Troll Fell (7 page)

“Thankful!” Something flamed up in Peer's chest.
“Thankful!” He drew a quivering breath. “You stole my
father's money, you treat me like a slave, you can't even
remember my
name
! What have I got to be thankful for?
And you don't own that girl's fields. You just want to steal
them, too, now her father's away!”

Baldur raised a fist the size of a ham and clouted Peer
casually. Peer found himself sitting on the ground,
clutching his ringing head. His flame of independence
shrivelled to a black twist and went out.

With a scuffle of light feet, Loki streaked across the
yard, teeth bared, aiming for Uncle Baldur's leg. Grendel
rose silently from the doorstep and hurled himself at
Loki.

“Loki!” Peer screamed. Loki glanced back, saw
Grendel out of the tail of his eye, and veered off round
the corner in a cloud of dust. Peer got up shakily.
Grendel dropped his hackles and slouched back to his
bone.

“Come inside,” said Uncle Baldur as if nothing had
happened. “I'll show you what to do. You pay attention
to me, because you'll be doing a lot of this.”

“You're not going to take me to the Gaffer, then?”
said Peer without thinking.

Uncle Baldur swung round, fast for such a big man.

“What?” he said in a menacing whisper. Peer backed
away. He thought fast. “Something Uncle Grim told me,”
he invented quickly. “He said, um, if I wasn't a good boy
and worked hard, you'd give me to the Gaffer.” And come
to think of it, it sounded exactly the sort of thing Uncle
Grim
would
say.

Uncle Baldur clearly believed it. He muttered
something under his breath about Grim being a
chattering fool, and then grabbed Peer, dragged him off
his feet and pushed his thick bearded lips up to Peer's ear.

“The Gaffer,” he whispered, “is the King of Troll
Fell, see? And he lives up there under the crags, not far
away. And naughty little boys, why, he likes to tear them
in pieces! So watch your step, laddie.”

Peer rubbed slime from his ear, wondering if this was
true. But he had no time to think about it. Uncle Baldur
led him in and climbed the creaking ladder to the loft
where the millstones were. Peer followed, overhung by
his uncle's bulky bottom, and found himself standing on
a dark, dusty platform, badly lit by one draughty little
louvred window high in the apex of the roof. Right in
front of him in the middle of the floor sat the two
millstones, one above the other, cartwheel-sized slabs of
gritstone rimmed with iron.

“Power!” Baldur wheezed, slapping the upper
millstone. “See how heavy that is? But finely balanced.
What drives it? Water power. Ah, but who controls the
water? Me, the miller!

“The stream
obeys
me, boy. I control it with my
sluicegates. And when I let it flow, it has no choice but
to turn my waterwheel and drive my millstones.

“It all comes down to power. The power of the water,
the power of the stones, all harnessed by my machinery.

“And it makes me the most powerful man in the
valley. Without this, believe it or not, I'd be just another
farmer, like the rest of them. Like Grim.” He shook his
head as though this were indeed hard to believe, and
gave the millstone another affectionate pat.

“Now then!” he went on, straightening up. “See
that?” Peer looked up, banging his head on the corner of
a big wooden box with sloping sides that hung from the
rafters, suspended over the millstones on four thick
ropes. “The hopper,” his uncle grunted. “You fill it with
barley, which runs out through this hole in the bottom,
see – and trickles along this little tray we call the shoe.
That shakes it down through
this
hole in the upper
millstone. Which is called the runnerstone. Because it's
the one that turns. Understand?”

To his own surprise, Peer did. Hoping to please his
uncle, he tried to show an interest in spite of his empty
stomach, aching head and wobbly legs. “Does everyone
bring their corn here?” he asked. Perhaps Hilde had been
exaggerating. Probably the mill was doing quite well
after all.

But Uncle Baldur's black eyebrows drew together in a
scowl. “They soon will,” he growled, “now that
blackguard Ralf Eiriksson has gone. Spreading tales about
my flour…Telling everyone I put chalk in it – or dirt…”
He shook his fist. “I'll make this the best mill in the valley.
I'll put in another wheel – another pair of stones! They'll
come to me from miles away! But first—” He stopped, as
if he had been going to say something he didn't want
Peer to hear. “But first,” he said in a different tone of
voice, “get that hopper filled, boy, I haven't got all night!”

To lift the sack high enough to pour the barley into
the hopper was quite beyond Peer. With a bad-tempered
grunt, Uncle Baldur did it. His muscles bunched as he
hefted the sack in his thick arms and let the glossy grain
pour effortlessly into the hopper. Then he took Peer
outside to open the sluice and start the wheel.

It was getting late. The sun had set, and it was cold by
the stream. Peer looked anxiously about for Loki as he
followed his uncle up to the mill dam. The water looked
more sinister than ever as evening fell. A little breeze
shivered the surface and the trees sighed sadly. Were
Hilde's scary stories true? He hoped with all his heart
that Loki kept away from this dark water.

Uncle Baldur didn't seem bothered. He tramped
roughly up the path to the sluice and showed Peer a
wooden handle, which worked the sluicegate. He stood
on a narrow plank bridge and simply tugged the gate up.
It slid up and down between grooves in two big timber
posts. He banged some wedges in to keep it stuck in
place. A vigorous rush of water boiled from the bottom
of the sluice, filling the air with thunder, and the great
black water wheel stirred into life! Peer stared in
fascination as the giant paddles endlessly descended to
strike the water.

“It
is
powerful!” he whispered.

Uncle Baldur brought him sharply back to life with a
clip round his ear. “You'll do that job next time,” he said.
“And don't hang about here after dark, or Granny
Greenteeth will get you.”

Oh, he cares!
Peer thought sarcastically. “Who
is
Granny Greenteeth?” he enquired aloud, rubbing his ear.

“She lives at the bottom of the pond,” said Uncle
Baldur grimly, “which is why there's no fish worth
catching. She likes to come up at night, the old besom.
So look out!”

Peer looked over his shoulder as they walked back to
the mill. It was now almost quite dark. But what was that
patch of weeds floating in the shadow of the trees?
Could it be the spreading hair of Granny Greenteeth,
rising from her slimy bed? He heard a quiet splash – was
that a fish? He hurried after his uncle. The night breeze
whispered in the bushes – only the breeze – but when
he heard rustling steps and panting breath, he panicked.
Granny Greenteeth was after him! Or who knew what
else lurked about this awful place? Uncle Baldur's great
strides carried him on ahead. Peer rushed after him.
Something crashed through a nearby bramble bush and
leaped on to the path. Peer's heart nearly stopped: then
he saw it was Loki.

“Loki!” he gasped in relief. “You crazy dog!” Relieved
to have found him, Loki gave his coat a good hard shake
and lashed his tail. Peer hugged him. “Come on,” he said,
and they ran into the yard together.

Uncle Baldur had already gone into the house and
fetched himself a light snack of bread and sausage. “Put
that dog away,” he commanded. “Then you can go and
do the chores. Sweep the stalls. Feed the pigs. Go and see
Grim, he'll tell you what to do.”

“Uncle Baldur,” said Peer faintly. “I'm awfully
hungry.”

“And not a mouthful will you get till your work is
done,” said Uncle Baldur sternly. “We have no use for
greed and laziness here.” And so saying, he took a huge
bite from the chunk of bread he was holding and stuffed
the sausage in after it whole.

A mile or so further up the valley, Hilde was eating supper
with her family. The savoury smell of roasting crabs filled
the warm room. Through mouthfuls, she told her family
all about the day's adventures. Eirik and Gudrun listened,
frowning seriously, while Sigrid and Sigurd played on the
floor with the kittens.

Gudrun shook her head. “Your father should never
have left!” she exclaimed anxiously. “I've said to him a
thousand times, we'd have trouble with those Grimsson
boys, but will he listen? He's too easy-going, that's his
trouble.”

“Well,” said Hilde, reaching for more bread, “You
could give them the golden cup, I suppose.” She cocked
an eyebrow at her mother, grinning faintly.

“Over my dead body!” said Gudrun promptly. “I've
never wanted the thing, but it's your father's pride and
joy. They can't have it.”

“I thought you'd say that. Well, I'd better ride up to
the Stonemeadow now and again, don't you think? To
keep an eye on the sheep up there?”

“Oh, no, you won't!” snapped Gudrun. “And risk
running into those two and their savage dog? What
could you do, anyhow?”

“Oh, well!” said Hilde. “I don't mean try to fight with
them or anything, but at least I would know if any of our
animals go missing. Besides, my new friend Peer says he
thinks something odd is going on between the
Grimssons and the trolls. He's heard them talking—”

“I feel really sorry for that boy,” interrupted Gudrun.
“Eirik, come and eat; your crabs are ready!”

Eirik sat down happily, rubbing his hands and sniffing
the scented steam rising from his dish. “Ah, you're a good
girl, Hilde, you picked a fine big crab for your old
grandfather.”

“Don't
you
think I ought to go up on Troll Fell,
Grandpa?” persisted Hilde. She threw out her chest and
tossed back her hair, rather fancying herself as the
family's gallant guardian, bravely patrolling the hills. “So
if Baldur Grimsson steals our sheep we can at least
complain?”

“Well,” began Eirik, working at a meaty claw with the
point of his knife.

“Hilde,” said Gudrun firmly. “I command you, as your
mother, to do no such thing. I'd be worried stiff! It can
all be safely left to Ralf, when he comes home. Just stay
away from the mill
and
the trolls and try to keep out of
trouble!”

“Oh, all right,” Hilde grumbled. “Just lead a dull,
boring, ordinary life. Yes, I know! You're right. But
there'd be no heroes or stories or sagas if everyone acted
that way! I do wish something exciting could happen to
me!”

“Well, the exciting thing that can happen to you right
now,” said Gudrun, wiping the bowls clean with a piece
of stale bread, “is that you can go and milk the cow,
which you ought to have done already.”

Hilde got up slowly and went to do as she was told.
She felt flat and grumpy, as if nothing would go right.
But once outside she felt better. It was a perfect spring
evening. Although the sun had set, the wide western sky
still reflected light. Hilde loved living so high up the
valley. It was very quiet, except for far-off sheep bleating,
and the nearby munching sounds of the cow and the
pony tearing up grass. Hilde climbed the steep pasture
towards them, carrying her bucket and stool, her shoes
soaking up dew. With surprise she suddenly heard a
new sound, the unmistakable high-pitched rattle of milk
squirting into a metal pan, accompanied by a weird gruff
humming like a very large bee. Goosebumps rose on her
skin. She broke into a run, and saw a small hairy troll
squatting beside Bonny the cow, milking her into a
copper pail.

“Clear off!” shouted Hilde, swinging her bucket. The
cow tossed her head up and wheeled away, while the
troll snatched up its pail and scampered off up the
hillside where Hilde soon lost sight of it in the twilight.
She stood panting, hands on hips. “The cheek of it! Hey,
Bonny,” she said to the cow, “don't you know better than
to let trolls come stealing your milk?”

The cow snorted as though she didn't care. Hilde had
to soothe and stroke her before she would stand still. But
the troll had milked her nearly dry, and Hilde went back
to the house with no more than a cupful at the bottom
of her pail. As she came to the door her mother called
out, “Bring the broom in with you, Hilde.”

“What broom?” Hilde asked.

“Isn't it there?” Gudrun came out. “But I'm sure I left
it right by the door,” she said, annoyed. “I can't lay my
hands on anything… Is that all the milk?” She was even
more put out when she heard Hilde's tale.

“They probably stole the broom too,” said Hilde. “You
see, mother? It's not so easy to keep out of trouble.”

“The little varmints!” said Eirik, peering into the
milk bucket. “Worse than rats and mice. They wouldn't
be so bold if my son was here: no, they wouldn't come
robbing us then!”

“They're becoming a perfect plague,” said Gudrun
worriedly.

“I'm just a useless old man,” said Eirik gloomily.
“When I was a young fellow, I could have thrown
anyone who so much as stepped on my shadow clean
over the barn! No pack of trolls would have bothered me
then. Now I'm old and no use to anyone.”

“Oh, Father-in-law!” Gudrun scolded him
affectionately. “Don't talk like that. We need you very
much indeed, for – for wisdom and advice.”

“Advice! Women never listen to advice,” scoffed
Eirik, but he looked pleased.

“And we need Grandpa for telling stories!” piped up
Sigrid from the floor. Eirik reached down beside his
chair and tugged her plait with his gnarled old hand.
“And you want one now, do you, missy? What is it to be
about?”

“Trolls!” said Sigrid promptly.

“Well, now, let me think,” Eirik began. “Let me see.
Of course, there's plenty of stories about trolls around
here. We live on the very doorstep of Troll Fell, don't
we? But here's a story from another place, far to the
north, the wild mountains of the Dovrefell, where there
are even more trolls than we have here, yes, all kinds of
trolls, and some of them giants, by what I've heard!”

Don't frighten them!
Gudrun mouthed. Eirik winked
reassuringly.

“Giants!” Sigurd and Sigrid pressed themselves close
to Eirik's knees.

“Oh, yes.” Eirik nodded wisely. “Our trolls round here
seem little things, don't they, but they do come all sizes,
and the one in this story was a giantess, a little bit taller
than a man! She must have been pretty, I daresay—”

“A pretty troll!” interrupted Sigrid, laughing.

“Yes, she had long yellow hair and a nice long tail that
she wagged when she was happy. And she got married to
a young farmer, and wagged her tail at the wedding.”

Gudrun and Hilde were both laughing now.

“Now I don't say this story is true!” said Eirik with a
twinkle in his eye. “But the friends and neighbours of
this young farmer thought he was out of his mind to go
marrying a troll. They were disgusted. They wouldn't talk
to his bride, or visit her, even though she kept the house
as clean as a new pin. She sat there all day by herself and
got very lonely.”

“Poor troll!” said Sigrid.

“I don't think so,” said Sigurd. “I think he was stupid
to marry a troll.”

“See what happened,” said Eirik solemnly. “This went
on for a while, and one day her old father came to pay
her a visit. He was a grim old troll from underneath the
Dovrefell, bigger than she was, and when he found his
daughter sitting crying he said, “‘
What's all this?
'” Eirik
deepened his voice to a growl. “‘Is it your husband? If he
isn't kind to you, I'll tear off his arms and legs!'

“‘Oh no,' said the troll bride, ‘it isn't my husband, it's
the neighbours. They won't have anything to do with
me, and I'm so-o-o lonely!' and she began to cry again.

“‘Come along with me,' said her father, rolling up his
sleeves and dragging her out of the house with him,
‘we're going to have a little ball game. Will you throw, or
shall I?'

“‘Oh, no, father,' said the troll bride, who knew
exactly what he meant to do, ‘you throw, and I'll catch.'

“So the grim old troll went stamping round the village
chasing the people out of their houses, and when he got
hold of them he threw them right over the Hall roof, and
his daughter caught them on the other side, and stood
them carefully back on their feet and dusted them down.

“When everyone in the village had been thrown over
the roof, the old troll came round the Hall, just a little
out of breath, and he looked at the terrified crowd, and
he said, ‘Now you'd better start being very very nice to
my daughter. Because if not,' and he glared, ‘if not – why,
I'll come back for another ball game – only, this time, my
daughter will throw, and
I
will catch!'”

Gudrun and Hilde chuckled. Sigrid looked puzzled.
“I don't understand,” she began.

“Well, do you think the old troll would really have
caught them?” Hilde asked her.

“Oh!” Sigrid's face cleared. “He would have let them
fall!”

“Or eaten them up,” said Sigurd with relish.

“That's right!” Eirik nodded. “Well, after that, you'd
never believe how polite the neighbours were to the
troll bride. They called round to see her every day and
gave her flowers and cakes and baskets of eggs. She was
as happy as the day was long, and wagged her tail
merrily… And that's a story from the Dovrefell.” He
smiled and stopped.

“Bedtime,” said Gudrun to the twins.

“I'm proud of you, Grandpa,” said Hilde, hugging
him. “You're a poet
and
a storyteller!”

“Aye, well,” said Gudrun, shaking her head. “Trolls
and Grimssons, all in one day! Whatever are we coming
to? Hilde, you'd better make sure and milk Bonny earlier
from now on, before the trolls get at her. The children
will have to drink water tonight.”

I wonder where Pa is now
, thought Hilde, as the worries
of the day returned to her.
I hope we'll manage without
him. But at least he's alive, not like Peer
Ulfsson's
father. Poor
lad! He must hate living at the mill. And I wonder what he's
doing now?

Peer was by himself, eating his frugal supper. His uncles
had given him an onion, a small piece of mouldy cheese,
some rather stale bread and the end of a rancid sausage,
and then gone off somewhere, leaving him alone to
mind the mill. Alone except for Loki, because they had
taken Grendel with them. Peer was happy about that!
The little dog lay sprawled out by the fire, his eyes
blissfully shut. Peer sat on a stool next to him.

The mill was noisily alive: it was grinding busily.
Everything vibrated. Old dust trickled and cobwebs shook
on the walls. Up in the loft, finely ground meal was
snowing from the rim of the millstones and piling up on
the wooden platform. Peer's job was to climb up from time
to time and sweep it into sacks. He did not like it: the dark
shadows, where you could break your ankle on bits of
broken machinery, worm-eaten cogwheels with half the
teeth missing, a worn old millstone propped against the
wall. And the noises were so spooky: the rhythmic
thumping of the water wheel like a dark heart beating, the
creaking machinery, the clatter of the shoe that shook down
the grain, and the sibilant mutter of the rotating millstone.

Peer nibbled his sausage experimentally and decided
to give it to Loki. He looked about. He was still hungry,
but he could see nothing else to eat. The table was
cluttered with dirty dishes, rinds and crusts, which he
was determined not to touch. There was a bowl of cold
groute which his uncle had put on the floor by the fire,
but it did not look very appetising.

I suppose that's for the Nis anyway
, thought Peer.
Even
Grendel seems to have left it alone. Though he's probably stuffed
full, the greedy brute!

That evening Grim, who did most of the cooking,
had fried some thick rashers of bacon which the two
brothers gobbled greedily, wiping up the grease from the
pan with big chunks of new bread. Grendel, drooling by
Grim's knee, was rewarded with several crisp pieces,
while Peer watched hungrily from his cold corner. He
had plucked up his courage.

“Uncle Grim? Could I have some bacon?”

“Bacon is bad for boys,” replied Uncle Grim
unblinkingly.