Troll Fell. Katherine Langrish

      His wife made a spitting sound of contempt, and Ralf, scarlet in the face, leaned back against the wall in an effort to look careless and cool. It failed badly. He folded his arms and put on a defiant smile, and Gudrun went for him. Plaits flying, she grabbed him by the arms and shook him.

      “It’s not FUNNY!” she shouted up at his face.

      “Mother – Father! Stop it,” cried Hilde. “What’s happening? Stop it – you’ll wake up the little ones!”

      In fact the twins were already awake – and bawling.

      The house shivered as the wind managed an extra strong blast. All the birch trees growing up the sides of Troll Fell reeled and danced. The troll clinging to the roof whimpered, and one of its large black ears blew inside out like a dog’s. It shook itself crossly and squirmed along the ridge to where a hole had been cut to let smoke escape. It peered over. Below was the fierce red eye of the fire. The troll got a lungful of heat and smoke and pulled back, coughing and chattering to itself: “Hututututu!” But the sound was lost in a rattle of icy rain. Grains of sleet fell hissing into the fire.

      “Very well,” said Gudrun, suddenly deadly quiet, letting Ralf go. “Let’s hear what your father thinks about this! You, his only son, to go off and leave him? To go sailing off into storms and whirlpools and goodness knows what else, on a longship? How can you think of it? 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, who was sitting in his favourite place near the fire, 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.

      “Now, Eirik, tell Ralf what you think of this mad idea,” she demanded, twisting her hands in her apron while Eirik carefully stirred in the butter. “Going off on a Viking ship? Imagine! You must forbid it. He’ll listen to you.”

      But Eirik’s eyes lit up. “Aha, if only I were a young fellow again! A brand-new ship that rides like a swan. Like a dragon! Long Serpent, they’re calling her. Oh, to follow the whales’ road, seeking adventure!” He tasted his groute and his eye fell on Hilde. “‘The whales’road’ – d’you know what that means, my girl?”

      “Yes, Grandfather,” said Hilde kindly. “It’s the sea.”

      Eirik was off. Leaning back in his chair he broke into a chant from some long saga he was making about Harald the Seafarer, waving his spoon to the beat. Gudrun rolled her eyes crossly, but Hilde clapped softly in time to the rhythm. Ralf tiptoed over to the twins, little 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!”

      Gudrun whirled round, her eyes flashing. “Ralf!” she cried. “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 up, isn’t it, floating face down in the water? And very likely too. And who do you think is going to look after the farm while you’re away?”

      “Gudrun,” Ralf argued. “It’s only for the summer. Just a few weeks. I’ve sown the wheat and the oats already, and I’ll be back before you know I’ve gone.”

      “And what about the sheep?” demanded Gudrun. “Somebody’s stealing them; three lambs gone already. It’s the trolls, or else those Grimsson brothers down at the mill. And that’s another thing. I can’t send our corn to the mill any longer, it comes back short – and dirty. Hilde and I do all the grinding. I don’t have time to run the farm!”

      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, obviously hoping to change the subject, “did I tell you? I met Baldur Grimsson tonight as I came home!”

      “Was there any trouble?” asked Gudrun quickly.

      “No, no,” Ralf soothed her. “The man’s a fool. He sat in his cart in the pouring rain, shouting at me!”

      “May he catch his death!” sniffed Gudrun.

      “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. He’d love to get his hands on that,” said Ralf with relish. “My troll treasure, my lucky cup!”

      “Unlucky cup, more like,” sniffed Gudrun. But Sigurd and Sigrid jumped up and down, begging, “Tell us the story again, Pa!”

      “All right!” began Ralf, scooping the twins up on to his knees. “It was a wild night just like this, maybe ten years ago. Like tonight, I was riding home from the market at Hammerhaven. I was halfway over Troll Fell, tired and wet and weary, when 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 turned the pony off the road and kicked him into a trot up the hillside. I was in one of our own fields, the high one called the Stonemeadow. At the top of the slope I could hardly believe my eyes. The whole rocky summit of the hill had been lifted up, like a great stone lid! It was resting on four stout red pillars. The space underneath was shining with golden light, and there were scores, maybe hundreds, of trolls, all shapes and sizes, skipping and dancing, and the noise they were making! Louder than a sheep fair, what with bleating and baaing, mewing and caterwauling, horns wailing, drums pounding, and squeaking of one-string fiddles!”

      “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, saw with my own eyes. They were feasting in the great space under the hill: all sorts of food spread out on gold and silver dishes, and little troll servingmen jumping about between the dancers, balancing great loaded trays and never spilling a drop, clever as jugglers! It made me laugh out loud!

      “But the pony shied. I’d been so busy staring, I hadn’t noticed this troll girl creeping up on me till she popped up right by the pony’s shoulder. She held out a beautiful golden cup filled to the brim with something steaming hot – spiced ale I thought, and I took it gratefully from her, cold and wet as I was!”

      “Madness!” muttered Gudrun.

      Ralf looked at the children. “Just before I gulped it down,” he said slowly, “I noticed the look on her face. There was a gleam in her slanting eyes, a wicked sparkle! And her ears – her hairy, pointed ears – twitched forwards.

      “I saw she was up to no good!”

      “Go on!” said the children breathlessly.

      Ralf leaned forwards. “So, I lifted the cup, pretending to sip. Then I jerked the whole drink out over my shoulder. It splashed out smoking, some on to the ground and some on to the pony’s tail, where it singed off half his hair! There’s an awful yell from the troll girl, and the next thing the pony and