Troll Fell. Katherine Langrish
the rider wearily. “Just my luck! Shift your cart, you fat fool. I’m trying to get home.”
“Liar!” Uncle Baldur swayed dangerously, shaking his fist. “Thief! You watch out. If the trolls don’t get you, I will! You’ll steal no more. That’s finished! If the Gaffer—”
Troll Fell cracked out a blinding whip of lightning and a heart-stopping jolt of thunder. The rain began falling twice as hard. Beaten by the downpour, Uncle Baldur threw himself back on to his seat and grabbed for the reins. The oxen slowly plodded forwards. Without another word, the rider trotted briskly past, and soon struck off along an even rougher track that led away to the right.
Gritting his teeth, Peer clung to the side of the cart as it crashed and slithered down the slope.
Well, that’s it, he said to himself. Uncle Baldur is mad. Completely crazy.
Sick, cold and miserable, he tried to picture his father, as if the memory could blot out Uncle Baldur. He thought of his father’s bright, kind eyes, his thin shoulders hunched from bending over his chisel and plane. What would he say now, if only he knew?
I can guess, he told himself sternly. He’d say, “Keep your heart up, Peer!” Like Ingrid said, I’ve got another uncle at the mill, and he can’t be as bad as this. There can only be one Uncle Baldur. Maybe Uncle Grim will take after my side of the family. Maybe – just maybe – he might even be a little bit like Father!
The cart rattled down one last slope and trundled over a shaky wooden bridge. Peer looked down apprehensively at the black glancing water hurtling underneath. “Gee!” howled Uncle Baldur, cracking his whip. The sound was lost in the roar of the stream. On the other side of the bridge, Peer saw the mill.
It crouched dismally on the bank, squinting into the stream, a long black building that looked as if it had been cold for ages and didn’t know how to get warm again. Wild trees pressed around it, tossing despairing arms in the wind. Uncle Baldur drove the cart round the end of the building, into a pinched little yard on the other side. As the sky lit up again with lightning, Peer saw to his right the stained frontage of the mill, with dripping thatch hanging low over sly little black windows. To his left lurked a dark barn, with a gaping entrance like an open mouth. Ahead stretched a line of mean-looking sheds. The weary oxen splashed to a halt, and a wolf-like baying broke out from some unseen dog. Uncle Baldur dropped the reins, stretching his arms till the joints cracked.
“Home!” he proclaimed, jumping down. He strode across to the door of the mill and kicked it open. Weak firelight leaked into the yard. “Grim!” he called triumphantly. “I’m back. And I’ve got him!” The door banged shut behind him. Peer sat out in the rain, shivering with hope and fear.
“Uncle Grim will be different,” he muttered aloud desperately. “I know he will. There can’t be another Uncle Baldur. Even his own brother couldn’t—”
The latch lifted with a noisy click, and he heard a new, deep voice saying loudly, “Let’s take a look at him, then!”
The mill door swung slowly open, shuddering. Peer held his breath. Out strode the burly shape of Uncle Baldur. At his heels trod someone else – someone unbelievably familiar. Flabbergasted, Peer squinted through the rain, telling himself it couldn’t be true. But it was. There was nothing left to hope for. He shook his head in horrified despair.
CHAPTER 2
The Departure of Ralf
In a small, damp farmhouse higher up the valley, Hilde scowled down at her knitting needles. Her head ached from the strain of peering at the stitches in the firelight. She dropped one, and muttered angrily as a ladder ran down the rough grey sock she was making. It was impossible to concentrate. She felt too worried. And she knew her mother did too, although she was calmly patching a pair of trousers. Hilde took a deep breath.
“Ma? He’s so late. Do you think he’s all right?”
Before Gudrun could answer, the wind pounced on the house like a wolf on a sheep, snarling and worrying it, as if trying to tear it loose from the hillside. Eerie voices wailed and chattered outside as the rain struck the closed wooden shutters. It was a night for wolves, trolls, bears. Hilde imagined her father out there, riding home over the shaggy black shoulder of Troll Fell, lashed by rain. Even if he was hurt or in trouble, she and her mother could only wait, anxiously listening, while her old grandfather dozed fitfully by the fire. But just then she heard a muffled shout, and the clop and clatter of the pony’s feet trotting into the yard.
“At last!” said Gudrun, smiling in relief. As Hilde ran joyfully out into the wild, wet night, the wind snatched the heavy farmhouse door from her hands and slammed it violently behind her.
“I’m back!” said her father, throwing her the reins. “Rub him down well, but hurry! I’ve got news.” His long blond hair was plastered to his head and his boots and leggings were covered in mud.
“You’re soaking! Go in and get dry,” said Hilde, leading the steaming pony into the stable. Ralf followed her to unbuckle the packs. “How was the trip?”
“Fine! I got everything your mother wanted from the market. It’s been a long day, though. And I overtook that madman Baldur Grimsson coming back over Troll Fell.”
“What happened?” asked Hilde sharply.
“Nothing to worry about! He yelled a few insults, as usual. That’s not my news! Hilde, you’ll never guess—” Ralf stopped and gave her a strange look, excited and apprehensive.
“What? What is it?” Hilde stopped grooming the pony.
“There’s a new ship in the harbour, Hilde!” His blue eyes flashed with excitement. “A new longship, ready to sail! And I – well, no, I’d better tell your mother first. Now hurry, hurry up and you’ll soon hear all about it!” He tugged her long hair and left her.
Hilde bit her lip thoughtfully. She rubbed the pony dry and threw down fresh straw, feeling uncomfortable and alarmed – trying not to think what he might be up to.
She wanted to be inside with the family. It was creepy out here with the wind howling outside. The small lantern cast huge shadows. She whistled to keep up her courage, but the whistle faded.
Kari, the little barn cat who kept down the rats and mice, came strolling along the edge of the manger. She ducked her head, purring loudly as Hilde tickled her. But she suddenly froze. Her ears flattened, her eyes glared and she spat furiously. Hilde turned and saw with horror a thin black arm coming through the loophole in the door. It felt around for the latch. She screamed and hit it with the broom. Immediately, the hand vanished.
“Trolls!” Hilde hissed. “Not again!” Dropping the broom, she grabbed the pitchfork and waited breathlessly, but nothing more happened. After a moment she let out her breath, tiptoed to the door and peered out. Falling rain glittered in the doorway. At her feet a black shadow shifted. Squatting there in the mud, all arms and legs, with its knees up past its large black ears, was a thing about the size of a large dog. It made her think of a spider, a fat, paunchy body slung between long legs. She saw damp, bald skin twitching in the rain. Glowing yellow eyes blinked from a black pug face. For one fascinated second they stared at each other, troll and girl: then Hilde was splattered with mud as the troll sprang away in a couple of long liquid jumps.
Hilde flew across the yard and wrenched open the farmhouse door to tell everyone about it. She tumbled straight into a colossal row.
Her father and mother were shouting so loudly that Hilde put both hands over her ears. The door slammed again with a deafening bang. And so she forgot the troll, and didn’t see it leap as suddenly as a frog on to the low eaves of their thick turf roof and go scrambling up to the ridge.
“I