed. He
suddenly realised how terribly hungry he felt. His
downcast look must have touched Hilde, for she said in a
more friendly way, “Well, I hope you'll like living here.
Your uncles will give you an easy time at first, won't they?
I know! I can bring our corn to you now, instead of to
your uncles. If you don't tell them who it's from, maybe
they'll grind it properly for us. That would be a joke!”

“I don't really think I could,” began Peer stiffly,
feeling sure that her jokes could get him into a lot of
trouble.

“Oh, forget it!” said Hilde impatiently. “Of course I
didn't mean it.” She gave him a look, plainly wondering
how anyone could be so boring and serious, and Peer
flushed. Hilde waved. “I'll be seeing you!” she cried.

She rode across the wooden bridge, and on down the
hill. Peer blew out his cheeks.

“Who cares what
she
thinks?” he muttered. “Eh, Loki?”

Despondently, he called Loki to heel and trailed back
into the yard. The mill door was open and he saw one of
his uncles standing dishevelled in the morning sunshine,
scratching under his arms and staring darkly after Hilde's
back as her pony picked its neat-footed way down the
road to the village. He summoned Peer with a jerk of the
head.

“Were you talking to that lass?” he demanded
accusingly.

“Yes, Uncle Grim,” said Peer meekly.

He received a slap that made his head ring and his
eyes water. “That's for chattering and wasting time,”
growled his uncle. “Your time is my time now, see? And
time is money. What did she say?”

“If you don't want me to talk to her, why do you
want to know?” asked Peer angrily, rubbing his ear.

Uncle Grim lifted his hand again.

“Oh, well let me see,” said Peer sarcastically. “She
asked me who I was. I told her my name. Then she told
me her name is Hilde, and she welcomed me to the
valley, which she seems to think she owns. Isn't this
interesting?”

Uncle Grim didn't seem to notice sarcasm. “What
else?” he asked.

Peer wasn't going to repeat what Hilde had said about
the mill. He racked his brains for something else. “Oh,
yes!” he remembered. “She said her father went away this
morning. He's going off a-Viking for the summer, on the
new longship.”

Uncle Grim's black beard split open in a very nasty
smile, showing all his brown and yellow teeth.

“Well, well, well! Is he indeed?” he rumbled. He bent
low and put his face close to Peer's. In a hot gust of bad
breath he whispered, “Do you know, sonny, you may be
surprisingly useful?” Straightening, he bellowed,
“Baldur? Guess what? Our little nevvie has some
interesting news! Ralf Eiriksson has gone a-Viking.
Leaving his family
all alone
.” He clapped Peer hard on
the back and sent him staggering. “Come inside, my boy,
and have some breakfast!”

With a sinking heart Peer realised that he had said the
wrong thing. He followed his uncle into the mill, not
noticing Loki trotting along behind him. It was so dark
inside after the morning sunshine that he failed to see
Grendel lying stretched out by the fire. But Grendel saw
Loki. He surged to his feet like a hairy earthquake and
strutted forwards, growling and bristling.

Peer whirled in alarm. Loki stood there, his tail
wagging slower and slower as he lost confidence.
Grendel crept forwards, throbbing with cruelty, his eyes
riveted on the intruder, long trails of saliva drooling from
his jaws.

“Grendel! Bad dog! Down!” cried Peer.

“He'll not listen to
you
,” said Uncle Baldur scornfully
from his seat at the table. Loki's tail disappeared under his
stomach. He raised his own short hackles in pitiful
defiance.

“Please – quickly!” begged Peer, trying to bundle
Loki backwards out of the door. “Tell him Loki's a
friend. Please! Can't we introduce them, or something?”

In no hurry, Uncle Baldur finished his mouthful.
“Down, Grendel!” he ordered. The huge dog flicked a
glance at his master and hesitated.

“Get down, sir!” screamed Uncle Baldur, slapping his
hand on the table. Slowly, Grendel sat. He shook his
head, spattering Peer with froth and saliva, and at last
lowered himself to the floor, still glaring at Loki with
unforgiving menace.