Troll Fell

“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!”

The mill door swung slowly open, shuddering. Peer held his breath. Out strode the burly shape of Uncle Baldur. At his heels trod someone else – someone unbelievably familiar. Flabbergasted, Peer squinted through the rain, telling himself it couldn’t be true. But it was. There was nothing left to hope for. He shook his head in horrified despair.

CHAPTER 2

The Departure of Ralf

In a small, damp farmhouse higher up the valley, Hilde scowled down at her knitting needles. Her head ached from the strain of peering at the stitches in the firelight. She dropped one, and muttered angrily as a ladder ran down the rough grey sock she was making. It was impossible to concentrate. She felt too worried. And she knew her mother did too, although she was calmly patching a pair of trousers. Hilde took a deep breath.

“Ma? He’s so late. Do you think he’s all right?”

Before Gudrun could answer, the wind pounced on the house like a wolf on a sheep, snarling and worrying it, as if trying to tear it loose from the hillside. Eerie voices wailed and chattered outside as the rain struck the closed wooden shutters. It was a night for wolves, trolls, bears. Hilde imagined her father out there, riding home over the shaggy black shoulder of Troll Fell, lashed by rain. Even if he was hurt or in trouble, she and her mother could only wait, anxiously listening, while her old grandfather dozed fitfully by the fire. But just then she heard a muffled shout, and the clop and clatter of the pony’s feet trotting into the yard.

“At last!” said Gudrun, smiling in relief. As Hilde ran joyfully out into the wild, wet night, the wind snatched the heavy farmhouse door from her hands and slammed it violently behind her.

“I’m back!” said her father, throwing her the reins. “Rub him down well, but hurry! I’ve got news.” His long blond hair was plastered to his head and his boots and leggings were covered in mud.

“You’re soaking! Go in and get dry,” said Hilde, leading the steaming pony into the stable. Ralf followed her to unbuckle the packs. “How was the trip?”

“Fine! I got everything your mother wanted from the market. It’s been a long day, though. And I overtook that madman Baldur Grimsson coming back over Troll Fell.”

“What happened?” asked Hilde sharply.

“Nothing to worry about! He yelled a few insults, as usual. That’s not my news! Hilde, you’ll never guess—” Ralf stopped and gave her a strange look, excited and apprehensive.

“What? What is it?” Hilde stopped grooming the pony.

“There’s a new ship in the harbour, Hilde!” His blue eyes flashed with excitement. “A new longship, ready to sail! And I – well, no, I’d better tell your mother first. Now hurry, hurry up and you’ll soon hear all about it!” He tugged her long hair and left her.

Hilde bit her lip thoughtfully. She rubbed the pony dry and threw down fresh straw, feeling uncomfortable and alarmed – trying not to think what he might be up to.

She wanted to be inside with the family. It was creepy out here with the wind howling outside. The small lantern cast huge shadows. She whistled to keep up her courage, but the whistle faded.

Kari, the little barn cat who kept down the rats and mice, came strolling along the edge of the manger. She ducked her head, purring loudly as Hilde tickled her. But she suddenly froze. Her ears flattened, her eyes glared and she spat furiously. Hilde turned and saw with horror a thin black arm coming through the loophole in the door. It felt around for the latch. She screamed and hit it with the broom. Immediately, the hand vanished.

“Trolls!” Hilde hissed. “Not again!” Dropping the broom, she grabbed the pitchfork and waited breathlessly, but nothing more happened. After a moment she let out her breath, tiptoed to the door and peered out. Falling rain glittered in the doorway. At her feet a black shadow shifted. Squatting there in the mud, all arms and legs, with its knees up past its large black ears, was a thing about the size of a large dog. It made her think of a spider, a fat, paunchy body slung between long legs. She saw damp, bald skin twitching in the rain. Glowing yellow eyes blinked from a black pug face. For one fascinated second they stared at each other, troll and girl: then Hilde was splattered with mud as the troll sprang away in a couple of long liquid jumps.

Hilde flew across the yard and wrenched open the farmhouse door to tell everyone about it. She tumbled straight into a colossal row.

Her father and mother were shouting so loudly that Hilde put both hands over her ears. The door slammed again with a deafening bang. And so she forgot the troll, and didn’t see it leap as suddenly as a frog on to the low eaves of their thick turf roof and go scrambling up to the ridge.

“I never heard such a ridiculous idea in my WHOLE LIFE!” Hilde’s mother was yelling at Ralf. “You’re a FARMER, not some sort of VIKING!”

“Why should it be ridiculous?” Ralf bellowed back. “That’s what half those fellows ARE – farmers and Vikings!”

His wife made a spitting sound of contempt, and Ralf, scarlet in the face, leaned back against the wall in an effort to look careless and cool. It failed badly. He folded his arms and put on a defiant smile, and Gudrun went for him. Plaits flying, she grabbed him by the arms and shook him.

“It’s not FUNNY!” she shouted up at his face.

“Mother – Father! Stop it,” cried Hilde. “What’s happening? Stop it – you’ll wake up the little ones!”

In fact the twins were already awake – and bawling.

The house shivered as the wind managed an extra strong blast. All the birch trees growing up the sides of Troll Fell reeled and danced. The troll clinging to the roof whimpered, and one of its large black ears blew inside out like a dog’s. It shook itself crossly and squirmed along the ridge to where a hole had been cut to let smoke escape. It peered over. Below was the fierce red eye of the fire. The troll got a lungful of heat and smoke and pulled back, coughing and chattering to itself: “Hututututu!” But the sound was lost in a rattle of icy rain. Grains of sleet fell hissing into the fire.

“Very well,” said Gudrun, suddenly deadly quiet, letting Ralf go. “Let’s hear what your father thinks about this! You, his only son, to go off and leave him? To go sailing off into storms and whirlpools and goodness knows what else, on a longship? How can you think of it? It will break his heart!”

“Why don’t you let him speak for himself?” Ralf roared. “And why don’t you give us both some supper? Starving us while you nag at me!”

Hilde glanced at her grandfather, Eirik, who was sitting in his favourite place near the fire, and saw his eye brighten at the suggestion of supper. Gudrun saw it too. She fetched them both a jug of ale and a bowl of groute, warm barley porridge, served as Eirik liked it with a big lump of butter.

“Now, Eirik, tell Ralf what you think of this mad idea,” she demanded, twisting her hands in her apron while Eirik carefully stirred in the butter. “Going off on a Viking ship? Imagine! You must forbid it. He’ll listen to you.”

But Eirik’s eyes lit up. “Aha, if only I were a young fellow again! A brand-new ship that rides like a swan. Like a dragon! Long Serpent, they’re calling her. Oh, to follow the whales’ road, seeking adventure!” He tasted his groute and his eye fell on Hilde. “‘The whales’road’ – d’you know what that means, my girl?”

“Yes, Grandfather,” said Hilde kindly. “It’s the sea.”

Eirik was off. Leaning back in his chair he broke into a chant from some long saga he was making about Harald the Seafarer, waving his spoon to the beat. Gudrun rolled her eyes crossly, but Hilde clapped softly in time to the rhythm. Ralf tiptoed over to the twins, little Sigurd and Sigrid. He sat down between them, an arm round each, and whispered. Suddenly they came jumping out of bed.

“Pa’s going to be a Viking!” they shrieked.

“He’s going to bring us presents!”

“An amber necklace!”

“A real dagger!”

Gudrun whirled round, her eyes flashing. “Ralf!” she cried. “Stop bribing those children!”

Eirik’s poem reached its climax, all dead heroes and burning ships. He sat back happily. Ralf cheered. Gudrun glared at him.

“Oh, that’s a fine way to end up, isn’t it, floating face down in the water? And very likely too. And who do you think is going to look after the farm while you’re away?”

“Gudrun,” Ralf argued. “It’s only for the summer. Just a few weeks. I’ve sown the wheat and the oats already, and I’ll be back before you know I’ve gone.”

“And what about the sheep?” demanded Gudrun. “Somebody’s stealing them; three lambs gone already. It’s the trolls, or else those Grimsson brothers down at the mill. And that’s another thing. I can’t send our corn to the mill any longer, it comes back short – and dirty. Hilde and I do all the grinding. I don’t have time to run the farm!”

Up on the roof the troll remembered the flavour of roast lamb. It licked its lips with a thin black tongue.

“Speaking of the millers,” Ralf began, obviously hoping to change the subject, “did I tell you? I met Baldur Grimsson tonight as I came home!”

“Was there any trouble?” asked Gudrun quickly.

“No, no,” Ralf soothed her. “The man’s a fool. He sat in his cart in the pouring rain, shouting at me!”

“May he catch his death!” sniffed Gudrun.

“Why did he shout at you, Pa?” asked Sigrid, wide-eyed.

“Because he doesn’t like me!” Ralf grinned.

“Why not?”

“It’s all because of Pa’s golden cup,” said Hilde wisely. “Isn’t it?”

“That’s right, Hilde. He’d love to get his hands on that,” said Ralf with relish. “My troll treasure, my lucky cup!”

“Unlucky cup, more like,” sniffed Gudrun. But Sigurd and Sigrid jumped up and down, begging, “Tell us the story again, Pa!”

“All right!” began Ralf, scooping the twins up on to his knees. “It was a wild night just like this, maybe ten years ago. Like tonight, I was riding home from the market at Hammerhaven. I was halfway over Troll Fell, tired and wet and weary, when I saw a bright light glowing from the top of the crag and heard snatches of music gusting on the wind.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Gudrun muttered.

“I turned the pony off the road and kicked him into a trot up the hillside. I was in one of our own fields, the high one called the Stonemeadow. At the top of the slope I could hardly believe my eyes. The whole rocky summit of the hill had been lifted up, like a great stone lid! It was resting on four stout red pillars. The space underneath was shining with golden light, and there were scores, maybe hundreds, of trolls, all shapes and sizes, skipping and dancing, and the noise they were making! Louder than a sheep fair, what with bleating and baaing, mewing and caterwauling, horns wailing, drums pounding, and squeaking of one-string fiddles!”

“How could they lift the whole top of Troll Fell, Pa?” asked Sigurd.

“As easily as you take off the top of your egg,” joked Ralf. He sobered. “Who knows what powers they have, my son? I only tell you what I saw, saw with my own eyes. They were feasting in the great space under the hill: all sorts of food spread out on gold and silver dishes, and little troll servingmen jumping about between the dancers, balancing great loaded trays and never spilling a drop, clever as jugglers! It made me laugh out loud!

“But the pony shied. I’d been so busy staring, I hadn’t noticed this troll girl creeping up on me till she popped up right by the pony’s shoulder. She held out a beautiful golden cup filled to the brim with something steaming hot – spiced ale I thought, and I took it gratefully from her, cold and wet as I was!”

“Madness!” muttered Gudrun.

Ralf looked at the children. “Just before I gulped it down,” he said slowly, “I noticed the look on her face. There was a gleam in her slanting eyes, a wicked sparkle! And her ears – her hairy, pointed ears – twitched forwards.

“I saw she was up to no good!”

“Go on!” said the children breathlessly.

Ralf leaned forwards. “So, I lifted the cup, pretending to sip. Then I jerked the whole drink out over my shoulder. It splashed out smoking, some on to the ground and some on to the pony’s tail, where it singed off half his hair! There’s an awful yell from the troll girl, and the next thing the pony and I are off down the hill, galloping for our lives. I’ve still got the golden cup in one hand – and half the trolls of Troll Fell are tearing after us!”

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!”