Katherine Langrish - Troll Mill

Rain scythed through the long wiry grass, switching his skin and soaking through his clothes in cold patches. Tiring, he slowed to a plod, looking forward to sitting snugly by the fire and chatting to Kersten while she cooked. The fish was a nuisance to carry though, slippery and unwieldy. He nearly dropped it and stopped to hoist it up. It slithered through his arms. He tried shoving it inside his jerkin, but the head and tail stuck out. Wet and shivering, he began to laugh.

This is silly, he thought, I’m nearly juggling. What I need is a piece of string, or maybe a stick to skewer it on. I…what’s that?

Footsteps thudded and splashed on the path above him. In a flurry of flying hair and swirling cloak, a woman ran headlong out of the mist and slammed into him. Peer dropped the fish and grabbed at the woman, staggering. His fingers sank deep into her arms as they struggled for balance. She was gasping, her heart banging madly against him, her breath hot in his face. He tried to push her off and found his hands tangled in her wet hair. Her hood fell back.

“ Kersten! ” Cold fright shook Peer’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

She clutched him fiercely. “Is Gudrun still giving suck?”

Peer gaped. “What?”

She shook his arm angrily. “Is Gudrun still suckling?” She threw back a fold of her huge cloak. It flapped heavily in the wind, slapping his legs like wet hide. In the crook of her arm, wrapped in a lambskin—

The baby? Peer blinked in horror. But she was thrusting it at him; he had to take it: little light arms and legs waved in the rain. He looked desperately to cover its head and she pushed a blanket into his arms. She was speaking: words he didn’t understand.

“Take her–to Gudrun–Gudrun can feed her—”

“Kersten,” Peer croaked. “What’s happened? Where are you going?”

She looked at him with eyes like dark holes. “Home.”

Then she was past him, the cloak dragging after her. He snatched for it. Sleek wet fur tugged through his fingers. “Kersten! Stop!”

She ran on down the path, and he began to run too, but the baby jolting in his arms slowed him to long desperate strides.

“Kersten!” Rain slashed into his eyes. His feet skated on wet grass, sank into pockets of soft sand. She was on the beach now, running straight down the shingle to the water. Peer skidded to a crazy halt. He couldn’t catch her. He saw Bjørn, still bending over the boat doing something with the nets. Peer filled his lungs and bellowed, “ Bjørn! ” at the top of his voice. He pointed.

Bjørn’s head came up. He turned, staring. Then he flung himself forwards, pounding across the beach to intercept Kersten. And Kersten stopped. She threw herself flat and the wet sealskin cloak billowed over her, hiding her from head to foot. Underneath it, she continued to move in heavy lolloping jumps. She must be crawling on hands and knees, drawing the skin cloak closely around her. She rolled. Waves rushed up and sucked her into the water. Trapped in those encumbering folds, she would drown.

“Kersten!” Peer screamed. The body in the water twisted, lithe and muscular, and plunged forward into the next grey wave.

Bjørn was racing back to his boat. He hurled himself on it, straining to drive it down the shingle into the water, wrenching the bows round to point into the waves.

“Bjørn!” Peer cried into the wind. Spray filled his mouth with salt. He stammered and spat. “Your baby…your baby!”

Bjørn jumped into the boat. The oars rattled out and he dug them into the water with savage strokes, twisting his body to scan the sea. Peer heard him shout, his voice cracking, “Kersten! Kersten, come back…” The boat reared over lines of white breakers and was swallowed by rain and darkness.

Peer stared. Like a speck in his eye, a sleek head bobbed in the water. He ran wildly forward. It was gone. Then he saw another–and another, rising and falling with the swell. Swift dark bodies swept easily between wave and wave.

“Seals!” he whispered.

In his arm the baby stirred, arching its back and thrusting thin fists into the rain. Peer clutched it in dismay. Clumsily he tried to arrange its wrappings with his free hand, dragging the blanket up over its arms. It seemed tiny, much younger than little Eirik up at the farm. He was terrified of dropping it.

Kersten was gone, lost in the vast sea. Why? Bjørn had gone, searching after her over the wild waters. Where? Even the seals had gone now, he saw, leaving the empty waves toppling in one after another to burst on the shore in meaningless foam.

The baby’s eyes were tightly shut, but a frown fluttered across its small face. The mouth pursed and it moved its head as if seeking something to suck. Soon it would be hungry. Soon it would cry.

Peer’s teeth chattered. He shuddered all over from cold and shock. He fumbled jerkily inside the blanket for one of the baby’s small fists. It felt like ice, and he poked it gently. Tiny reddened fingers clenched and twitched. Was it a boy or a girl? He couldn’t remember. Didn’t babies die if they got too cold?

Gudrun , he thought. I’ve got to get it to Gudrun. Kersten said.

Holding the baby stiffly across his chest, he plodded up the shingle, turning his back on the shore and the relentless turmoil of exploding breakers. He trudged up the path through the dunes. The sound of the sea was muffled and he left the spray behind, but the keen rain followed, soaking into his shoulders and arms, trickling down his back. The first house in the village was Bjørn’s. The door stood wide open, and rain was driving in. Peer hesitated, and then stepped quickly inside. He pushed the door shut, shivering.

The fire was out. The dark house smelled of cold, bitter ashes. Angry tears pricked Peer’s eyelids. He remembered Kersten’s warmth and gaiety and good cooking. Whatever had gone wrong?

Still holding the baby, he blundered across the room and cracked his shins on something wooden that moved. It swung back and hit him again, and he put a hand out to still it. A cradle.

Thankfully, Peer lowered the baby into the cradle and stood for a moment, trying to make his brain work. What now? Did anyone else in the village have a young baby? No . Gudrun was the only person who could feed it. But what will Bjørn think if he comes home, and the baby’s gone? Should I wait for him? But he might not be back for ages. He might capsize, he might never come home at all…

Peer crushed down rising panic. When he does come, he’ll be cold, he told himself sternly . He’ll need to get warm.

At least I can light the fire.

It was the obvious, the sensible thing to do, and he groped his way to the ledge where Bjørn kept his strike-a-light, and a box of dry wood shavings. Clumsy in the dark, he knocked the box to the floor and had to feel about for the knob of flint and the crescent-shaped steel striker. He scooped a handful of shavings into the hearth and struck flint and steel together repeatedly, showering sparks. The wood shavings caught. Wriggling red-hot worms appeared in the darkness, and Peer blew, coaxing them into clear flames. The room glimmered into view. With a sigh of relief he grabbed a handful of kindling, and carefully fed the blaze with twigs and branches. The fire nibbled them from his fingers like a live, bright animal. When at last it was burning steadily and giving out heat, he got stiffly to his feet.

The house had only one room and little furniture. The firelight picked out a few details and crowded the rest with shadows. It gleamed here on a polished wooden bowl, there on a thin-bladed sickle hanging on the wall. Peer wandered about. In a corner stood Bjørn and Kersten’s bed, the rough blankets neatly folded. He felt like an intruder. And there was nothing to show why Kersten had suddenly rushed out of the house, carrying her baby.