West of the Moon (9 page)

“Later,” said Baldur. “When we're rich. And we'd better get on with that.” He stared at Peer, who quailed, expecting to be blamed for Grendel's awful fate. But it seemed that Uncle Baldur had taken Peer's shout for a warning, and wasn't thinking about that.

“Tonight is midwinter's eve,” he said softly, still staring at Peer. “Don't forget, Grim, we're invited to a wedding. It's time we went to get the presents!”

Peer tried to dash for it, but Uncle Baldur caught his arm. “What shall we do with him, Grim? We don't want to take him along with us.”

“Lock him up. Shut him up in the privy,” Grim growled. “There's no window, and we can block up the door.”

Peer struggled, but the two big men dragged him down the path to the mill. Uncle Baldur hauled open the privy door and thrust him inside. “You'll not die of cold,” he joked. “Where there's dirt there's warmth.” He shoved the door shut and Peer heard logs being piled against it. With a last effort he beat his fists on the rough planks, screaming, “Let me out! Where are you going?”

“To pay a little visit to Ralf 's farm, of course,” came Baldur's muffled voice. They clumped away, leaving Peer to gasp for his breath in the cold and stinking darkness.

“T
HERE'S A HEAVY
snow coming,” Eirik said to Gudrun. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“And what if there is?” Gudrun slapped the dough she was kneading. “I don't have to worry about the weather any more.”

Hilde, pulling on her thick-fur lined boots, looked anxiously at her mother. Gudrun was very pale these days.

“It's not snowing yet,” she said. “Just freezing hard.” She belted her sheepskin jacket with a piece of string, and took the lantern from its hook. “I'm going to feed the cows.”

Eirik looked up. “I'll help,” he offered.

“Oh, I don't need any help, Grandpa…”

“Don't be an old fool, Eirik,” Gudrun snapped. “Stay in the warmth.”

Eirik was offended and hurt, and Hilde saw it. “If Sigurd and Sigrid come out with me, Eirik could keep an eye on them. They need some fresh air.”

“No we don't,” objected Sigrid.

“You'll do what you're told!” Hilde hissed.

“Can we have a snowball fight?” asked Sigurd.

“Certainly, if you don't go out of Grandpa's sight,” said Hilde briskly. She pushed their boots on and pulled their woolly caps over their ears. Gudrun wrapped up Eirik till he was almost circular.

Hilde filled her pockets with stones – handy for throwing at trolls – and bundled the little ones ahead of her out of the door. They screamed with delight and slid off across the icy yard. Gudrun appeared in the doorway supporting Eirik, who shook her off irritably and stepped after Hilde. He staggered, and Hilde leaped to help him. “Leave me alone, girl,” he growled at her. “I can manage!”

“Now Father-in-law, do take care!” shrilled Gudrun.

Eirik really lost his temper. “Women, women,” he shouted, “cluck, cluck, never leave you alone. I wish my son was here. He'd know I'm not in the grave yet!” He slipped on a particularly glossy patch of ice and sat down hard.

Hilde rushed to pick him up. Sigurd and Sigrid threw snow about, quarrelling. Gudrun clung to the doorpost, calling out instructions. Eirik sat puffing with shock.

There was an apologetic cough. “Can we help?” Hilde looked up to see Bjørn and Arne climbing over the gate. The two young men pulled Eirik to his feet and dusted the snow off him tactfully. Eirik dabbed at himself, muttering.

“It was the ice,” Hilde explained awkwardly. “It was so slippery that he – he slipped.”

“Ah yes, it's slippery stuff, ice,” said Arne with a grin. He became serious again. “We've brought some news.”

“Come inside then, before you freeze,” snapped Gudrun, holding the door open. “Hurry! I'm losing all the warmth.”

They all trooped into the house. “It's nothing much,” Bjørn began, but Gudrun stopped him. “Not a word! Not a word of your news do I wish to hear till we've shown you some hospitality. We still know how to welcome our neighbours here, I hope. Hilde, where's your manners? Fetch some ale.”

“In some houses,” Eirik grumbled under his breath, “it's the man who calls for ale!”

The ale was drunk in an atmosphere of polite discomfort. “Well,” said Arne, when Gudrun finally allowed him to speak, “we spoke to the Grimsson boys today. We came straight on from the mill, in fact. They've heard about Ralf. They were – celebrating, I'm afraid.”

“Boasting about how they're going to steal Ralf's land,” Bjørn added.

“We wiped the smile off Baldur's fat face. We told him to leave you alone.”

“Did you see Peer? Was he all right?” asked Hilde anxiously.

Bjørn looked thoughtful. “Yes, we saw him. I hope so. There was a little noise going on when we left, and I forgot to speak to him.”

“Bjørn lost his temper,” Arne grinned.

Gudrun's eyes were wet. She mopped them quickly with her apron. “You're such good friends,” she exclaimed, stretching out her hands. The young men flushed.

“So we'll keep a close eye on the Grimssons for you,” Arne went on hastily, “if Eirik has no objection, that is?”

Everyone looked at Eirik. “What?” said Eirik. “No, er – of course not. Keep an eye on them for all you're worth, young fellow!”

“Good,” said Arne. “If they start any trouble, let us know.” He stood up.

“I'll come out with you,” said Hilde. She slipped out ahead of Bjørn and Arne, surprising three small trolls who were sneaking across the yard.

“Get out!” she yelled, scrabbling in her pocket for stones. They bolted under the gate, and Arne and Bjørn ran up. “Are you all right? We heard you shout.”

“Quite all right, Bjørn, thank you. I was frightening away a few trolls.”

Arne looked at her admiringly. “So you know how to deal with trolls?”

“I'm a pretty good shot,” Hilde boasted.

“But where are you going? To feed the cows? Can I help?”

“No, no!” said Hilde, blushing as Bjørn nudged his brother and grinned. “You should both get home. Grandfather's bones tell him a snowstorm is coming.” As she spoke she realised it was already snowing again. “And it looks as if he's right,” she added.

Arne and Bjørn said goodnight, and Hilde dived into the dark cowshed. She pulled down hay for Bonny and her calf, and threw down fresh straw. When the animals were comfortable, she left the sheltered shed, tramped across the wild white yard and banged on the farmhouse door. She waited, shivering, while Gudrun unbarred it, and then jumped inside, gasping and laughing and brushing off snow.

“Brrr! Shut the door, mother! Whatever are you waiting for?”

“The twins, of course. Aren't they with you?”

“No!” said Hilde, alarmed. “Weren't they with you?”

Gudrun slammed the door. “I thought they went out after you the second time. They went out just before Bjørn and Arne.”

“They never joined me. I've been in the shed.”

They looked at each other.

“Listen,” said Gudrun in a low voice. She pointed to Eirik, asleep by the fire. “Don't wake him yet. Take the lanterns and go round the steading – call them. They may be building a snow fort or something. If not – ah!” She moved her hands despairingly. “What then?”

“What
next?
” said Hilde grimly. “Don't worry, mother. I'll find them.” She plunged back out into the darkness.

The lantern shone on to snow whirling on the ground, picked up and flung about by the wind. It was hard to walk in a straight line.

“Sigurd?” she shouted. “Sigrid? Where are you? Come in at once, supper's ready!

“Sigurd! Come here
now!

“Children! I'll smack you if you don't come!”

A night bird shrieked. What bird would be out in such a night?
Huuu – hutututu!
She shivered. That was no bird; the trolls were out. The wind swept snow into her eyes. She went round to the sheepfold, swinging the lantern. The sheep lay huddled in the shelter of the fence, drifted snow on their backs.

“Sigurd? Sigrid?”

She held the lantern close to the ground, searching for tracks. Her own were obvious, and there were a lot of larger half-filled prints which must belong to Bjørn and Arne. The small light tracks of the little children had disappeared as completely as they had themselves.

“Oh where
are
you?” she cried – and stealthy movements caught her eye. She whirled. Trolls were creeping up to the very edge of her lantern's pool of light, and their eyes reflected flashes of green and red. Hilde stamped her foot and shouted. They scattered, but a moment later a hail of snowballs flew at her, some loaded with stones. She stumbled back to the house.

Gudrun pulled the door open. “Have you found them?”

“No! Ma, the trolls are out there. They've been snowballing me. Ma, can the trolls have stolen them?” She clutched her mother's arm, and they stared at each other, white-faced.

“We must tell Eirik,” said Gudrun. She ran to shake his shoulder. “Eirik, wake up! Wake up! Sigurd and Sigrid are missing!”

Eirik opened his eyes with a start and listened, bewildered, while Hilde and Gudrun gabbled.

“They're missing!”

“It was after Bjørn and Arne left!”

“No, it was before!”

“They went out with you the first time.”

“I know, but —”

“Did they ever come back in?”

“I don't remember. Did they, Grandfather?”

Eirik slapped his knee in irritation. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

Hilde repeated the story in desperation. “They're
lost!
In the
snow!
And the
trolls
are out! And I made them go! Oh, if only they come back, I'll never be mean to them again!” She began to cry.

“Have you looked for them?” Eirik asked. Gudrun's control broke.

“Of course she's looked for them! Why can't you listen? Oh what shall we do? My poor little twins, lured away to die in the snow! I told Ralf there'd be trouble with the trolls, I
told
him, but would he listen? Oh, what shall we do?” She threw her apron over her head and sat down crying hysterically.

Eirik struggled upright in his chair. “Hush, Gudrun, hush,” he began, but as she paid no attention he cleared his throat and thundered, “Woman!”

It worked. Gudrun raised a startled face.

“Will you be quiet?” Eirik demanded. He got to his feet in great excitement. “It's not the trolls. It's not the trolls, I say. It's the Grimssons who've stolen our children away!”

“The Grimssons?” Gudrun asked in wonderment.

“Of course it is!” Eirik raised his stick and whacked it down. “What did you tell us about them, Hilde? Didn't they want a pair of children? And isn't tonight midwinter's eve?”

“They've taken
Sigrid?
” screamed Hilde. “They've taken
Sigurd
and
Sigrid
?”

Alf sprang up, barking. “I'll kill them!” Hilde yelled.

Eirik was still explaining. “…crept up under cover of darkness – probably followed Arne and Bjørn – lay in wait –”

“All that fuss when you fell over,” gasped Hilde. “Perhaps they grabbed them then. There did seem a lot of big footprints, but I never thought! Oh, I can't bear it! They'll be so frightened!” She turned. “Mother, where are you going?”

Gudrun, white-lipped, was wrapping herself up. “To look for them, of course. You stay here and look after Grandpa.”

“By Odin,” shouted Eirik furiously, “you take me for a dotard, you do. Hilde will stay here. Gudrun, you will come with me. We shall go to Arne Egilsson's and raise the village. Ha!” He stamped his foot down into a boot and broke into an old battle chant.

Gudrun shrugged. Her pale face softened into a very faint smile.

“He's exactly like his son,” she remarked proudly.

P
EER CROUCHED ON
the frozen privy floor, wrapping his arms around his knees. He was so cold that in spite of Uncle Baldur's last words to him, he rather thought he might die before morning. That would spoil their plans, he thought bitterly.

The only comfort was that Loki had got away. Everything else was a disaster. He imagined Baldur and Grim kicking open the door of Hilde's house and dragging her out – her mother and her old grandfather would be unable to stop them. With Hilde in their power they would return to the mill for him, Peer, and take the pair of them away up Troll Fell. The Grimssons would collect their golden reward, and he and Hilde would become slaves of the trolls.

As for Loki, he would probably die in the woods, lost and cold and starving. Peer groaned in anguish…

…and heard a slithering sound somewhere over in the corner. He went very still. New fear tingled through him. He had completely forgotten about the other inhabitants of this privy.

The sound came again, accompanied by a creaking noise. Peer could imagine somebody hoisting themselves through one of the holes in the wooden seat. He tried not to breathe.

A voice spoke suddenly. “'Oo's there?” it squeaked.

Peer dared not answer. A second voice spoke up from the pit below, hollow and muffled. “What's up?”

“There's someone 'ere!” squeaked the first voice.

“Light coming up,” boomed the second voice. In utter amazement Peer saw the three holes in the long wooden seat light up, throwing three round patches of light on to the rough roof. An arm came up through the middle hole, carrying a bluish flame.

The creature in the corner reached out and took it; the flame transferred easily from the first hand to the second and seemed not to belong to any oil lamp or taper. It was just a flame, flickering away by itself.

The second creature's head now appeared through the hole. It spotted Peer and squealed. “Ooh! Look at that!”

“It's a boy,” declared the first one in deep disgust.

Peer had never seen such strange beings. Their heads reminded him of turnips. They were lumpy and blotchy and bewhiskered. The one in the corner had an ear that stuck out like a cabbage leaf on one side of its head, while the other ear was small and knobbly. The one peering out of the hole seemed to have no ears at all. And the nose on it! And the mouth! Like a thin line with no lips.

“Are you – lubbers?” Peer quavered.

The first one jumped and the flame swerved and nearly went out. “It talks!”

“Of course it talks,” growled the second lubber. “All boys talk, you fool. Give me that!” It clambered nimbly through the hole and snatched the flame back. Then it crossed its legs and sat on the edge of the seat, looking at Peer.

“Whatcher doing here, then?” it asked chattily, but its bald turnip head and slit-like features did not reassure him.

“My – my uncles locked me in,” Peer explained.

The lubber seemed astonished. “You mean you can't get out?”

“N-no,” Peer faltered, aware of making a mistake. The lubber in the corner nudged its friend.

“He can't get out,” it said.

“Yeah,” said the lubber with the light. “I heard.”

They both stared at Peer, and then as if by unspoken agreement they both shuffled a bit closer to him along the bench.

“So,” said the lubber with the light. “Right cosy little party, this.”

There didn't seem any reply to that. During the next minute's silence, both lubbers came a little bit closer again.

Peer shifted anxiously. He pushed the door, testing it. It would not move. The Grimssons must have stacked half the woodpile against it.

“That's an interesting trick,” he said quickly. “Your light, I mean. H-how does it work?”

“Watch this,” said the lubber with the light. He opened his mouth, wider and wider, till it looked as if his throat had been cut. He placed the flame inside his mouth and shut it. For a moment his cheeks glowed purple and red like a lantern. He gulped, and the flame went out.

In the ensuing darkness Peer felt both the lubbers scuffling much, much nearer.

“Then I snap my fingers,” said the lubber's voice, close to his ear, “and back comes the light. Neat, or what?”

The bluish, bobbing flame appeared not far from Peer's nose.

“It's his party trick,” said the other lubber. They were now one on either side of Peer, and he did not know which way to look.

“It's very clever,” he said desperately.

“It
is
clever,” agreed the lubber. “It's very, very clever, but you know what? It always – makes me –
hungry!
”

Its mouth yawned open next to Peer's shoulder. He leaped aside, cannoning into the other lubber. The touch of it made his flesh crawl: it was clammy and cold.

“Grab him,” shouted the lubber with the light, “the first square meal in ages, I'm sick of beetles and slugs —”

It would be like being eaten by frogs. Mad with loathing, Peer raised his arms to ward the hideous creatures off – and felt something hard being slipped into his hand from above. His fingers knew what it was, they closed over the hilt instinctively.

“Look out!” shrieked the second lubber. “He's got a knife!”

The two lubbers rushed for the holes. There were two splashes, and the light went out. Peer was alone in the dark, though a mumbling, grumbling conversation was going on in the pit below.

A small pearly light dawned near the roof. Peer looked up. “Thank you, Nis!” he said in heartfelt gratitude.

The Nis giggled. “Lubbers is fools, no match for me!”

“I'm sure they're not.” Peer's legs gave way and he sat down.

“Get up! Get up!” hissed the Nis.

“What for?” Peer groaned.

“What for?” The Nis clicked its tongue in disbelief. “For to escape, of course. Hurry! Hurry!”

Peer didn't move. “Nis, I can't get through little holes like you do. The door's barred. I can't get out.”

“
The door is barred, I can't get out!
” the Nis mimicked. “What is the knife for? To cut your way out through the thatch, of course!”

“Of course!” cried Peer. He climbed on to the wooden seat, hoping no lubber would grab his ankles, and began chopping at the bundles of reeds that made up the low roof. They were almost rotten, riddled with rat-runs, bird's nests and passages. He soon broke through, cursing as the thick snow outside fell down his neck and on to his shoulders, and half slithered, half fell down into the yard, where a bundle of hysterical doggy joy leaped upon him and pushed him flat.

“Loki!” spluttered Peer. “Loki, you're safe! All right now, stop it. Let me get up!”

He got up, gulping fresh air in freezing lungfuls. It was snowing again. The Nis scampered past like a little whirlwind and opened the mill door. Peer and Loki ran inside, and the Nis closed the door behind them.

It was blessedly warm. For a few moments all Peer could do was lean shuddering over the long hearth. The fire was dying; the red and violet embers gave little light, but they were still hot. His uncles must have been away for at least an hour. Peer was afraid they would soon be back. He turned around to get warm all over, and saw the Nis perching on the back of Uncle Grim's big chair. It looked at him steadily, eyes gleaming.

“You saved my life,” said Peer. “And you saved Loki earlier, didn't you? You pushed that snow off the roof.”

The Nis scratched itself. It skipped to the floor and spread its long spindly fingers over the fire.

“Why did you do it?” Peer asked. “I thought you were so keen on this wedding.”

“They hasn't invited me,” said the Nis sadly.

“Oh…”

“Such a big wedding.” The Nis looked miserable and its mouth turned down. “The hill to be raised on red pillars. So much food… but they forgets to invite the poor Nis.”

“Perhaps they're only inviting trolls.”

But the Nis shook its head. “Stromkarls, nixies, merrows even, all are going!”

Peer bit his lip. “I'm sure it's been a dreadful oversight. But Nis – Loki and I have to escape before my uncles come back. They've gone for Hilde, so they can take the two of us up Troll Fell and give us to the trolls. But it's not going to happen!” he went on fiercely. “If I'm not here, they won't have the pair they need. And I'm leaving! I've had enough of Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim! I'm going back to Hammerhaven.” Brand and Ingrid would take him in for a while, he was sure. “But first I want what's mine.” He strode over to the locked bin where the money was and rattled the lid. “I need to break into this. Any ideas?”

The Nis darted him a mischievous look. It reached out a long arm and hooked its wooden bowl out of the ashes. It was empty. Baldur and Grim had forgotten to fill it. “I has had enough too, Peer Ulfsson,” the Nis announced importantly. “See me!”

It scampered up the ladder and disappeared over the edge into the loft, where it began puffing and groaning. Bewildered, Peer climbed up to find it heaving away at the upper millstone, trying to lift it from its spindle.

“What on earth?” Peer began, and then he saw. If they could roll the millstone over the edge, it would fall on the chest below. But it must weigh half a ton. They could never lift it.

The Nis doubled limply over the millstone and lay panting. Peer looked about for something else to use. He clenched his fist in triumph. Standing upright against the wall, dark with dust, was the old worn millstone that had been replaced in Baldur's father's time. No need to lift it: it was already on its rim, with just a couple of chocks driven in on the underside to stop it rolling.

The Nis saw, and the sparkle came back into its eyes. It probed under the old millstone, pulling out the chocks. Peer grabbed the top of the stone and felt it roll forward. Between them, they guided it to the edge of the loft. At the very brink they paused and looked at each other. The Nis giggled. Peer grinned and pushed.

There was an ear-splitting crash, and pieces of wood flew like daggers. Loki fled under the table. Peer looked over to see the damage. The millstone had cracked in two, and the wooden bin was firewood. He jumped down, reached into the wreckage, and pulled out a soft leather bag.

It was all there, his father's hard-earned wages – thin copper pennies, and worn silver pieces that slipped gently through his fingers. At the bottom of the bag was his father's old silver ring. He shut his eyes and pushed it on to his own finger.
Father, are you there? Can you hear me? I'm doing what you did, Father. I'm running away.
He waited, as if there could be an answer, before opening his eyes.

He pulled on one of Uncle Baldur's old tunics. It was smelly but warm, and came down to his knees. He seized the best of the blankets from Grim's bed and wrapped it around his shoulders like a cloak. Next he chose the smallest pair of boots. They were still huge, so he stuffed the toes with straw and laced them up tightly.

“We need some food,” he said, taking a loaf from the bread crock. He tore some off to munch and gave half to Loki. The Nis watched, bright-eyed.

“Want some?” asked Peer. The Nis sprang into the rafters and sat nibbling like a squirrel. Peer took a last look at the dark room, the glowing bed of the fire, the shattered millstone and broken bin. “I'm off. Goodbye, Nis. I'll never forget you. But I have to go now, before they get back.”

Snow was falling thickly in the yard. Peer crossed the bridge and decided to leave the road. He did not want to meet his uncles on the way home. Somewhere behind the snow-laden clouds the moon had risen, and he could pick his way up over the glimmering white fields. In spite of the cold and the dangerous journey ahead, he felt he had come to life.

“I'm free!” he said, savouring the word. It was a pity he was leaving the Nis behind. And Hilde. He desperately hoped Hilde would be all right. But leaving seemed to be the only thing he could do for her now. Hilde and her family belonged here: the neighbours would look out for them. Arne and Bjørn would, for example. But Peer? He was nobody's business.
We're just strays, Loki and me. We'd better look out for ourselves. Nobody else will
.

At the top of the big field above the mill, the same field Ralf had galloped across escaping from the trolls all those years ago, he stopped for breath, leaning against the tall stone called the Finger. Out of the steadily falling snow, a white fox came trotting downhill. Loki pricked his ears, whining, and Peer caught his collar. The fox froze with one foot lifted and looked sharply at the boy and his dog.

“Hello!” said Peer, amused. “Going down to the farms to see what you can find? There's a black cockerel at the mill. You can have him and welcome!”

The fox shook its head and sneezed. It sprang away with flattened ears, disappearing into the white world in seconds. Peer laughed. But beside him, Loki growled. A moment late, Peer realised why.

Only a few yards away, two huge shapes emerged from the greyness, plodding uphill. He heard the grumble of two familiar and hated voices. His heart nearly stopped.

Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim!