Katherine Langrish - West of the Moon

Eirik paused, wheezing, and Gudrun hugged his arm. “Father-in-law! Are you all right?”

Eirik shook himself like a dog. “I’m fine,” he growled. “Fine!” And he plunged on down the path.

The black waterwheel was toothed with icicles. As Gudrun and Eirik shuffled over the icy bridge, they heard the excited bark of a fox from the mill yard, followed by an unearthly cackling.

Fox among the hens , thought Gudrun at once, but she didn’t care. Serve the Grimssons right if they lost their hens! And Eirik thought the same, he was nodding at her. “Foxes! I’ll give ’em foxes,” he roared. “I’ll feed them to the foxes, in tiny pieces. On we go!”

He was getting very tired though, Gudrun could tell, leaning more and more heavily on her arm. Still, the path was smoother now. It wasn’t so far to the village. Oh, but what was she doing here, when Sigurd and Sigrid must be far up the mountain? Why hadn’t she sent Hilde with Eirik and gone after them herself? She began to cry, big tears spilling over her cheeks. Her woollen skirt dragged, clotted with snow.

“Snow’s stopped,” Eirik shouted. “Dawn’s on the way.” It was true.

Wiping her tears, Gudrun saw the first houses and smelled the heavy tang of woodsmoke. She let go of Eirik’s arm and ran stumbling to the nearest door. “Einar!” She beat on it and pushed it open.

There was no one there. The fire burned cheerfully, the blankets on the sleeping bench were disturbed as though the sleepers had flung them back and left suddenly. “No one’s here!” cried Gudrun as Eirik hobbled up behind her.

“Try next door,” Eirik gasped.

Gudrun flew past him. “Arne – Harald! Where are you?” she begged. “Bjørn – Kersten?” House after house was empty, though cats yowled from corners and in one a baby cried, alone in its cradle. Gudrun came out looking bewildered. “Where are they all? Is it some evil spell?”

Eirik held up his hand. “Listen!” Gudrun obeyed. It seemed she could hear a far-off shouting.

“Is it an attack?” she gasped. “Is it war?”

“Onwards to battle!” shouted Eirik. “Let’s go see!”

Alf and Loki trotted briskly down the hill. As they came in sight of the tall stone where Peer had sheltered the night before, the sun rose over the hill. The snow glittered, and the stone’s long shadow fell across the slope.

Light-footed up the hill, the white fox came dancing, dragging something by the neck. Close to the big stone it stopped to lay down the burden and get a fresh grip. Limp and bedraggled, the black cockerel lay dead on the snow.

Alf circled the fox, glaring and growling. But Loki trotted nimbly right up to it, and touched noses. His tail moved in a tentative wag, and the fox’s brush twitched in reply. Then its sharp ears pricked. It glanced up. The dogs stiffened. A breath of wind brought to their acute hearing a distant clamour. Far away on the shore, many voices were shouting.

The fox grabbed the cockerel and slunk off up the hill. Alf stood rigid, his muzzle raised, snuffing the wind, straining at those sounds floating from the fjord. With a hoarse bark he bounded forwards, his bushy tail waving. Loki dashed after him. Side by side the two dogs crossed the wooden bridge and disappeared into the trees on the path to the village.

Torches flared by the fjord, pale in the dawn. Beached on the shingle, dwarfing Bjørn and Arne’s boats, an elegant longship reared its proud neck. The fierce dragonhead was covered in sacking, so as not to frighten the timid land spirits of the homeland.

The whole village had turned out to greet it. Clinging together, Eirik and Gudrun made their way on to the pebbles, where Gudrun shrieked, let go of Eirik and ran into the water to seize the arm of a tall burly man who vaulted laughing out of the ship.

“Ralf! Ralf, my man, is it really you?” She pounded his chest with her fists, laughing and crying. “Is it really you?”

“Yes, my girl!” Ralf scooped her off her feet and gave her a bristly kiss. “It’s really me!”

Chapter 16

In the Hall of the Mountain King

THE TROLL DOOR closed with a boom and a suck of air, as if a giant mouth had breathed in.

It was dark.

Peer’s breath shortened. “Hilde! Where are you?”

“Here!” Their groping hands met. “I thought there would be lights,” she whispered, gripping him. “Why is it dark?”

Her touch steadied him. “It’s daybreak.” Peer remembered something the Nis had once said. “That’s night-time for trolls.”

“If they’re all asleep, who let us in?”

“Ssh!” said Peer, freezing. They listened, tense. Was anyone there? Peer heard water dripping, and his own harsh breath. He closed his eyes, opened them wide. It made no difference. The darkness moulded to his face, clung to him, caught in his throat like black glue…

“Hello!” Hilde’s bold voice rang out. “Gatekeeper! We’ve come to see the Gaffer. Bring us a light!”

There was a soft clap and an explosion of light. The tunnel blanched. Painfully, through watering eyes, Peer saw a spindly figure twirling a bright sphere, like a little sun, on one crooked forefinger. It laughed quietly: “ Ho, ho! ”

“We want – to see – the Gaffer,” Hilde gasped.

A dark hooked arm bowled the ball of light towards them. They dodged, and the quivering light rolled past, illuminating the first few yards of a long passage. They looked back at the stone door, trying to see the gatekeeper, but their own shadows blotted it out – except for a long clawed foot, like a bird’s, scraping along the floor.

Peer and Hilde turned and ran. “Oh my goodness,” panted Hilde. “It must have been standing right behind us in the dark!”

“What now?” Peer demanded. “What do we do?”

“Follow the light, I think. Come on!” She tugged his hand. Peer came, throwing a nervous glance over his shoulder. But only darkness followed them.

At first, the passage was wide enough to walk abreast. Peer clumped along in his wet boots, trying not to shiver. Troll Fell had swallowed him and here he was in its long stone gullet. The air was chill. The floor rose and fell, with unexpected puddles.

Sometimes the passage twisted, or branched into side passages, which corkscrewed up or dived into darkness. Sometimes the roof dipped, and they had to duck. Or the walls bulged, nipping the passage into a tight waist. “One at a time here,” muttered Hilde, sliding sideways. “Come on!” Peer squeezed after her: the stone felt wet and smooth, slick as a cow’s tongue.

On the other side Hilde clutched him, shouting. “Look at that!”

A rough cataract of yellow water shot from a hole in the ceiling and hurtled into a pit. The only way past was along a slanting ledge on the left-hand wall. Peer looked down the shaft. The water careered into darkness.

“I’ll go first!” he said grimly. He needed to keep moving. When he stood still, he felt as though the whole weight of Troll Fell was pressing on his shoulders. “It’s not too bad,” he shouted. “Keep near the wall like this, and – ah!”

His foot slipped and in panic he snatched at the rocks. One hand curled over a sharp rim and he hung over the drop, kicking. Water drummed on his back. Hilde screamed; then her hand caught his flailing wrist and she hauled. He dragged his knee up and over, and clawed his way further up the slippery shelf. Together they crawled out of the spray to where the passage opened again on the far side of the shaft.

The ball of light was loitering there, bluish and fitful. As they scrambled to their feet it turned a couple of brisk spins, brightened, and whirled off down the tunnel. Bruised and bedraggled, Peer and Hilde limped along. They stumbled up a flight of shallow steps. At the top the light sprang up and hung overhead, rotating lazily.