Katherine Langrish - West of the Moon

Alf came streaking downhill so fast that he overshot. His back legs slid from under him as he turned, snarling, to attack. The troll let go abruptly and melted into the darkness. Alf pursued it for a few yards, hackles up, before returning to Hilde to check that all was well.

“Hey,” said Hilde gently. “You brave old boy, what a good dog!” She rubbed his chest and neck. His heart was thudding against his ribs, but his eyes were bright. It was Alf ’s glory to be useful, and this was his great day.

“Let’s just round up the ones we’ve got, and go.” They were near the western edge of the Stonemeadow, where the ground broke up into dangerous clefts, rocks and cliffs. It was now too dark to see where she put her feet. The best thing was to go slowly and let Alf and the sheep pick their own path.

A gust of wind parted the whirling snow. Not too far ahead a light waved, dim and smeary, such as might come from a traveller’s lantern. Hilde’s heart lifted. Perhaps Arne or Bjørn had come looking for her! “Over here!” she shouted, and heard an answering shout, blurred by the wind.

“Coming!” If only she had a lantern to signal back. The wind flung snow in her face like handfuls of grey soot. Alf barked, and the sound was whipped away.

The light glimmered again, further off and weaker. “Wait!” Hilde cried. She struggled on, panting. Each gasp filled her mouth with snowflakes like feathers. She coughed. “Wait for me!” She ran, Alf bounding at her heels, overtaking the sheep. The ground sloped. She slowed, afraid to go too fast. “Where are you?” she bellowed between cupped hands.

Alf sprang up and grabbed her sleeve in his teeth. He tugged, and she sat down hard. “What on earth –!” But the far-away light was returning, impossibly fast. No human being could run so smoothly over such rough ground. The light hurtled towards her, growing brighter and brighter, and halted in the air overhead. Hilde threw herself flat. Alf cowered beside her, growling. With a soft puff! the light went out. There was a wild laugh. Something rushed past them in the darkness and receded up the slope.

Hilde stood up on wobbling legs. She was on the edge of a cliff. If Alf hadn’t caught her sleeve, she would have pitched straight over. The creature, whatever it was – troll or mountain spirit – had led her completely astray.

Alf shook himself, as if telling her the danger was over. She patted his rough coat. “Good old Alf! They haven’t done for us yet. That’s the second time you’ve saved me tonight.”

As she turned to follow the old dog back to the sheep, the dark night and racing snow lit up as if a door had opened. And indeed it had. A few hundred yards up the slope, yellow light poured from a rift in the crag. In fear and amazement, she watched a dark silhouette approach the lighted gap and disappear inside. Spindly limbs and a large head – was that the troll-thing which had misled her? And was it going home?

Icy fragments of hail flew into her face. She shielded her eyes and looked again. The light was failing. A huge stone door swung ponderously shut. The hillside trembled at the shock, and all was dark.

Hilde touched Alf ’s neck. “Come!” she murmured.

At the bottom of the Stonemeadow the snow lay only ankle deep, and Alf drove the little flock briskly along the road till they reached the track to the farm.

Gudrun had the farmhouse door open in a flash. “You clever girl! You found them! Come inside at once!” She began to hug Hilde but then held her off. “Get those wet things off – you’re frozen! I’ll put the sheep away. There’s hot soup in the pot.”

“Alf shall have some,” declared Hilde. The old dog lay stiffly down by the fire. He gave a perfunctory lick to his bedraggled fur and laid his head between his paws.

“Dry him and give him some soup,” Hilde called to the twins, rubbing her hair vigorously. “He was marvellous. He saved my life! Ma, just wait till you hear our adventures. We found the door into Troll Fell!”

Chapter 11

The Dogfight

PEER WAS SITTING by the hearth one dark afternoon, cleaning his uncles’ boots. Several pairs lay scattered about and he was scraping the mud off and greasing them to keep them waterproof and supple. The best pairs were thick, double-stitched reindeer hide with the fur inside.

Peer handled them enviously. His own shoes were worn and split, wrapped around with string and stuffed with hay to try and keep his feet warm. They were always wet. His toes were red with chilblains.

He sat as close to the fire as he could. He’d been out for hours shovelling snow and carrying feed to the animals. There were a lot of them now. Grim had taken Grendel one morning and brought down some sheep he claimed were all his, though Peer, looking suspiciously, spotted a variety of different marks. The sheep were penned behind a wattle fence in a corner of the yard, where their breath hung in clouds over their draggled woolly backs.

The mill had been silent for a week. The millpond was freezing. Already the weir was fringed with icicles, and the waterwheel glazed with dark ice. No power. While the ice lasted, Uncle Baldur was a miller no longer. Only a farmer.

Bored and lonely, Peer smeared more grease on to the toe of the fifth boot. Uncle Grim lay snoring in his bunk. Baldur was out. Peer guessed he was down in the village, drinking with his cronies – if he had any.

There was no one to talk to. He hadn’t seen Hilde for weeks, and since the spider episode, the Nis had ignored him, though he often heard it skipping about at night. Peer remembered last winter’s fun, snowball fights and skating with the other boys in Hammerhaven. It felt like another life.

The door crashed open, and Uncle Baldur stamped in, beating snow from his mittens. “He’s dead!” he cried.

Uncle Grim jerked awake in mid-snore. He struggled up. “Who’s dead?”

“Ralf Eiriksson. It’s all around the village,” shrilled Uncle Baldur. “His ship was wrecked and they were all drowned. Just as I thought!”

The brothers flung their arms around each other and began a sort of stamping dance. Peer dropped the boot he was holding and sat in open-mouthed horror.

“Dead as a doornail,” chortled Uncle Baldur.

“A drowned doornail,” Grim wheezed, and Grendel leaped around them shattering the air with his barks.

“Is this sure?” asked Grim, sobering suddenly.

“Certain sure,” Baldur nodded. “Arne Egilsson’s been saying so. I went specially to ask him as soon as I heard. He didn’t like telling me, but he couldn’t deny the facts. The ship’s long overdue, and her timbers have been washing up further down the coast. She sank, it’s obvious.”

Grim smacked his brother on the shoulder. “Then the land’s ours! No one will argue about that if Ralf ’s dead.”

Baldur laughed. He paced up and down, slapping his great thighs. “We’ll be rich, brother. We’ll own the best half of Troll Fell. And after tonight, with the Gaffer’s gold —”

Uncle Grim nodded at Peer. “The boy’s listening,” he growled.

“Who cares?” Uncle Baldur caught Peer by the scruff and shook him. “He don’t know what I’m talking about. We’ll get the goods for the Gaffer now, all right. Who’s to stop us? With Ralf out of the way, we can do whatever we like!”

He whacked Peer on the ear and dropped him. Peer felt sick. Poor, poor Hilde. Poor Ralf! And his father’s lovely ship, smashed on the rocks and lost for ever! Then with a stab of fear he saw what this meant for himself. No safety up at the farm. No escape from Baldur and Grim.

“This calls for a drop of ale!” Baldur declared, rubbing his hands.

“Mead,” Grim suggested.

“You’re right.” Uncle Baldur licked his lips. “Something strong!”