Troll Mill (19 page)

“But I won’t, because you’ve been so useful to me, laddie.” A thick smile appeared on Uncle Baldur’s lips. A fat red tongue came poking out of his mouth, and he licked his tusks. “Yes, I’m pleased with you, my little nephew! And do you know why? Do you know?” He jabbed the torch toward Peer’s stomach.

“Because you’ve mended the mill for me! You’ve patched the roof. Fixed the shutters. Swept the yard. Greased the machinery. And all for me, do you hear, for me, not you. I grind for royalty now. I’m miller to the troll king himself!” He raised both hands above his head, yelling, “I’ll always be the miller! The Miller of Troll Fell.
Huuuuuutututututu!”

Hilde shoved Peer hard in the small of the back. He staggered forward. “Run, Peer! Now!” she shouted. Somehow he snatched her hand and tugged her along, ducking under Uncle Baldur’s outstretched arm. They raced for the open door. Taken by surprise, the trolls scattered right and left, looking to Uncle Baldur for orders.

Peer swung Hilde ahead of him. He stooped to pick up the rusty old shovel. “Go, Hilde! Run for it!” he yelled, backing toward the door while waving the shovel in threatening arcs. “I’ll hold them off.” Hilde vanished without argument, casting a white-faced glance over her shoulder.

The trolls regrouped in a straggling line. Peer tried to keep his eyes on all of them at
once. One stalked toward him on scaly legs, turning its wattled head to glare at him through a single red-rimmed eye. One came slinking furrily along beside the wall, like a prowling cat with its belly brushing the ground.

Behind them, Uncle Baldur bent under the rafters and loomed forward, grinning horribly. The tusks seemed to extend his smile till it curled up past his ears. “Get ‘im, boys!”

With a rush, the trolls attacked. Peer flung the shovel at them, hearing a yelp of pain as he leaped through the door. He hurtled across the yard. “Come on, Peer!” Hilde screamed from the end of the bridge. Trolls were already pouring out of the mill and into the yard. He pounded across the bridge, glimpsing Hilde’s flying figure ahead of him. To his left, water roared through the millrace, and the great black wheel churned around and around. Behind him, Uncle Baldur was yelling to the trolls, “That’ll do. That’ll do, I say! Not worth the chase … and there’s trouble enough waiting for ‘em. Get back in ‘ere and finish the grinding!”

Peer looked back, slowing into a trot, then
to a stumbling walk, and then starting into a trot again. Hilde waited for him under the eaves of the wood. She grabbed his arm. “Are you all right?” He nodded wordlessly. Clinging together, they hurried into the darkness under the trees.

“Rat bones,” panted Hilde. “Mutton bones. And even birds’ bones. I saw a crow’s skull. Do you think they use them to make different sorts of bread? Like oatmeal and rye? They must scavenge bones from all over Troll Fell. So that’s why we found rat skeletons in the grain bin.” She shuddered. “And all the gritty stuff in the hopper. It was crushed bone, for grinding up small.”

“Uncle Baldur.” Peer was sick with shock, yet a voice inside him was already saying,
You fool, you felt him there all along. You’ve never really got rid of him. You never will….
“I ought to have guessed,” he said thickly. “That crag where you saw the trolls, Hilde. The mill is straight down the fell from there. In daylight it’s as plain as the nose on your face. That’s where the trolls were heading. Why didn’t I guess?”

“Why should you?” asked Hilde fiercely
“We all thought Baldur Grimsson was gone for good—shut up under Troll Fell, like you and I would have been, if you hadn’t saved us. How could anyone guess he’d persuade the Gaffer to let him out, and start using the old mill for grinding
bones?”

“Hilde!” A terrible thought struck Peer. “If Uncle Baldur’s down at the mill, then where’s Uncle Grim?”

They stood for a second, staring at each other through the dark.

“There’s trouble enough waiting …
Run!” said Hilde, breaking away and starting up the path as fast as she could.

But it was too late.

They ran out of the trees and saw the dim outline of the farmhouse roof; and even from this distance, they could hear Gudrun screaming.

THE LUBBERS AT LARGE

A
FTER
P
EER’S STICK
came whistling down through the leaves, the two lubbers dived into the undergrowth and began creeping stealthily through the trees, heading uphill. They jumped back over the water where the stream took a bend, and followed it up till they came to the edge of the trees. Parting the last twigs with their long clammy fingers, they stuck their heads cautiously out, peering with glinting eyes at Ralf’s farm.

The door was shut. A serene column of smoke idled up from the roof. Loki was visible on the doorstep, lying with his nose on his paws, waiting for Peer to come home.

The lubbers swiveled bald, lumpy faces toward each other.

“See?” muttered one. “It’s no use. We’ve been hanging around for days now, and there’s always a dog somewhere about. I hate dogs.”

“Patience,” said the other in a hollow whisper. “Our chance will come. They’ll get careless. They’ve drove out their Nis already, remember? Think of those thick, green blankets waiting for us—if we do the job right!”

“Aaah …” The first lubber dragged the torn, blackish threads of its old blanket around its sharp shoulders. “You’re right. We’ll wait.” It flung itself down and crawled under a tangle of brambles. Anyone might have thought an abandoned scarecrow lay there—just stick limbs, rags, and a turnip-lantern head.

The second crouched, puffing, its muddy cheeks sucking in and out. It clawed up the leaf mold, picking out beetles and small worms, which it popped into its wide, lipless mouth and chewed up with delicate little snaps.

After a while, there was a hooting and a pattering in the wood. The lubbers froze, their mottled skin invisible against the dark
bushes. They listened intently.

“Trolls,” mumbled the second lubber. “A whole bunch of trolls going down to the mill.
Pah!”
It spat out a mouthful of shiny black wing cases and legs, and ran an exploratory finger around its teeth. “That’ll give that boy a shock. Him and his dog, and his shovel!”

The first lubber crawled out from the undergrowth, a vicious green gleam in its eyes. “Let’s hope they gobble him up!”

“Sssh!”
The second lubber held up a finger. “Hark! Feel that?”

The ground shuddered. The two lubbers flattened themselves and stretched their necks to squint through the brambles.

“Footsteps! Someone coming up the path.”

“Is it the boy?” asked the first lubber anxiously.

“Nah. Can’t you feel it? Someone bigger. Someone heavy!”

Up through the wood came a man as huge as a marching tree trunk. His slow footfalls thudded through the ground. He clutched a club. A tangled shag of black hair hung over his shoulders, and as he flung back his head, the lubbers saw the pale flash of tusks.

“Phew!” The first lubber sank back with a sigh of relief. “It’s only one of them mantrolls from the mill.”

“What d’you mean, ‘only’?” hissed the second lubber. “They’re big chaps, they are. Look at him! Big enough to tear us limb from limb!”

“Yeah, but he’s not after us, is he?”

They crawled to the edge of the bushes and watched as the man strode out of the trees. Over by the farmhouse door, Loki raised his head, suddenly alert. He sprang up, bursting into a volley of savage barks. The man broke into a run. With Loki snarling at his heels, he loped past the farmhouse and out of sight, heading for the sheep pastures. A moment later, a chorus of terrified bleating rose into the air.

Gleefully the lubbers nudged each other. The farmhouse door swung open and the woman who lived there ran out into the twilight, with the old brindled sheepdog trotting stiffly after her. She stared about. A couple of fair-haired children followed, a boy and a girl. “Loki!” cried the woman. “Peer, Hilde! I’m coming!” She turned to the children. “Get
back inside. It’ll be trolls, after the sheep. There’s enough of us to deal with it.”

“Let me come, Ma!” the boy pleaded.

“No, Sigurd, stay with your sister and look after the babies. It’s only trolls. We’ll soon scare them off.”

“But, Ma!”

“Do
as I say,”
said the woman fiercely, and, with the old sheepdog following at a shambling canter, she picked up her skirts and ran toward the sheep fields, where the sounds of barking and bleating were becoming more and more hysterical. Instead of obeying her, the children climbed up on the sheepfold wall, trying to see.

The farmhouse door stood open, unguarded, at their backs.

Without exchanging a word, the lubbers slithered out of the bushes. They crept across the yard like shadows and slipped silently into the house.

The light and heat and smells momentarily overwhelmed them. In the center of the room the fire burned like a bar of redhot iron, and it hurt their eyes. A reek and fug of humans swirled about them: peat smoke and salt fish,
dogs and leather and oil, broth and cheese and onions. They stood snuffling, blinking, and gaping.

From a sort of box near the hearth came a sleepy wail. The lubbers’ mouths spread into wide, slitlike grins, and they tiptoed nearer, shading their faces from the glow of the fire.

“Keep a lookout,” whispered one. “I’ll grab the baby.”

“Oh no you don’t.
I’ll
grab the baby!” the other pushed in front.

“Let me!”

“Let me!”

There was a scuffle and then, as the lubbers ended up with their heads over the cradle, an astounded silence.

“There’s
two
babies!”

“Which one does she want?”

“Don’t be more stupid than you can help,” growled the first lubber. “We’ll take ’em both! And if old Granny doesn’t want two, we’ll keep the extra one!” It plunged its skinny hands into the cradle.

The second lubber shouldered in greedily. “I hope she
doesn’t
want two.” It snatched up Ran and studied her for a second. “Here,
that’s not fair—yours is bigger than mine!” Ran whimpered. The lubber stuffed her under its arm.

For about a second, Eirik’s flushed, tousled head nodded sleepily on the first lubber’s bony shoulder. Then he woke. His eyes flew open. His body went rigid. Drawing a gigantic breath, he threw back his head and began to scream and scream.

“Shut him up!” The second lubber danced in terror. “Shut him up!”

“I can’t!” The one carrying Eirik tried to get a hand over the little boy’s mouth. Eirik bit it and went on screaming.

“Run for it! Quick!”

They burst out of the farmhouse door. Eirik’s yells faded as his lungs emptied. Sucking in another enormous breath, he began again.

Balanced on the sheepfold wall, Sigurd and Sigrid turned in time to see two grotesque figures dashing away from the house. One had some sort of bundle tucked under its scrawny elbow. On the shoulder of the other bounced the face of their baby brother, his
eyes screwed shut, his mouth wide.

Adding their screams to his, the twins leaped from the wall and tore after him.

“MA!” shrieked Sigrid. “COME QUICKLY! THE TROLLS HAVE GOT EIRIK!”

“MA! PEER! HILDE!” Sigurd yelled, pounding along beside her. Ahead of them, the lubbers swerved into the wood and instantly vanished into black shadows. The twins dashed after them.

“Which way? Which way?” Sigrid sobbed.

Among the trees, it was hard to tell the direction of Eirik’s terrible screams, and they were getting fainter. Sigurd looked desperately this way and that.

“Uphill!” he cried. “They’ll be taking him back up Troll Fell. Quick!”

He grabbed Sigrid’s hand and pulled her after him, away up the steepening slope, leaving the stream behind. Scrabbling, panting, crying, the twins clawed their way up through the birch forest, clutching at branches, heaving themselves higher and higher.

“MA!” Sigurd’s voice cracked.

“It’s no good,” wept Sigrid. “She can’t hear you. Oh … oh … we’ve got to find him!”

“Listen.” Sigurd jerked to a halt. “Is he still screaming?”

Over their thumping hearts and rasping breath, they thought they could still hear a distant cry. Then an owl swooped past with a long, shivering hoot.

“We’ve lost him!” Sigrid burst out. Sigurd punched the trunk of the nearest birch tree as hard as he could. He nursed his bruised knuckles. A lonely wind sighed through the boughs.

Then there was a rustling, a pattering, a crackling, as if the undergrowth was on fire, as if all the creeping things in the wood were stirring and scurrying and hurrying uphill. Sigurd looked at Sigrid in sudden hope.

“We haven’t lost him yet, twin. See, here come the trolls.”

As he spoke, something short and squat bounded from the bushes. It was too dark to see very well, but the twins thought it had a longish beak. Its arms seemed far too long for its body. It paused, and then let out a deafening cry:
“Huuuutututututututu!”

Sigrid hid her face and pressed her hands over her ears. From farther down the slope
came answering cries. The crackling and pattering got louder and louder. Then the leading troll marched on, and after it in a long file came other shapes, eyes dimly gleaming green and red, snuffling and snorting, panting and wheezing, carrying baskets and bundles and sacks, just as before. One fat troll with a pack on its back startled the twins horribly by jumping right over a nearby bush, with a loud croak. But the gangling figures with the big heads, the ones that had carried Eirik away from the farm, were nowhere to be seen.