West of the Moon

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Hilde shot him a look of amazed and shining gratitude. Peer turned to the Gaffer. “I’ll stay,” he repeated, bleak but firm. “So don’t give my uncles any treasure. They haven’t earned it. Sigurd and Sigrid are no good to you, and we’re staying of our own free will.”

The Gaffer howled with laughter, opening his mouth so wide he showed every jagged tooth. “Good boy – excellent!”

“Our reward – our gold!” Baldur squeaked in horror. “Besides, that boy’s my own nephew. You have to pay me for him.”

“Not – a – penny!” said the Gaffer, and his mouth snapped shut. The Grimssons looked completely confounded, Peer saw. It was some consolation.

“When can the children go home?” Hilde demanded.

“After the wedding,” said the Gaffer. “We’re busy till then.”

“And keep them quiet,” ordered the troll princess. “Or I’ll bite them!” She cast a critical eye over Hilde and Peer. “Come here!” She looked them up and down. “Humph! These two are bigger and stronger. I suppose that’s better. Oh! Look at her boots! Why, they’re better than mine!”

Hilde looked down. It was true she was wearing a good pair, made by her father and embroidered round the tops in blue and red thread.

The princess hoisted her skirts and showed a foot shod in a clumsy wooden clog.

“Let her have ’em,” Peer advised from the corner of his mouth.

“Take them,” said Hilde quietly. She pulled them off and gave them to the princess, who kicked off her clogs. Hilde slipped her own feet into them with a slight shudder.

The princess tugged the boots on. She stuck out her feet. “Now I shall be finer than the Dovreking’s daughter. They pinch, it’s true – but that’s the price of elegance!”

“Now there’s plenty to do!” the Gaffer shouted. “Has the beer come in yet?”

“Not yet. The bog wife has been brewing for us all week. I ordered twelve barrels of strong black beer. When the steam rises from her vats, the humans say, ‘Oh, there’s mist on the marshes!’” laughed his son.

The Gaffer licked his lips with a long red tongue and turned to his daughter. “Take the girl away. She can help you to dress. As for you, boy —” he waved at Peer, “roll barrels or move tables. Make yourself useful.”

They were being separated! As Hilde was led reluctantly away, Peer startled at a touch on his shoulder. He looked round into the face of a small troll with huge eyes and a long thin beak like a curlew. “Come to the kitchens!” it piped. “Help the cooks!”

It rushed him over to a dark crack in the floor. Hot air rose from it, and the strangest smells. Peer teetered on the edge; the troll pushed him, and with a cry he shot into the darkness, whipping down a natural slide, and was spat out into a lower cavern filled with a red mist of steam and smoke. The troll popped out beside him.

Peer got up, rubbing his bruised knees. “Whatever are they cooking?” he coughed. The troll piped something hard to hear – had it really said, “Frog soup, eel pie, spittle cakes – bone bread?”

Hot fires blazed. Frenzied trolls rushed about with ladles, spoons, colanders and platters. From one corner came a rhythmic thumping where a couple of trolls were working a huge pestle and mortar, pounding a pile of bones into smaller and smaller fragments. Nearby was a stone quern for grinding them into flour, and a series of wooden troughs where several small trolls danced up and down on the dough. Batches of gritty bread were being lifted out of ovens.

Great pots hung over the fires. Peer glanced into one. It held a bubbling mess that looked like frogspawn. And a greasy little troll turned the handle of a spit on which a whole pig was roasting. Or was it a —?

“Dog!” squeaked the troll. That wasn’t – Grendel, by any chance, he wondered? It looked big enough. He backed away, feeling ill. How would he and Hilde live? Never, never could they eat such food.

We’ll escape, he swore to himself. They can’t guard us for ever. Perhaps we can follow the stream. It must find its way out somewhere!

Through streaming eyes he spotted a flight of steps. His troll had forgotten him, and he darted across and ran up the twisting spiral. Emerging into the cool Hall he blinked. He must have been in the kitchens longer than he’d thought, for the tables were all prepared and the guests were arriving and being shown to their places. Everywhere, gold gleamed and silver shone. Jewels winked in the crowns of the Gaffer of Troll Fell and his son and daughter, who stood in front of the throne, welcoming the arrivals.

Where was Hilde? Over there, sitting forlornly on the rocks by the waterfall with Sigurd beside her and Sigrid on her lap. And there were Baldur and Grim, seated at a table, heads together, deep in some grumbling conversation. They wouldn’t go without their gold. Peer smiled grimly. He thought they would have to wait for a very long time. A group of pig-snouted musicians struck up. One blew a twisted ram’s horn; another sawed notes from a one-stringed fiddle. The third rattled a stick up and down a sheep’s jawbone. There was a shout.

“The King of the Dovrefell! He’s arriving, he’s here!”

“Raise up the hill!” shouted the Gaffer of Troll Fell. “Time for some fun!”

Chapter 17

Raising the Hill

WITH A RUMBLING and a rattling of all the dishes on the table, the roof began to rise. All around the Hall a gap appeared, a widening strip of night sky fringed with trailing roots and ragged earth. Clods rained from the edges, and a draught of cold air rushed into the Hall, smelling of snow, fresh earth and freedom. Hoisted up on four strong red pillars, the hill stood open to the midwinter night, spilling light to all sides.

As the musicians launched into a lively jig, the King of the Dovrefell and his party swept down into the Hall on the night wind. They landed in a chattering group, collecting themselves and adjusting their clothes. The King of the Dovrefell was tall and dignified. He threw back the hood of his white bearskin cloak and strode forward with his son behind him and his daughter clutching his arm. Peer couldn’t see her face. Hadn’t the Nis said she was beautiful? She lifted her veil, and a murmur of admiration ran around the Hall. The Troll Fell princess was looking as cross as two sticks. Peer edged around curiously.

The princess had three tails. Two were draped elegantly over her elbows; the third sprouted from the middle of her forehead and was tied up in a bow to keep it out of her eyes. The Troll Fell prince greeted her eagerly, looking smitten already. Peer closed his eyes and shook his head.

The Gaffer and the Dovreking clasped hands. “Welcome!” boomed the Gaffer. He slapped the Dovreking on the back. “A drink to warm you after your journey! And we’ll let the young people get to know each other, hey?” He laughed loudly.

The two princesses bristled at each other like a couple of cats.

“What a funny little place you have here,” observed the Dovre princess. “Quite rustic. I see you have a sod roof. At home in the Dovrefell, our hall is so high that the roof is carved from ice.”

“That must be very chilly,” the Troll Fell princess smiled. “Here we enjoy simple comfort, and despise ostentation.”

“I imagine you have to,” replied the Dovre princess.

“Will you dance?” asked the Troll Fell prince hastily. But his bride said she was tired and would rather sit. The couples sat stiffly down together, and the Troll Fell princess yawned.

“Now then! Brighten up!” shouted the Gaffer. He and the Dovreking were laughing and drinking, and seemed to be getting along famously. “You’re not allowed to quarrel till after you’re married, remember. You boys, give your brides a hug and a kiss. Don’t be shy!”

“Vulgar old fellow,” muttered the Dovre princess.

“Let’s exchange gifts,” boomed the King of the Dovrefell. “That’ll cheer them all up. We brought a few small things from the Dovrefell.”

He snapped his fingers. Two stout trolls stepped forward with a heavy sack. The untied the neck and poured out a stream of jewels. Diamonds, rubies, amethysts, emeralds, rattled out like peas and lay on the floor in a shimmering drift – or bounced and rolled under the tables. Baldur and Grim crashed heads as they lunged to pick up a skipping diamond.

“Very pretty,” said the Gaffer. He beckoned to various servants who came staggering out with piles of gold: necklaces, rings, bracelets, chains and crowns. “Part of a dragon’s hoard,” said the Gaffer, waving a casual hand. Peer glanced at his uncles. Their mouths were wet with excitement.

The Dovreking frowned and snapped his fingers again. This time his trolls laid out heaps of beautifully woven and embroidered clothes, each one of which would have taken a human seamstress a year to make. But these were not made by mortals. There were scarves snipped from the trailing ends of the Northern Lights; petticoats trimmed with the most delicate frost; seven-league boots lined in ermine. The Troll Fell princess got a cloak of moonshine that pleased her so much she threw her arms around the Dovreking and gave him a kiss.

“Aha!” said the Dovreking, pinching her cheek. But the Gaffer grinned triumphantly and signalled to Peer and Hilde.

“Now for a little extra – a special present,” he gloated. “You won’t have brought anything like this from the Dovrefell!”

Peer caught Hilde’s eye. Together they stepped forward. Better make a good job of it, thought Peer gloomily, and he bowed low. Hilde curtsied. The three-tailed princess screamed in mock terror and clutched her bridegroom’s arm. “Oooh! What is it? What are they for?”

“Something you don’t see every day,” the Gaffer boasted. “Your new servants!”

“Humans!”

“Yes, of course,” broke in the Troll Fell princess. She pushed the pile of jewels with a contemptuous toe. “We see so much of this kind of thing. We wanted to be original!”

The two free tails of the Dovre princess swished angrily; the one knotted up above her face could only twitch. “What a strange idea. They’re very pale. All that unhealthy daylight, I suppose. Is this the girl? Turn around. I thought so! This ugly creature has no tail at all. Take her away at once and fix one on!”

“No!” Hilde cried.

“We don’t have tails,” Peer shouted. “We think they’re ugly!”

The Dovre princess screamed. “Oh, what an insult!”

The Gaffer stepped in, bowing as gallantly as he could. “Now, now,” he rumbled. “No cause for concern. We all appreciate your beauty, my dear. I myself have three eyes,” he coughed modestly, “but three tails are rare indeed.”

His own daughter scowled. The Dovre princess simpered.

“No,” the Gaffer went on, “we’ve simply neglected one small ceremony. After that, these humans will see things as we do. Here, you two!” He snapped his fingers and led them aside.

“Ceremony?” asked Peer apprehensively.

The Gaffer nodded. “You haven’t yet tasted our beer. A single sip of the bog-wife’s brew, and you’ll see things our way for ever and ever!”

“For ever?” Peer repeated slowly.

“Excuse me – but we’ll think the Dovre princess is beautiful?” asked Hilde.

“You will indeed,” said the Gaffer.

“And the food?” Peer was too shaken to mince his words. “We’ll enjoy eating frog soup and rat stew? And the music? It sounds like – like a cat on the roof, or a cow in pain.”

“It’s giving me a headache,” Hilde added.

“I’m getting annoyed!” The Gaffer squared up to them. “See here! We can’t have servants that don’t admire us. Once you’ve drunk our brew you’ll think black is white. You think night is day and day is night. And so they are! It’s only another way of seeing.”

“But then,” said Hilde, appalled, “we won’t be us. We are what we think!” She looked around wildly. “We won’t be humans any more. Inside, we’ll be trolls!”

“AND WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH THAT?” roared the Gaffer.

Peer and Hilde stared at the glittering crowds, and then at each other. Everything was very sharp and clear, and also a little distant. Peer tasted fear, sour in his mouth. Between the red pillars supporting the roof he could see the dark spaces of the night sky. Out there lay freedom, the snowy slopes, the stars. But he would never reach it.

We’ll never escape, he thought. We’ll never follow the stream out of the hill.

Once he and Hilde had drunk a drop of the bog-wife’s beer, they wouldn’t even want to leave. They would live the rest of their lives like earthworms buried under Troll Fell. They would still look the same, but on the inside they would have changed completely. Peer thought he would rather be dead.

One of the Gaffer’s trolls came trotting up. Dimly Peer recognised it: the kitchen troll with the long beak. It bowed to the Gaffer, presenting a golden cup. The cup was Ralf ’s cup – the Bride Cup – and it was half full of brown beer.

“Right!” Briskly the Gaffer lashed his tail. “Who’s going first?”

Hilde met Peer’s eyes, despairing but steady. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Peer.”

“You didn’t,” said Peer. “I wanted to come.”

She reached for the cup, but Peer was quicker and snatched it up. “Wait!” he said breathlessly.

He looked into the cup. The dark liquid swirled, a bottomless whirlpool. He glanced up, to see the world for the last time as himself. His throat closed up. There was a drumming in his ears – or was that the Gaffer growling? He bent his head, lifting the cup reluctantly to his lips, spinning out the seconds…