West of the Moon (2 page)

“Hear that?” he muttered. “Someone's coming…”

Who? What had Uncle Baldur heard on this wild, lonely road? What was that long burbling cry, drifting on the wind?

“You hear it?” Uncle Baldur hissed eagerly. “Could be friends of mine, boy. I've got some funny friends. People you'd be surprised to meet!” He giggled.

Stones clattered on the track close behind. Loki shot under the tail of the cart and Peer could hear him growling. He braced himself, skin crawling, ready to face anything – monsters or trolls.

A small, wet pony emerged from the drizzle, picking its way downhill, carrying a rider and a packsaddle. On seeing the cart, it stopped with a snort.

“Hello!” shouted the rider. “Move the cart, will you? I can't get past.”

With a deep breath of fury, Uncle Baldur flung down the reins. He surged to his feet, teetering on the cart's narrow step.

“Ralf Eiriksson!” he screamed. “You cheating piece of stinking offal! How dare you creep up on me, you – you crawling worm?”

“Baldur Grimsson,” the rider groaned. “Just my luck! Shift the cart, you fat fool. I want to get home.”

“Liar! Thief!” Uncle Baldur swayed, shaking his fist. “You watch out. If the trolls don't get you, I will! You'll steal no more. That's finished. If the Gaffer —”

A blinding whip of lightning cracked across the sky, accompanied by a heart-stopping jolt of thunder. The rain came down twice as hard. Uncle Baldur threw himself back on his seat and shook the reins. The oxen plodded forwards. The rider trotted past without another word and struck off along an even rougher track that led off to the right.

Peer clung to the side of the cart.

Well, that's it
, he said to himself.
Uncle Baldur is mad. Completely crazy
.

Sick with cold, he tried to picture his father's bright, kind eyes – his thin shoulders hunched from bending over chisel and plane. What would he say now, if only he knew?

He'd say, ‘Keep your heart up!' After all, I've got another uncle at the mill. Maybe he'll take after my side of the family. Maybe – just maybe – he'll be a little like Father. There can only be one Uncle Baldur…

The cart rattled down the last slope and trundled over a shaky wooden bridge. “Gee!” howled Uncle Baldur, his voice almost lost in the roar of the water hurtling beneath. On the other side of the bridge, Peer saw the mill, crouching dismally on the bank with dripping thatch and sly little black windows. Wild trees pressed around it, tossing despairing arms in the wind. Uncle Baldur drove the cart into a pinched little yard. Ahead was a line of mean-looking sheds, and on the other side lurked a dark barn with a gaping entrance like an open mouth.

The weary oxen splashed to a halt. A wolf-like baying broke out from some unseen dog. Uncle Baldur dropped the reins and stretched his arms till the joints cracked.

“Home!” he proclaimed, jumping down. He strode across to the door of the mill and kicked it open. Frail firelight leaked out. “Grim!” he called triumphantly. “I'm back. And I've
got
him!” The door banged shut. Peer sat out in the rain, shivering with hope and fear.

“Grim,” he muttered. “Uncle Grim will be different, I know he will. There can't be another Uncle Baldur.”

The latch lifted with a noisy click. A new, deep voice said loudly, “Let's take a look at him, then!”

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

I
N A SMALL
damp farmhouse higher up the valley, Hilde threw down her knitting. Her eyes ached from peering at the stitches in the firelight. And she was worried.

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

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

“At last!” said Gudrun, smiling. And Hilde ran out into the wild, wet night.

“I'm back!” Ralf threw her the reins. His long blond hair was plastered to his head, and his boots and leggings were covered in mud.

“You're soaking! I'll rub the pony down. You go in and get dry,” said Hilde, leading the steaming animal into the stable. Ralf came with 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.

“Oh, he yelled a few insults, as usual. That's not my news. Hilde —” Ralf stopped and gave her a strange look, excited yet apprehensive.

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

“There's a new ship in the harbour! A new longship, ready to sail! And I – well, no, I'd better tell your mother first. Be quick as you can, now, and you'll soon hear all about it.” He tugged her long hair and left her.

What was he up to? Hilde rubbed the pony dry and threw down fresh straw, hurrying so she could get back to the family. It was creepy in the stable with the wind howling outside. The lantern cast huge shadows. Whistling to keep up her courage, she turned to the door – and saw with horror a thin black arm come through the loophole and grope about for the latch. She screamed and hit it with the broom. It vanished.

“Trolls!” Hilde hissed. “Not again!” Clutching the broom she waited a moment, recovered her breath, tiptoed to the door and peered out.

Falling rain glittered in the doorway. A black shadow shifted in the mud. Squatting there, its knees up past its ears, was a thing about the size of a large dog. She saw a fat paunchy body slung between long legs, and damp bald skin twitching in the rain. Glowing yellow eyes blinked from a wrinkled 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.

“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!”

Hilde let go of the door. It slammed behind her with a deafening bang. And so she forgot about 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.

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

“Ma – Pa – stop it!” cried Hilde. “What's happening? Stop it – you'll wake the little ones!”

In fact the twins were already awake – and bawling.

The wind managed an extra strong blast. All the birch trees growing up the sides of Troll Fell reeled and danced. Up on the roof the troll clung on, whimpering, and one of its large black ears blew inside out like a dog's. It squirmed along to where a hole had been cut out to let smoke escape, and peered over at the fierce red eye of the fire. It pulled back, coughing and chattering to itself: “Hutututu!” But the sound was lost in a rattle of sleet that fell hissing into the flames.

“Very well,” said Gudrun, suddenly deadly quiet. “Let's see what your
father
thinks about his only son sailing off on a longship into storms and whirlpools and goodness knows what. 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, 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.

“Eirik, tell Ralf what you think of this mad idea,” she demanded, twisting her hands in her apron. “He'll listen to you.”

But Eirik's face lit up. “Aha, if only I were a young fellow again. A brand-new ship!
Long Serpent
, they're calling her. Oh, to sail away east of the sun and west of the moon! To follow the whales' road, seeking adventure!” He tasted his groute. “The whales' road – d'you know what that means, Hilde, my girl?”

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

Eirik broke into a chant from some long saga he was making about Harald the Seafarer, waving his spoon to the beat. While Hilde clapped softly in time, Ralf tiptoed over to the twins, five-year old 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!”

“Ralf!” Gudrun whirled around. “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, isn't it – floating face down in the water? And who'll look after the farm while you're away? What about the sheep? You know somebody's stealing them: three lambs gone already. It's the trolls, or those Grimsson brothers down at the mill. They're all troublemakers. We can't spare you!”

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, clearly hoping to change the subject, “did I tell you I met Baldur Grimsson tonight as I came home? The man's a fool. He sat in his cart in the pouring rain, shouting at me.”

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

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

“All right!” Ralf scooped the twins on to his knees. “One wild night just like this, about ten years ago, I was riding home from the market at Hammerhaven, and halfway over Troll Fell, wet and weary, 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 was in one of our own fields, the high one called the Stonemeadow. I trotted the pony up the slope to see what was happening. Well, if you'll believe me, the whole rocky summit of the hill had been lifted up, like a great stone lid! It was resting on four stout red pillars, and underneath was a space shining with golden light, and hundreds of trolls, all shapes and sizes, skipping and dancing.”

“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 with my own eyes. They had 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. It made me laugh out loud!

“I was so busy staring, I never 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 brimful of something steaming hot – spiced ale, I thought. I took it gratefully, cold and wet as I was.”

“Madness,” muttered Gudrun.

“Just before I gulped it down,” Ralf said slowly, “I noticed a gleam in her slanting eyes, a wicked sparkle! And her ears – her
hairy, pointed
ears – twitched forwards.”

“Go on!” said the children breathlessly.

Ralf leaned forward. “I lifted the cup, as if to take a sip. Then I threw the whole drink out over my shoulder. It splashed out smoking on to the pony's tail and singed off half his hair! There's an awful yell from the troll girl, and next thing the pony and I are off down the hill, galloping for our lives. I'm still clutching the golden cup, and half the trolls of Troll Fell are tearing after us!”

Soot showered into the fire. Up on the roof the troll lay flat with one large ear unfurled over the smoke hole. It lashed its tail like a cat, and growled. None of the humans noticed. They were too wrapped up in the story. Ralf wiped his face, 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 Sigurd.

“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 and galloped across the big ploughed field above the mill. The trolls found it slow going over the furrows, and the clay clogged their feet. I reached 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.

“Spitting like cats and hissing like kettles!” said Ralf. “But it was nearly dawn, and off they scuttled up the hill. I staggered over to the mill, and as I banged on the door 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.”

“And then?” prompted Hilde.

“The old miller, Grim, threw the door open, swearing at me for knocking so early. Then he saw the golden cup. A minute later he couldn't do enough for me. He kicked his sons out of bed, sent his wife running for ale and bread, and it was, “Sit down, Ralf, toast your feet and tell us everything!”

“And you did!” said Gudrun grimly.

“Of course I did,” sighed Ralf. He turned to Hilde. “Fetch down the cup, Hilde. Let's look at it again!”

The troll on the roof skirmished around the smoke hole like a dog at a rabbit-burrow, trying to get an upside-down glimpse of the golden goblet, which Hilde lifted from the shelf and carried 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 in the firelight as if it might melt over his fingers like butter.

“It's so pretty!” said Sigrid. “Why don't we ever use it?”

“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.”

“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! ‘Troll treasure!' said old Grim. ‘We could use a bit of that, couldn't we, boys?' The way he was looking at it made me uneasy. After all, no one knew where I was. I got up to go – and there were the boys in front of me, blocking the door, and old Grim behind me, picking up a log from the woodpile!” Ralf looked grim. “If it hadn't been for Bjørn and Arne Egilsson coming to the door that moment with a sack of barley to grind, I might have been knocked on the head for this cup.”

“And that's why the millers hate us?” said Hilde. “Because we'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 like it. Next day he came round pestering your father to sell him the Stonemeadow. He thought if he owned it, he could dig it up for treasure.”

“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. Leave well alone!'”

“Now that was sense,” said Gudrun. “But what happened? Old Grim tells everyone that your father's cheated him – taken his money and kept the land!”

“A dirty lie!” said Ralf, reddening.

“But old Grim's dead now, isn't he?” asked Hilde.

“Yes,” said Ralf, “he died last winter. But do you know why? Because he hung about on that hill in all weathers, hoping to find the way in, and he got caught in a snowstorm.”

“His sons found him,” added Gudrun, “lying under a crag, clawing at the rocks. 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 blamed your father, 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. Ralf,” she begged, “you know these trips are a gamble. Don't go!”