Katherine Langrish - West of the Moon

“The brook obeys me, boy. I control it with my dam and my sluice gates. It turns my waterwheel and drives my millstones.

“It all comes down to power. The power of the water, the power of the stones and me. I’m the most powerful man in the valley.” He gave the millstone another affectionate pat.

“See that?” he went on, straightening up. Peer banged his head on the corner of a big wooden box with sloping sides that hung suspended over the millstones from four thick ropes. “The hopper,” his uncle grunted. “You fill it with barley, which runs out through this hole in the bottom, and shakes down through this hole in the upper millstone, which is called the runnerstone. Because it’s the one that turns. Understand?”

To his own surprise, Peer did. He tried to show an interest. “Does everyone bring their corn here?” Perhaps Hilde had been exaggerating. Perhaps the mill was doing quite well.

But Uncle Baldur scowled. “They soon will,” he growled, “now that blackguard Ralf Eiriksson has gone. Spreading lies…Telling everyone I put chalk in the flour – or dirt –” He shook his fist. “This will be the best mill in the valley. I’ll put in another wheel – another pair of stones. They’ll come to me from miles around. But first —” He stopped. “But first,” he said in a different tone of voice, “get that hopper filled, boy. I haven’t got all night!”

To lift the sack high enough to pour the barley into the hopper was quite beyond Peer. With a bad-tempered grunt, Uncle Baldur hefted the sack in his thick arms and let the glossy grain pour effortlessly into the hopper. Then he took Peer outside to open the sluice and start the wheel.

It was getting late. The sun had set and it was cold by the stream. Peer looked anxiously for Loki as he followed his uncle up to the dam. The millpond seemed more sinister than ever as darkness fell. A little breeze shivered the surface and the trees sighed sadly. He hoped with all his heart that Loki had kept away from this dark water.

Uncle Baldur showed Peer how to work the sluice gate. He stood on a narrow plank bridge and simply tugged the gate up. It slid up and down between grooves in two big timber posts. He banged in some wedges to keep it stuck in place. A rush of water boiled from under the gate, filling the air with thunder, and the great black waterwheel stirred into life. The mill machinery began to clack.

“You’ll do that job next time,” Uncle Baldur said. “And don’t hang about here after dark. Or Granny Greenteeth will get you.”

As if he cared , thought Peer. Aloud he asked, “Who is Granny Greenteeth?”

“She lives at the bottom of the pond,” said Uncle Baldur briefly. “She likes to come out at night – the old hag. So watch yourself.”

It was now almost quite dark. Peer looked over his shoulder as they walked back to the mill. What was that dark patch floating in the shadow of the willows? Weeds? Or the spreading hair of Granny Greenteeth rising from her slimy bed? A fish splashed, and ripples lapped against the bank… He hurried after his uncle. Something crashed through a nearby bramble bush and leaped on to the path. Peer’s heart nearly stopped – then he saw what it was.

“Loki!” he gasped in relief. “You crazy dog!” Loki leaped and lashed his tail. Peer hugged him. “Come on,” he said, and they ran into the yard together.

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.”