West of the Moon. Katherine Langrish
fitfully by the fire. But then she heard the clop and clatter of the pony’s feet trotting into the yard.
“At last!” said Gudrun, smiling. And Hilde ran out into the wild, wet night.
“I’m back!” Ralf threw her the reins. His long blond hair was plastered to his head, and his boots and leggings were covered in mud.
“You’re soaking! I’ll rub the pony down. You go in and get dry,” said Hilde, leading the steaming animal into the stable. Ralf came with 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.
“Oh, he yelled a few insults, as usual. That’s not my news. Hilde —” Ralf stopped and gave her a strange look, excited yet apprehensive.
“What? What is it?” Hilde stopped grooming the pony.
“There’s a new ship in the harbour! A new longship, ready to sail! And I – well, no, I’d better tell your mother first. Be quick as you can, now, and you’ll soon hear all about it.” He tugged her long hair and left her.
What was he up to? Hilde rubbed the pony dry and threw down fresh straw, hurrying so she could get back to the family. It was creepy in the stable with the wind howling outside. The lantern cast huge shadows. Whistling to keep up her courage, she turned to the door – and saw with horror a thin black arm come through the loophole and grope about for the latch. She screamed and hit it with the broom. It vanished.
“Trolls!” Hilde hissed. “Not again!” Clutching the broom she waited a moment, recovered her breath, tiptoed to the door and peered out.
Falling rain glittered in the doorway. A black shadow shifted in the mud. Squatting there, its knees up past its ears, was a thing about the size of a large dog. She saw a fat paunchy body slung between long legs, and damp bald skin twitching in the rain. Glowing yellow eyes blinked from a wrinkled 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.
“I never heard such a ridiculous idea in my WHOLE LIFE,” Hilde’s mother was yelling at Ralf. “You’re a FARMER, not some sort of VIKING!”
Hilde let go of the door. It slammed behind her with a deafening bang. And so she forgot about 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.
“Why should it be ridiculous?” Ralf bellowed back. “That’s what half these fellows ARE – farmers and Vikings!”
“Ma – Pa – stop it!” cried Hilde. “What’s happening? Stop it – you’ll wake the little ones!”
In fact the twins were already awake – and bawling.
The wind managed an extra strong blast. All the birch trees growing up the sides of Troll Fell reeled and danced. Up on the roof the troll clung on, whimpering, and one of its large black ears blew inside out like a dog’s. It squirmed along to where a hole had been cut out to let smoke escape, and peered over at the fierce red eye of the fire. It pulled back, coughing and chattering to itself: “Hutututu!” But the sound was lost in a rattle of sleet that fell hissing into the flames.
“Very well,” said Gudrun, suddenly deadly quiet. “Let’s see what your father thinks about his only son sailing off on a longship into storms and whirlpools and goodness knows what. It will break his heart!”
“Why don’t you let him speak for himself?” Ralf roared. “And why don’t you give us both some supper? Starving us while you nag at me!”
Hilde glanced at her grandfather, Eirik, and saw his eye brighten at the suggestion of supper. Gudrun saw it too. She fetched them both a jug of ale and a bowl of groute, warm barley porridge, served as Eirik liked it with a big lump of butter.
“Eirik, tell Ralf what you think of this mad idea,” she demanded, twisting her hands in her apron. “He’ll listen to you.”
But Eirik’s face lit up. “Aha, if only I were a young fellow again. A brand-new ship! Long Serpent, they’re calling her. Oh, to sail away east of the sun and west of the moon! To follow the whales’ road, seeking adventure!” He tasted his groute. “The whales’ road – d’you know what that means, Hilde, my girl?”
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Hilde kindly. “It’s the sea.”
Eirik broke into a chant from some long saga he was making about Harald the Seafarer, waving his spoon to the beat. While Hilde clapped softly in time, Ralf tiptoed over to the twins, five-year old Sigurd and Sigrid. He sat down between them, an arm round each, and whispered. Suddenly they came jumping out of bed.
“Pa’s going to be a Viking!” they shrieked.
“He’s going to bring us presents!”
“An amber necklace!”
“A real dagger!”
“Ralf!” Gudrun whirled around. “Stop bribing those children!”
Eirik’s poem reached its climax, all dead heroes and burning ships. He sat back happily. Ralf cheered. Gudrun glared at him.
“Oh, that’s a fine way to end, isn’t it – floating face down in the water? And who’ll look after the farm while you’re away? What about the sheep? You know somebody’s stealing them: three lambs gone already. It’s the trolls, or those Grimsson brothers down at the mill. They’re all troublemakers. We can’t spare you!”
Up on the roof the troll remembered the flavour of roast lamb. It licked its lips with a thin black tongue.
“Speaking of the millers,” Ralf began, clearly hoping to change the subject, “did I tell you I met Baldur Grimsson tonight as I came home? The man’s a fool. He sat in his cart in the pouring rain, shouting at me.”
“Why did he shout at you, Pa?” asked Sigrid, wide eyed.
“Because he doesn’t like me,” Ralf grinned.
“Why not?”
“It’s all because of Pa’s golden cup,” said Hilde wisely. “Isn’t it?”
“That’s right, Hilde,” said Ralf with relish. “He’d love to get his hands on that. My troll treasure, my lucky cup!”
“Unlucky cup, more like,” Gudrun sniffed. But Sigurd and Sigrid jumped up and down begging, “Tell us the story, Pa!”
“All right!” Ralf scooped the twins on to his knees. “One wild night just like this, about ten years ago, I was riding home from the market at Hammerhaven, and halfway over Troll Fell, wet and weary, I saw a bright light glowing from the top of the crag and heard snatches of music gusting on the wind.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” Gudrun muttered.
“I was in one of our own fields, the high one called the Stonemeadow. I trotted the pony up the slope to see what was happening. Well, if you’ll believe me, the whole rocky summit of the hill had been lifted up, like a great stone lid! It was resting on four stout red pillars, and underneath was a space shining with golden light, and hundreds of trolls, all shapes and sizes, skipping and dancing.”
“How could they lift the whole top of Troll Fell, Pa?” asked Sigurd.
“As easily as you take off the top of your egg,” joked Ralf. He sobered. “Who knows what powers they have, my son? I only tell you what I saw with my own eyes. They had all sorts of food spread out on gold and silver dishes, and little troll servingmen jumping