Troll Fell (3 page)

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.

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!”