troll fell

troll fell

KATHERINE LANGRISH

This book is for my mother and father

*

Among the many people I have to thank:

Alan Stoyel and Critchell Britten, for patiently and kindly answering dozens of questions about watermills

Susan Price, for the tail-wagging troll

Lyndsay Stringfellow, for letting me talk trolls on innumerable walks

Liz Kessler of Cornerstones, for warmth, enthusiasm, spot-on criticism and friendship

Catherine Clarke, agent extraordinaire

Zoë Clarke, Robin Stamm and all at HarperCollins

and Dave, Alice and Isobel – first and best of readers

CHAPTER 1

The Coming of Uncle Baldur

Peer Ulfsson stood miserably at his father’s funeral pyre, watching the sparks whirl up like millions of shining spirits streaking away into the dark.

Dizzily he followed their bright career, unwilling to lower his eyes. The fire gobbled everything like a starving monster, crackling and crunching on bone-dry branches, hissing and spitting on green timber, licking up dribbles of resin from bleeding chunks of pinewood.

The heat struck his face and scorched his clothes. Tears baked on his cheeks. But his back was freezing, and a raw wind fingered the nape of his neck.

Father! thought Peer desperately. Where have you gone?

Suddenly he was sure the whole thing must be a bad dream. If he turned round, his father would be standing close, ready to give him a comforting squeeze. Behind me – just behind me! thought Peer. He turned slowly, stiffly, wanting to see his father’s thin, tanned face carved with deep lines of laughter and life. The black wind cut tears from his eyes. The sloping shingle beach ran steep and empty into the sea.

A small body bumped Peer’s legs. He reached down. His dog Loki leaned against him, a rough-haired, fleabitten brown mongrel – all the family Peer had left. Friends and neighbours crowded in a ring around the pyre, patiently watching and waiting. Their faces were curves of light and hollows of darkness: the flames lit up their steaming breath like dragon-smoke; they blew on their fingers and turned up their collars against the piercing wind.

The pyre flung violent shadows up and down the beach. Stones bigger than a man’s head blackened and cracked around it. Hidden in its white depths his father’s body lay, folded in flames.

Over the fire the night air wobbled and shook, magnifying the shapes of the people opposite. It was like looking through a magic glass into a world of ghosts and monsters, perhaps the world to which his father’s spirit was passing, beginning the long journey to the land of the dead. Peer gazed, awed, into the hot shimmer. What if he comes to me? What if I see him? Smoke unravelled in the air like half-finished gestures. Was that a pale face turning towards him? A dim arm waving? Peer’s breath stuck. A shadow lurched into life, beyond the fire. It can’t be! He glanced round in panic. Can anyone else see it? The shadow tramped forwards, man-shaped, looming up behind the people, who hadn’t noticed – who still hadn’t noticed—

Peer gave a strangled shout: “What’s that?”

A huge man lumbered into the circle of firelight, a sort of black haystack with thick groping arms. His scowling face shone red in the firelight as he elbowed rudely through the crowd. People turned, scattering. A mutter of alarm ran around the gathering.

Shoving forwards, the stranger tramped right up to the pyre and turned, his boots carelessly planted among the glowing ashes. Now he was a black giant against the flames. Everyone stared in uneasy silence. What did he want?

He spoke in a high, cracked voice, shrill as a whistle. “I’ve come for the boy. Which is Ulf’s son?”

Nobody answered. A shiver ran across the crowd. The men closest to Peer shuffled quietly nearer, drawing close around him. Catching the movement, the giant turned slowly, watching them. He lifted his head like a wolf smelling out its prey. Peer forgot to breathe. Their eyes met, and he winced. Sharp as little black glittering drills, those eyes seemed to bore through to the back of his head.

The stranger gave a satisfied grunt and bore down on him like a landslide. Enormous fingers crunched on his arm, hauling him out of the crowd. High over his head the reedy voice piped tonelessly, “I’m your uncle, Baldur Grimsson. From now on, you’ll be living with me!”

“But I haven’t got an uncle!” Peer gasped.

The huge stranger paid no attention. He dragged Peer’s arm up, twisting it. Peer yelped in pain, and Loki began to growl.

“I don’t like saying things twice!” said the man menacingly. “I’m your Uncle Baldur, the miller of Trollsvik. Come on!” He challenged the crowd. “You all know it’s true. Tell him so, before I twist his arm off!”

“Why—” Brand the shipbuilder stepped forwards uncertainly, rubbing his hands. Peer stared at him in disbelief. Brand spread his arms helplessly. “This – that is to say, Peer, your father did tell me once—”

His wife Ingrid pushed in front of him, glaring. “Let go of the boy, you brute! How dare you show your face here? We all know that poor Ulf never had anything to do with you!”

“Is this my uncle?” Peer whispered. He twisted his head and looked up at Uncle Baldur. It was like looking up at a dark cliff. First came a powerful chest, then a thick neck, gleaming like naked rock. There was a black beard like a rook’s nest. Then a face of stony slabs with bristling black eyebrows for ledges. At the top came a tangled bush of black hair.

Loki’s body tensed against Peer’s legs, quivering with growls. In another moment he would bite. Uncle Baldur knew it too, and Peer read the death penalty in his face. “Loki!” he cried sharply, afraid. “Quiet!”

Loki subsided. Uncle Baldur let Peer go and bent his shaggy head to look at the dog.

“What d’you call that?” he taunted.

“He’s my dog, Loki,” said Peer defiantly, rubbing his bruised arm.

“That, a dog? Wait till my dog meets him. He’ll eat ’im!” Uncle Baldur tipped back his head and yelped with laughter. Peer glared at him. Brand put a protective arm round his shoulder.

“You can’t take the boy away,” he began. “We’re looking after him!”

“You? Who are you?” spat Uncle Baldur.

“He’s the master shipbuilder of Hammerhaven, that’s who he is!” declared Ingrid angrily, folding her arms. “Peer’s poor father was his best carpenter!”

“Best of a bad lot, eh?” sneered Uncle Baldur. “Could he make a barrel that didn’t leak?”

Brand glared at Baldur. “Ulf did a wonderful job on the new ship. Never made a mistake!”

“No? But he sliced himself with a chisel and died when it turned bad!” scoffed Uncle Baldur. “Some carpenter!”

Peer’s heart rapped like a hammer, hurting his chest. He leaped forwards. “Don’t talk about my father like that! You want to know what he could do? That’s what he could do! That’s what he made! See!” He pointed defiantly past Uncle Baldur.

High over the heads of the crowd reared the fierce dragon neck and head of the new longship. People stepped back, opening a path to where it lay chocked upright on the shelving beach. And the dragon head glared straight at Uncle Baldur, ogling him threateningly, as if it commanded the sea behind it, whose dark armies of marching waves rushed snarling up the shingle.

Uncle Baldur rocked back, off balance. He lowered his head and clenched his fists. Then he shrugged. “A dragonship! A pretty toy!” he jeered, turning his back on it. The crowd muttered angrily, but Uncle Baldur ignored them. He seized Peer’s arm again. “You’ll come now. I’m a busy man. I’ve a mill to run, and no time to waste!”

With a bang, a piece of wood exploded in the heart of the pyre. People dodged as the fire spat glowing fragments at their feet. The whole burning structure slipped and settled. Brand stepped in front of Uncle Baldur, barring his way.

“You won’t drag the boy away from his father’s funeral!” he exclaimed. “Why – it’s not even over!”

“A funeral? And I thought it was a pig-roast!” Uncle Baldur crowed with laughter. Sickened, Peer jerked his arm free, as the crowd surged angrily forwards, some crying, “Shame!” They surrounded Uncle Baldur, who shifted uneasily, looking around. “Can’t you take a joke?” he complained.

“Show some respect!” said Brand curtly.

Uncle Baldur grunted. Summing up the crowd with his sharp black eyes, he said at last, “Very well. I’ll stay a day or two. There’ll be stuff to sell off, I suppose?” Jerking his head towards Brand, he asked Peer shrilly, “Has he paid up your dad’s last wages – eh?”

“Yes! Of course he has,” Peer stammered angrily. “He’s been very kind to me – he’s arranged everything.”

“Nothing owing?” Uncle Baldur scowled, disappointed. “I’ll soon see. Your father may have been a halfwit, but nobody cheats me.”

Behind him, the funeral pyre collapsed into a pile of glowing ash and sighed out a last stream of sparks which sped away for ever.

With the eagerness of a pig digging for truffles, Uncle Baldur set about selling off Peer’s home. Stools, pots, blankets, Ulf’s cherished mallets and bright chisels – Uncle Baldur squeezed the last penny out of every deal. At first the neighbours paid generously for Peer’s goods. Then they realised where the money was going.

Brand dared to complain. Uncle Baldur stared at him coldly and jingled the silver and copper in his pocket. “It’s mine,” he said flatly. “Ulf owed me money.”

“That’s not true!” said Peer furiously.

“Prove it!” jeered his uncle. “And what’s that ring you’ve got? Silver, eh? Boys don’t wear rings. Give it here!”

“No! It was my father’s!” Peer backed away, hands behind his back. Uncle Baldur grabbed him, forcing his fingers open. He wrenched the ring off and tried pushing it over his own hairy knuckles, but it was too tight. He bit it. “Silver,” he nodded, and stuffed it in his pocket.

Fat, comfortable Ingrid took Peer in and tried to mother him. “Cheer up, my pet,” she crooned sympathetically, pushing a honey cake into his hand. Peer let his hand fall. The honey cake disappeared into the eager jaws of Loki, who was lurking under the table.

“Ingrid,” Peer said in desperation, “how can that fat beast be my uncle?”

Ingrid’s plump face cramped into worried folds. She sat down heavily and reached across the table to pat his hand. “It’s a sad story, Peer. Your father never wanted to tell you. He was just a boy when his own father died, and his mother married the miller at Trollsvik, the other side of Troll Fell. Poor soul, she lived to regret it. The old miller was a cruel hard man.”

Peer flushed and his fists clenched. “He beat my father?”

“Well,” said Ingrid cautiously, “what your father could not stand, was to see his mother knocked about. So he ran away, you see, and never saw her again. And in the meantime she had two more boys, and this Baldur is one of them. They’re your father’s own half-brothers, but as far as I know, he never laid eyes on them.”

She got up and bustled about, lifting her wooden bread bowl from the hearth and pouring a yeasty froth into the warm flour.

“Still, the old miller’s dead now, and his wife too. Perhaps things will all come right at last! Maybe it’s meant to happen. If your uncles don’t marry, the mill could come to you one day! I know your uncle Baldur is very rough-spoken, and not a bit like your father, but blood is thicker than water. After all, he did come to find you! Surely he’ll look after you, you poor, poor boy.”

“I don’t want to live with him!” Peer shivered. “Or at his mill. What will I do there, way up over Troll Fell? I won’t have any friends.”

“Perhaps you’ll like it,” said Ingrid hopefully. “Though Troll Fell itself is a bleak, unchancy place,” she added, frowning. “I’ve heard many an odd tale— But there! Your uncles are the millers, so I’m sure you’ll live in style. Millers are always well-to-do.”

Peer was silent.

“Ingrid?” He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t I – couldn’t I stay here with you?”

“Oh, my dearie!” cried Ingrid. “Don’t think we haven’t thought about it. But we can’t. He’s your uncle, you see. He’s got a right to you, and we haven’t.”

“No,” said Peer bitterly. “Of course not. I understand.”

Ingrid flushed deeply. “We only want the best for you,” she pleaded. She tried to put an arm round him, but Peer hunched his shoulder at her. “And don’t forget,” she went on, turning back to her bread-making, “he’s not your only uncle. There’s another brother up at the mill, isn’t there? Don’t you think your father would have wanted you to try?”

“Maybe. Yes,” said Peer. He shut his eyes on a sudden glimpse of his father, turning over a piece of oak and saying as he often did, “You’ve got to make the best of the wood you’re given, Peer. And that’s true in life, too!” He could almost smell the sweet sawdust clinging to his father’s clothes.

“I’m worried. About Loki,” he muttered presently, twiddling a piece of dough between his fingers. He pulled little bits off, rolled them into balls and flicked them away. “Uncle Baldur said his dog would eat him. I don’t even know if I’m going to be allowed to keep him!” His voice shook.

“Now that’s silly!” said Ingrid briskly. “Loki will make friends with your uncle’s dog, you’ll see! You’ll be all right, won’t you, boy?” she said to Loki, who thumped his tail.

An ox-cart drove up outside. Loki sprang to his feet barking. The door thudded open and the room darkened as Uncle Baldur bent his head and shoulders to come through.

“Boy!” Uncle Baldur squealed. “Are those chickens in the yard yours? I thought so. I’m taking them. Catch them and put them in the cart. We’re leaving. Run!”

Peer fled outside, Loki at his heels. A fine row blew up indoors as his uncle accused Ingrid of trying to steal the chickens. Peer began stalking a fat speckled hen, but she squawked in fright and ran. Peer chased her. Loki joined in. He dashed at the hens, barking excitedly. Feathers flew as the hens scattered, cackling wildly. “Bad dog! Stop it, Loki!” Peer cried, but Loki had lost his head and was hurtling around the yard with a mouthful of brown tailfeathers.

The house door slammed open, bouncing off the wall. Uncle Baldur burst through, bent down, heaved up the heavy doorstop and hurled it at Loki. There were two shrieks, one from Peer and the other from Loki, who lay down suddenly and licked his flank, whimpering.

“You could have killed him!” Peer yelled. His uncle turned on him.

“If he ever chases my chickens again, I will,” he wheezed savagely. “Now catch them, and tie them up with this.” He threw Peer a hank of twine. “Be quick!”

The exhausted hens crowded together in a frilly huddle. Peer captured them and tied their feet together. “Sorry!” he mumbled to them as he carried them in pairs to the ox-cart. There they lay on the splintery boards, gargling faintly. As Peer finished, Uncle Baldur came up dragging a reluctant Loki along by a string round his neck.

“Fasten ’im to the tail of the cart,” his uncle ordered. “He can run along behind.” He grinned, sneering. “It’s a long way. Think he’ll make it?”

Loki limped pathetically. “Can’t he ride?” Peer faltered. “Look, he’s lame…”

His voice died under Uncle Baldur’s unwinking stare, and miserably he did as he was told. Then he clambered up into the cart himself. It was time to go.

Ingrid came out to see him off, wiping first her hands and then her eyes on her apron.

“You poor lamb!” she wailed. “Dragged off at a moment’s notice! And Brand’s down at the shipyard, and can’t even say goodbye. What he’ll say when he hears, I don’t dare to think! Come back soon, Peer, and see us!”

“I will if I can,” he promised glumly. The cart tipped, creaking, as Uncle Baldur hauled himself up. He took a new piece of twine from his pocket, and tied one end round the rail of the cart. Then he tied the other end, in a businesslike manner, around Peer’s right wrist. Peer’s mouth fell open. He tried to jerk away, and got his ears slapped.

“Whatever are you doing?” shrieked Ingrid, bustling forwards. “Untie the boy, you brute!” Uncle Baldur looked round at her, mildly surprised. “Got to fasten up the livestock,” he explained. “Chickens or boys – can’t have ’em escaping, running around loose.” Ingrid opened her mouth – and shut it. She looked at Peer. Peer looked back. See? he told her silently.

“Gee! Hoick!” screamed Uncle Baldur, climbing on to the driving seat and cracking his whip over the oxen. The cart lurched. Peer stared resolutely forwards. He didn’t wave goodbye to Ingrid.

Soon the town of Hammerhaven was out of sight. The steep, rough road twisted up into stony and boggy moorland, looping round white rocks and black pools of peatwater. Low woods of birch and spruce grew on both sides of the road, and rough clumps of heather and bilberry. If the oxen tried to snatch a mouthful as they passed, Uncle Baldur’s whip snapped out.

“Garn! Grr! Hoick, hoick!” The cart tilted like the deck of a ship as one wheel rose over a huge boulder, then dropped with a crash that nearly drove Peer’s spine right through his skull. The oxen snorted, straining to drag not only the cart, but big fat Uncle Baldur up the steep slope.

“Uncle,” Peer hinted. “Shall I get out and walk?”

But his uncle ignored him. Peer muttered a bad word under his breath and sat down uncomfortably on a pile of sacks. His arm was stretched awkwardly up, still tied with twine to the rail of the cart. The pile of chickens slid about, flapping as the cart jolted. He counted them. They were all there: the little black one with the red comb, the three speckled sisters, the five big brown ones. They rolled red-rimmed eyes at him and squawked.

“It’s not my fault,” he told them sadly.

Over the end of the cart he could see Loki, trotting along with his head and tail low. Peer called. Loki glanced up briefly. He looked miserable, but the limp had gone – he’d been faking it, Peer decided.

They came round a bend in the road. Peer turned his head, then pulled himself up on to his knees and gazed.

In front, dwarfing Uncle Baldur’s bulky shoulders, the land swooped upwards. In heaves and hollows and scallops, crag above crag, upland beyond upland: in murky shouldering ridges, clotted with trees, tumbling with rockfalls, the flanks of Troll Fell rose before him. The narrow, rutted track scrambled breathlessly towards the skyline and vanished.

Tipping his head back, Peer stared upwards at the summit, where he thought he could discern a savage crown of rocks. But as he watched, the clouds came lower. The top of Troll Fell wrapped itself in mist.

The light was fading. Fine cold rain began to soak into Peer’s clothes. He dragged out a sack and draped it over his shoulders. Uncle Baldur pulled up the hood of his thick cloak.

Great shadowy boulders loomed up out of the drizzle on both sides of the track. They seemed to stare at Peer as he huddled uneasily in the bottom of the cart. One looked like a giant’s head with shallow scooped-out eyes and sneering mouth. One had a blind muzzle poking at the sky. Something bolted out from under it as the cart passed, kicking itself up the hillside with powerful leaps. Peer sat up, startled, as it swerved out of sight. What was that? Too big for a hare – and he thought he’d seen elbows…

From the hidden crest of Troll Fell rolled a sinister chuckle of thunder. A wind sprang up, hissing through the rocks. Mud sprayed from the great wooden cartwheels. Peer clutched the sodden sack under his chin and sat jolting and shivering.

At last he realised from the angle of the cart that they were over the saddle of the hill, beginning to descend towards Trollsvik. Leaning forwards, he looked down into a great shadowy basin. A few faint lights freckled the dim valley. That must be the village. Frozen and soaked, he thought longingly of dry clothes, a fire, hot drinks and food. He had hardly spoken to his uncle all the way, but now he called out as politely as he could, “Uncle? How far is the mill?”

Uncle Baldur jerked his head to the left and pointed. “Down there, among the trees yonder. A matter of half a mile. Beside the brook.” He sounded quite civil for once, and Peer was encouraged. Perhaps his uncle could be normal, after all.

To his surprise, Uncle Baldur spoke over his shoulder again. “Home!” he cried in his shrill toad’s croak. “Lived there all me life, and me father before me, and his father before him! Millers all.”

“That’s nice,” Peer agreed, between chattering teeth.

“Needs new machinery,” complained his uncle. “And a new wheel, and the dam repaired,” he added. “If I had the money – if I had my rights—”

Well you’ve got my money now, thought Peer bitterly.

“A pity your father was dirt-poor,” his uncle went on. “I’m proud of that place. I’d do a lot for that place. I’m the miller. The miller is an important man. I deserve to be rich. I will be rich. Hark!”

He leaned back hard, forcing the oxen to stop. The track here plunged between steep banks, and the cart slewed, blocking the road. Loki yelped as the string yanked him off his feet. Peer cried out in distress, but Uncle Baldur twisted round, straining his thick neck and raising one hand.

“Quiet!” he muttered. “Hear that? Someone coming. Catching us up.”

Peer stared uneasily into the night, listening. It was too dark to see properly. What had Uncle Baldur heard? Why would he stop on this wild, lonely road? He held his breath. Was that a bird shrieking – that long, burbling cry drifting on the wind?

“Who is it? Who is 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, and Peer’s skin crawled. The darkness, the whole wild hillside – suddenly anywhere seemed safer than staying with Uncle Baldur in this cart. He tugged the twine that held his wrist, testing it. It felt tight and strong. He couldn’t jump out and run.

Stones clattered on the track close behind. Loki scuttled under the tail of the cart, and Peer heard him growling. He braced himself. What was coming?

There was a loud, disapproving snort. Out of the rain emerged the dim shape of a small, wet pony picking its way downhill, carrying a rider and a packsaddle. On seeing the cart, it flung up its head and shied. There was no room to pass. The rider shouted, “Hello there! Can you move that cart? I can’t get through.”

Uncle Baldur sat motionless for a second, taking deep breaths of fury. To Peer’s amazement, he then flung down the reins and surged to his feet, teetering on the cart’s narrow step. His shock of black hair and tangled beard mingled with the thunderclouds: he looked like a mighty headless pillar.

“Ralf Eiriksson!” he screamed. “I know you, you cheating piece of stinking offal! How dare you creep around up here, you – you crawling worm!”

“Baldur Grimsson!” muttered the rider wearily. “Just my luck! Shift your cart, you fat fool. I’m trying to get home.”

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

Troll Fell cracked out a blinding whip of lightning and a heart-stopping jolt of thunder. The rain began falling twice as hard. Beaten by the downpour, Uncle Baldur threw himself back on to his seat and grabbed for the reins. The oxen slowly plodded forwards. Without another word, the rider trotted briskly past, and soon struck off along an even rougher track that led away to the right.

Gritting his teeth, Peer clung to the side of the cart as it crashed and slithered down the slope.

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

Sick, cold and miserable, he tried to picture his father, as if the memory could blot out Uncle Baldur. He thought of his father’s bright, kind eyes, his thin shoulders hunched from bending over his chisel and plane. What would he say now, if only he knew?

I can guess, he told himself sternly. He’d say, “Keep your heart up, Peer!” Like Ingrid said, I’ve got another uncle at the mill, and he can’t be as bad as this. There can only be one Uncle Baldur. Maybe Uncle Grim will take after my side of the family. Maybe – just maybe – he might even be a little bit like Father!

The cart rattled down one last slope and trundled over a shaky wooden bridge. Peer looked down apprehensively at the black glancing water hurtling underneath. “Gee!” howled Uncle Baldur, cracking his whip. The sound was lost in the roar of the stream. On the other side of the bridge, Peer saw the mill.

It crouched dismally on the bank, squinting into the stream, a long black building that looked as if it had been cold for ages and didn’t know how to get warm again. Wild trees pressed around it, tossing despairing arms in the wind. Uncle Baldur drove the cart round the end of the building, into a pinched little yard on the other side. As the sky lit up again with lightning, Peer saw to his right the stained frontage of the mill, with dripping thatch hanging low over sly little black windows. To his left lurked a dark barn, with a gaping entrance like an open mouth. Ahead stretched a line of mean-looking sheds. The weary oxen splashed to a halt, and a wolf-like baying broke out from some unseen dog. Uncle Baldur dropped the reins, stretching his arms till the joints cracked.

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

“Uncle Grim will be different,” he muttered aloud desperately. “I know he will. There can’t be another Uncle Baldur. Even his own brother couldn’t—”

The latch lifted with a noisy click, and he heard a new, deep voice saying loudly, “Let’s take a look at him, then!”

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

CHAPTER 2

The Departure of Ralf

In a small, damp farmhouse higher up the valley, Hilde scowled down at her knitting needles. Her head ached from the strain of peering at the stitches in the firelight. She dropped one, and muttered angrily as a ladder ran down the rough grey sock she was making. It was impossible to concentrate. She felt too worried. And she knew her mother did too, although she was calmly patching a pair of trousers. Hilde took a deep breath.

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

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

“At last!” said Gudrun, smiling in relief. As Hilde ran joyfully out into the wild, wet night, the wind snatched the heavy farmhouse door from her hands and slammed it violently behind her.

“I’m back!” said her father, throwing her the reins. “Rub him down well, but hurry! I’ve got news.” His long blond hair was plastered to his head and his boots and leggings were covered in mud.

“You’re soaking! Go in and get dry,” said Hilde, leading the steaming pony into the stable. Ralf followed 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.

“Nothing to worry about! He yelled a few insults, as usual. That’s not my news! Hilde, you’ll never guess—” Ralf stopped and gave her a strange look, excited and apprehensive.

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

“There’s a new ship in the harbour, Hilde!” His blue eyes flashed with excitement. “A new longship, ready to sail! And I – well, no, I’d better tell your mother first. Now hurry, hurry up and you’ll soon hear all about it!” He tugged her long hair and left her.

Hilde bit her lip thoughtfully. She rubbed the pony dry and threw down fresh straw, feeling uncomfortable and alarmed – trying not to think what he might be up to.

She wanted to be inside with the family. It was creepy out here with the wind howling outside. The small lantern cast huge shadows. She whistled to keep up her courage, but the whistle faded.

Kari, the little barn cat who kept down the rats and mice, came strolling along the edge of the manger. She ducked her head, purring loudly as Hilde tickled her. But she suddenly froze. Her ears flattened, her eyes glared and she spat furiously. Hilde turned and saw with horror a thin black arm coming through the loophole in the door. It felt around for the latch. She screamed and hit it with the broom. Immediately, the hand vanished.

“Trolls!” Hilde hissed. “Not again!” Dropping the broom, she grabbed the pitchfork and waited breathlessly, but nothing more happened. After a moment she let out her breath, tiptoed to the door and peered out. Falling rain glittered in the doorway. At her feet a black shadow shifted. Squatting there in the mud, all arms and legs, with its knees up past its large black ears, was a thing about the size of a large dog. It made her think of a spider, a fat, paunchy body slung between long legs. She saw damp, bald skin twitching in the rain. Glowing yellow eyes blinked from a black 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.

Her father and mother were shouting so loudly that Hilde put both hands over her ears. The door slammed again with a deafening bang. And so she forgot 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.

“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!”

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

His wife made a spitting sound of contempt, and Ralf, scarlet in the face, leaned back against the wall in an effort to look careless and cool. It failed badly. He folded his arms and put on a defiant smile, and Gudrun went for him. Plaits flying, she grabbed him by the arms and shook him.

“It’s not FUNNY!” she shouted up at his face.

“Mother – Father! Stop it,” cried Hilde. “What’s happening? Stop it – you’ll wake up the little ones!”

In fact the twins were already awake – and bawling.

The house shivered as the wind managed an extra strong blast. All the birch trees growing up the sides of Troll Fell reeled and danced. The troll clinging to the roof whimpered, and one of its large black ears blew inside out like a dog’s. It shook itself crossly and squirmed along the ridge to where a hole had been cut to let smoke escape. It peered over. Below was the fierce red eye of the fire. The troll got a lungful of heat and smoke and pulled back, coughing and chattering to itself: “Hututututu!” But the sound was lost in a rattle of icy rain. Grains of sleet fell hissing into the fire.

“Very well,” said Gudrun, suddenly deadly quiet, letting Ralf go. “Let’s hear what your father thinks about this! You, his only son, to go off and leave him? To go sailing off into storms and whirlpools and goodness knows what else, on a longship? How can you think of it? 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, who was sitting in his favourite place near the fire, 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.

“Now, Eirik, tell Ralf what you think of this mad idea,” she demanded, twisting her hands in her apron while Eirik carefully stirred in the butter. “Going off on a Viking ship? Imagine! You must forbid it. He’ll listen to you.”

But Eirik’s eyes lit up. “Aha, if only I were a young fellow again! A brand-new ship that rides like a swan. Like a dragon! Long Serpent, they’re calling her. Oh, to follow the whales’ road, seeking adventure!” He tasted his groute and his eye fell on Hilde. “‘The whales’road’ – d’you know what that means, my girl?”

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

Eirik was off. Leaning back in his chair he broke into a chant from some long saga he was making about Harald the Seafarer, waving his spoon to the beat. Gudrun rolled her eyes crossly, but Hilde clapped softly in time to the rhythm. Ralf tiptoed over to the twins, little 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!”

Gudrun whirled round, her eyes flashing. “Ralf!” she cried. “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 up, isn’t it, floating face down in the water? And very likely too. And who do you think is going to look after the farm while you’re away?”

“Gudrun,” Ralf argued. “It’s only for the summer. Just a few weeks. I’ve sown the wheat and the oats already, and I’ll be back before you know I’ve gone.”

“And what about the sheep?” demanded Gudrun. “Somebody’s stealing them; three lambs gone already. It’s the trolls, or else those Grimsson brothers down at the mill. And that’s another thing. I can’t send our corn to the mill any longer, it comes back short – and dirty. Hilde and I do all the grinding. I don’t have time to run the farm!”

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, obviously hoping to change the subject, “did I tell you? I met Baldur Grimsson tonight as I came home!”

“Was there any trouble?” asked Gudrun quickly.

“No, no,” Ralf soothed her. “The man’s a fool. He sat in his cart in the pouring rain, shouting at me!”

“May he catch his death!” sniffed Gudrun.

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

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

“All right!” began Ralf, scooping the twins up on to his knees. “It was a wild night just like this, maybe ten years ago. Like tonight, I was riding home from the market at Hammerhaven. I was halfway over Troll Fell, tired and wet and weary, when 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 turned the pony off the road and kicked him into a trot up the hillside. I was in one of our own fields, the high one called the Stonemeadow. At the top of the slope I could hardly believe my eyes. The whole rocky summit of the hill had been lifted up, like a great stone lid! It was resting on four stout red pillars. The space underneath was shining with golden light, and there were scores, maybe hundreds, of trolls, all shapes and sizes, skipping and dancing, and the noise they were making! Louder than a sheep fair, what with bleating and baaing, mewing and caterwauling, horns wailing, drums pounding, and squeaking of one-string fiddles!”

“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, saw with my own eyes. They were feasting in the great space under the hill: 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, clever as jugglers! It made me laugh out loud!

“But the pony shied. I’d been so busy staring, I hadn’t 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 filled to the brim with something steaming hot – spiced ale I thought, and I took it gratefully from her, cold and wet as I was!”

“Madness!” muttered Gudrun.

Ralf looked at the children. “Just before I gulped it down,” he said slowly, “I noticed the look on her face. There was a gleam in her slanting eyes, a wicked sparkle! And her ears – her hairy, pointed ears – twitched forwards.

“I saw she was up to no good!”

“Go on!” said the children breathlessly.

Ralf leaned forwards. “So, I lifted the cup, pretending to sip. Then I jerked the whole drink out over my shoulder. It splashed out smoking, some on to the ground and some on to the pony’s tail, where it singed off half his hair! There’s an awful yell from the troll girl, and the next thing the pony and I are off down the hill, galloping for our lives. I’ve still got the golden cup in one hand – and half the trolls of Troll Fell are tearing after us!”

Soot showered into the fire. Alf, the old sheepdog, pricked his ears uneasily. Up on the roof the troll lay flat with one large ear unfurled over the smoke hole. Its tail lashed about like a cat’s, and it was growling. But none of the humans noticed. They were too wrapped up in the story. Ralf wiped his face, his hand 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 Sigrid.

“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 on to the big ploughed field above the mill. The pony could go quicker over the soft ground, you see, but the trolls found it heavy going across the furrows, and I guess the clay clogged their feet. I got to 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, shivering.

“Spitting like cats and hissing like kettles!” said Ralf. “They threw stones and clods at me, but it was nearly daybreak and off they scuttled up the hillside. The pony and I were spent. I staggered over to the mill and banged on the door. They were all asleep inside, and as I banged again and waited 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.”

He stopped thoughtfully.

“And then?” prompted Hilde.

“The old miller, Grim, threw the door open swearing. What was I doing there so early, and so on – and then he saw the golden cup. His eyes nearly came out on stalks. A minute later he couldn’t do enough for me. He kicked his sons out of bed, made room for me by the fire, sent his wife running for ale and bread, and it was ‘Toast your feet, Ralf, and tell us what happened!’”

“And you did!” said Gudrun grimly.

“Yes,” sighed Ralf, “of course I did. I told them everything.” He turned to Hilde. “Fetch down the cup, Hilde. Let’s look at it again.”

Up on the roof the troll got very excited. It skirmished round and round the smoke hole, like a dog trying to see down a burrow. It dug its nails deep into the sods and leaned over dangerously, trying to get an upside-down glimpse of the golden goblet which Hilde lifted from the shelf and carried over 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 so richly in the firelight, it looked as if it could melt over his fingers like butter. Ralf stroked it gently, but Gudrun tightened her lips and looked away.

“Why don’t we ever use it?” asked Sigrid admiringly.

“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.”

“It’s so pretty,” said Sigrid. She stretched out to touch it, but Gudrun smacked her hand away.

“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,” said Ralf seriously. “‘Troll treasure!’ said old Grim, ‘We could do with a bit of that, couldn’t we, boys?’ I began to feel uncomfortable. After all, nobody knew where I was. I got up to go – and there were the two boys in front of me, blocking the door, and old Grim behind me, picking up a log from the woodpile!”

Hilde whistled.

“There I was,” said Ralf, “and there was Grim and his boys, big lads even then! I do believe there would have been murder done – if it hadn’t been for Bjørn and Arnë Egilsson who came to the door at that moment with some barley to grind. Yes, I might have been knocked on the head for that cup.”

“And that’s why the millers hate us?” asked Hilde, pleased at her success in changing the subject. “Because you’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 just like it. He came round pestering your father to show him the exact spot on the fell where he saw all this. Wanted to dig his way into the hill.”

“Old fool!” Ralf growled. “Dig his way into a nest of trolls?”

“We said no, and wished him good riddance,” said Gudrun. “But next day he was back. Wanted to buy the Stonemeadow from your father and dig it up!”

“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. I won’t sell!’”

“Now that was sense!” said Gudrun. “But what happened? Next day, old Grim’s telling everyone who’ll listen that Ralf’s cheated him – taken the money and kept the land!”

“A dirty lie!” said Ralf, reddening.

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

“Oh yes,” said Ralf, “he died last winter. But you know why, don’t you? He hung about on that hill in all weathers, searching for the way in, and he got caught in a snowstorm. His two sons went searching for him.”

“I’ve heard they found him lying under the crag, clawing at the rocks,” added Gudrun. “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 blame your father for his death, 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 and leaving me to cope with it all.”

Hilde groaned inwardly. Now the quarrel would begin all over again!

“Ralf,” Gudrun begged. “You know these trips are a gamble. Ten to one you’ll make no profit!”

Ralf scratched his head uncomfortably. “It’s not just for profit,” he tried to explain. “I want – I want some adventure, Gudrun. All my life I’ve lived here, in this little valley. I want—” he took a deep breath, “new skies, new seas, new places!” He looked at her pleadingly. “Can’t you see?”

“All I can see,” Gudrun flashed, “is that you’re throwing good money after bad, for the sake of a selfish pleasure trip!”

Ralf went scarlet. “If the money worries you, sell this!” he roared, seizing the golden cup and brandishing it at her. “It’s gold, it will fetch a fine price, and I know you’ve always hated it! There’s security for you! But I’m sailing on that longship!”

“You’ll drown!” sobbed Gudrun. “And all the time I’m waiting and waiting for you, you’ll be riding over Hel’s bridge with the rest of the dead!”

There was an awful silence. The little ones stared with big, solemn eyes. Hilde bit her lip. Eirik coughed nervously and took a cautious spoonful of his cooling groute. Ralf put the cup quietly down and took Gudrun by the shoulders. He gave her a little shake and said gently, “You’re a wonderful woman, Gudrun. I married a grand woman, sure enough. But I’ve got to take this chance of going a-Viking!”

A gust of wind buffeted the house. Draughts crept and moaned through cracks and crannies. Gudrun drew a deep, shaky breath.

“When do you go?” she asked unsteadily. Ralf looked down at the floor.

“Tomorrow morning,” he admitted in a low voice. “I’m sorry, Gudrun. The ship sails tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Gudrun’s lips whitened. She turned her face against Ralf ’s shoulder and shuddered. “Ralf, Ralf!” she murmured. “It’s no weather for sailors!”

“This will be the last of the spring gales,” Ralf consoled her.

Up on the roof the troll lost interest in the conversation. It sat riding the ridge, waving its arms in the wind, and calling loudly, “Hoooo! Hututututu!”

“How the wind shrieks!” said Gudrun, and she took the poker and stirred up the fire. A stream of sparks shot up through the smoke hole. The startled troll threw itself into a backwards somersault and rolled down off the roof, landing on its feet in the muddy yard. Then it prowled inquisitively round the buildings, leaving odd little eight-toed footprints in the mud. The farmhouse door had a horseshoe nailed over it. The troll tutted and muttered, and made a detour around it. But it went on, prying into every corner of the farmyard, leaving smears of bad luck, like snail-tracks, on everything it touched.

CHAPTER 3

Talking to the Nis

There can’t be another Uncle Baldur! After the first stunned moment, Peer began to laugh, tight, hiccuping laughter that hurt his chest. Unable to stop, he bent over the rail of the cart, gasping in agony.

Uncle Grim and Uncle Baldur were identical twins.

Side by side they strutted up to the cart. He looked wildly from one to the other. Same barrel chests and muscular, knotted arms, same thick necks, same mean little eyes peering from masses of black tangled beard and hair. One of them was still wrapped up in a wet cloak, however, while the other seemed to have been eating supper, for he was holding a knife with a piece of meat skewered to the point.

“Shut up,” said this one to Peer. “And get down.” Only the voice was different – deep and rough.

“Now let me guess!” said Peer with mad recklessness. “Who can you be? Oooh – tricky one! But wait, I’ve got it! You’re my Uncle Grim! Yes? You are alike, aren’t you! Like peas in a pod. Do you ever get muddled up? I’m your—”

“Get down,” growled Uncle Grim, in exactly the same way as before.

“—nephew, Peer!” Peer finished, impudently. He held up his wrist, still firmly tethered to the side of the cart, and waggled his fingers.

Uncle Grim snapped the twine with a contemptuous jerk. Then he frowned, lifted his knife and squinted at the point. He sucked the piece of meat off, licked the blade, and sliced through the string holding Loki. He stared hard at Peer.

“Now get down,” he ordered, through his food. He turned to his brother as Peer jumped stiffly down. “He’s not much, is he?”

“But he’ll do,” grunted Uncle Baldur. “He can start now. Here, you!” He thrust the lantern at Peer. “Take this! Put the oxen in the stalls. Put the hens in the barn. Feed them. Move!” He threw an arm over his brother’s shoulders, and as the two of them slouched away towards the mill Peer heard Baldur saying, “What’s in the pot? Stew? I’ll have some of that!”

The door shut. Peer stood in the mud, the rain drumming on his head, the lantern shaking in his hand. All desire to laugh left him. Loki picked himself up out of the puddle and shook himself wearily. He whined. Peer drew a deep breath. “All right, Loki. Let’s get on with it, boy!”

Struggling with the wet harness he unhitched the oxen and led them into their stalls. He tried to rub them dry with wisps of straw. He unloaded the hens and set them loose on the barn floor, where an arrogant, black cockerel and a couple of scrawny females came strutting to inspect them. He found some corn and scattered it. By now the stiffness had worn off, but he was damp, cold and exhausted. The hens found places to roost, clucking suspiciously. Loki curled up in the straw and fell fast asleep. Peer decided to leave him there. He hadn’t forgotten what Uncle Baldur had said about his dog eating Loki, and he certainly had heard a big dog barking inside the mill. He took up the lantern and set off across the yard, picking his way through the mud. The storm was passing, and tatters of cloud blew wildly overhead. It had stopped raining.

The mill looked black and forbidding. Not a glimmer of light escaped from the tightly closed shutters. Peer hoped he hadn’t been locked out. His stomach growled. There was stew inside, waiting for him! But he stopped at the door, afraid to go in. Did they expect him to knock? Voices mumbled inside. Were they talking about him?

He put his head to the door and listened.

“Not worth much!” Baldur was saying.

There was a sort of thump and clink. “Count it anyway,” said Grim’s deep voice, and Peer realised that Uncle Baldur had thrown a bag of money down. Next came a muffled, rhythmical chanting. His uncles were counting the money together. They kept stopping and cursing and getting it wrong.

“Thirty, thirty-one,” Baldur finished at last. “Lock it up!” His voice grew fainter, as he moved further from the door. “We don’t want the boy getting his hands on it.”

Peer clenched his fists. “That’s my money, you thieves!” he whispered furiously. A lid creaked open and crashed shut. They had hidden his money in some chest, and if he walked in now, he might see where it was.

“About the lad,” came Baldur’s voice. Peer stopped. He glued his ear to the wet wood. Unfortunately Baldur seemed to be walking about, for he could hear feet clumping to and fro, and the words came in snatches.

“…time to take him to the Gaffer?” Peer heard, and something like,“…no point in taking him too soon.”

The Gaffer? He said that before, up on the hill, thought Peer with an uneasy shiver. What does it mean? He strained his ears again. Rumble, whistle, rumble, went the two voices. He thought he heard something about “trolls”, followed quite clearly by: “Plenty of time before the wedding.” A succession of thuds sounded like both of his uncles taking their boots off and kicking them across the room. Finally he heard one of them, Grim it must be, say loudly, “At least we’ll get some work out of him first.”

That seemed to conclude the discussion. Peer straightened up and scratched his head. A chilly wind blew round his ears and a fresh rainshower rattled out of the sky. Inside the mill one of the brothers was saying, “Hasn’t that pesky lad finished yet?” Hastily Peer knocked and lifted the latch.

With a blood-curdling bellow, the most enormous dog Peer had ever seen launched itself from its place by the fireside directly at his throat. Huge rows of yellow, dripping teeth were closing in on his face when Uncle Grim put out a casual arm and yanked the monster backwards off its feet, roaring, “Down, Grendel!”

The huge dog cringed. “Come in and shut the door,” Grim growled roughly to Peer. “Don’t stand there like a fool. Let him smell you. Then he’ll know you.”

Nervously Peer held out his hand, expecting the animal to take it off at the wrist. Grendel stood taller than a wolf. His coat was brindled, brown and black, and a thick ruff of coarse fur grew over his shoulders and down his spine. Hackles up, he lowered his massive head and smelled Peer’s hand as if it were garbage, rumbling distrustfully. Uncle Grim gave Grendel an affectionate slap and rubbed him round the jaws. “Who’s a good doggie? Who’s a good boy, then?” he cooed admiringly. Peer wiped a slobbery hand on his trousers. He thought that Grendel looked a real killer – just the sort of dog the Grimsson brothers would have.

“This dog’s a killer,” boasted Uncle Grim, as if he could read Peer’s mind. “Best dog in the valley. Wins every fight. Not a scratch on him. That’s what I call a proper dog!”

Thank goodness I didn’t bring Loki in! Peer shuddered. Uncle Grim fussed Grendel, tugging his ears and calling him a good fellow. Grateful to be ignored, Peer looked around at his new home.

A sullen fire smouldered in the middle of the room. Uncle Baldur sat beside it on a stool, guzzling stew from a bowl in his lap, and toasting his bare feet. His wet socks steamed on the black hearthstones. He twiddled his vast, hairy toes over the embers. His long, curved toenails looked like dirty claws.

The narrow, smoke-stained room was a jumble of rickety furniture, bins, barrels and old tools. A table, crumbling with woodworm, leaned against the wall on tottering legs. Two bunk beds trailed tangles of untidy blankets on to the floor.

At the far end of the room a short ladder led up to a kind of loft with a raised platform for the millstones. Though it was very dark up there, Peer could make out various looming shapes of mill machinery: hoists and hoppers, chains and hooks. A huge pair of iron scales hung from the roof. Swags of rope looped from beam to beam.

Uncle Baldur belched loudly and put his dish on the floor for Grendel. Suddenly the room spun around Peer. Sick and dizzy, he put his hand against the wall for support, and snatched it quickly away, his palm covered in grey dust and sticky black cobwebs. Cobwebs clung everywhere to the walls, loaded with old flour. Underfoot, the dirt floor felt spongy and damp from a thick deposit of ancient bran. A sweetish smell of rotten grain and mouldy flour blended with the stink of Uncle Baldur’s cheesy socks. There was also a lingering odour of stew.

Peer swallowed queasily. He said faintly, “I did what you said, Uncle Baldur. I fed the animals and put them away. Is there – is there any stew?”

“Over there,” his uncle grunted, jerking his head towards a black iron pot sitting in the embers. Peer took a look. It was nearly empty.

“But it’s all gone,” he said in dismay.

“All gone?” Uncle Baldur’s face blackened. “All gone? This boy’s been spoilt, Grim. I can see that. The boy’s been spoilt!”

“There’s plenty there,” growled Grim. “Wipe out the pot with bread and be thankful. Waste not, want not.”

Silently, Peer knelt down. He found a dry heel of bread and scraped it round inside the pot. There was no meat left, barely a spoonful of gravy and a few fragments of onion, but the warm iron pot was comforting to hold, and he chewed the bread hungrily, saving a crust for Loki. When he had finished, he looked up and found Uncle Baldur staring at him broodingly. His uncle’s dark little eyes glittered meanly, and he buried his thick fingers in his beard and scratched, rasping slowly up and down.

Peer stared back uneasily. His uncle convulsed. He doubled up, choking, and slapped his knees violently. He jerked to and fro, snorting for breath. “Ha, ha, ha!” he gasped. His face turned purple. “Hee, hee! Oh, dear. Oh, dear me!” He pointed at Peer. “Look at him, Grim! Look at him! Some might call him a bad bargain, but to me – to me, he’s worth his weight in gold!”

The two brothers howled with laughter. “That’s funny!” Grim roared, punching his brother’s shoulder. “Worth his weight in – oh, very good!”

Peer looked at them darkly. Whatever the joke was, it was clearly not a nice one. But what was the good of protesting? It would only make them laugh louder. He gave a deliberate yawn. “I’m tired, Uncle Baldur. Where do I sleep?”

“Eh?” Uncle Baldur turned to him, tears of laughter glistening on his hairy face. He wiped them away and snorted. “The pipsqueak’s tired, Grim. He wants to sleep. Where shall we put him?”

“On the floor with the dog?” Peer suggested sarcastically. The two wide bunks belonged to his uncles, so he fully expected to be told something of the kind. But Uncle Grim lumbered to his feet.

“Under the millstones,” he grunted. He tramped down the room towards the loft ladder, but instead of climbing it, he burrowed into a corner, kicked aside a couple of dusty baskets and a broken crate, and revealed a small wooden door not more than three feet high. Peer followed him warily. Uncle Grim opened the little door. It was not a cupboard. Behind it was blackness, a strong damp smell, and a sound of trickling water.

Before he could protest, Uncle Grim grabbed Peer by the arm, forced him to his knees and shoved him through into the dark space beyond. Peer pitched forwards on to his face. With a flump, a pile of mouldy sacks landed on his legs. “You can sleep on those!” his uncle shouted. Peer jerked and kicked to free his legs. He stopped breathing. His throat closed up. He scrambled to his feet and hit his head a stunning blow. Stars spangled the darkness. He felt above him madly. His hands fumbled along a huge rounded beam of wood and found the cold blunt teeth of an enormous cogwheel. He turned desperately. A thin line of light indicated the closed door. His chest heaved. Air gushed into his lungs.

“Uncle Baldur!” Peer screamed. He threw himself at the door, hammering on it. “Let me out! Let me out!”

He pounded the door, shrieking, and the rotten catch gave way. The door swung wide, a magical glimpse of firelight and safety. Sobbing in relief, Peer crawled out and leaped to his feet. Uncle Baldur advanced upon him.

“No!” Peer cried. He ducked under Uncle Baldur’s arm and backed up the room, shaking. “Uncle Baldur, no, don’t make me sleep in there. Please! I’ll sleep in the barn with Loki, I’d rather, really!”

“You’ll sleep where I tell you to sleep!” Uncle Baldur reached out for him.

“I’ll shout and yell all night!” Peer glared at him wildly. “You won’t sleep a wink!”

Uncle Baldur stopped. He frowned at Peer. “What’s wrong with you?” he sneered. “Bedding down near all that fine machinery – I’d have loved it when I was a lad!”

“On nice soft sacks!” Grim offered.

“It’s too small – I can’t breathe. Cramped – dark!” panted Peer, shamefaced, his heart still pounding.

His uncles stared at him unbelievingly. Slowly, Baldur began to grin. “Cramped! Dark!” he mimicked. His grin developed into a chuckle. “D’you hear that, Grim? He’s afraid of the dark! The boy’s afraid of the dark!”

For the second time that night, the two brothers roared with laughter, while Peer glowered at the floor. They pounded one another on the back, they coughed and choked and staggered about. At last, Uncle Baldur recovered. The old, bad-tempered scowl settled back on his face.

“So go and sleep in the barn!” he snarled at Peer, who nodded speechlessly, his cheeks flaming.

“It’s late, you know!” yawned Grim.

“Bedtime,” nodded his brother. They sat down heavily on their bunks, wrestled with the blankets, wrapped themselves up and turned over.

Peer tiptoed past. On his way to the door he had to step over Grendel, who opened one glinting red eye and wrinkled his lips in a silent snarl. Quickly and quietly Peer got through the door and crossed the yard.

The barn was dark, but it felt high and sweet and airy. Peer pulled crackling straw up over his knees and woke Loki, who gobbled the crust Peer had saved for him.

“There’s no more,” said Peer. He pushed aside Loki’s hopeful nose, and lay down, exhausted.

It was not completely dark in the barn. Outside the sky had cleared and the moon had risen. A few bright stripes of moonlight lay across the floor and wooden stalls. Peer lay on his back, too tired to sleep, his mind working restlessly.

There’s something funny going on.

What does Uncle Baldur want me for?

He tossed and turned, pulling more straw over him. Gradually he fell into uneasy dreams. Beside him Loki slept, whimpering and twitching.

A strange sound crept into Peer’s sleep. He dreamed of a hoarse little voice, panting, and muttering to itself, “Up we go. Here we are!” There was a scrabbling like rats in the rafters, and a smell of porridge. Peer rolled over.

“Up we go,” muttered the hoarse little voice again, and then more loudly, “Move over, you great fat hen. Budge, I say!” This was followed by a squawk. One of the hens fell off the rafter and minced indignantly away to find another perch. Peer screwed up his eyes and tried to focus. He could see nothing but black shapes and shadows.

“Aaah!” A long sigh from overhead set his hair on end. The smell of porridge was quite strong. There came a sound of lapping or slurping. This went on for a few minutes. Peer listened, fascinated.

“No butter!” the little voice said discontentedly. “No butter in me groute!” It mumbled to itself in disappointment. “The cheapskates, the skinflints, the hard-hearted misers! But wait! Maybe the butter’s at the bottom. Let’s find out.” The slurping began again. Next came a sucking sound, as if the person – or whatever it was – had scraped the bowl with its fingers and was licking them off. There was a silence.

“No butter,” sulked the voice in deep displeasure. A wooden bowl dropped out of the rafters straight on to Peer’s head.

“Ow!” said Peer.

There was a gasp and a scuffle. The next time the voice spoke it was from a corner on the other side of the barn.

“Who’s there?” it quavered.

“I’m Peer Ulfsson,” said Peer. “Who are you?”

“Nobody,” said the voice quickly. “Nobody at all.”

Loki had woken up when the bowl fell, but Peer stroked him gently to reassure him. He didn’t want any barking.

“I think you’re a nis,” he said to the voice. A nis was a sort of house-spirit. Peer had heard about them, but never expected to meet one. “Are you a nis?” he persisted.

There was a bit of a silence. “What if I am?” the voice asked huffily.

Peer wanted to be friends with someone in this place, and now he thought he knew a way. “Didn’t they give you any butter?” he asked sympathetically.

This set the creature off. “Plain groute,” it exclaimed bitterly. “Nary a bit of butter for poor Nithing, but plain barley porridge! Me that does half the work round here, me that sweeps and dusts and cleans, me that polishes away cobwebs!” Remembering the dust and dirt he had seen earlier, Peer doubted that it did any of these things well, but he did not say so. Probably the Nis would work better if it was fed well.

“And they has mountains of butter,” went on the Nis, working itself up, “in the dairy. In a wooden barrel,” it added darkly, “to keep off cats and mice and the likes of me. Plain groute they gives me, in a bowl by the fire, and I sees it and I fetches it away, and I tastes it – and no butter.”

“I know how you feel,” said Peer, “they didn’t give me any stew either.”

The idea that somebody else might be hard done by seemed to take the Nis by surprise. Peer still could not see it, but he heard it jumping lightly closer among the rafters. “Close your eyes and hold out your hand,” it chanted in its scratchy little voice. Peer did so. Something warm and smooth was slipped into his hand.

“Have an egg,” said the voice with a squeak of laughter. Peer closed his fingers over the egg. He did not really want to eat it raw, and saw no way of cooking it. He decided to give it to Loki for his breakfast. He thanked the Nis. It skipped about above.

“No butter.” It was still brooding over its wrongs. “I has a cousin, Peer Ulfsson – I has lots of cousins – but I has a cousin over in Jutland who wrung the neckses of the very best beasts in the stable because they forgot his butter. I could do that.”

Peer thought the Nis was probably boasting, but to please it, he begged it not to. “After all, it’s not the animals’ fault,” he pointed out. “It’s the Grimssons’.”

“Could you get me butter?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Peer gloomily, “if they caught me stealing butter I should think they’d half kill me. I don’t think I’m going to get much to eat here either. I’m sorry,” he added.

“Hmm!” said the Nis. And it spoke no more that night. In the morning when Peer woke up, he wondered if it had been a dream.

Then he looked at the straw beside him. Loki looked eagerly as well, his brown ears pricked. He knew what an egg was. Peer broke it for him and he lapped it up noisily. “You sound like the Nis,” said Peer, stretching stiff arms and brushing pieces of hay off his clothes. The oxen moved restlessly in their stalls, waiting to be fed. Peer opened the barn door and let out the hens to forage for themselves. He forked some hay down for the oxen. It was still very early morning and there was no sign of his uncles. Peer didn’t fancy waking them up.

“Let’s go and explore, Loki!” he said to the dog. “Walkies! Come on!” He pushed open the barn door, and Loki bounded cheerfully out.

CHAPTER 4

Meeting Hilde

Although the sky was fresh and clear, the yard still lay in chilly shadow. Peer splashed through the puddles, keeping a wary eye on the silent mill, its blind shutters and tattered thatch. The reed thatching had once been twisted into fancy horns at each end of the roof, now so damaged they looked like crooked ears. A dismal thread of smoke wavered from the smoke hole and trickled into the yard, as if it were too tired to rise. There was no sign of anyone awake.

Peer walked out of the yard and round the end of the building to the bridge. He leaned on the rail, looking upstream at the big wooden waterwheel. It towered higher than his head, a motionless monster, its dark teeth dripping. The central shaft, thick as a man’s thigh, ran through an aperture into the side of the mill. Peer recognised it, wincing. No wonder his head felt bruised!

He stared up the narrow channel of the mill race and shivered. A cold breath came off the water, which flowed listlessly under the wheel in inky creases, since the sluicegate was shut. Beside the wheel, the overspill from the millpond plunged into white fury over a little weir and went boiling down under the bridge. Hesitant swirls of foam detached themselves and went venturing up the millrace on back eddies, before losing heart and hurrying off downstream again. Peer watched the changing patterns until he felt dizzy. Then he crossed over and turned left up the bank to take a look at the millpond.

It was a gloomy place, even on this sunny morning. Twisted willows frowned into the water, as if they were studying their own reflections and disliked what they saw. Patches of green slime rotated slowly on the dark brown water, which seemed hardly to move except at the very edge of the weir, where it developed glassy streaks and furrows and tumbled smoothly over into the ferment below. Peer sniffed. There was a damp, cold reek about the place.

He walked further along the bank, till his way was blocked by a narrow, deep-cut channel, fed by an open sluice in the side of the millpond. The water sprayed in a glittering arc over a sill slotted between wooden posts, and dashed noisily away to join the tailrace below the bridge. Peer threw a leaf on to the surface of the pond and watched it move imperceptibly towards the open sluice, before suddenly flashing over and down.

He turned back. Loki had run off, nosing into the reeds with his tail high. He dashed back and jumped at Peer with muddy paws.

“Get down!” Peer pushed him off. “Phew! That mud stinks!” It was fine, thick, black mud, the sort that dries to a hard, grey shell. Peer grabbed Loki and tried to wipe his paws with a handful of grass, and Loki tried to help by lavishly licking both his own paws and Peer’s fingers. In the middle of this mess Peer heard a pony coming down the road towards the mill, and looked up.

A girl of about his own age was riding it, brightly dressed in a blue woollen dress with red stitching. On her head she wore a jaunty red and yellow cap, and her hair was done in two long plaits tied with pieces of red and blue wool. She sat sideways on the shaggy little pony, with a basket on her knee. Her eyes widened when she saw Peer, and she pulled the pony to a stop.

“Hello!” she called. “Who are you?”

She looked clean and colourful. Peer looked down at himself. His old clothes were drab and torn, and his hands were smeared with mud.

“My name’s Peer Ulfsson,” he mumbled.

“Ulf’s son?” said the girl. “Now wait, I know everyone, don’t tell me. I’ll get it. Yes! There was an Ulf who was old Grim’s stepson. Is that him?”

Peer nodded. “But he died last week,” he told her.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Peer. Is that why you’re here? Have you—?”

“I’ve come to live with my uncles,” Peer agreed stolidly.

“That’s terrible for you!” the girl cried. “Whoops!” She clapped a hand over her mouth, but her eyes gleamed. “Perhaps you like them?”

“No, not much,” said Peer cautiously. “What’s your name?”

“Hilde, Ralf ’s daughter. Welcome to the valley!” said Hilde with a flourish. “Come and visit us if you like. Ours is the highest farm in the valley, we own most of the north side of Troll Fell. You won’t meet my father Ralf, though, because he went away this morning. My mother’s really upset. He’s gone off to Hammerhaven to join some wretched new longship they’ve been building, and he’s going to be away all summer. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing!” Peer growled. “It’s the ship my father helped to build, that’s all!”

“Oh!” Hilde went red. She said awkwardly, “Then you and I ought to be friends. Pa says the ship is wonderful – he’s so proud to be sailing on her. Hey!” She pointed at Loki. “Look at your dog!”

They both laughed in relief. Loki and the pony had stretched out their necks as far as they could and were sniffing each other, nose to nose. The pony snorted loudly and Loki nearly fell over backwards in fright.

“Don’t let him go near that millpond,” Hilde warned seriously.

“Why not? He can swim.”

“I know, but Granny Greenteeth lives in there. That’s why there aren’t any ducks or moorhens. She pulls them under and eats them. So people say.”

“Really?” asked Peer with a shiver. He turned and looked at the sullen, brown water with its oily reflections. It was easy to believe that Hilde could be right.

“What’s she like?” he asked anxiously.

“She has green teeth, of course,” said Hilde. “Pointed. Some people say she has webbed feet. Green weedy hair. I don’t know, I’ve never seen her, but a man in the village met an enormous eel one night, sliding along in the grass – and that was her, too!”

“How did he know?” asked Peer reasonably.

“He just did! And that’s not all,” said Hilde darkly. “There are all sorts of spooky stories about this mill. I don’t envy you, living here. Still, you probably won’t have very much to do.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing I’m afraid your uncles are so unpopular that a lot of us went back to hand-grinding at home.” She pulled a face. “Mother makes me do it. I hate it. You see, the Grimssons are lazy. They think they’re so important just because they’re the millers, and yet the mill only runs once in a while. They’re always cheating people and not giving fair measure. Our flour used to come back full of chaff and dirt, which they put in on purpose. We even found a dead mouse once.”

“Why would they do that?” asked Peer in irritated disbelief. He began to think he didn’t like this girl. Couldn’t she say anything good about the place?

“We have a feud with them,” said Hilde cheerfully. “They claim they own one of our fields. They don’t, of course.” She grinned at him. “I suppose that means we have a feud with you, too, if you’re family.”

“A feud!” Peer exclaimed, ignoring the last bit. “And your father’s called Ralf?”

“Ralf Eiriksson.”

“I saw him last night! Didn’t he come over Troll Fell in all that rain? So that’s why my uncle was yelling. I thought I’d seen your pony before!”

“You were there? Pa never said. What happened exactly?”

“It was so dark and wet, he probably didn’t see me,” Peer told her. “I was getting soaked in the bottom of the cart. He came up behind us where the road is narrow. I don’t know who my uncle thought was coming, but as soon as he heard your father’s voice he went crazy. He stood up and began shrieking and yelling—”

“Yelling what?”

“He called him a crawling worm,” said Peer. “And a thief.”

“Did he!” Hilde flashed. She clenched her knuckles on the reins and prepared to ride on.

“Hey, you asked!” said Peer. “It’s not my fault. And if you hate them so much, why are you here this morning?”

Hilde laughed scornfully. “I’m not coming to your precious mill! I’m riding past, on my way down to the village.” She patted her basket. “I’m going to see Bjørn the fisherman, and trade some cheese and butter. Mother wants fish and my grandfather Eirik fancies a roast crab for his tea.”

Cheese! Butter! Roasted crabs! Peer swallowed. He suddenly realised how terribly hungry he felt. His downcast look must have touched Hilde, for she said in a more friendly way, “Well, I hope you’ll like living here. Your uncles will give you an easy time at first, won’t they? I know! I can bring our corn to you now, instead of to your uncles. If you don’t tell them who it’s from, maybe they’ll grind it properly for us. That would be a joke!”

“I don’t really think I could,” began Peer stiffly, feeling sure that her jokes could get him into a lot of trouble.

“Oh, forget it!” said Hilde impatiently. “Of course I didn’t mean it.” She gave him a look, plainly wondering how anyone could be so boring and serious, and Peer flushed. Hilde waved. “I’ll be seeing you!” she cried.

She rode across the wooden bridge, and on down the hill. Peer blew out his cheeks.

“Who cares what she thinks?” he muttered. “Eh, Loki?”

Despondently, he called Loki to heel and trailed back into the yard. The mill door was open and he saw one of his uncles standing dishevelled in the morning sunshine, scratching under his arms and staring darkly after Hilde’s back as her pony picked its neat-footed way down the road to the village. He summoned Peer with a jerk of the head.

“Were you talking to that lass?” he demanded accusingly.

“Yes, Uncle Grim,” said Peer meekly.

He received a slap that made his head ring and his eyes water. “That’s for chattering and wasting time,” growled his uncle. “Your time is my time now, see? And time is money. What did she say?”

“If you don’t want me to talk to her, why do you want to know?” asked Peer angrily, rubbing his ear.

Uncle Grim lifted his hand again.

“Oh, well let me see,” said Peer sarcastically. “She asked me who I was. I told her my name. Then she told me her name is Hilde, and she welcomed me to the valley, which she seems to think she owns. Isn’t this interesting?”

Uncle Grim didn’t seem to notice sarcasm. “What else?” he asked.

Peer wasn’t going to repeat what Hilde had said about the mill. He racked his brains for something else. “Oh, yes!” he remembered. “She said her father went away this morning. He’s going off a-Viking for the summer, on the new longship.”

Uncle Grim’s black beard split open in a very nasty smile, showing all his brown and yellow teeth.

“Well, well, well! Is he indeed?” he rumbled. He bent low and put his face close to Peer’s. In a hot gust of bad breath he whispered, “Do you know, sonny, you may be surprisingly useful?” Straightening, he bellowed, “Baldur? Guess what? Our little nevvie has some interesting news! Ralf Eiriksson has gone a-Viking. Leaving his family all alone.” He clapped Peer hard on the back and sent him staggering. “Come inside, my boy, and have some breakfast!”

With a sinking heart Peer realised that he had said the wrong thing. He followed his uncle into the mill, not noticing Loki trotting along behind him. It was so dark inside after the morning sunshine that he failed to see Grendel lying stretched out by the fire. But Grendel saw Loki. He surged to his feet like a hairy earthquake and strutted forwards, growling and bristling.

Peer whirled in alarm. Loki stood there, his tail wagging slower and slower as he lost confidence. Grendel crept forwards, throbbing with cruelty, his eyes riveted on the intruder, long trails of saliva drooling from his jaws.

“Grendel! Bad dog! Down!” cried Peer.

“He’ll not listen to you,” said Uncle Baldur scornfully from his seat at the table. Loki’s tail disappeared under his stomach. He raised his own short hackles in pitiful defiance.

“Please – quickly!” begged Peer, trying to bundle Loki backwards out of the door. “Tell him Loki’s a friend. Please! Can’t we introduce them, or something?”

In no hurry, Uncle Baldur finished his mouthful. “Down, Grendel!” he ordered. The huge dog flicked a glance at his master and hesitated.

“Get down, sir!” screamed Uncle Baldur, slapping his hand on the table. Slowly, Grendel sat. He shook his head, spattering Peer with froth and saliva, and at last lowered himself to the floor, still glaring at Loki with unforgiving menace.

Peer opened the door, and Loki vanished into the yard.

“Come here, laddie,” said Uncle Baldur to Peer, cutting himself some more cheese. He gulped his ale, spilling it down his front. Peer approached reluctantly till he was standing between his uncle’s outstretched legs. Crumbs of bread and cheese speckled his uncle’s beard. His stained shirt gaped open at the throat, exposing another tangle of black hair. A flea jumped out. Uncle Baldur pinched it between two thick fingers. When it popped, he wiped his fingers on his shirt and reached for more bread.

“See here,” he said to Peer, nodding at Grendel. “That dog only obeys me and Grim. Right? He hates other dogs. He’s a born fighter.”

“Killed half a dozen,” agreed Grim in a sort of proud growl.

“So if you want to keep your dog in one piece, you watch your step and start making yourself very very useful.” Uncle Baldur stared Peer straight in the eye. “Otherwise we might organise a little dogfight. Understand?”

Peer understood. He compressed his lips and nodded, as slightly as he dared.

“Right!” Baldur broke wind noisily and began to pick his teeth with a dirty fingernail. “Now what’s all this about Ralf Eiriksson?” he asked, exploring a back molar.

“I don’t know,” said Peer sullenly. “No!” he added quickly. “I mean, I talked to his daughter Hilde and she says he’s walked to Hammerhaven this morning. He’s going a-Viking for the summer. That’s all I know, I didn’t ask any more. I didn’t know you’d be interested,” he added feebly, hating himself for crawling.

His uncles winked at each other. Uncle Baldur removed the finger from his mouth and rubbed his hands together, chuckling gleefully. He kicked Peer on the ankle.

“Where did the girl go?”

“Down to the village. She was going to buy fish.”

“I want to see her on the way back,” said Uncle Baldur. He jabbed Peer in the chest. “You look out for her, and make sure you bring her to me. Right?”

He turned to the table, not waiting for Peer to reply, and tossed him a stale end of bread. “Eat that and get on with the chores,” he said abruptly. “Grim’ll show you what to do. And remember – fetch me that girl!”

CHAPTER 5

Trouble at the Mill

Hilde’s shoes sank into the wet sand and she rubbed her arms, willing the sun to climb higher. It was chilly here. The shadow of Troll Fell leaned over the beach and out across the water. The pebbles glistened from last night’s rain and from the retreating tide. Cold grey waves splashed on the shore.

“Half a dozen herring and a couple of crabs? Done!” agreed Bjørn cheerfully. He shouted to his brother who sat in the boat sorting the catch. “Find us a couple of good big crabs, Arnë!” He turned back to Hilde. “Any news?”

“I should say so!” said Hilde gloomily. “My father’s leaving – going off for the whole summer on a longship they’ve built at Hammerhaven.”

Bjørn whistled. “Hey, Arnë,” he yelled. “Come and listen to this!”

Arnë clambered out of the boat with a live crab in each hand, and Hilde discovered that explaining it all to two interested young men cheered her up – especially when Arnë fixed his dreamy blue eyes on her face.

“Lucky Ralf,” he said enviously. “I wish I’d heard about it. What’s the ship like?”

“Lovely,” Hilde assured him. “She’s got a dragon head, all carved and painted.”

“Yes,” Bjørn laughed, “but how long is she? How many oars?”

Hilde didn’t know. “Ask the boy at the mill,” she suggested waspishly. “He ought to know – his father built her.”

“What boy?”

“The millers’ nephew. I just met him this morning. They’ve taken him in because his father died.”

Bjørn’s eyebrows rose. “The millers have taken in an orphan? What’s he like?”

“He’s all right,” said Hilde without much enthusiasm. “He seems a bit nervous.”

“I’d be nervous in his shoes,” said Bjørn darkly. He elbowed his brother in the ribs. “Arnë! Dreamer! Hand over those crabs!”

With her basket full of herring and the two live crabs wrapped firmly in a cloth, Hilde rode whistling back up the steep path out of the village. The world brightened as the sun nudged up over the edge of the mountain. She thought about Pa. What a lovely morning to go to sea! How proud and happy he must feel!

Her high spirits lasted until she came in sight of the mill, crouching dismally under the trees. Even the spring sunshine could not gild its battered timbers and slimy black thatch. The brook rushed away from it, tumbling over itself in a white cascade as it tried to escape. Nobody happy had ever lived there.

Hilde gathered up her reins in case the millers’ huge dog ran out to frighten the pony. She felt sorry for the boy, Peer, but she didn’t want to stop. She trotted forwards, hoping to get past quickly. As she reached the bridge, Peer dashed out of the mill yard, waving. She drew rein.

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