Katherine Langrish - West of the Moon

Deep in the rock of the left-hand wall was a crevice, shaped into a rough archway. Set back into it was a solid wooden door.

Peer looked at Hilde. She gave him an anxious nod. He knocked.

In a moment the door opened a crack and small troll looked out, holding a smoking pine branch in one fist. It saw them and hissed, exposing needle sharp teeth and began to shut the door again, but Peer stuck his foot in the way.

“We want to see the Gaffer!”

The troll jerked at the door. Peer got his fingers around the edge and dragged it back. Feverishly, Hilde unwrapped the golden cup.

The troll’s eyes grew round and black. It let go of the door and sprang up and down, tail lashing. “Give! Give!” it squeaked.

“It’s not for you.” Hilde held the cup high in the air. “It’s for the Gaffer. We want to see him – now!”

The little troll’s claws shot out and its ears folded flat like an angry cat’s, but it stood back and opened the door wide. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, Peer and Hilde stepped in.

It was a large chamber, gloriously warm and smelling of pine needles. In the middle of the floor a brazier glowed red, filled with logs. The troll pitched the burning branch back into the flames.

Beyond the brazier was a stone bed. Its four crooked posts seemed to have dripped from the ceiling and grown from the floor. Peer and Hilde tiptoed closer. On it, snoring loudly under a pile of sheepskins, the old Gaffer of Troll Fell lay – apparently asleep. His mouth hung open, showing two long brown curving teeth like tusks. His eyes were closed. But in the middle of his forehead a third eye glared, red-rimmed and weeping. It rolled around and fixed on Peer and Hilde.

“I see strangers,” the Gaffer mumbled in his sleep. He yawned, stretched and sat up, opening his other eyes – and as he did so, the eye in the middle of his forehead fluttered slowly shut.

“ Hutututu! What’s this, what’s this?” growled the Gaffer. Peer and Hilde grabbed hands.

“I’m Ralf Eiriksson’s daughter.” Hilde spoke up bravely. “I’ve come for my little brother and sister. The millers of Trollsvik stole them.”

“We brought you something in exchange,” Peer added as the Gaffer scowled.

Hilde held up the golden cup. “This! You lost it years ago. Give me back my brother and sister, and in return —”

“ Lost it?” the Gaffer interrupted. “It was stolen! Stolen by your father, a thief if ever there was. How dare you make bargains with me?”

“How dare you call him a thief?” Hilde cried. “You trolls tried to poison him!”

“Hilde —” said Peer.

“It wasn’t poison!” shouted the King of Troll Fell.

“Then why did it burn all the hair off his pony’s tail?” Hilde yelled.

“Hilde —”

Hilde grabbed a sheepskin from the Gaffer’s bed and shook it in his face. “See that?” she panted. “See that mark? That came from one of our sheep – and so did this!” She seized another fleece, and another. “Who’s the thief now?” She threw them down and stood glaring at him.

Peer expected the Gaffer to call his trolls and have both of them torn to pieces. To his immense relief, the huge old troll began to laugh. He screwed up all three eyes and rocked to and fro on the edge of his bed, choking.

“Well, what’s a little borrowing between neighbours?” he coughed, slapping his knees. “Give me that!” He snatched the cup and turned it in his claws, admiring it.

“Nice timing,” he grinned at Hilde. “We need this for the wedding. It’s the Bride Cup of Troll Fell, always used at weddings. Traditional! Belonged to my grandmother. Skotte!”

The little troll in the corner gave a shrill squeak and stood to attention.

“Get everyone up,” said the Gaffer. “If I’m awake, no one else sleeps. There’s plenty to do. I want the Hall ready before midnight. Wake up the princess. I want to see her.” The little troll doubled over in a bow and scuttled out.

The troll king reached for his coat, which was made of sewn-together cat skins, mostly tabby. There was a slit in the back for his cow-like tail. He thrashed about. “Help me!” he growled, and Peer gingerly bent and hooked the tail through.

“Follow me,” the Gaffer commanded. He threw open the door and stumped out. The ball of light, idly drifting against the ceiling, brightened rapidly and bounded ahead of him as he marched along the tunnel.

Peer and Hilde began to hear noises ahead: bangs, crashes and whoops. The passage ended in some steps, and they found themselves looking into the splendid Hall under Troll Fell.

It was a huge cavern. The roof was an arch of darkness, patrolled by many floating lights, golden and blue. Their own ball whirled aloft to join the others.

Opposite them, a waterfall found its way in white threads down between rocks. At the foot of the waterfall was a stone chair. The water divided around it and flowed away in a channel under an archway.

The Hall was filling with trolls. Some tumbled from dark chimneys in the roof and dropped to the floor like bouncing balls. Others scrambled out from underneath boulders. Gangs rushed in with tables and benches, dragging them here and there, setting them in order. Over by the river a group of dripping water spirits, or nixies, scoured a pile of golden plates with handfuls of fine white sand. Everyone was shouting at once:

“Fetch a high-seat for the King of the Dovre!”

“A special table for his son and daughter!”

“How many tubs of water for the merrows?”

“We need to have just as many for the nixies!”

“Couldn’t they sit on wet stones…?”

Peer scanned the crowd for a sight of Sigurd or Sigrid. He saw trolls with pigs’ snouts, trolls with owls’ eyes, trolls with birds’ beaks. There was not a human face among them – except for the nixies whose beautiful faces were narrow and sly with curious slanting eyes.

Then he saw them – slouching on rocks at the bottom of the waterfall – not the children, but the burly, black-haired figures of the Grimsson twins. He winced.

“Don’t worry, Peer,” whispered Hilde beside him.

“I’m not,” he lied. The Gaffer set off across the uneven stone floor. They followed. The trolls fell back for them, muttering.

Cold with fright, Peer threw his head back and stared at his two uncles. They hadn’t seen him yet, and he wasn’t looking forward to the moment when they did. Baldur noticed the Gaffer and got to his feet, jogging his brother’s elbow – and then he spotted Peer. His jaw dropped. So did Grim’s. Their faces registered blank astonishment changing to pop-eyed fury. Scared though he was, Peer had to giggle.

The Gaffer walked past the Grimsson brothers, ignoring them, and climbed on to his throne. He swept his tail out of the way and settled himself. But as Peer and Hilde drew near, the two men came out of their trance. Baldur shot out a thick arm. He caught Peer by the scruff and shook him like a puppet.

“Let him go!” Hilde shrieked, trying to pull him free. Grim kicked her, and there was a hiss of delight from the assembled trolls: “Bite them and tear them! Pull them to pieces!”

“QUIET!” bellowed the Gaffer. He folded his arms. “ Huuuu! If we’re not ready by midnight for the King of the Dovre, I’ll look at you all with my other eye and shrivel you into earthworms! Get on with your work.” The trolls began to bustle about very busily.

Baldur dropped Peer and turned blustering to the Gaffer. “Whatever the boy’s said to you, don’t listen to him! We’ve done what you asked, haven’t we? We’ve got you those children – just what you wanted!”

“S’right!” added Grim. “Give us our gold – as much as we can carry!”