Katherine Langrish - Troll Blood

“Troll blood?” A fascinated shiver ran down Hilde’s back. “What do you mean?”

Astrid gave her a conspiratorial smile. “What I say.” She leaned close and whispered, “My mother’s mother was the daughter of Thorodd Half-troll, and his mother was a troll out of the Dovrefell. My mother’s dead now. But she passed down all kinds of tricks to me.” She patted her big goatskin bag. “Gunnar thinks this is just herbs and medicines. Well, some of it is, and some of it isn’t.”

Hilde drew back in sudden suspicion. “You’re making it up.”

“Oh, am I?” Astrid looked around, but their low-voiced conversation was easily drowned by loud laughter from the men chatting and joking by the fire. “All right then.” She unbuckled the flap and plunged her arm into the bag. “Hold this.”

She handed Hilde a little square box, yellowish in the dim firelight. Hilde rubbed her fingers over it. It was made of smooth bone or ivory, but there were some scratchings on the lid, runes or patterns. She looked up at Astrid. “Well?”

“Listen to it,” said Astrid. “Put it to your ear.”

Hilde did. The box buzzed. She almost dropped it, and listened again. Yes, when her ear was pressed close, the box was buzzing or humming. Or was it even a sleepy, angry voice, singing or chanting a very, very long way off?

“What’s inside?” Hilde burned with curiosity. She pried at the lid.

“Don’t open it!” Astrid snatched it back. “My mother gave it me. It tells me things. Now do you believe me?”

Looking at Astrid in the flickering firelight, Hilde found she did. There was a slant to her eyes, a play of shadows on the cheekbones that reminded Hilde of the troll princess who lived underneath Troll Fell.

“Does Gunnar know you’ve—got troll blood?” she almost whispered. Astrid smiled, showing a line of sharp little white teeth. “Oh, no, he’s much too shockable. I told you, it’s a secret. He only knows I can do a little seidr —magic. Are you wondering if I’ve got a tail? Don’t worry, I haven’t. But the troll blood’s there. It makes me different. And I can see this, Hilde Ralfsdaughter. Like it or not, you’re coming with us to Vinland.” She pinched Hilde’s arm. “You wait and see. Let’s talk again later.” She walked away to the fire.

Hilde’s fingers prickled from touching the little buzzing box. Her breath came short. A smile of pure excitement curled her lips. The cold curse. Troll blood. Like it or not, you’re coming with us to Vinland. And to think that only a short while ago she had thought Astrid conventional and dull!

Oh, she thought, I do want to go with her. I must!

As Peer came out of the wood there was a rustling and pattering in the bushes: trolls probably, out foraging now that night had fallen. Troll Fell loomed above the farm like a dreaming giant, asleep with his head on his knees. Just over the giant’s shoulder, a scraped-out moon bobbed in a flood of clouds.

Peer hesitated by the farmhouse door. All the way up the track he’d hurried along, imagining Harald picking a quarrel with Ralf, insulting Hilde, frightening the twins. He’d pictured himself striding in to the rescue. But now his imagination failed. Harald had a sword and would use it. It would be no good trying to pull him outside for a fist-fight.

He wished now he’d come home earlier. He could have found Hilde, and told her all about it. And yet…the story made him look such a fool. What if Harald called him Barelegs in front of Hilde? How can I stop him? What shall I do?

“You don’t have to play his games,” Bjørn had said. But Peer had a feeling that Harald was good at pushing people into games they had no wish to play.

Reluctantly he lifted the latch, and something scampered across the yard and mewed at the bottom of the door like a hopeful cat. The Nis—their touchy little house spirit! It must have been accidentally shut out. As the door creaked open he got a glimpse of its beady eyes, skinny outline and little red hat before it shot past his ankles and whizzed up the wall into the rafters.

He closed the door. The room was hot, bright and crowded, the atmosphere unnaturally hushed. Peer’s taut nerves twanged. What’s going on? Trouble?

A strong voice chanted:

“The hound of heaven, the ship-seizer,Hunted us over the wild waters.Weary wanderers, we fled beforeThe wide jaws of the wind-wolf!”

It was Harald, the centre of attention, standing at the long trestle table reciting his poetry to the family. He made a brave sight, gold gleaming at his neck. Everyone listened in apparent admiration. No one had eyes for Peer.

Peer waited by the door, hungry and cross. In full flow, Harald chanted on. It was all about the voyage to Vinland, and he was making it sound pretty stormy and adventurous. Once he caught Peer’s eye, and a faint smirk fled across his face.

Would the poem never end? Was Harald deliberately spinning it out to keep him waiting? Something scuffled overhead. Dust dropped in a fairy cascade. Suppressing a sneeze, Peer rubbed his eyes and saw flickering movement along the roofbeams. It would be the Nis poking about amongst the cobwebs, chasing spiders—one of its favourite games. Good. At least the Nis couldn’t be bothered with Harald Silkenhair!

At last Harald’s voice rose in triumphant climax:

“But our sleek ship, our proud sea-serpent Bore us swiftly to a safe haven,An empty land, fleeced in forests,Land for our labours, land for claiming!”

Everyone but Peer clapped and cheered. Harald flung himself back on the bench, lifted his cup and tossed down a draught of ale. “Great stuff!” roared Ralf, pounding the table. “Grand! ‘Our sleek ship, our proud sea-serpent!’ I’ve always wished I could make poetry. My father could, but I can’t. ‘An empty land, fleeced in forests.’ That’s not right, though. Vinland isn’t empty. There are people there.”

Harald’s laugh was a jeer. “People? You mean the Skraelings?”

Peer didn’t know what a Skraeling was, but nothing would have induced him to ask. He squeezed down the room and reached over Arnë’s shoulder to grab some food. Gudrun smiled at him, and Hilde flipped him a wave, but the benches were full, so he folded himself into a corner near the fire, sitting on the earth floor with his back against one of the big wooden posts that held up the roof. Loki came out from under the table to greet him. Peer pulled him close and fed him a piece of cheese.

Sigurd was asking loudly, “What’s a Skraeling?”

“Skraelings, laddie?” Gunnar set down his horn cup with a crack. “A Skraeling is a wretch, a pitiful rascal. It’s what we call those creatures who live in Vinland. No better than trolls. They live in tents made from bits of tree bark. They dress in skins. Your little sister knows more than the Skraelings do. Why,” he guffawed, “at one place we stopped they were so ignorant that they bartered good furs for a few miserable pieces of red cloth. And when we ran short of cloth, we tore it into thinner and thinner strips, and still the Skraelings paid in furs.”

“That’s not what Pa told us,” said Hilde. Peer nodded agreement. Ralf’s stories had made these people sound like tall forest spirits, flitting between the trees with bright feathers in their black hair.

Ralf said mildly, “I thought they were fine people. And why shouldn’t they barter furs for cloth, if cloth was a rarity? I don’t call that proof of ignorance.”

Gunnar stared as though he wasn’t used to being disagreed with. Gudrun broke in, “But aren’t they dangerous? Isn’t that how you lost your hand, Gunnar—fighting Skraelings?”