Katherine Langrish - Troll Mill

For David, Alice and Isobelwith love

Warm thanks to: Liz, for everything, and especially uprooting the elder trees

Catherine, Michele, Jackie and Carol for being the best agents anyone could have

Phil Scott of Regia Anglorum for first-hand advice on how to sail a faering

And once again to Alan Stoyel and Critchell Britten for your help on water mills.

My apologies to you all for any remaining mistakes

Last but not least, thanks to Gillie, Sally and Robin, my wonderful and understanding editors; to Becky for the exciting cover designs; and to everyone else at HarperCollins

Cover Page

Title Page Troll Mill KATHERINE LANGRISH

Dedication For David, Alice and Isobelwith love Warm thanks to: Liz, for everything, and especially uprooting the elder trees Catherine, Michele, Jackie and Carol for being the best agents anyone could have Phil Scott of Regia Anglorum for first-hand advice on how to sail a faering And once again to Alan Stoyel and Critchell Britten for your help on water mills. My apologies to you all for any remaining mistakes Last but not least, thanks to Gillie, Sally and Robin, my wonderful and understanding editors; to Becky for the exciting cover designs; and to everyone else at HarperCollins

Map

CHAPTER 1 What Happened on the Shore

CHAPTER 2 A Brush with the Trolls

CHAPTER 3 A Warning from the Nis

CHAPTER 4 Bjørn’s Story

CHAPTER 5 The Quarrel

CHAPTER 6 Exploring the Mill

CHAPTER 7 A Family Argument

CHAPTER 8 Voices at the Millpond

CHAPTER 9 The Nis Behaves Badly

CHAPTER 10 The Nis in Disgrace

CHAPTER 11 Success at the Mill

CHAPTER 12 Rumours

CHAPTER 13 Sightings

CHAPTER 14 Gruesome Grindings

CHAPTER 15 The Lubbers at Large

CHAPTER 16 Under Troll Fell

CHAPTER 17 The Nis Confesses

CHAPTER 18 The Troll Baby at the Farm

CHAPTER 19 Granny Greenteeth’s Lair

CHAPTER 20 The Miller of Troll Fell

CHAPTER 21 Kersten

CHAPTER 22 New Beginnings

Also By Katherine Langrish

Copyright

About the Publisher

The boat danced ungracefully in from the fishing grounds, dipping and rolling over lively waves at the mouth of the fjord. Her crew, a man and a boy, reached steadily forward and back, tugging their two pairs of oars through the choppy water.

The boy, rowing in the bows, looked up over his companion’s bent back. Out west beyond the islands, the wind tore a long yellow rift in the clouds, and the setting sun blinked through in stormy brilliance, splashing the water with fiery oils.

Dazzled, the boy missed his next stroke, slicing the oars through air instead of water. Braced to pull, he flew backwards off his seat into a tangle of nets and creels and a slither of fat, bright fish. He lay breathless as the boat heaved under his spine, hurling him skywards, then sinking away underneath as though falling through space.

“Resting?” teased his friend Bjørn. “Had enough rowing for one day?”

Peer laughed back from the bottom of the boat, long arms and legs sprawling. “Yes, I’m tired. I think I’ll just stay here. Ouch!” Salt water slapped his face as the prow cut through a wave, and he scrambled up hastily with dripping hair, snatching at the loose oars.

“Ship them,” said Bjørn over his shoulder. “I’ll take us in.” He leaned unhurriedly on his own pair of oars, and Peer knelt, clutching the slender bows, looking forwards at the land. The water under the boat lit up a cloudy green; over on the shore the pebbles glittered, and the sea-grass on the dunes glowed gold. The late sunlight turned the slanting pastures above the village to slopes of emerald. High above all, the rugged peak of Troll Fell shone as if gilded against a sky dark as a bruise.

“Bad weather coming,” said Bjørn, squinting at the sunset. The breeze stiffened, carrying cold points of rain. “But we’ll get home before it catches us.”

“Maybe you will,” Peer said. “I’ll get soaked on my way up the hill.”

“Stay with us,” offered Bjørn. “Kersten would love to see you. You can earn your supper by admiring the baby.” He glanced round, smiling at Peer’s sudden silence. “Come on. Surely you’ve got used to babies with little Eirik to practise on up at the farm? How old is he now?”

Peer calculated. “He was born last seedtime, just after Grandfather Eirik died, so…about a year. He certainly keeps Gudrun and Hilde busy. He’s into everything.”

“He’s a fine little fellow, isn’t he? It’s sad his grandpa never saw him.”

“Yes…although actually,” said Peer,“I think he might have lost patience with the noise. Dear old Eirik, he was always grumbling, ‘A poet needs peace and quiet!’ Little Eirik screams such a lot. Babies! I never knew they were so much trouble.”

“Ours is a good little soul,” Bjørn said proudly. “Never cries.”

“And how is Kersten?” Peer asked, his eye on the shore as they ran in past lines of black rocks. He crouched, tensing. Bjørn pulled a couple of hard strokes on one oar to straighten up.

“She’s fine, thanks,” he grunted, twisting round as the boat shot in on the back of a breaking wave. The keel knocked on the shingle and Peer sprang out into a welter of froth and seaweed. Bjørn followed and together they ran the boat higher up the stony beach.

“That was a good day’s work!” said Bjørn. “Glad Ralf could spare you.”

“I’ve been helping him plough,” Peer explained, “but we’ve got the seed in now and lambing’s nearly over. So he said I deserved a holiday.”

“It’s been nice to have company.” Reaching into the boat, Bjørn hooked his fingers into the gills of a heavy, shining cod and hefted it. “There’s plenty of eating on that one. Take it back with you.” He handed it over. “Or will you stay?”

Cradling the fish awkwardly, Peer glanced around. The brief sunset flare was over. The rising wind whipped strands of sea-stiffened fair hair across his face. Loose swirls of cloud were descending over Troll Fell. The fjord disappeared under a grey sea fret, and restless waves slapped jerkily against the rocks.

“I’ll stay,” he decided. “Ralf and Gudrun won’t be worried, they know I’m with you.”Absurdly, he hugged the fish, smiling. Three years ago he’d been a friendless orphan, and he could still hardly believe that he had a family now, who cared about him.

“Good choice!” said Bjørn cheerfully. “We’ll ask Kersten to fry that fish for us, then, and we’ll have it with lots of warm bread and hot sizzling butter. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.” Peer licked his lips.

Bjørn laughed. “Then hurry! Go on ahead while I finish up here. Off with you! Here comes the wet.”

Cold, stinging rain swept across the beach as he spoke, darkening the stones. It drove into Peer’s face as he dashed across the clattering shingle, dodging boulders and jumping over inlets where the tide swirled and sloshed. It was fun, pitting himself against the weather. Soon he came to the channel where the stream ran down to the sea. Beside it, the path to the village wound up through the sand dunes.