Troll Fell (8 page)

“Keeps 'em awake at nights,” agreed Uncle Baldur,
licking his glistening fingers with a fat red tongue.

“Gives 'em bad dreams,” said Grim.

“Bad blood!” said Baldur.

“Bacon is too rich for boys,” they chanted together.

So Peer got none, though his mouth watered at the
smell, while Grendel licked his messy chops after the last
brown rasher. “
Good
old Grendel,” cooed Uncle Grim,
rubbing his ears. “Faithful fellow! Good dog.” Grendel's
heavy jaws parted in a grin and he seemed to look
sideways at Peer as if to say, “You see? I am the favourite
here.”

Peer got up restlessly and prowled round the room.
His uncles hadn't said how late they'd be. He suspected
they had gone out drinking, though he didn't know
where. It was a good time to try and find where they had
hidden his father's money.

There were several wooden bins built on either side
of the ladder to the loft. Peer tried the lids, cocking an
anxious ear for his uncles' return. Most of the bins were
empty except for a few dusty grains at the bottom. One
held a tangle of old leather harness. And one would not
open. The lid was securely fastened with a large padlock.

“This must be it!” muttered Peer. He rattled at the lid
uselessly. Over by the fire, Loki half-lifted his head
questioningly. “I'm sure it's here, Loki,” Peer told him.
But that did not help very much.

It was time to go up to the grinding loft and sweep
the flour into sacks. Reluctantly he climbed the rickety
ladder, wishing he could stay by the fire with Loki. Sure
enough, a soft pile of mealy flour lay in a ring around the
millstones. Peer took a small wooden shovel and scraped
it into the sack. He stood on tiptoe and peeped into the
hopper, which was getting low. Uncle Baldur had left
some half-full sacks of barley, which he could just lift. He
refilled the hopper, taking care not to touch the
revolving runner stone. Pleased with himself, he was
about to climb back down, when a tremendous
commotion broke out from below, a volley of hysterical
barks from Loki!

Peer stopped, alarmed. It couldn't be his uncles coming
back. Loki was too sensible to bark at them. It might be
thieves. It might be some perfectly innocent visitor to the
mill. But it was very late, quite dark outside. He looked
down over the edge of the loft. Loki had his hackles up,
growling and wagging his tail excitedly. Suddenly he
jumped and snapped at something above his head, then
backed a few steps and barked some more, looking
upwards. He was watching something in the rafters.
Relieved, Peer slid down the ladder.

“Loki, shut up!” he said sternly. “It'll only be a rat.”
Loki ignored him and went on growling. “Oh well,”
Peer told him, “I'll have your space by the fire, then!” and
he sat down on the dirty rush mat and reached out his
hands to the warmth. He yawned. He was supposed to
stay awake till his uncles got back, but he suddenly felt
terribly sleepy. His eyes closed and his head nodded
forwards, but Loki barked again and he woke with a jerk.

“Stop it, Loki!” he mumbled in annoyance. Loki gave
him an apologetic glance, but continued to stand to
attention, staring upwards eagerly.

Peer's head drooped again, but as his eyelids closed he
heard a familiar little voice. “See my leg?” it giggled.
There was another flurry of barks from Loki, who
jumped about as if on springs.

Peer's eyes flew open. It was hard to see by the light
of the dying fire, but something was sitting on one of the
cross beams. A spindly little leg covered in a worn grey
stocking dangled from the beam and waved about
temptingly just over Loki's head.

“See my little leg?” teased the voice again. Loki
exploded in a frustrated fury of leaps and barks.

“Loki, stop it!” Peer got up and grabbed his pet. He
closed his hand round Loki's muzzle to keep his mouth
shut. Loki pawed at him and whined beseechingly.

“It's only the Nis, silly,” said Peer. “Now be quiet!” He
let Loki go and stared up into the beams. The leg had
been withdrawn and he could just see a dim shape up
there sitting with its arms wrapped round its knees.

“Hullo!” he said.

“You've spoiled the fun,” said the Nis sulkily.

“I'm sorry. But it was very noisy,” Peer pointed out.

The Nis shuffled round on the beam till it had turned
its back on him.

“How was the groute this evening? Have they given
you any butter?” asked Peer cunningly. The Nis came to
life at once.

“I doesn't know, Peer Ulfsson. Has they? Let's see.”

It ran briskly along the beam and down the wall like
a big spider. Peer watched delightedly as it scampered
over the table and down to the bowl of groute. It was a
little, grey, whiskery thing, with big hands and long
knobbly fingers. Its ragged grey clothing seemed to be a
part of it, but it wore a little red cap on its head. Loki
backed away grumbling, and went to lie down in the
coldest part of the room with his back turned.

The Nis was lifting the bowl and supping the groute.
“Cold!” it muttered bitterly. “Cold as their cruel hearts,
and lumpy too.” It stirred the bowl with its fingers and
scooped up the last of the groute in messy splodges, then
sat distastefully licking its fingers.

“Was there any butter?” asked Peer. The Nis shook its
head.

“Now for the housework!” it said suddenly. “I has to do
the housework, Peer Ulfsson. As long as they feeds me, I has
to do the work! But I doesn't have to do it well. See me!”

Fascinated, Peer watched as the little Nis seized a
broom bigger than itself and went leaping about the
room like a grasshopper, sweeping up great clouds of
floury dust. Sneezing vigorously, it cleared the dishes
from the table and hid the bones under Uncle Baldur's
pillow. It polished the plates with one of Uncle Grim's
shirts, and shook the stale crusts and crumbs into his best
deerskin boots. The pieces of bacon rind it dropped in
front of Loki, who ate them suspiciously. It managed to
crack the big earthenware bread-crock. Finally it put
three wooden spoons and the frying pan tidily away
under Uncle Grim's straw mattress.

“Well done,” said Peer. “The room looks quite neat!”

The Nis gave a squeaky laugh.

“Do you always tidy up like that?” asked Peer, who
was fairly sure that the Nis had been showing off
specially for him. “Won't they be furious?”

“What can they do?” asked the Nis. “I doesn't want
much, Peer Ulfsson. Only a bit of butter in my groute,
or a drop of honey to keep me sweet.” Its attention
wandered. Loki had gone off to sleep, and the Nis began
sneaking up on him, obviously with the intention of
pulling his tail.

“Don't do that!” said Peer hastily. “Where have my
uncles gone, anyway? I'm sure you know everything
about them,” he added flatteringly.

“Gone to the Stonemeadow. Ssh!” The Nis laid a long
finger to its lips and tiptoed closer to Loki.

“Oh, please leave him alone! The Stonemeadow? I'm
sure I've heard of that. Where is it?”

The Nis gave up crossly. “On Troll Fell,” it snapped.

“Troll Fell? I thought they'd gone out drinking. What
are they doing there, Nis? Are they talking to trolls?”
Peer asked curiously.

The Nis looked at him out of the corners of its eyes.

“Please tell me,” begged Peer. “I heard them talking
about the trolls before, and something about taking me
to the – to the Gaffer. Do you know him? The King of
the Trolls? And something else about a wedding. Do you
know anything about that?”

The Nis yawned, irritated by so many direct questions.
It ran off into the corner where the big scales hung, and
jumped lightly into one pan, which hardly moved. It sat
there bouncing gently and would not look round.

Peer saw he had gone about things the wrong way.
But he was tired and cross himself, as well as worried.
I
wish I had some butter
, he thought grumblingly.
That would
make the little wretch talk
. And suddenly he thought of
Hilde. If only he'd had the sense to ask her for some!

“Nis!” he called quietly. “I think you're very clever.”

The Nis sniffed.

“I have a friend who has lots of butter, and the next
time I see her I shall ask her to give me a big lump all
for you.”

The Nis twitched and the scales swayed.

“So please be my friend, Nis, and I'll be yours.” Peer
stopped as his voice shook. He so badly wanted friends,
and it was hard to have to manage this difficult little
creature.

The Nis relented and turned round. It sat in the pan
with its legs dangling, and leaned backwards on the
chains to make the scales swing. “What does you want to
know, Peer Ulfsson?” it asked importantly.

“Well—” Peer didn't know where to start. “What's
this wedding?”

“Oh!” The Nis got very excited. “A very big wedding
indeed! At midwinter, the Gaffer, the Old Man of Troll
Fell, will marry his son to – guess who?”

“I can't guess,” said Peer.

“Guess! Guess!” the Nis insisted.

“I can't,” Peer laughed. “Tell me!”

The Nis paused for effect, then said in a hushed voice,
“To the King of the Dovrefell's daughter!” It sat back.

“Goodness!” said Peer. It meant something to him
after all. Even he had heard of the trolls of the Dovrefell,
the wild mountain range to the north. “So – that's quite
an important match?” he suggested.

The Nis nodded. “Everyone is going, Peer Ulfsson.
Of course, this isn't the eldest daughter. The King of the
Dovrefell has many children. But they say this one is the
most beautiful because the eldest daughter has two tails.
There will be such a feast!” It wriggled with delight and
cracked its knuckles.

“Are you going?” Peer inquired.

The Nis's face fell. “I doesn't know,” it admitted. “Food
and drink, as much as you can hold, music and dancing and
the hill raised up on red pillars – but they hasn't invited poor
Nithing yet.”

“But there's plenty of time, if it's not till midwinter. It
sounds very exciting, Nis, but what has it got to do with
Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim?”

The Nis sniggered, tapping its nose with a spindly
forefinger.

“Well,” said Peer, “what are they doing up on Troll Fell
in the middle of the night? They must be visiting the trolls.
Right?”

“Middle of the night is daytime for trolls,” the Nis
pointed out scornfully. “If Grimssons go knocking on
the troll gate at noon, what will they hear? Snores.”

“I see that. But what do they want with the trolls at
all?”

The Nis was getting bored and fidgety. “Treasure,” it
said, yawning and showing a pink tongue and sharp little
teeth like a cat's.

“Troll gold? Yes, but surely,” said Peer, struggling to
make sense of it all, “surely the trolls won't give them
any? I don't understand.”

There was a loud squeak as the scales tipped. Like a
squirrel the Nis leaped out of sight into the rafters, and at
the same moment heavy feet sounded outside the door,
the latch lifted and Loki sprang to his feet. In tramped
Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim, shedding clods from their
muddy boots, cold night air pouring from them like
water. They looked sour and displeased. Grendel loped
close behind them. He snarled at Loki, who squeezed
himself against the doorpost and nipped outside.

Startled, Peer scrambled up. Uncle Baldur took him
by the ear, led him to the door and booted him out,
saying simply, “Make yourself useful, you idle young
layabout. I want the wheel stopped now.”

“But, Uncle, I don't know how,” Peer called at the
closing door.

Uncle Baldur paused with the door a couple of
inches open. “Go round and lower the sluicegate, of
course. And then get off to the barn. Don't come
knocking and disturbing us – it's late!”

And the door slammed shut.

The yard was cold. It was well past midnight. The Milky
Way shimmered overhead and a star fell over the barn
roof. Peer shivered and wrapped his arms across his chest.
Loki waited beside him, looking anxiously up at his face.

“Now what's going on?” Peer muttered to Loki.
“They didn't look too happy, did they? I guess their
interview with the King of Troll Fell didn't go too well.
No need to take it out on us, though. Lower the
sluicegate! At this hour?”

His teeth chattered, and Loki whined softly. Peer
didn't know which was scarier, to disobey Uncle Baldur
or to go up near that dark millpond by himself.

“You can go in the barn, at least,” he told Loki,
dragging him there by the collar. He pushed him into
the dark interior and told him to sit. Loki's eyes gleamed
in the dark and again he whined gently.

“Stay!” said Peer sternly. “I'm not risking you!”
Shutting the barn door on him, he turned and went out
of the yard towards the wooden bridge. The mill clacked
loudly as it worked on in the quiet night. The wheel
churned ceaselessly, chopping the water with dripping
blades that glinted in the starlight. Peer leaned on the rail
to watch for a few seconds, trying to gather enough
courage to go on.

In the corner of his eye a black shadow moved, and
he whipped round, his heart beating wildly. Then he
relaxed. It was only someone travelling home late, a
woman dressed in dark clothes and a scarf over her head,
plodding uphill towards the bridge. She was using a stick
to help herself along. Peer was relieved to see someone.

As the woman put out her hand to grasp the rail of
the bridge, she saw him and stopped. Realising that she
might be nervous herself, Peer called out softly, “It's all
right. I'm – the miller's boy. Only the miller's boy…”

“The miller's boy!” repeated the woman as if
surprised. “And what is the miller's boy doing out here
so late?”

“I have to close the sluicegate,” explained Peer.

“Ah!” The woman looked at him closely. It was too
dark for Peer to see her face properly, but her eyes
glittered brightly in the starlight. “So late at night, that's
a job for the miller himself,” she said reprovingly. “A big
man like him shouldn't be sending a boy out. How old
are you, son?”

“Twelve,” said Peer, lifting his chin.

“And you're not afraid? They say Granny Greenteeth
lives in the millstream.”

“A bit,” Peer confessed, “but if I don't go my uncles
will be angry.”

“And you're more afraid of them,” the woman
nodded angrily. “Ah! Baldur Grimsson, Grim Grimsson,
I'd make you sorry if I had my way!” She shook her
finger at the dark mill before turning to Peer again.

“I'll come along with you, my son, if you like.”

Peer hesitated. There was something about the old
woman that made him shiver, but his father had taught
him to be polite to old people, and he didn't know how
to refuse. Besides, it was true her company would make
him feel braver, though the rough path to the sluice
seemed no place for an old lady to be hobbling along at
night. He made her a stiff little bow and offered her his
arm. She took it with a chuckle and a cough.

“Good boy, good boy! Quite the young lord, eh? You
didn't learn your manners from the Grimssons. What's
your name?”

“Peer Ulfsson – ma'am,” said Peer, wincing a little as
her cold claw dug into his arm. She was surprisingly
smelly, too, now he was close to her – closer than he
liked. Her clothes seemed to be damp, or mouldy or
something – there was an odd, dank smell hanging about
them.

But he was grateful she was there. As they passed the
millrace, he knew he would have been terrified by
himself. The threshing wheel and rushing water made
him dizzy; there was a cold draught, fanned by the wheel
he supposed; and the smell of weeds and wet stone and
black slime got stronger and stronger. He tripped on a
stone and the old woman steadied him, hugging his arm
to her side. She felt strong, and cold.

They came up to the bank of the millpond, and the
woman released his arm so that he could edge on to the
narrow walkway above the sluice. The pond was so black
he could not see where the surface lay. He shuffled
carefully out along the rough plank, wishing there was a
guide rail, and grabbed the handle of the sluicegate. He
remembered it acted like a simple shutter. He just had to
pull out the wedges and push it down. He fumbled
around and found them. Pulling them out was hard but
he managed it, though one dropped into the water, and
then he leaned all his weight on the handle, driving the
sluicegate down against the pressure of the water. It felt
like cutting through the neck of a great black water-
monster. Down it went and jolted to a halt. The wheel
slowed, its great vanes dripping. The rattle and grumble of
the mill faltered and ceased. Only the sound of the water
filled his ears, splashing and tumbling over the weir.

“Well done,” said the old woman. She stretched out
her arm to help Peer off the bridge. He took hold of her
hand, and then let go with a cry. It was clammy – and
wet – and webbed.

The late moon was rising. He could see more easily
and his eyes had grown used to the dark. She stood there
quietly at the end of the plank, leaning on her stick. He
saw now that her long skirt and cloak were not damp
but wet – soaking wet. How had she got so wet? The
hair rose on his neck as he began to suspect. She raised
her arms, pulling her scarf away from her head in fronds
of trailing weed. She smiled, and even in the starlight he
could see her teeth were sharp points. Peer's knees
actually knocked together and his hand shook on the
sluice handle. How could he have been so foolish? He
had come up here with Granny Greenteeth herself!

As if she could read his mind, the woman nodded.
“Yes!” she said. “So brave of the miller and his fine
brother, to send a boy instead of themselves! Unlucky for
you! But one day I'll get my hands on them.”

Peer tried to swallow. His mouth was very dry. The
old woman still did not move, and he could not get past
her. He was stuck on the narrow plank above the water.

“I – I didn't know you walked,” he heard himself say
hoarsely. “I thought you just lived in the millpond – and
sometimes came up.”

The woman chuckled, like the brook gurgling over
stones at night. “Oh, no! I often take an evening stroll –
in one shape or another. Sometimes I come knocking on
the mill door! That always frightens them!” She stared at
him. “Poor boy, you didn't know me. Shall I tell you
how?” She leaned forwards, and Peer leaned back.

“Always watch for the sign of the river,” she
whispered in a low voice. “A dripping hem or sleeve, wet
footprints on the floor.”

Peer nodded again, his eyes wide. Granny Greenteeth
drew back, as if satisfied that she had scared him.

“I hate the miller, boy,” she hissed. “Oh, I hate him,
thinking he owns
my
water, boasting about his powerful
mill! But now I will punish him. I will take you.”

“No!” Peer stammered. His legs shook and he clung
to the post of the sluice to hold himself up. The black
water seemed very near. “No, please – besides, he doesn't
care a thing about me. Neither of them do. The only
thing they care about is their dog Grendel. Please!”

“So?” Granny Greenteeth paused, as if thinking. Peer
waited, shivering. At last she spoke again, showing sharp
triangular teeth in a dark smile.

“Then I shall send that dog, Grendel, with an apple in
his mouth, as a dish for my friend the Dovreking's
daughter, at her midwinter wedding! But as for you!
You're wrong, my son. The miller has plans for you.”

“What plans?” Peer asked desperately.

Granny Greenteeth became garrulous – like the old
woman he had supposed her to be. She leaned both
hands on her stick.

“We'll have a little gossip, shall we?” she chuckled. “I
hear it all, you know. Every stream on Troll Fell runs into
my
river!

“After the old miller died – and good riddance; I hate
the lot of 'em – the two young ones knew where the
troll gate was. And they wouldn't let it alone! Knocking
and banging, day after day – hoping to get at the gold,
you see. They even tried bribes. Imagine that! They left
fine white loaves there, and trout stolen from
my
water.
Ah! Yet they never gave
me
anything!” Granny
Greenteeth worked her mouth as though chewing on
something bitter, and she spat.

“And this went on and on, didn't it? Oh yes: and
dropping water wears away stone, so at last the Troll
King got tired of all this constant hammering and
shouting outside his gate. Not seemly, was it?

“So to get rid of them he thinks up something difficult.
He sends word:
My eldest son will be married at midwinter. He
wishes to present his bride
-
to-
be with a slave boy, as a betrothal
gift. Bring me a slave boy, and I will reward you with gold!
”

Granny Greenteeth nodded spitefully at Peer. “And
that's where you come in, my son. Like it or not, your
precious uncles – your flesh and blood – will sell you to
the trolls for a basketful of golden trinkets!”

Peer gaped at Granny Greenteeth. His head was
spinning.

“So now you'll put a stop to it, won't you?” Granny
Greenteeth coaxed him. “You'll help old Granny. Baldur
Grimsson wants that gold to build a bigger mill, to put
another wheel in
my
water. I'd drown him, sooner! But
he never puts a foot wrong, he knows I'm after him.”

“Please,” Peer croaked, “Let me go!”

“Ah, but
where
will you go?” she cried. “You don't
want to be a slave boy, do you? Of course you don't. So
come with me, Peer, come with me.” She stretched out
her arms to him and her voice became a low musical
murmur like the stream in summer. “I'll take you – I'll
love you – I'll look after you. Who else will? I'll give you
an everlasting bed. Come with me, down under the
water and rest. Rest your weary bones.”

The rank, rotten, water smells grew stronger and
stronger. White mist rose from the surface of the
millpond, flowing in soft wreaths over the plank bridge
and swirling gently around his knees. His teeth chattered
and his head swam. He could no longer see the bridge
or the water. How easy it would be to let go, to fall into
the soft mist. All for the best, maybe.

“All for the besst.” Granny Greenteeth agreed in a
soft hiss.

Far away a dog barked. Loki? Peer blinked, suddenly
wide awake. He looked at the old woman. “No!” he said
slowly. “Loki needs me. No! I won't!”

There was a whisper of wind. The mist blew away
into the willows.

Granny Greenteeth nodded to him. “You're stronger
than you look, Peer Ulfsson. Not this time, then,” she said
softly. “But I'll wait for you. One day you'll call me. And
I'll be listening: I'll come!” She threw down her stick.
What was happening? Her cloak twisted and clung to her
body; she was growing tall and smooth. She jerked, twice,
fell sideways and lay on the ground, kicking – no, flapping,
an immense eel in gleaming loops as thick as Peer's leg. It
raised its head with glinting narrow eyes and snapped its
trap-like jaws before slithering down the bank and into
the pond. There was a low splash, and the black water
closed in rocking ripples.

Peer wasted no time. He shot off the plank and raced
back down the path, branches catching at his sleeves and
whipping his face. His feet drummed on the wooden
bridge. He hurled himself into the barn, dragged the
door shut behind him with desperate hands, and threw
himself into the straw, grabbing Loki and hugging him
tightly. It seemed like hours before he could stop
shivering.

“Loki! Oh, Loki!” was all he could say. Loki licked his
face with an anxious tongue. After a while Peer began to
laugh shakily.

“At least she didn't eat me,” he said. “Oh Loki, what
shall I do? They're going to sell me under the hill. Under
the hill!” As he calmed down he began to think more
clearly.

“There's no hurry,” he told himself. “The wedding's
not till midwinter. I don't need to run away tomorrow.”

Had Granny Greenteeth lied? No, he was sure. Hilde's
story showed that the Grimssons would do anything to
get their hands on troll treasure. And they knew the
entrance to Troll Fell. They had given up the idea of
stealing – the trolls guarded the hill too well; it was
impossible to trick them – and had agreed to barter
instead. To trade Peer, their own nephew, for troll gold!
Peer suddenly found himself hot with anger. They had
taken his money, sold his home, half-starved him and
treated him worse than their dog, and now they were
going to sell him as well!