Troll Mill (11 page)

“Why are you making such a fuss? I’d only
be gone for a couple of days.”

Gudrun tossed her head. “And suppose Arnë’s not there? Suppose he’s gone away? What if he’s joined another of these Viking ships? I expect you’d sail after him and leave me for months on end wondering whether you were dead or alive—like last time!”

“Now you’re being ridiculous!” Ralf shouted.

Eirik flung himself backward, screaming in sympathy. Grimly, Gudrun passed him to Hilde. “Take this child and find him something to chew on.” She turned to Ralf, braids flying. “I sometimes think I’m the only one with any sense around here. You should be worrying about us, Ralf Eiriksson, not about Bjorn’s brother. What about the trolls stealing our sheep?”

Ralf paused. “That’s true,” he said more calmly. “That’s true, Gudrun. I’d forgotten about that. I’ll have to move the sheep off the Stonemeadow. Very well. I’ll wait a while and see how Bjorn gets on.”

VOICES AT THE MILLPOND

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, the high Stonemeadow rang with Ralf’s whistles as Loki raced about, rounding up the sheep.

“A beautiful day!” Hilde called to Peer and the twins. It was true. The last snow had melted, and the ground trickled and whispered with water. The mountains to the north and east seemed curled like cats basking in the sun. To the west, the sea was a warm blue line, smudged with islands.

Peer took a deep breath of the sweet air. He felt lighthearted, glad to be walking on Troll Fell in the spring sunshine, rather than toiling away at the mill. Lambs played tag around the rocks. An early bee zoomed erratically past. The world seemed a fresh, innocent
place. It was hard to believe in trolls—or mills, or uncles!

But as they tramped down from the high fields, the sheep trotting ahead of them, Hilde pointed out a low, rocky crag with a line of thorn trees along the top.

“See the little gully under it, where the brook runs? That’s where we met the trolls the night before last,” she told Peer. “Just under that scar.”

“When they saw us, they bolted uphill,” said Ralf.

“Scattering bones!” added Hilde. “They had baskets, and bundles of bones tied to their backs, like sticks. And goodness knows why!”

“I don’t understand.” Peer frowned. “Does it mean they’re killing the sheep and butchering them on the hillside?”

“That’s the odd part,” said Hilde. “The bones we saw were old and dry.”

Sigurd broke in. “Perhaps the trolls killed some sheep ages ago, and they’re hiding the bones so we don’t find out.”

Sigrid shook her head. “Remember when we were kidnapped?”

“Nobody ever lets us forget,” Sigurd muttered. “Be
careful, twins … Don’t go too far … Stay with Hilde … Get back before dark!
What about it?”

“Well, don’t you remember the old Gaffer, the King of Troll Fell? With his tail, and his claws, and his three red eyes? He wouldn’t bother hiding bones from us. He wouldn’t care what we found out.

“I had a bad dream about him last night,” she added in a low voice. “He jumped out at me like a spider.”

Peer felt a tug at his memory. Something someone else had said, recently, about the Gaffer …

Ralf shrugged. “Whatever’s going on, they’re stealing sheep. There’s no doubt about that. And your ma’s right: We’ve got to put a stop to it.”

Peer looked up. The crag glinted like a line of gray teeth in the hillside, and the slope rose above it, soaring steeply into a pale-blue sky. The summit of Troll Fell was out of sight, hiding behind its own ridges. He remembered one far-off winter night three years ago, when he’d seen the rocky cap of
the hill hoisted up on stout pillars for the midwinter banquet, so that the golden hall of the troll king could beam out its light….

“Got it!” He snapped his fingers. They all stared at him. “I know what’s going on! The Nis told me the other night. Remember the Gaffer’s daughter, Ralf? The one who gave you the golden cup and married the Dovreking’s son? She’s given birth to a son of her own, a new troll prince. And she’s come here from the Dovrefell, visiting her father. They’re naming the child on Midsummer Eve. The Nis says there’s going to be a feast!”

Ralf’s eyes widened. “That’ll be it,” he growled. “They’ve got extra mouths to feed and a feast coming up—and they’re dining off our sheep. I suppose they prefer roast mutton to that awful food you told us about, Peer—frogspawn soup and the like. Who’d be a farmer around here? This hill must be riddled with their rat holes and burrows. Let’s get going.” He whistled to Loki, for the flock had slowed and was beginning to scatter.

Glancing downhill, Peer felt poised like a bird, high above the world. He could imagine
jumping right down into the valley. The woods below looked soft enough to stroke, like the tufts of wool in Gudrun’s scrap basket. Here and there a white sparkle betrayed the stream, flickering with waterfalls. There was a dark spot buried among the trees.

“Look!” he pointed. “You can see the roof of the mill from here.”

But Ralf was already moving on.

By noon, the meadows around the farm were dotted with ewes and their lambs, and the farmstead echoed with raucous bleating. Only the paddock, walled and fenced, remained empty so that the grass could grow there.

“A good job well done,” commented Ralf, munching a mouthful of bread and cheese that Gudrun had brought out. But he looked dissatisfied, and they all knew why. Ralf depended on hay cut from the meadows as well as the paddock. If the sheep grazed down here for too long, there would not be enough hay left for winter feed.

“Well,” he continued, stretching his arms. “What do you say, Peer? We’ve got time to go down to this mill of yours—if you still want to.”

“Yes,” answered Peer, although yesterday’s enthusiasm had worn off, and a small, cold, cowardly part of him wished he had never thought of it.
I can’t give up
, he thought, stiffening.
I’ve hardly started yet. A man makes his own destiny!

“What’s this?” asked Gudrun suspiciously.

“The lad wants to do up the old mill,” Ralf explained, and she gasped.

“The mill? Oh, Peer! I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“We’ll help!” said Sigurd eagerly. “I’ve always wanted to see inside.”

“No, you won’t,” said Gudrun quickly.

He glared at her. “Why not?”

“Because it isn’t safe.”

“But Hilde’s going!”

“That’s different,” said Hilde.

“We’ll see about that!” exclaimed Gudrun.

Hilde stared defiantly at her mother, flushed and ruffled, her flyaway hair glinting in the sunlight. Gudrun glared back, her thin lips compressed, her color high.
They look alike
, thought Peer.

Gudrun gave in. “Very well, Hilde. But the twins will not go, and that’s the end of it.”

“It isn’t fair!” yelled Sigurd. “You never let us do anything!”

“Enough.” Ralf held up a big hand. “Don’t speak to your mother like that. You’ll stay at home and do as she tells you. Hilde and I will help Peer. There’s no reason why the place should be dangerous—in the daytime, at least.”

They made their way down through the wood, carrying brooms, spades, and sickles. Ralf had a pickax over his shoulder. Nobody talked much, and Peer felt a weight of responsibility descending upon him. As they crossed the bridge, he looked back over his shoulder at the high bulk of the fell, gleaming in the sunlight, with cloud shadows smoothing over it, like hands running over a horse’s sides. He could just make out the crag where they had stopped and looked down that morning: a distant line of pale rocks.

He led Ralf and Hilde into the mill yard with a peculiar sense of guilt. Ralf looked into the barn and then went poking through the sheds. Hilde stood in the center of the yard, arms crossed, peering up at the sagging rooflines and sliding thatch.

“It’s horrid,” she said quietly. “All those dark doorways. And look at the holes in the roof. Those lubbers might be hiding anywhere. What if they just waited for you to go and then came creeping back?”

“They probably did,” said Peer. “But they’re scared of me now. I’m sure if they heard us coming, they’d run away. You don’t have to worry, Hilde.”

“Hmm.” Hilde looked skeptical.

Ralf came out of the pigsty, ducking his head. “All clear!” he shouted. His voice rang out startlingly across the yard, and Peer and Hilde both jumped. “The sheds are empty,” Ralf went on. “Let’s start by tearing down that old privy. No sense in leaving any hiding places!”

“Hush, Ralf!” Peer said instinctively. “Not so loud.”

“No need to tiptoe around, whispering,” Ralf said, surprised. “We’ll make plenty of noise as soon as we start work.”

“Pa’s right,” said Hilde. “The Grimssons have gone.” She laughed suddenly. “Peer, relax. Look at you—you’re all hunched up!”

“Am I?” Discovering it was true, he
straightened. “I think—I think I’m expecting Uncle Baldur to come and start screaming at us. It’s as if the last three years have been a dream, and I’m about to wake up,” he said uncertainly.

“You’re awake,” Hilde told him. “I’ll pinch you, if you like.”

Ralf set about the privy with the pickax. No lubbers were found, and he was soon hauling armfuls of crumbling wattle and daub into the middle of the yard, where it could dry out before burning. Hilde came into the mill with Peer and helped force back all the shutters. Sunshine and fresh air streamed in, lighting up the dismal interior. She picked her way toward the hearth and stood, hands on hips, looking around in disgust.

“You should have seen the blankets I threw out,” Peer told her. “It won’t be so bad when it’s swept and cleaned, though.”

“Won’t it? I can’t imagine wanting to sleep here.” She picked up a small stool, and two of the three legs dropped off.

“I’ll throw out all the furniture,” Peer decided quickly. “There isn’t much, and none of it’s any good.”

“No.” Hilde kicked at a pile of sacks that had rotted together into a thick mat. A cloud of mold spores rose into the air, and she choked, covering her nose. “Peer, what an awful place. You can’t live here!”

“The machinery’s all right,” said Peer, to avoid answering. “Let’s get all this rubbish outside.”

They emptied the mill. Out went the stinking sacks, the armfuls of moldy baskets, the worm-eaten stools, and the broken table. “Everything on the heap!” called Ralf, as he passed Peer in the doorway.

By now, the yard looked worse, with a huge pile of rubbish building up in the center. But inside the mill, the empty room seemed larger than before. Nothing was left except the rectangular hearth in the middle of the floor and, against the wall, the two bunk beds and the tall grain bins with their sloping lids. Hilde pulled the weeds out of the fireplace. With a broom, she swept the walls free of cobwebs, disturbing ancient, floury dust that then settled in their hair, their eyes, and their lungs, making everyone sneeze and retreat into the yard. Loki raised his nose hopefully.
He was lying tightly curled up in a patch of sunshine near the lane, and his eyes implored,
Are we leaving yet?

“Poor Loki,” said Peer, wiping his face with his arm. “He hates this place.”

“You can’t blame him,” coughed Hilde. “Nothing nice ever happened to him here.”

A cloud seemed to pass over the sun. Uncle Baldur’s shrill voice echoed in Peer’s mind:
What d’you call that? A dog? Looks more like a rat. You know what we do to rats around here? Set Grendel on ‘em! One chomp—that’s all it takes!

“Back to work!” Peer said fiercely. He would sweep away every trace of his uncles. He would never think of them again.

He dived back inside. Hilde followed, shaking her head. “What’s in the grain bins?” she asked, chasing a large spider across the floor with her broom.

Ralf knocked on the nearest and opened the lid. Delving in, he brought out a handful of grayish, crumbly meal. He sniffed it, making a face. “What’s this?”

Hilde shrugged. “Some sort of oatmeal?”

“Whatever it was, it’s gone bad,” declared
Ralf. “We’ll have to throw it out and leave the bin in the sun to sweeten. What’s in the others?”

There were three more large grain bins. One contained a tangle of moldy harness, one was empty, and in the third …

“Oh, yuck!” cried Hilde. “Something’s died in here!” Ralf and Peer looked over her shoulder. The bottom of the bin was covered with little skeletons.

“Rats!” said Ralf. “They must have got trapped somehow and starved to death.”

“Horrible!” Hilde shuddered. “I hate this place. Full of nasty surprises!
Brrr!
I’m going outside.”

Peer remembered his daydream of a smiling Hilde, living happily with him at the mill. Thank goodness she didn’t know. He gnawed a knuckle.

I wish … I don’t know. I wish I could rescue her, or something. I wish the lubbers would creep up on her, so I could chase them off.

But as soon as he thought of it, he knew that Hilde was perfectly capable of chasing them off herself.

“I’ll go after her,” he muttered to Ralf.
“Just in case. It might not be safe to wander about alone.”

“Thanks, Peer, that’s thoughtful,” said Ralf gravely. Was he hiding a smile?