Troll Mill. Katherine Langrish

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.

      Rain scythed through the long wiry grass, switching his skin and soaking through his clothes in cold patches. Tiring, he slowed to a plod, looking forward to sitting snugly by the fire and chatting to Kersten while she cooked. The fish was a nuisance to carry though, slippery and unwieldy. He nearly dropped it and stopped to hoist it up. It slithered through his arms. He tried shoving it inside his jerkin, but the head and tail stuck out. Wet and shivering, he began to laugh.

      This is silly, he thought, I’m nearly juggling. What I need is a piece of string, or maybe a stick to skewer it on. I…what’s that?

      Footsteps thudded and splashed on the path above him. In a flurry of flying hair and swirling cloak, a woman ran headlong out of the mist and slammed into him. Peer dropped the fish and grabbed at the woman, staggering. His fingers sank deep into her arms as they struggled for balance. She was gasping, her heart banging madly against him, her breath hot in his face. He tried to push her off and found his hands tangled in her wet hair. Her hood fell back.

      “Kersten!” Cold fright shook Peer’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

      She clutched him fiercely. “Is Gudrun still giving suck?”

      Peer gaped. “What?”

      She shook his arm angrily. “Is Gudrun still suckling?” She threw back a fold of her huge cloak. It flapped heavily in the wind, slapping his legs like wet hide. In the crook of her arm, wrapped in a lambskin—

      The baby? Peer blinked in horror. But she was thrusting it at him; he had to take it: little light arms and legs waved in the rain. He looked desperately to cover its head and she pushed a blanket into his arms. She was speaking: words he didn’t understand.

      “Take her–to Gudrun–Gudrun can feed her—”

      “Kersten,” Peer croaked. “What’s happened? Where are you going?”

      She looked at him with eyes like dark holes. “Home.”

      Then she was past him, the cloak dragging after her. He snatched for it. Sleek wet fur tugged through his fingers. “Kersten! Stop!”

      She ran on down the path, and he began to run too, but the baby jolting in his arms slowed him to long desperate strides.

      “Kersten!” Rain slashed into his eyes. His feet skated on wet grass, sank into pockets of soft sand. She was on the beach now, running straight down the shingle to the water. Peer skidded to a crazy halt. He couldn’t catch her. He saw Bjørn, still bending over the boat doing something with the nets. Peer filled his lungs and bellowed, “Bjørn!” at the top of his voice. He pointed.

      Bjørn’s head came up. He turned, staring. Then he flung himself forwards, pounding across the beach to intercept Kersten. And Kersten stopped. She threw herself flat and the wet sealskin cloak billowed over her, hiding her from head to foot. Underneath it, she continued to move in heavy lolloping jumps. She must be crawling on hands and knees, drawing the skin cloak closely around her. She rolled. Waves rushed up and sucked her into the water. Trapped in those encumbering folds, she would drown.

      “Kersten!” Peer screamed. The body in the water twisted, lithe and muscular, and plunged forward into the next grey wave.

      Bjørn was racing back to his boat. He hurled himself on it, straining to drive it down the shingle into the water, wrenching the bows round to point into the waves.

      “Bjørn!” Peer cried into the wind. Spray filled his mouth with salt. He stammered and spat. “Your baby…your baby!”

      Bjørn jumped into the boat. The oars rattled out and he dug them into the water with savage strokes, twisting his body to scan the sea. Peer heard him shout, his voice cracking, “Kersten! Kersten, come back…” The boat reared over lines of white breakers and was swallowed by rain and darkness.

      Peer stared. Like a speck in his eye, a sleek head bobbed in the water. He ran wildly forward. It was gone. Then he saw another–and another, rising and falling with the swell. Swift dark bodies swept easily between wave and wave.

      “Seals!” he whispered.

      In his arm the baby stirred, arching its back and thrusting thin fists into the rain. Peer clutched it in dismay. Clumsily he tried to arrange its wrappings with his free hand, dragging the blanket up over its arms. It seemed tiny, much younger than little Eirik up at the farm. He was terrified of dropping it.

      Kersten was gone, lost in the vast sea. Why? Bjørn had gone, searching after her over the wild waters. Where? Even the seals had gone now, he saw, leaving the empty waves toppling in one after another to burst on the shore in meaningless foam.

      The baby’s eyes were tightly shut, but a frown fluttered across its small face. The mouth pursed and it moved its head as if seeking something to suck. Soon it would be hungry. Soon it would cry.

      Peer’s teeth chattered. He shuddered all over from cold and shock. He fumbled jerkily inside the blanket for one of the baby’s small fists. It felt like ice, and he poked it gently. Tiny reddened fingers clenched and twitched. Was it a boy or a girl? He couldn’t remember. Didn’t babies die if they got too cold?

      Gudrun, he thought. I’ve got to get it to Gudrun. Kersten said.

      Holding the baby stiffly across his chest, he plodded up the shingle, turning his back on the shore and the relentless turmoil of exploding breakers. He trudged