Troll Mill (28 page)

“Put him down, Gudrun,” Ralf suggested. “Let the Nis look after him.”

Gudrun turned. “And where are you two going?” she demanded.

Caught sneaking out, the twins turned innocent faces toward their mother. “Nowhere, Ma.”

“That won’t do. Where?”

“We just want to see the mill,” Sigurd said cheerfully. “We want to see if there’s anything left.”

“Not now.”

“But that’s not fair! We didn’t get to see it burning—”

“Shut up!” Hilde whispered to them. “Peer’s upset about it.”

“But he set fire to the mill himself!” Sigurd said, puzzled. “Why should he be upset?”

“Because—”

“Hilde, leave them alone,” said Peer loudly.
“I know what you’re talking about, and I’m not upset, and it doesn’t matter. None of it matters!” He flung out of the house with Loki at his heels, banging the door behind him.

The world was bleak. A gray drizzle hung over the farm, hiding Troll Fell. Peer splashed through the mud to the empty cowshed and sat on a pile of straw, cuddling Loki for company, furious with himself and the world.
It’s just you and me again
, he thought, rubbing Loki’s ears. The mill was gone. Uncle Baldur was gone, too, but in a strange way that didn’t make Peer feel better. There was a hole in his chest full of swirling emotions.

What shall I do now? Go back to helping Ralf—hanging around Hilde? But Arnë’s back: She won’t even notice me.

He considered Arnë gloomily. It was obvious that Hilde would like him. Tall, broad-shouldered, with brown skin and blue eyes. Much more handsome than Bjorn. That long, white-blond hair that looked untidy on Bjorn looked sort of … heroic, on Arnë.
That’s it. Heroic. Arnë looks like a hero. Of course, I look like a heron.

He bit his fingers. So many stupid mistakes,
no wonder Hilde couldn’t take him seriously. Images flashed before his eyes: hiding from Uncle Baldur, falling into the pond with Ran. What a clown!

Everything I do goes wrong.

He pulled himself up and went to stand in the doorway under the eaves of the shed, watching the raindrops collect and drip from the ragged edge of the thatch. After a while, because nobody came after him and there was nothing better to do, he went back to the house.

And Hilde was using his comb, running it smoothly through her long fair hair. She looked up. “I never thanked you for this.”

“It’s not much,” he told her.

“Not much? It’s beautiful! You’re so clever, Peer.” She added casually, “People would pay good money for combs like this.”

“They certainly would,” Gudrun agreed.

“You could make anything,” Hilde went on. “You could be a boat builder, like your father!”

“There’s a thought,” said Bjorn. He had Ran on his knee. “I’m certainly going to need a new faering. Could use a hand from a fellow
who knows what he’s doing.”

Peer stared at them suspiciously. So they’d guessed what he’d been thinking. And they’d been talking about him, and trying to find ways of making him feel better, and in fact …

… and in fact it was working. He did feel better.

“That’s not a bad idea,” he said, amazed. He thought about it some more.
A boat builder, like Father.
And just for a moment, he felt that his father was there, sitting with them in the warm family circle, watching him with quiet pride. He touched his father’s ring, and twirled it gently on his finger.
Yes.

“It’s—a wonderful idea,” he said. “Why did I never think of it before?”

Hilde grinned at him. “See? I told you so. You were never cut out to be a miller.”

For a second, that stung. Peer opened his mouth to snap—but he began to laugh instead. He picked up Sigrid and swung her around. “You’re so right! I’ll be a boat builder! I’ll build my own boats, and everyone will want them.”

“Build one for me!” squealed Sigrid, giggling.

“I will! I’ll build you a boat that a queen would be proud of,” Peer told her, “and it will have a neck like a swan, and gilded wings and silken cushions, and the Emperor of the Southlands will hear about it and come courting you!”

“What a useless sort of boat,” said Sigurd.

“All right, then, for you I’ll build a warship, Sigurd, with a striped sail and a fierce dragonhead, and you can go off in it, fighting and raiding.”

“No.” Sigurd gave him a pitying look. “I shall be a farmer.”

“And what sort of boat will you build for me?” asked Hilde.

Peer turned to her. “A boat that will carry two,” he said, and was pleased to see her redden and look away. Arnë’s eyebrows went up thoughtfully Gudrun’s lips twitched.

“And the babies?” clamored Sigrid. “What about Eirik and Ran?”

“Oh, Eirik will need a washtub, not a boat.” Peer laughed. “As for Ran … well … I don’t quite know. Shall I ask her?” He hoisted her out of Bjorn’s arms and tickled her. “Any ideas, you?” he teased—and was rewarded
with the widest, merriest, most infectious smile he’d ever seen. He found himself grinning breathlessly back at her gleaming red gums and crinkled nose.

“Look
at her!” gasped Hilde. “Ran’s smiling!”

“She’s smiling!”

They all crowded round to see, chattering excitedly, while Ran looked from face to face, beaming at them as if they were the most wonderful people in the world.

“You got her to smile. Well
done
, Peer!” Hilde banged him on the back, and he shook his head helplessly.

“But I didn’t do anything. I suppose she was just—ready.”

“She can smile and she can cry! She’s not a seal-baby anymore, is she, Ma?” Sigrid said.

Gudrun’s eyes were wet, and she leaned on Bjorn’s good shoulder. “This is a day of marvels, to be sure. A day of new beginnings! Bjorn, my dear boy, I think it’s time we changed her name. We’ll call her ‘Elli’ from now on, the name you wanted.”

“Elli,” said Sigrid softly. “Elli, my little sister.”

Keep watch for
Troll Blood
, the exciting conclusion to Katherine Langrish’s trilogy set in a world of mysterious creatures, Vikings, and trolls.

TROLL BLOOD

CHAPTER 1

MURDER IN
VINLAND    

T
he Mist Persons are busy, crouching on wave-splashed rocks out in the gulf, blowing chilly whiteness over the sea. Their breath rolls like a tide over the beach and the boggy meadowlands near the river mouth, and flows far up the valley, spreading into the dark woods on either side.

A birchbark canoe comes whirling downriver through the wet fog. Kneeling in the prow, Kwimu braces himself against the
crosspiece. He lifts a long pole like a lance, ready to fend off rocks. Each bend, each stretch of rapids comes as a surprise. Even the banks are hard to see.

The canoe bucks. Kwimu feels the river hump its back like an animal. The canoe shoots over the hump and goes arrowing into a narrow gorge, where tall cliffs squeeze the water into a mad downhill dash. Spray splashes in, and Fox, curled against his knees, shakes an irritated head. Fox hates getting wet.

A rock! Kwimu jabs the pole, swaying to keep his balance as the canoe swerves lightly away. It hurtles down a sleek slope and goes shivering and bouncing into roaring white water at the bottom. Again and again Kwimu flicks out the pole, striking here and there, turning the canoe between the rocks. Sometimes a whirlpool catches them, trying to hold them back and pull them down, but Kwimu’s father, Sinumkw, kneeling behind him, gives a mighty thrust with his paddle and sends them shooting on.

A bend in the river. More rocks. Kwimu throws back his wet hair, every muscle tense.
They dart down, twining into the curve, hugging the base of the cliff, where the water is deeper and smoother. It’s cold here; the wet, grainy stone drips, and the mist writhes in eerie shapes. There’s a splash and an echo, and it’s not just the paddle. The canoe tilts, veers. Fox springs up snarling, showing his white teeth and black gums, and for a heartbeat Kwimu sees a thin muddy hand clutch at the prow. A head plastered with wet hair rises from the water. It winks at him with an expression of sullen glee, and ducks under.

Cold with shock, Kwimu flings a wild glance back at his father. But Sinumkw simply shouts, “Look what you’re doing!” And they’re snatched into the next stretch of rapids.

They hurtle into the crosscurrents, Sinumkw paddling grimly. Kwimu thrusts and fends with dripping hair and aching arms until the gorge widens, the cliffs drop back, and the canoe spills out into calm water flowing between high banks covered with trees. On either side, the gray-robed forest rises, fading into mist.

Kwimu twists around, panting. “Did you
see?” he bursts out. “Did you see the Water Person—the Grabber-from-Beneath?”

Sinumkw frowns, but says calmly, “I saw nothing but the rocks and the rapids.”

“He was there,” Kwimu insists. “And Fox saw him too.”

His father nods. “Maybe. But if you’d taken your eyes off the water for a moment longer, we’d have capsized. So his trick didn’t work. Anyway, well done! That’s the worst stretch over. No more rapids between here and the sea. And we’ll land here, I think.”

He drives his paddle into the water. The canoe pivots toward the shore.

“But I thought we were going all the way down to the sea. Can’t we go on in the canoe? It’s so much quicker than walking,” Kwimu pleads as they lift the canoe out of the water.

“Quicker, yes,” says Sinumkw drily. “Speed isn’t everything. Just look around. Somebody’s been cutting trees.” Kwimu looks up in surprise, and his father is right—the bank is littered with chips of yellow wood, and studded with stumps like broken teeth. Piles of lopped branches lie in the trampled undergrowth.

Sinumkw picks up some scattered chips. “These aren’t fresh. This was done moons ago, before the winter.”

“Who would need so many trees?” Kwimu asks quietly. His scalp prickles. There are Other Persons in the woods. One of them cuts down trees. Sometimes, in lonely parts of the forest, hunters hear the sound of an ax chopping—and a tree comes crashing down, though no one is visible.

But his father is thinking along more practical lines. “See here. They rolled the trunks into the river and floated them downstream. Who did it? It could be enemies: the Kwetejk, perhaps. What if they’ve built a stockade at the river mouth, in just the spot we want to use?”

“Oh!” Kwimu thinks with a shiver of their fierce rivals from the northwest woods. “What shall we do?”

His father shrugs. “This is why we came,
n’kwis
, ahead of everyone else, to find the best place for the summer camp, and to look out for danger. Imagine if the whole clan was with us now—grandmothers, babies, cooking gear, and all! No. We’ll leave the canoe and
come back for it later. We’ll circle into the woods and climb the bluffs above the river. We can look down on the bay from there.” He turns, setting off on a long uphill slant into the forest.

Kwimu follows. The encircling fog fills the woods with secrets. It’s a shape-changer, turning the trees into looming giants that drip and tiptoe and creak and murmur. Anything might lurk there, or stealthily follow them at the edges of sight. But if there was danger, Fox would sense it; Fox would warn them. Reassured by the thought, Kwimu strokes Fox’s cold fur, and hurries after his father.

Snow still lingers under the hemlocks and firs, and the buds on the birches aren’t open yet. The forest is colorless, black, white and gray. A dozen paces ahead, Sinumkw climbs silently through the swirls and pockets of vapor, like a ghost passing through world after world.

The woods are full of mysteries….

Grandmother said that yesterday evening, her bright birdlike eyes blinking in her soft wrinkled face. Kwimu thinks of her now, as
he trudges uphill under the dripping trees. He can see her in his head, like a little partridge with bright plumage, wrapped in her big beaver-fur cloak with the colored quill-work glinting in the firelight. She’s so tiny, but so strong. And she has the Sight. Everyone listens when she speaks.

Long ago, in the time of the Old Ones …

All the stories begin like this.

… in the old days, two brothers go hunting. And they find a deep ditch, too wide to jump. A strange, smooth ditch, scoured out of sticky red mud, twisting along between the trees. The track of a Horned Serpent: a
jipijka’m
track.

Now this track is full of power.

One of the brothers climbs into the ditch to see what sort of thing made it.

Aha!

At once, his body changes. It bloats and swells and pulls out like an earthworm, growing longer and longer. His eyes widen and blaze, and two horns sprout from his head, one yellow, one red. He fills the ditch from top to bottom; he raises his head and hisses at his brother; he slithers away like a snake. The track leads into the lake. He plunges deep into the water, and no one ever sees him again.

The woods are full of mysteries….

In spite of his thick moose-hide robes, Kwimu is cold. Why did Grandmother tell that story? What does it mean? Everywhere he looks he sees omens. Layers of fungus, like thick lips that might open and speak. A rotten log like a corpse rolled up in birch bark.