Troll Mill (14 page)

“Blame old Granny Green-teeth for that, not yourself,” said Ralf.

“And the Nis,” Gudrun muttered.

Peer slumped. They both believed the Nis was guilty. He looked at Hilde, who was rocking Ran on her knee, murmuring old nursery rhymes. “What do you think?” he asked in a low voice. She shook her head, avoiding his eye.

“This child is asleep. Why don’t you put her in the cradle for me? Come on, Peer. Take your baby!”

“Why mine?” asked Peer gruffly, allowing Hilde to hand Ran over.

“Yours, because you rescued her. And I wonder, Peer, if you hadn’t been there, what Kersten would have done with her?”

“I’ve wondered that too.” Peer remembered the cold waves crashing on the beach. He looked down at the sleepy face and felt his heart squeeze. Little Ran seemed surrounded by dangers. Did she need to be protected from the Nis as well?

They spent a restless night. Sigurd woke with a nightmare, and after Gudrun rose to soothe him, Eirik woke too. Peer lay drowsily, hearing Ralf cough, seeing with blurred eyes the
dark shape of Gudrun against the fire, moving here and there, rocking Eirik, patting him on the back. Or was it Ran she was holding? He blinked, unsure whether he’d slept or not. It seemed late. The room was dark and quiet. He lifted his head sleepily. Was that a dismal little shape, crouching by the hearth? He listened and thought he could make out a hiccuping sniff.

“No groute!” It was a thread of a voice, the tiniest whisper. The gulping and sniffing went on. Peer’s eyes flew wide. Had Gudrun forgotten to put out food for the Nis?

He lay, wondering what to do. They’d all gone to bed early, tired, and nothing had been decided about the Nis. It sounded terribly upset. Should he get up? Gudrun had never forgotten to feed it before. Perhaps this was its punishment.

No, I don’t believe that
, Peer thought.
Gudrun just forgot. She wouldn’t punish it this way, even though she’s angry.

“No groute! Everybody hates the poor Nis….” There was a bitter little sob.

Whether the Nis was guilty or not, Peer couldn’t bear it. He called out gently, “Nis!
We don’t all hate you, truly we don’t. But I did see you down at the mill, didn’t I? What were you up to?”

“The mistress wants me to go.” The Nis sounded heartbroken, and Peer wasn’t sure that it was even listening to him. “I hears her say so. And so—I goes!

With a faint flutter like falling ash, the small humped shape vanished. Although Peer strained his eyes and ears, he saw and heard no more.

I’d better get up and fill its bowl… but why didn’t it answer the question?

He lay back, groaning. What had the Nis been doing down at the mill? And why did it have to be so difficult all the time?

The bed was warm. He was stiff, aching from hours of work. He didn’t fancy blundering around in the dark, maybe waking the family. And Loki was lying across his legs. And besides he was sleepy … so sleepy….

“Well, the Nis is gone!” snapped Gudrun next morning, slapping breakfast on the table.

“How do you know?” asked Hilde.

“I just do,” said Gudrun. “And look at Eirik: crotchety, crabby—he knows too.”

“Isn’t he teething?” Ralf suggested, glancing at his youngest son’s fretful, scarlet face and looking hurriedly away again.

“Exactly!” Gudrun cried. “And if the Nis were here, it’d be keeping him happy. It adored Eirik, I will say that. Still, if it’s gone, it’s gone. And good riddance!”

“It’s upset,” said Peer. “I heard it last night. You didn’t put its food out.”

Gudrun flushed. “I cannot think of everything. I’ve a house to run and enough on my hands with two babies to look after, not to mention the rest of you. And where’s Bjorn? When’s he coming to see his daughter? I hope he doesn’t suppose he can just leave the child to me!”

“I’ll feed the Nis, Ma,” said Sigrid. “Oh, please let me! I’m sure it didn’t mean to do wrong.” She carefully measured a ladleful of groute into a bowl and looked at her mother. “Shall I put in some butter?”

“If you must,” said Gudrun. Sigrid cut a very small lump. She placed the bowl in the hearth among the warm ashes, and the family
all watched as if she were doing something very important. It was easier than talking, with Gudrun in this mood.

The next day, to Sigrid’s sorrow, the Nis’s bowl was still full of congealed groute. She scraped it out for the dogs, poured a fresh one, and wandered around the farmstead with the bowl in her hand, softly calling for the Nis, as though it were a lost kitten. And although Gudrun muttered that it was a shocking waste of good food, she didn’t try to prevent Sigrid from putting food out in various different places around the farm. The bowl she left in the cowshed seemed to get cleaned out most regularly.

“I’m sure it’s the Nis,” said Sigrid wistfully.

“It’s rats,” sniffed Gudrun. “I don’t know why the cats don’t get them.”

“The cats won’t go in the cowshed anymore,” said Sigrid, so quietly that nobody heard her.

SUCCESS AT THE MILL

T
HE DAYS WENT
by, and nothing more was seen of the Nis. They began to realize how many little odd jobs it had done, from skimming the cream (its favorite) to amusing the baby, sweeping, and generally tidying up. And with Ran to care for as well as Eirik, Hilde spent hours each day scrubbing and rinsing baby clothes in the cold stream at the back of the house.

“I wish the Nis
would
come home,” she sighed to Peer one afternoon, as she spread the wrung-out washing over the bushes to dry.

“So do I,” Peer agreed. “I’m sure it didn’t talk to Granny Green-teeth.”

“Oh, I should think it did.” Hilde blew on her cold, red hands. “My, that water’s icy! No, I think that’s probably exactly what it did. It’s
got such a quick temper. But I wish it would come back, all the same. I don’t believe Ma ever meant it to go. She’s missing it. She’s angry, and hurt that they’ve quarreled, and neither of them knows how to make friends.”

“Do you think Sigrid’s right? Is it hiding in the cowshed?”

“I don’t know. Have you looked? I have. And I’ve seen Ma and Pa going in there too, when they thought no one was around.”

Peer nodded gloomily. He’d been in, late at night, and found nothing but a few cold little dusty nests in the straw that might have been made by the cats. “I feel so bad about it,” he said. “I’m sure it thinks I gave it away, and it would never understand why. Perhaps we’ll never see it again.”

Hilde gave him a significant glance. “Speaking of friends who have quarreled, what about you and Bjorn? Don’t you think it’s time you made it up with him?”

“What have I done to Bjorn?” Peer asked hotly. “Only rescued his daughter. Not that he seems to care. He never comes to see her!”

“After the way you glowered at him?” said Hilde. “I’m not surprised.”

Peer turned away angrily.
As if anything I’d said would affect Bjorn. It’s not my fault if he keeps away!

But Hilde’s words smoldered in his mind. Slowly, reluctantly, he began to remember the good times he had spent with Bjorn, the easy companionship of their fishing trips. He began to realize that between the Nis and Bjorn he had lost two of his best friends. And he missed them.

At least the sheep were safe, although they had nibbled the meadows down to a short, dry lawn. It seemed the trolls dared not venture this far down the hillside. “We’ll move the flock back up to the Stonemeadow after midsummer,” Ralf told Peer. “Once the trolls’ feast is over, perhaps the danger will be past.”

And the sweet, spring days followed one after another: The grass in the paddock grew deep and glossy, the birch trees on Troll Fell glittered with new leaves, and the larches put out tender green fingers. Little white flowers like curds appeared on the elder trees and opened into creamy, heavily scented plates. It was a pleasure just to be outdoors. And then
one day the swallows arrived at last, skimming and diving about the farmyard more swiftly than the eye could follow. Hilde’s heart sang as she watched them flashing to and fro. Summer was here!

But the hot sunshine had no effect on the mill. A sort of clammy chill hung about inside the building, and it clung to the skin and penetrated to the bones. For all their efforts, the mill was far from becoming the neat, trim place of Peer’s dreams. They had patched the doors and shutters, and the new wood stood out against the old, piebald and blotchy, like some kind of skin disease. They had rethatched part of the roof, and it looked tufty and brittle, like the hair of someone very old or very ill. And there was a damp, sickly smell about the place, which no amount of daylight and fresh air could cure.

“Let’s light a fire!” said Hilde in desperation one morning. “That might bring the place back to life again!”

If anything can
, Peer thought.

“I’ve got a better idea!” Ralf rubbed his hands. “There’s only one way to bring a mill back to life, isn’t there, Peer?”

Peer looked at him. “You mean, get it going? But how? We don’t have any grain.”

“Aha.” Ralf beamed. “I brought some. Just a little—a quarter of a sack. Seems to me it’s time we found out if the machinery still works.”

“It works all right,” said Peer without thinking.

“How do you know?” Hilde asked.

His mouth fell open. He’d never told her. And if he tried to explain now, it would sound as if he’d been hiding it. What could he say?

Ralf saved him.

“Feeling confident?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “I like that. Well, you’re the miller. Show us how it’s done. What first?”

“Fill up the hopper,” said Peer quickly.

“Lead on!” Ralf picked up the quarter sack of barley and followed Peer into the mill. One by one they climbed the rickety ladder up to the dark loft and crowded together in the small space beside the millstones. Above them loomed the dark bulk of the hopper, suspended from the rafters on four thick ropes.

“Mind your heads!” warned Peer.

Ralf slapped his hand against the hopper’s sloping wooden sides. “That’s solid!” he exclaimed, impressed. He raised the sack to tip the barley into the open top.

“Wait,” said Hilde. “It’ll be dirty. After three years, that hopper must be full of dust and cobwebs. Let me sweep it out.” She scrambled down the ladder and returned with a small brush, but discovered that the sides of the hopper were too high for her to get her hand inside. Peer looked around and found a crate. Standing on tiptoe, Hilde bent over the edge of the hopper and started brushing. “I was right!” they heard her muffled voice. “What
is
this? It must have dropped in from the thatch. Almost like gravel.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Peer muttered.

“Cover your eyes!” Hilde peered down at them. “I’ll flick this stuff out.” Peer and Ralf looked away as she wielded her brush. A shower of something light and gritty pattered over the edges of the hopper. They couldn’t see what it was, but it crunched underfoot. Finally Hilde was satisfied.

“Good enough. Go ahead, Pa.”

Ralf raised his sack and carefully let the
barley run into the hopper. A few grains instantly dribbled through the hole in the bottom and ran down into the eye of the upper millstone.

“Right!” said Peer breathlessly. “Now we go and open the sluice.”

“Just like that?” asked Ralf. “No levers to pull, or wheels to turn?”

“If it was all that hard to work a mill, my uncle Baldur couldn’t have done it,” Peer said with a sudden grin. “The only wheel that has to turn is the water wheel. As soon as that starts moving, the mill starts grinding. Come on!”

They burst out of the mill and clattered over the bridge, then up past the millrace to the brink of the dam, where a narrow plank was suspended over the weir. Peer stepped onto it carefully.

The plank was slimy. There was no handrail, just a couple of posts spaced along it. Peer felt his foot slip and grabbed the nearest post to save himself. A damp, weedy breath blew from the weir into his face, and for a second he stared into the white-and-green cauldron where the water tumbled over
the edge and went churning away. Was Granny Green-teeth down there in the whirling waters, her gray-green hair flying around her face, mixed with silt and bubbles? Or maybe she was in the quiet millpond, sliding silently through the brown peaty water, with barely a ripple to show she was there … till her hand emerged to seize his ankle and jerk him under.

He shook himself.
My uncles managed to avoid Granny Green-teeth, so why shouldn’t I?

Yes
, said a voice in his head,
and how did they do that? They started sending you to open and shut the sluice gate. And she nearly got you. So be careful!

“Are you all right?” shouted Hilde from the bank.

“I’m fine!” he called back. “My foot skidded, that’s all.”

He went on even more cautiously, grabbing the next post as soon as it was within reach. The big water wheel loomed up over him, dark and dripping. Long, long ago, thick timbers had been driven into the streambed to support a stout barrier that divided the millrace from the weir. At the head of the millrace,
the sluice gate controlled the flow of water under the wheel. It was a simple wooden shutter running in grooves between two squared-off posts.