Katherine Langrish - West of the Moon

One frosty morning Bjørn Egilsson knocked at the door with his brother Arne. They came in and Arne stood awkwardly while Gudrun fussed and exclaimed and offered them breakfast.

Arne looked tired and weatherbeaten; his clothes were waterstained and faded. When Hilde smiled at him he looked at the floor. Alf, the old sheepdog, ambled stiffly to greet him, and Arne stroked his ears as if grateful for something to do.

“Tell us your adventures, Arne,” said Gudrun brightly, but her hand shook as she poured ale for the visitors.

Bjørn and Arne exchanged glances. Arne cleared his throat. “Well – you know I wanted to join Ralf ’s ship but missed the sailing? I followed in my own boat, hoping to catch her at some place further south. For a while I got plenty of news of her from villages along the coast. I was sure I’d catch up. Then – well, then the news dried up. Nobody knew anything about her.”

“‘All right,’ I thought, ‘they’ve struck out to sea at last, and I’ve missed them.’ I was disappointed, but I got a place on one of those pot-bellied cargo ships instead. But now…”

He stopped and went on with a rush. “I hate to tell you this, Gudrun. I’m afraid there’s been news of a wreck. Part of a dragon-prowed longship was washed up on rocks south of Hammerhaven. No survivors.”

Gudrun flinched, and Eirik suddenly looked very old. “Is Pa dead?” wailed Sigrid. Hilde hugged her.

“We don’t know that,” said Bjørn hastily. “We just thought you ought to hear it from Arne before the story gets garbled all around the dale.”

“Thank you,” said Gudrun quietly.

“I wouldn’t have brought such news for the world,” Arne muttered.

“It may not be true,” said Bjørn.

“We must wait to hear more,” said Gudrun, knowing full well that more news was unlikely ever to arrive.

“I hope I’m wrong.” Arne took Gudrun’s hand. “If there’s anything we can do, anything…”

Gudrun stifled a sob. The two brothers looked very troubled as they departed.

Hilde took a pitchfork out to the cowshed. Where no one could see her, she leaned on the smooth wooden rail of Bonny’s stall, and buried her head in her arms.

Now I know how Peer felt when he lost his father.

Hot-eyed, she thought about Peer. She remembered that day in early spring when they had first met. The day Baldur Grimsson had threatened her; the day he had told her to keep off the Stonemeadow; the day he had claimed Ralf ’s sheep. He had said Ralf would never come back; and he had been right. Drearily she realised how different everything would be from now on. She wouldn’t even be able to help Peer escape from his uncles. The Grimsson brothers had won.

She gritted her teeth. “No they haven’t! They shan’t have the sheep, for a start. I’ll go up to the Stonemeadow and fetch them down myself!” And she marched straight back into the house to tell Gudrun so.

Her mother gasped in horror.

“Go up the mountain by yourself? At this time of the year, with trolls about? And wolves, and bears? And the Grimssons, up there all hours of the day and night, thick as thieves with the Troll King himself ? I won’t allow it. Hasn’t this house seen enough trouble?”

“Then what will we do?” asked Hilde in a low voice. “Hand everything over to the Grimssons on a plate? And what about poor Peer Ulfsson?”

“I’m sorry for the boy, but he’s not our problem,” cried Gudrun.

“All right!” said Hilde, very white. “But those are our sheep up there, on our land. And the Grimssons have had the wool off them already this year – and it was Peer who told me. Oh Ma! If I don’t bring them down to our sheepfold, we’ll lose them altogether. Pa would have done it weeks ago – if he’d been here.”

Hunched over the fire, old Eirik stirred. “The girl is right,” he said unexpectedly. “The sheep do have to be brought down. She’s a brave girl, and sensible. She can manage.”

“I’ll be all right,” Hilde added eagerly. “I’ll take Alf. He’ll look after me.”

“He’s too old!” Gudrun protested.

“Ma, he knows every inch of the hills, and he knows the sheep. I can’t get lost with Alf. Look at him!”

The old dog had heard his name and was looking up enquiringly. Eirik slapped his thigh. “Knows every trick. The old ones are the good ones!”

With bad grace Gudrun gave way. “I suppose you may go, Hilde – since your grandfather approves… But be careful. Get back before dark!”

“I’ll try.” Already Hilde felt better, wrapping herself up in a sheepskin jacket and pulling on a pair of soft leather boots. She grabbed a stick. “For cracking trolls on the head,” she joked.

“Oh dear.” Gudrun looked anxiously out. The sky was overcast and a chill wind swept the farmyard. “It looks like snow.”

“Get inside and keep warm,” said Hilde impatiently. “Keep Grandpa off the ice. And don’t worry about me. Come, Alf!” She set off, the old sheepdog trotting beside her.

Hilde knew that long hours of tramping hills lay before her. The tough, independent little sheep roamed where they pleased and were often widely scattered. As she climbed the shoulder of Troll Fell, the wind hit her, burning her ears and forcing tears from her eyes. More ominously, the first grey flakes of snow came whizzing past.

The sheep seemed to have disappeared. Hilde listened for the sound of bleating, or the clonking of the sheep bell worn by the old ewe who led the flock. A flurry of snow whirled down from the north-east, erasing the hillside, leaving nothing visible but a few blurred yards of wet bent grass already turning white.

Hilde trudged on, unwilling to give up. She began to wonder if Baldur and Grim had already taken the sheep away. Perhaps there were none to find. Then it dawned on her that the sheep would shelter from the weather on the western side of the crags. She turned in that direction. Alf trotted ahead, the wind blowing up his thick fur to show the pale skin at the roots.

A blue, unfriendly twilight descended on Troll Fell, and the snow grew deeper. Grey shapes were slinking and sliding about on the edge of sight, and Hilde remembered the trolls. And then Alf barked, once. He stood with one front paw raised, listening intently.

“Have you found them?” Hilde gasped. “Good lad! Go on, then – fetch ’em down!” Alf sped away into the gloom.

Hilde waited, stamping her feet. In a moment a couple of sheep came jogging into view. Snow was piling up on their backs, but Hilde knew they couldn’t feel it under their thick fleeces. Two more arrived at their heels – black faced and scrawny, but to Hilde a beautiful sight.

She whistled. Alf came running, head low, snaking along behind another little group of startled, put-out looking sheep. A bell clonked dismally – he had found the old ewe. Alf looked extremely pleased with himself and grinned at her, panting.

“Good lad!” Hilde did a quick head count and decided there should be some more. “Go on Alf. Seek ’em out!” Alf whisked around the sheep he had gathered, nudging them into a compact group, and dashed off into the storm.

Hilde was smiling to see the old dog so proud of his work, when something small and solid hurled itself into her back and knocked her down. She grovelled on the wet ground, twisting and grappling. The unseen attacker let go, and she scrambled up dizzily, looking for her stick, which had spun away into the snow. Before she could find it, the creature scuttled back and gripped her around the thighs. She looked down into the enigmatic yellow eyes of a small troll, doing its best to heave her off her feet. She hammered it on the head and yelled, then stuck two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle.