Troll Fell. Katherine Langrish

“It’s no weather for sailors!”

      “This will be the last of the spring gales,” Ralf consoled her.

      Up on the roof the troll lost interest in the conversation. It sat riding the ridge, waving its arms in the wind, and calling loudly, “Hoooo! Hututututu!”

      “How the wind shrieks!” said Gudrun, and she took the poker and stirred up the fire. A stream of sparks shot up through the smoke hole. The startled troll threw itself into a backwards somersault and rolled down off the roof, landing on its feet in the muddy yard. Then it prowled inquisitively round the buildings, leaving odd little eight-toed footprints in the mud. The farmhouse door had a horseshoe nailed over it. The troll tutted and muttered, and made a detour around it. But it went on, prying into every corner of the farmyard, leaving smears of bad luck, like snail-tracks, on everything it touched.

      CHAPTER 3

      Talking to the Nis

      There can’t be another Uncle Baldur! After the first stunned moment, Peer began to laugh, tight, hiccuping laughter that hurt his chest. Unable to stop, he bent over the rail of the cart, gasping in agony.

      Uncle Grim and Uncle Baldur were identical twins.

      Side by side they strutted up to the cart. He looked wildly from one to the other. Same barrel chests and muscular, knotted arms, same thick necks, same mean little eyes peering from masses of black tangled beard and hair. One of them was still wrapped up in a wet cloak, however, while the other seemed to have been eating supper, for he was holding a knife with a piece of meat skewered to the point.

      “Shut up,” said this one to Peer. “And get down.” Only the voice was different – deep and rough.

      “Now let me guess!” said Peer with mad recklessness. “Who can you be? Oooh – tricky one! But wait, I’ve got it! You’re my Uncle Grim! Yes? You are alike, aren’t you! Like peas in a pod. Do you ever get muddled up? I’m your—”

      “Get down,” growled Uncle Grim, in exactly the same way as before.

      “—nephew, Peer!” Peer finished, impudently. He held up his wrist, still firmly tethered to the side of the cart, and waggled his fingers.

      Uncle Grim snapped the twine with a contemptuous jerk. Then he frowned, lifted his knife and squinted at the point. He sucked the piece of meat off, licked the blade, and sliced through the string holding Loki. He stared hard at Peer.

      “Now get down,” he ordered, through his food. He turned to his brother as Peer jumped stiffly down. “He’s not much, is he?”

      “But he’ll do,” grunted Uncle Baldur. “He can start now. Here, you!” He thrust the lantern at Peer. “Take this! Put the oxen in the stalls. Put the hens in the barn. Feed them. Move!” He threw an arm over his brother’s shoulders, and as the two of them slouched away towards the mill Peer heard Baldur saying, “What’s in the pot? Stew? I’ll have some of that!”

      The door shut. Peer stood in the mud, the rain drumming on his head, the lantern shaking in his hand. All desire to laugh left him. Loki picked himself up out of the puddle and shook himself wearily. He whined. Peer drew a deep breath. “All right, Loki. Let’s get on with it, boy!”

      Struggling with the wet harness he unhitched the oxen and led them into their stalls. He tried to rub them dry with wisps of straw. He unloaded the hens and set them loose on the barn floor, where an arrogant, black cockerel and a couple of scrawny females came strutting to inspect them. He found some corn and scattered it. By now the stiffness had worn off, but he was damp, cold and exhausted. The hens found places to roost, clucking suspiciously. Loki curled up in the straw and fell fast asleep. Peer decided to leave him there. He hadn’t forgotten what Uncle Baldur had said about his dog eating Loki, and he certainly had heard a big dog barking inside the mill. He took up the lantern and set off across the yard, picking his way through the mud. The storm was passing, and tatters of cloud blew wildly overhead. It had stopped raining.

      The mill looked black and forbidding. Not a glimmer of light escaped from the tightly closed shutters. Peer hoped he hadn’t been locked out. His stomach growled. There was stew inside, waiting for him! But he stopped at the door, afraid to go in. Did they expect him to knock? Voices mumbled inside. Were they talking about him?

      He put his head to the door and listened.

      “Not worth much!” Baldur was saying.

      There was a sort of thump and clink. “Count it anyway,” said Grim’s deep voice, and Peer realised that Uncle Baldur had thrown a bag of money down. Next came a muffled, rhythmical chanting. His uncles were counting the money together. They kept stopping and cursing and getting it wrong.

      “Thirty, thirty-one,” Baldur finished at last. “Lock it up!” His voice grew fainter, as he moved further from the door. “We don’t want the boy getting his hands on it.”

      Peer clenched his fists. “That’s my money, you thieves!” he whispered furiously. A lid creaked open and crashed shut. They had hidden his money in some chest, and if he walked in now, he might see where it was.

      “About the lad,” came Baldur’s voice. Peer stopped. He glued his ear to the wet wood. Unfortunately Baldur seemed to be walking about, for he could hear feet clumping to and fro, and the words came in snatches.

      “…time to take him to the Gaffer?” Peer heard, and something like,“…no point in taking him too soon.”

      The Gaffer? He said that before, up on the hill, thought Peer with an uneasy shiver. What does it mean? He strained his ears again. Rumble, whistle, rumble, went the two voices. He thought he heard something about “trolls”, followed quite clearly by: “Plenty of time before the wedding.” A succession of thuds sounded like both of his uncles taking their boots off and kicking them across the room. Finally he heard one of them, Grim it must be, say loudly, “At least we’ll get some work out of him first.”

      That seemed to conclude the discussion. Peer straightened up and scratched his head. A chilly wind blew round his ears and a fresh rainshower rattled out of the sky. Inside the mill one of the brothers was saying, “Hasn’t that pesky lad finished yet?” Hastily Peer knocked and lifted the latch.

      With a blood-curdling bellow, the most enormous dog Peer had ever seen launched itself from its place by the fireside directly at his throat. Huge rows of yellow, dripping teeth were closing in on his face when Uncle Grim put out a casual arm and yanked the monster backwards off its feet, roaring, “Down, Grendel!”

      The huge dog cringed. “Come in and shut the door,” Grim growled roughly to Peer. “Don’t stand there like a fool. Let him smell you. Then he’ll know you.”

      Nervously Peer held out his hand, expecting the animal to take it off at the wrist. Grendel stood taller than a wolf. His coat was brindled, brown and black, and a thick ruff of coarse fur grew over his shoulders and down his spine. Hackles up, he lowered his massive head and smelled Peer’s hand as if it were garbage, rumbling distrustfully. Uncle Grim gave Grendel an affectionate slap and rubbed him round the jaws. “Who’s a good doggie? Who’s a good boy, then?” he cooed admiringly. Peer wiped a slobbery hand on his trousers. He thought that Grendel looked a real killer – just the sort of dog the Grimsson brothers would have.

      “This dog’s a killer,” boasted Uncle Grim, as if he could read Peer’s mind. “Best dog in the valley. Wins every fight. Not a scratch on him. That’s what I call a proper dog!”

      Thank goodness I didn’t bring Loki in! Peer shuddered. Uncle Grim fussed Grendel, tugging his ears and calling him a good fellow. Grateful to be ignored, Peer looked around at his new home.

      A sullen fire smouldered in the middle of the room. Uncle Baldur sat beside it on