West of the Moon

Chapter 6

Trolls from the Dovrefell

A MILE OR SO further up the valley, Hilde was eating supper. Through mouthfuls, she told her family about meeting Peer, and the Grimsson brothers’ threats.

“I knew there’d be trouble,” Gudrun exclaimed. “Your father should never have gone.”

“You could always give them the golden cup ?” Hilde cocked an eyebrow at her mother.

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

“I thought you’d say that. I’d better keep an eye on our sheep, then, hadn’t I? In case the Grimssons steal them. I’ll ride up to the Stonemeadow tomorrow.”

“Oh no, you won’t.”

“Why not?” Hilde tossed back her hair, fancying herself as the family’s gallant guardian, patrolling the hills. “Don’t you think I ought to, Grandpa?”

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

“I utterly forbid it,” Gudrun interrupted. “She’s just a girl. What could she do against those two ruffians and their savage dog? Off with you, Hilde, and milk the cow before it gets too dark.”

Hilde picked up the milking bucket and stool and went, banging the door a little harder than necessary. But once she began climbing the steep pasture behind the farm, she felt better. The wide western sky was full of light. It was a perfect spring evening, very quiet, except for far-off sheep bleating, and the sounds of the cow and the pony tearing up grass.

Then she heard a new sound, the unmistakeable high-pitched rattle of milk squirting into a metal pan – accompanied by a weird growling hum 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.

“Oi!” shouted Hilde. The troll snatched up its pail and scampered up the hillside into the twilight. Hilde stood panting, hands on hips. She had to soothe and stroke the cow before Bonny 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, “Bring the broom in with you, Hilde.”

“What broom?” Hilde asked.

“Isn’t it there?” Gudrun came out. “But I left it right by the door,” she said, vexed. “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 varmints!” Eirik shook his head. “Worse than rats. 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.

“When I was a young fellow,” said Eirik gloomily, “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. Now I’m just a useless old man.”

“Nonsense,” Gudrun scolded him. “We need you very much, Eirik. We depend on you for – for wisdom, and advice.”

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

“And stories! Tell us a story, Grandpa,” little Sigrid piped up from the floor where she was playing with the kitten. Eirik tugged her plait with his gnarled old hand.

“A story, missy? What is it to be about?”

“Trolls!” said her brother, Sigurd. The twins scrambled up and pressed close to Eirik’s knees.

“Let me think,” Eirik began. “Let me see. How about a story from a place far to the north, the wild mountains of the Dovrefell, where there are even more trolls than here? And some of them giants, by what I’ve heard!”

“Giants?” Sigurd’s eyes grew wide.

Eirik nodded. “Trolls come all sizes; and the one in this story was a big one, a little taller than a man. She was pretty, I daresay —”

“A pretty troll!” Sigrid interrupted, laughing.

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

Gudrun and Hilde were laughing now.

“Well, this young farmer’s friends and neighbours were disgusted. They thought he was out of his mind to go marrying a troll. They wouldn’t talk to his bride, or visit her. She sat by herself in her nice new house and was very lonely.”

“Poor troll,” said Sigrid.

“Huh,” said Sigurd. “I think he was stupid to marry a troll.”

“See what happened,” said Eirik. “One day, her father paid her a visit. He was a grim old troll from under the Dovrefell, and when he found his daughter sitting crying he said, ‘What’s all this?’” Eirik deepened his voice to a growl. “‘If your husband isn’t kind to you, I’ll tear his arms and legs off!’

“‘It’s the neighbours,’ said the troll bride. ‘They won’t have anything to do with me, and I’m so-o-o lonely!’

“‘Come with me,’ said her father, rolling up his sleeves, ‘and we’ll have a little game of catch.’

“The grim old troll went stamping round the village chasing people out of their houses, and when he got hold of them he threw them right over the Hall roof. And his daughter rushed around the other side and caught each one of them and put them back on their feet.

“When everyone in the village had been thrown over the Hall roof, the old troll shouted, ‘You’d better start being very nice to my daughter. Because if not,’ he glared, ‘if not, I’ll come back and play with you again – only, this time, my daughter will throw, and I will catch!’”

Sigrid looked puzzled. “I don’t understand,” she began.

“Do you think the old troll would really have caught them?” Hilde asked.

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

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

Eirik nodded. “So after that you’d never believe how polite the neighbours were. They called to see her every day and brought 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. As the twins hugged their grandfather and said goodnight, Hilde felt sudden sadness wash over her. If only Pa were here, she thought. But at least he’s alive. Not like Peer Ulfsson’s father. Poor Peer, he must hate living at the mill. I wonder what he’s doing right now?

Peer was eating his frugal supper. His uncles had given him some stale bread, a raw onion, a small piece of dry cheese and the end of a rancid sausage, and gone off somewhere taking Grendel with them, leaving Peer to mind the mill alone – except for Loki, who lay asleep by the fire...

The mill was noisily alive. Everything vibrated. The waterwheel thumped like a dark heart beating. The machinery clacked. Old dust trickled down the walls. Up in the loft, finely ground meal was snowing from the rim of the millstones and piling up on a wooden platform. Peer’s job was to climb the ladder from time to time and sweep it into sacks. It was dark up there, full of spooky shadows and old junk: worm-eaten cogwheels with half the teeth missing, a worn old millstone propped against the wall.

Peer gave the sausage to Loki and looked about, still hungry. The table was cluttered with dirty dishes, bacon rinds and crusts. On the floor by the fire his uncles had left a bowl full of cold, congealed groute, but it did not look very appetising.

I suppose that’s for the Nis, anyway, thought Peer. Even Grendel hasn’t touched it.

He prowled round the room. His uncles hadn’t said how late they’d be. He suspected they had gone out drinking. It was time to try and find where they had hidden his father’s money.

He lifted the lids of several wooden bins, built on either side of the ladder to the loft. Most were empty except for a few dusty grains at the bottom. One held a tangle of old leather harness. And one would not open. The lid was secured with an iron padlock. Peer rattled it. By the fire, Loki raised his head inquiringly. “I’m sure this is the one, Loki!” Peer told him. But knowing that did not help very much.

Reluctantly he climbed the rickety ladder to the grinding loft. A soft ring of flour encircled the millstones. Peer shovelled it into the waiting sack. He peeped into the hopper, which was getting low, and refilled it from a half-full sack of barley, which he could just lift. Pleased with himself, he was about to climb back down, when Loki leaped from his place by the fire and burst out barking, hackles up. Peer looked over the edge of the loft in alarm. Were his uncles coming back? Was it thieves?

Loki pranced, growling, then jumped and snapped at something above his head. He backed a few steps and barked some more, watching the rafters.

Peer slid down the ladder. “Loki, shut up! It’s only a rat.” And he sat on the dirty rush mat and reached out his hands to the fire. Slowly his eyes closed. His head nodded forwards. But Loki barked again, and he sat up with a jerk.

“Stop it!” he complained. Loki flung him an apologetic glance but continued to stand braced and staring upwards. Peer’s head drooped again, but as his eyelids closed he heard a familiar voice. “See my leg?” it giggled. There was another flurry of barks from Loki, who jumped about as if on springs.

Peer’s eyes flew wide. By the flickering firelight he saw something sitting on one of the cross beams. A spindly little leg covered in a worn grey stocking dangled temptingly just over Loki’s head.

“See my little leg?” teased the voice again. Loki leaped again in frustrated frenzy.

“It’s only the Nis, silly!” Peer got up and grabbed his pet, closing his hand around Loki’s muzzle to keep his mouth shut. “Now be quiet.” He stared up into the beams. The leg had been withdrawn. He could just see a dim shape sitting with its arms wrapped round its knees. “Hello!” he said.

“You spoiled the fun,” the Nis sulked.

“I’m sorry.”

The Nis shuffled round on the beam till it had its back turned.

“How’s the groute this evening? Have they given you any butter?” asked Peer cunningly. The Nis came to life at once.

“I doesn’t know, Peer Ulfsson. Has they? Let’s see.”

It ran briskly along the beam and down the wall like a big spider. Peer watched, delighted. It was a little grey, whiskery thing with big hands and long knobbly fingers. Its ragged grey clothing seemed part of it, but it wore a little red cap on its head. Loki backed away grumbling.

The Nis scampered to the bowl of groute and lifted it. “Cold!” it muttered. “Cold as their cruel hearts, and lumpy, too!” It stirred the bowl, scooping up the groute in messy splodges, then sat distastefully licking its fingers.

“Was there any butter?” asked Peer. The Nis shook its head.

“Now for the housework!” it said suddenly. “I has to do the housework, Peer Ulfsson. As long as they feeds me, I has to do the work. But I doesn’t have to do it well. See me!”

The little creature seized a broom bigger than itself and went leaping about the room like a grasshopper, sweeping up great clouds of floury dust. Sneezing, it cleared the dishes from the table and hid the bones under Uncle Baldur’s pillow. It polished the plates with one of Uncle Grim’s shirts, and shook the stale crusts and crumbs into his best boots. The pieces of bacon rind it dropped in front of Loki, who ate them suspiciously. Finally it put three wooden spoons and the frying pan tidily away under Uncle Grim’s mattress.

“Well done,” said Peer, laughing. “Do you always tidy up like that? Won’t they be furious?”

“What can they do?” asked the Nis. “I doesn’t want much, Peer Ulfsson. Only a bit of butter in my groute. Or a drop of honey to keep me sweet.” Loki had fallen asleep. The Nis began sneaking up on him with the obvious intention of pulling his tail.

“Don’t do that,” Peer said. “Tell me about my uncles. I’m sure you know all about them. Where have they gone tonight?”

“To the Stonemeadow. Ssh!” The Nis laid a long finger to its lips and tiptoed closer to Loki.

“Oh, leave him alone! The Stonemeadow? Where’s that?”

The Nis gave up. “High up on Troll Fell!” it snapped.

“I thought they’d gone drinking. What are they doing there?”

The Nis looked at him out of the corner of one eye.

“Talking to trolls? Please tell me,” Peer begged. “I heard them say something about trolls, and taking me to the – to the Gaffer, the King of the Trolls. Is that right? And something about a wedding? Do you know anything? Can you help me?”

The Nis ran into the corner where the big scales hung, and jumped into one of the pans, which hardly moved. It sat there bouncing gently and would not look round.

Peer saw he had gone about things the wrong way.

“Nis,” he called quietly, “I think you’re very clever.”

The Nis sniffed.

“I know a girl who lives on a farm near here. She has lots of butter. Shall I ask her to give me a big lump all for you?”

The Nis twitched and the scales swayed.

“Please be my friend, Nis, and I’ll be yours.” Peer stopped as his voice shook. He so badly wanted a friend.

The Nis relented. It sat cross-legged in the pan and leaned on the chains to make the scales swing. “What does you want to know, Peer Ulfsson?”

Peer didn’t know where to start. “Well – what’s this wedding?”

“Oh!” The Nis got very excited. “A very big wedding indeed! At midwinter, the Gaffer, the old King of Troll Fell, will marry his son to – guess who?”

“I can’t guess,” said Peer.

“Guess! Guess!” the Nis insisted.

“I can’t,” Peer laughed. “Tell me!”

The Nis paused, and said in a hushed voice, “To the King of the Dovrefell’s daughter!” It sat back.

It meant something to Peer after all. Even he had heard of the trolls of the Dovrefell, the wild mountain range to the north. “That’s an important match?” he suggested.

The Nis nodded. “Everyone is going, Peer Ulfsson. They say the bride is very beautiful. There will be such a feast!” It wriggled with delight and cracked its knuckles.

“Are you going?”

The Nis’s face fell. “I doesn’t know,” it admitted. “Food and drink, as much as you can hold, music and dancing, and the hill raised up on red pillars – but they hasn’t invited poor Nithing yet.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of time, if it’s not till midwinter. But what has the troll wedding got to do with Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim? What are they up to on Troll Fell in the middle of the night?”

“Middle of the night is daytime for trolls,” the Nis pointed out scornfully. “If Grimssons go knocking on the troll gate at noon, what will they hear? Snores.”

“I see that. But what do they want with the trolls at all?”

The Nis was getting bored and fidgety. “Treasure,” it yawned, showing a pink tongue and sharp little teeth like a kitten’s.

“Troll gold? Yes, but why,” said Peer, struggling to make sense of it, “why would the trolls give them any? I don’t understand.”

With a loud squeak, the scales tipped as the Nis leaped into the rafters like a squirrel. Heavy feet sounded at the door. In tramped Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim, stamping mud from their boots, cold night air pouring from them like water. They looked sour and displeased. Grendel loped behind them, and Loki nipped quickly outside.

Peer scrambled up. Uncle Baldur took him by the ear, led him to the door and booted him out. “Make yourself useful, you idle young layabout. I want the wheel stopped now.”

“But I don’t know how,” Peer called at the closing door.

Uncle Baldur paused with the door a couple of inches open. “Go and lower the sluicegate, of course. And then get off to the barn. Don’t come knocking and disturbing us – it’s late!”

And the door slammed shut.

Chapter 7

Granny Greenteeth

IT WAS PAST midnight. A star fell over the barn roof. Peer shivered, wrapping his arms across his chest.

“They didn’t look too happy, did they?” he muttered to Loki. “Perhaps their interview with the King of Troll Fell didn’t go too well. No need to take it out on us, though. Lower the sluicegate? At this hour?”

Loki whined softly. Peer didn’t know which was scarier, to disobey Uncle Baldur or go up near that dark millpond by himself.

“Into the barn with you,” he told Loki, dragging him there by the collar. “Sit. Stay! I’m not risking you.” Loki’s eyes gleamed in the dark and again he whined gently.

Peer crossed the yard and turned on to the wooden bridge. The mill clacked steadily. The wheel churned, chopping the water with dripping blades that glinted in the starlight. Peer leaned on the rail, trying to gather courage to go on.

A black shadow moved at the corner of his eye. He whipped around, heart beating wildly. But it was only a woman plodding up the road, dressed in dark clothes with a scarf over her head. She was using a stick to help herself along.

She saw him and stopped. Realising that she too might be nervous, Peer called out softly. “It’s all right. I’m the – the millers’ boy. Only the millers’ boy.”

“The millers’ boy!” repeated the woman. “And what is the millers’ boy doing out here so late?”

“I have to close the sluicegate,” said Peer.

“Ah!” The woman looked at him. It was too dark to see her face properly, but her eyes glittered in the starlight. “So late at night, that’s a job for the miller himself. He shouldn’t be sending a boy out. They say Granny Greenteeth lives in the millpond. Aren’t you afraid of her?”

“A bit,” Peer confessed, “but if I don’t go my uncles will be angry.”

“And you’re more afraid of them.” The woman nodded angrily. “Ah, Baldur Grimsson, Grim Grimsson, I’d make you sorry if I had my way!” She shook her finger at the lightless mill before turning to Peer again. “I’ll come along with you, my son, if you like.”

Peer hesitated. Something about the old woman made him shiver, but his father had taught him to honour old people, and he didn’t know how to refuse. And it was true he would feel braver with company, though the path to the sluice seemed no place for an old lady to be hobbling along at night. He made her a stiff little bow and offered her his arm. She took it with a chuckle and a cough.

“Quite the young lord! You didn’t learn your manners from the Grimssons. What’s your name, boy?”

“Peer Ulfsson – ma’am.” Peer winced as her cold claw dug into his arm. She was surprisingly smelly too, now he was close to her. Her clothes must be damp, mouldy, or something.

But he was glad she was there. As they passed the millrace, he knew he would have been terrified by himself. The threshing wheel and racing water made him dizzy; there was a cold draught fanned by the wheel, and a smell of wet stone and black slime. He tripped, and the old woman steadied him, hugging his arm to her side. She felt strong, and cold.

At the edge of the millpond she released his arm so he could step on to the narrow walkway above the sluice. The pond was so black he could not see where the surface lay. If only there was a guardrail! He shuffled out and grabbed the handle of the sluicegate, remembering it acted like a simple shutter. He leaned his weight on it, driving the gate down against the pressure of the water. The wheel slowed, its great vanes dripping. The rattle and grumble of the mill faltered and ceased. Only the sound of the water was left, tumbling over the weir.

“Well done,” said the old woman. She stretched out a hand to help Peer off the bridge. He took it and then let go with a cry. It was clammy – and wet – and webbed.

The late moon was rising. She stood quietly at the end of the plank, leaning on her stick. Her long skirt and cloak weren’t damp but wet – soaking wet. How had she got so wet? She pulled her scarf away from her head in fronds of trailing weed. She smiled. Even in the moonlight he could see her teeth were sharp points. Peer’s hand shook on the sluice handle. He had walked here with Granny Greenteeth herself!

The woman chuckled, like the brook gurgling. “Yesss… I like to take a stroll on a fine evening. Poor boy, didn’t you know me? Shall I tell you how?” She leaned towards him. “Watch for the sign of the river,” she whispered. “A dripping hem or sleeve. Wet footprints on the doorstep.”

Peer nodded, dry-mouthed. Granny Greenteeth drew back, as if satisfied that she had scared him. “I hate the miller,” she hissed. “Oh, how I hate him, thinking he owns my water, boasting about his mill. Now I will punish him by taking you.”

Peer clung to the post of the sluice. “But he doesn’t care anything about me. Neither of them does. The only thing they care about is their dog, Grendel. Please!”

“Ssso?” Granny Greenteeth paused. Peer waited, shivering. At last she smiled, showing dark triangular teeth. “Then I shall send that dog, Grendel, with an apple in his mouth, as a dish for my friend the Dovreking’s daughter, at her midwinter wedding. But as for you! Don’t you know the miller has plans for you?”

“Plans?” Peer’s heart thudded.

Granny Greenteeth leaned both hands on her stick, like the old woman he had supposed her to be. “We’ll have a little gossip, shall we? I hear it all, you know. Every stream on Troll Fell runs into my river!

“After the old miller died – bad riddance to him! – the two young ’uns knew where the troll gate was. And they wouldn’t let it alone. Knocking and banging, day after day! Hoping to get at the gold, weren’t they? Even tried bribes. Imagine! They left fine white bread there, and trout stolen from my water. Ah! Yet they never gave me anything.” Granny Greenteeth worked her mouth as though chewing on something bitter. She spat.

“And this went on and on, didn’t it? And at last the Troll King got tired of all this hammering and shouting outside his gate. Not seemly was it?

“So to get rid of them he thinks up something difficult. He sends word: My eldest son will be married at midwinter. He wishes to present his bride with a slave boy, as a betrothal gift. Bring me a slave boy, and you shall have your gold.”

Granny Greenteeth nodded spitefully at Peer. “And that’s where you come in, my son. Your precious uncles – your flesh and blood – will sell you to the trolls.”

Peer’s heart turned to ice.

“So now you’ll come with me, won’t you?” Granny Greenteeth coaxed. “You’ll help old Granny. Baldur Grimsson wants that gold to build a bigger mill. I’d drown him sooner! But he never puts a foot wrong. He knows I’m after him.”

“Let me go,” Peer croaked. “Please…”

“Ah, but where?” she cried. “Come to me, Peer, come to me.” She stretched out her arms to him and her voice became a low musical murmur like the brook in summer. “I’ll take you – I’ll love you – I’ll look after you. Who else will? I’ll give you an everlasting bed. Come down under the water and rest. Ressst your weary bones.”

White mist rose from the millpond, flowing in soft wreaths over the plank bridge and swirling gently around Peer’s knees. His teeth chattered and his head swam. How easy it would be to let go, to fall into the soft mist. No one would grieve. All for the best, maybe.