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One frosty morning Bjørn Egilsson knocked at the door with his brother Arne. They came in and Arne stood awkwardly while Gudrun fussed and exclaimed and offered them breakfast.
Arne looked tired and weatherbeaten; his clothes were waterstained and faded. When Hilde smiled at him he looked at the floor. Alf, the old sheepdog, ambled stiffly to greet him, and Arne stroked his ears as if grateful for something to do.
“Tell us your adventures, Arne,” said Gudrun brightly, but her hand shook as she poured ale for the visitors.
Bjørn and Arne exchanged glances. Arne cleared his throat. “Well – you know I wanted to join Ralf ’s ship but missed the sailing? I followed in my own boat, hoping to catch her at some place further south. For a while I got plenty of news of her from villages along the coast. I was sure I’d catch up. Then – well, then the news dried up. Nobody knew anything about her.”
“‘All right,’ I thought, ‘they’ve struck out to sea at last, and I’ve missed them.’ I was disappointed, but I got a place on one of those pot-bellied cargo ships instead. But now…”
He stopped and went on with a rush. “I hate to tell you this, Gudrun. I’m afraid there’s been news of a wreck. Part of a dragon-prowed longship was washed up on rocks south of Hammerhaven. No survivors.”
Gudrun flinched, and Eirik suddenly looked very old. “Is Pa dead?” wailed Sigrid. Hilde hugged her.
“We don’t know that,” said Bjørn hastily. “We just thought you ought to hear it from Arne before the story gets garbled all around the dale.”
“Thank you,” said Gudrun quietly.
“I wouldn’t have brought such news for the world,” Arne muttered.
“It may not be true,” said Bjørn.
“We must wait to hear more,” said Gudrun, knowing full well that more news was unlikely ever to arrive.
“I hope I’m wrong.” Arne took Gudrun’s hand. “If there’s anything we can do, anything…”
Gudrun stifled a sob. The two brothers looked very troubled as they departed.
Hilde took a pitchfork out to the cowshed. Where no one could see her, she leaned on the smooth wooden rail of Bonny’s stall, and buried her head in her arms.
Now I know how Peer felt when he lost his father.
Hot-eyed, she thought about Peer. She remembered that day in early spring when they had first met. The day Baldur Grimsson had threatened her; the day he had told her to keep off the Stonemeadow; the day he had claimed Ralf ’s sheep. He had said Ralf would never come back; and he had been right. Drearily she realised how different everything would be from now on. She wouldn’t even be able to help Peer escape from his uncles. The Grimsson brothers had won.
She gritted her teeth. “No they haven’t! They shan’t have the sheep, for a start. I’ll go up to the Stonemeadow and fetch them down myself!” And she marched straight back into the house to tell Gudrun so.
Her mother gasped in horror.
“Go up the mountain by yourself? At this time of the year, with trolls about? And wolves, and bears? And the Grimssons, up there all hours of the day and night, thick as thieves with the Troll King himself ? I won’t allow it. Hasn’t this house seen enough trouble?”
“Then what will we do?” asked Hilde in a low voice. “Hand everything over to the Grimssons on a plate? And what about poor Peer Ulfsson?”
“I’m sorry for the boy, but he’s not our problem,” cried Gudrun.
“All right!” said Hilde, very white. “But those are our sheep up there, on our land. And the Grimssons have had the wool off them already this year – and it was Peer who told me. Oh Ma! If I don’t bring them down to our sheepfold, we’ll lose them altogether. Pa would have done it weeks ago – if he’d been here.”
Hunched over the fire, old Eirik stirred. “The girl is right,” he said unexpectedly. “The sheep do have to be brought down. She’s a brave girl, and sensible. She can manage.”
“I’ll be all right,” Hilde added eagerly. “I’ll take Alf. He’ll look after me.”
“He’s too old!” Gudrun protested.
“Ma, he knows every inch of the hills, and he knows the sheep. I can’t get lost with Alf. Look at him!”
The old dog had heard his name and was looking up enquiringly. Eirik slapped his thigh. “Knows every trick. The old ones are the good ones!”
With bad grace Gudrun gave way. “I suppose you may go, Hilde – since your grandfather approves… But be careful. Get back before dark!”
“I’ll try.” Already Hilde felt better, wrapping herself up in a sheepskin jacket and pulling on a pair of soft leather boots. She grabbed a stick. “For cracking trolls on the head,” she joked.
“Oh dear.” Gudrun looked anxiously out. The sky was overcast and a chill wind swept the farmyard. “It looks like snow.”
“Get inside and keep warm,” said Hilde impatiently. “Keep Grandpa off the ice. And don’t worry about me. Come, Alf!” She set off, the old sheepdog trotting beside her.
Hilde knew that long hours of tramping hills lay before her. The tough, independent little sheep roamed where they pleased and were often widely scattered. As she climbed the shoulder of Troll Fell, the wind hit her, burning her ears and forcing tears from her eyes. More ominously, the first grey flakes of snow came whizzing past.
The sheep seemed to have disappeared. Hilde listened for the sound of bleating, or the clonking of the sheep bell worn by the old ewe who led the flock. A flurry of snow whirled down from the north-east, erasing the hillside, leaving nothing visible but a few blurred yards of wet bent grass already turning white.
Hilde trudged on, unwilling to give up. She began to wonder if Baldur and Grim had already taken the sheep away. Perhaps there were none to find. Then it dawned on her that the sheep would shelter from the weather on the western side of the crags. She turned in that direction. Alf trotted ahead, the wind blowing up his thick fur to show the pale skin at the roots.
A blue, unfriendly twilight descended on Troll Fell, and the snow grew deeper. Grey shapes were slinking and sliding about on the edge of sight, and Hilde remembered the trolls. And then Alf barked, once. He stood with one front paw raised, listening intently.
“Have you found them?” Hilde gasped. “Good lad! Go on, then – fetch ’em down!” Alf sped away into the gloom.
Hilde waited, stamping her feet. In a moment a couple of sheep came jogging into view. Snow was piling up on their backs, but Hilde knew they couldn’t feel it under their thick fleeces. Two more arrived at their heels – black faced and scrawny, but to Hilde a beautiful sight.
She whistled. Alf came running, head low, snaking along behind another little group of startled, put-out looking sheep. A bell clonked dismally – he had found the old ewe. Alf looked extremely pleased with himself and grinned at her, panting.
“Good lad!” Hilde did a quick head count and decided there should be some more. “Go on Alf. Seek ’em out!” Alf whisked around the sheep he had gathered, nudging them into a compact group, and dashed off into the storm.
Hilde was smiling to see the old dog so proud of his work, when something small and solid hurled itself into her back and knocked her down. She grovelled on the wet ground, twisting and grappling. The unseen attacker let go, and she scrambled up dizzily, looking for her stick, which had spun away into the snow. Before she could find it, the creature scuttled back and gripped her around the thighs. She looked down into the enigmatic yellow eyes of a small troll, doing its best to heave her off her feet. She hammered it on the head and yelled, then stuck two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle.
Alf came streaking downhill so fast that he overshot. His back legs slid from under him as he turned, snarling, to attack. The troll let go abruptly and melted into the darkness. Alf pursued it for a few yards, hackles up, before returning to Hilde to check that all was well.
“Hey,” said Hilde gently. “You brave old boy, what a good dog!” She rubbed his chest and neck. His heart was thudding against his ribs, but his eyes were bright. It was Alf ’s glory to be useful, and this was his great day.
“Let’s just round up the ones we’ve got, and go.” They were near the western edge of the Stonemeadow, where the ground broke up into dangerous clefts, rocks and cliffs. It was now too dark to see where she put her feet. The best thing was to go slowly and let Alf and the sheep pick their own path.
A gust of wind parted the whirling snow. Not too far ahead a light waved, dim and smeary, such as might come from a traveller’s lantern. Hilde’s heart lifted. Perhaps Arne or Bjørn had come looking for her! “Over here!” she shouted, and heard an answering shout, blurred by the wind.
“Coming!” If only she had a lantern to signal back. The wind flung snow in her face like handfuls of grey soot. Alf barked, and the sound was whipped away.
The light glimmered again, further off and weaker. “Wait!” Hilde cried. She struggled on, panting. Each gasp filled her mouth with snowflakes like feathers. She coughed. “Wait for me!” She ran, Alf bounding at her heels, overtaking the sheep. The ground sloped. She slowed, afraid to go too fast. “Where are you?” she bellowed between cupped hands.
Alf sprang up and grabbed her sleeve in his teeth. He tugged, and she sat down hard. “What on earth –!” But the far-away light was returning, impossibly fast. No human being could run so smoothly over such rough ground. The light hurtled towards her, growing brighter and brighter, and halted in the air overhead. Hilde threw herself flat. Alf cowered beside her, growling. With a soft puff! the light went out. There was a wild laugh. Something rushed past them in the darkness and receded up the slope.
Hilde stood up on wobbling legs. She was on the edge of a cliff. If Alf hadn’t caught her sleeve, she would have pitched straight over. The creature, whatever it was – troll or mountain spirit – had led her completely astray.
Alf shook himself, as if telling her the danger was over. She patted his rough coat. “Good old Alf! They haven’t done for us yet. That’s the second time you’ve saved me tonight.”
As she turned to follow the old dog back to the sheep, the dark night and racing snow lit up as if a door had opened. And indeed it had. A few hundred yards up the slope, yellow light poured from a rift in the crag. In fear and amazement, she watched a dark silhouette approach the lighted gap and disappear inside. Spindly limbs and a large head – was that the troll-thing which had misled her? And was it going home?
Icy fragments of hail flew into her face. She shielded her eyes and looked again. The light was failing. A huge stone door swung ponderously shut. The hillside trembled at the shock, and all was dark.
Hilde touched Alf ’s neck. “Come!” she murmured.
At the bottom of the Stonemeadow the snow lay only ankle deep, and Alf drove the little flock briskly along the road till they reached the track to the farm.
Gudrun had the farmhouse door open in a flash. “You clever girl! You found them! Come inside at once!” She began to hug Hilde but then held her off. “Get those wet things off – you’re frozen! I’ll put the sheep away. There’s hot soup in the pot.”
“Alf shall have some,” declared Hilde. The old dog lay stiffly down by the fire. He gave a perfunctory lick to his bedraggled fur and laid his head between his paws.
“Dry him and give him some soup,” Hilde called to the twins, rubbing her hair vigorously. “He was marvellous. He saved my life! Ma, just wait till you hear our adventures. We found the door into Troll Fell!”
Chapter 11
The Dogfight
PEER WAS SITTING by the hearth one dark afternoon, cleaning his uncles’ boots. Several pairs lay scattered about and he was scraping the mud off and greasing them to keep them waterproof and supple. The best pairs were thick, double-stitched reindeer hide with the fur inside.
Peer handled them enviously. His own shoes were worn and split, wrapped around with string and stuffed with hay to try and keep his feet warm. They were always wet. His toes were red with chilblains.
He sat as close to the fire as he could. He’d been out for hours shovelling snow and carrying feed to the animals. There were a lot of them now. Grim had taken Grendel one morning and brought down some sheep he claimed were all his, though Peer, looking suspiciously, spotted a variety of different marks. The sheep were penned behind a wattle fence in a corner of the yard, where their breath hung in clouds over their draggled woolly backs.
The mill had been silent for a week. The millpond was freezing. Already the weir was fringed with icicles, and the waterwheel glazed with dark ice. No power. While the ice lasted, Uncle Baldur was a miller no longer. Only a farmer.
Bored and lonely, Peer smeared more grease on to the toe of the fifth boot. Uncle Grim lay snoring in his bunk. Baldur was out. Peer guessed he was down in the village, drinking with his cronies – if he had any.
There was no one to talk to. He hadn’t seen Hilde for weeks, and since the spider episode, the Nis had ignored him, though he often heard it skipping about at night. Peer remembered last winter’s fun, snowball fights and skating with the other boys in Hammerhaven. It felt like another life.
The door crashed open, and Uncle Baldur stamped in, beating snow from his mittens. “He’s dead!” he cried.
Uncle Grim jerked awake in mid-snore. He struggled up. “Who’s dead?”
“Ralf Eiriksson. It’s all around the village,” shrilled Uncle Baldur. “His ship was wrecked and they were all drowned. Just as I thought!”
The brothers flung their arms around each other and began a sort of stamping dance. Peer dropped the boot he was holding and sat in open-mouthed horror.
“Dead as a doornail,” chortled Uncle Baldur.
“A drowned doornail,” Grim wheezed, and Grendel leaped around them shattering the air with his barks.
“Is this sure?” asked Grim, sobering suddenly.
“Certain sure,” Baldur nodded. “Arne Egilsson’s been saying so. I went specially to ask him as soon as I heard. He didn’t like telling me, but he couldn’t deny the facts. The ship’s long overdue, and her timbers have been washing up further down the coast. She sank, it’s obvious.”
Grim smacked his brother on the shoulder. “Then the land’s ours! No one will argue about that if Ralf ’s dead.”
Baldur laughed. He paced up and down, slapping his great thighs. “We’ll be rich, brother. We’ll own the best half of Troll Fell. And after tonight, with the Gaffer’s gold —”
Uncle Grim nodded at Peer. “The boy’s listening,” he growled.
“Who cares?” Uncle Baldur caught Peer by the scruff and shook him. “He don’t know what I’m talking about. We’ll get the goods for the Gaffer now, all right. Who’s to stop us? With Ralf out of the way, we can do whatever we like!”
He whacked Peer on the ear and dropped him. Peer felt sick. Poor, poor Hilde. Poor Ralf! And his father’s lovely ship, smashed on the rocks and lost for ever! Then with a stab of fear he saw what this meant for himself. No safety up at the farm. No escape from Baldur and Grim.
“This calls for a drop of ale!” Baldur declared, rubbing his hands.
“Mead,” Grim suggested.
“You’re right.” Uncle Baldur licked his lips. “Something strong!”
Soon the two brothers were singing noisily, banging their cups together. Mechanically, Peer finished cleaning the boots. He lined them up by the door and sank to the floor. Something gnawed at his mind. Tonight? Had Uncle Baldur said “tonight”?
Midwinter! He’d been talking and thinking and planning about it for months. Now, with a shock like icy water dashed in his face, he realised he had no idea how close midwinter was. He thought back, counting on his fingers. How long since the first snow? Weeks? It seemed a long time. And the days were so short now; it was dark outside already. Midwinter must be nearly upon them.
There was a bang at the door. Peer looked at his uncles. They were singing so loudly that neither they nor Grendel had heard. Peer shrugged and went wearily to open it. With his hand on the latch he paused. What if it was Granny Greenteeth, come to pay a visit before the ice locked her in for the winter? Well, let her come! He jerked the door open.
A cutting wind whirled in. There stood two ordinary men, muffled up against the cold. They stepped quickly in and shook snow from their clothes.
“Shut that DOOR!” Uncle Baldur yelled. Then he saw the visitors and staggered to his feet. “Look who’s here.” He prodded Grim. “It’s Arne and Bjørn.”
“Give ’em a drink,” hiccupped Grim.
But Bjørn’s good-natured face was stern. “Hey, Peer,” he said quietly, dropping a friendly hand on Peer’s shoulder. “Grim, Baldur,” he went on, “we’ve not come to drink with you. We’ve come to say one thing. Leave Ralf ’s family alone!”
Uncle Baldur sprawled back on the bench. He gave an unpleasant laugh. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do,” said Arne. “You’re after Ralf ’s land on Troll Fell.”
“But you won’t get it,” said Bjørn. “Arne and I will stand witness against you. It was never yours, and you know it!”
Peer felt like cheering. He glowed with admiration for the two young men. They looked like heroes to him as they stood there together, their faces tight with anger. Baldur and Grim exchanged glances.
“Why are you interfering?” asked Baldur with a suspicious scowl. “What’s in it for you?”
“Why?” exploded Bjørn. “Because Ralf was our friend. Because the land was his. Because you’re a couple of cheating pigs who’d rob a widow and her family!”
“Don’t bother trying to understand,” added Arne.
“Get out!” Baldur surged to his feet. “Out, before I set the dog on you!”
“Oh, we’ll go,” said Bjørn coldly. “I wouldn’t stay in your stinking mill for all the gold on Troll Fell.”
He strode for the door, but Uncle Baldur grabbed his arm. “Gold?” he croaked. “What do you mean? What do you know about troll gold?”
Bjørn stared at him and whistled. “That’s your game, is it? Don’t you worry, Grimsson. The only thing I know about troll gold is this: it’s unlucky and I don’t want anything to do with it. And if you’ll take my advice, neither will you. Goodnight!”
Peer stepped hopefully forwards. If he could only catch Bjørn’s eye; if he could only go with him! But this time, Bjørn did not notice Peer. He and Arne slipped through the door and vanished into the night.
