Troll Mill

by Katherine Langrish

“I thought that yesterday. Like people, talking.”

  “What do you think they’re saying?” Hilde asked.

  “Sad things,” said Peer.

  “Let’s try and listen now!” Hilde’s finger went to her lips. “Ssh!”

  Peer obeyed. He closed his eyes. Almost at once he began to hear quiet voices: a lapping, gurgling voice, as though the owner were speaking through a mouth half-full of water, and a couple of sniveling, flat, nasal voices, like two branches squeaking together.

  “They’ve driven us out,” one of the flat voices whimpered. “We’ve nowhere to go. Give me back my blanket. I’m cold, cold!”

  “‘Cold, cold,’” the watery voice mimicked with a low chuckle, “‘and nowhere to go.’ I’ll remember that when I sit under the weir, singing my songs. All my sad songs I took from the people who came to me. People who cried at night. All lost now, all gone … but I still sing their songs under the weir. Lost … long ago.”

  “I’m all over toad flesh!” croaked the first voice. “I want me blanket!”

  “Finders, keepers,” sneered the other flat voice. “I got it first! Ouch—gerroff!” There was the sound of a scuffle, and the willows shook.

  “I can give you a fine green blanket, nice and thick,” said the watery voice slyly.

  “Where is it?” squeaked the first voice.

  “Here, take your old blanket. I want a new one too!” croaked the second voice greedily.

  “Not so fast!” gargled the watery voice. “I’ll have to see what you can do for me first. I’ll have to see if you can be … helpful.”

  That was all they heard. The three voices fell into a low murmur and mingled with the steady rush of the weir.

  A dog barked, far off in the wood, a sharp and lonely sound. Loki flung up his head, whining. The willows sieved darkness through their branches. A bat flicked past, quick as an uneasy thought.

  Hilde touched Peer’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  Peer jumped. What was that, rustling in the dark bushes? He rubbed his eyes. Something scampered out of the brambles and dashed through the grass along the edge of the pond. Loki pricked his ears and uttered a grumbling woof.

  “Wait,” Peer breathed.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “There it goes.” Peer squinted through the dusk, as something small and spindly, with a wisp of hair like gray smoke, scuttled into the trees. “The Nis! Loki knows. He always makes that noise when he sees it.”

  “It can’t be,” Hilde whispered. “What would the Nis be doing here?”

  “I don’t know.” She was right. Why should the Nis come down to the mill? He hesitated, but at that moment they heard a distant, surging splash, as though someone had clambered out of the water at the far end of the millpond, where the stream ran in through a tunnel of matted and woven willows.

  “Quick!” Hilde caught his hand and pulled him away. They ran back to the bridge, Loki bounding behind them with his hackles up.

  “I’m sure I saw the Nis,” Peer panted.

  “Never mind the Nis!” said Hilde. “What about Granny Green-teeth? That was her, wasn’t it, talking to the lubbers? Plotting something. There’s bound to be trouble. She hates the mill, doesn’t she? She hates the miller, whoever he is!”

  She yanked on his hand and tugged him around to face her. Her hair was coming loose again in tousled strands. Bits of willow twig were stuck in it, and her eyes blazed dark in her pale face. Peer stared at her, transfixed. He found his voice.

  “Maybe she does,” he said. “But we knew that already. My uncles managed to run the mill with Granny Green-teeth and the lubbers about, so why shouldn’t I? I’m going to try, Hilde. I’m not giving up!”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE NIS BEHAVES BADLY

  HUSH, BABY, HUSH-a-bye, can you see the swans fly?” Gudrun sang softly as she sat at her loom near the open door, passing the shuttle swiftly to and fro. She was weaving a green-and-brown twill and keeping an eye on Eirik, who had crawled out into the yard and was busy digging in the dirt with a stick.

  In the big cradle next to the loom, little Ran slept. Sigrid sat beside the fire, awkwardly wielding a pair of knitting needles, while Sigurd peeled rushes, extracting squiggles of white pith to be used for lamp wicks.

  “Hush, baby, hush-a-bye, far away the swans fly. Over hill and over river, white wings waft together …” Gudrun’s voice sank into a low humming.

  “You used to sing that song to us.” Sigrid yawned, tangling the wool around her fingers. “Bother! I’ve dropped a stitch!”

  “I used to sing it to Hilde,” said Gudrun. She rose to take Sigrid’s knitting.

  “My hands ache,” Sigrid complained.

  “Don’t hold the needles so tightly. Just do another two rows.”

  Sigrid knitted on, scowling. Sigurd looked up and stretched. “I’ve had enough,” he announced. “We’ve been working all day. Can’t we go and play before it gets dark?”

  “Oh, very well.” Gudrun nodded, and the twins jumped up and headed for the door. “Take Alf,” she added.

  “Oh, Ma, do we have to? He’s so slow!” wailed Sigurd.

  “Never mind,” said Gudrun, coming to the doorway. “A little gentle exercise will be good for him. And he’ll look after you.”

  “We don’t need looking after,” muttered Sigurd, as the old sheepdog came padding out after them.

  “Don’t go up the hill. Play in the wood!” Gudrun called. She watched as they ran eagerly out of the yard and down the track.

  “Now then, pickle,” she sighed, looking down at baby Eirik. “It’s your turn!” Eirik raised his face. “Ma!” he cooed sweetly. He dropped the stick and put up his arms. Gudrun swooped on him with a gasp of delight. She cuddled his muddy face to her cheek. “My gorgeous boy,” she crooned. “Say, ‘Ma!’”

  “Ma!” said Eirik boldly. He stared at her and laughed.

  “Scamp!” said Gudrun, carrying him in. She wiped his fingers and gave him a piece of bread to chew while she washed and changed him. “Let’s get you fed before little Ran wakes.” Holding him on her hip, she peeked into the cradle and saw that the baby girl was wide awake, but lying quietly. Eirik leaned to see her too. He pointed. “Ba!” he exclaimed.

  “Baby,” cried Gudrun. “That’s right, Eirik. Baby!”

  “Ba,” said Eirik with deep satisfaction. Gudrun hugged him, while Ran stared up with dark, unreadable eyes.

  “Clever little boy!” said Gudrun. She sat down, took Eirik on her knee, and fed him sweet milky groute. Tired from his day, Eirik accepted spoonful after spoonful. Gudrun felt herself relax. The house was peaceful, full of quiet, pleasant sounds: the fire flickering its invisible tongues, the pot simmering, the moist suction of Eirik’s lips on the spoon. Somewhere in the background, the Nis was busy. She was half aware of it whisking the floor, giving the pot a stir, tweaking the bedclothes. It’s got over its sulks, she thought. That’s good.

  At last, Eirik’s head nodded and his eyes closed. Gudrun got up stiffly and lowered him into the cradle beside Ran. To her surprise, little Ran rolled her eyes toward Eirik. Her thin arms waved, and she kicked feebly. She looked scrawny and brown beside him; her hair grew over her round head in a soft dark … pelt was the word, Gudrun thought suddenly, startled.

  She bent and looked more closely. The baby seemed to be clutching something. She uncurled one of the tiny hands. There was nothing in the palm, but between all the fingers was a thin web of skin.

  With a doubtful frown, Gudrun tucked the fingers closed again and picked the baby up. “You strange little creature,” she murmured. “And so solemn. I wish you’d smile. Or even cry!”

  Ran looked back with a still, vague gaze that might have meant anything or nothing. Gudrun gave her a little shake. “Well? Aren’t you hungry?” she asked, and sat down to nurse her.

  There was a fierce, fizzing noise behind them. Something jumped across the room like an angry grasshopper. A string of onions tumbled from the wall. The cookpot c
apsized into the fire, and clouds of steam erupted into the air. Gudrun dumped Ran unceremoniously back into the cradle and rushed for a cloth to lift the pot back onto its trivet. Barley broth scorched and bubbled in the flames.

  “Drat!” Gudrun panted, righting the pot. There wasn’t much left, and, sighing, she tipped in more barley and extra water.

  She turned again to the cradle, and her skirt snagged. She tried to tug it loose. Something tugged back. Gudrun stopped dead. She didn’t see anything, but a little humming voice buzzed in her ear like a sleepy bee: “The mistress mustn’t feed the seal-baby!”

  “Master Nis?” Gudrun folded her arms. “Let go of my skirt this second!” The hem swished free. “Now,” she went on in the same sharp voice, “like it or not, I’m going to feed this baby. Behave!”

  She lifted Ran and sat down. Something sprang into the rafters near the smoke hole, where the soot fluttered like black rags. It scuffled along the beams, kicking down smut, till a swarm of black butterflies seemed to be whirling around the room, settling with soft smears on Gudrun’s face and arms and on the floor, the bedding, and the scrubbed table.

  “Stop it!” Gudrun shrieked. In the ridge of the roof where the smoke drifted, a small figure was dimly visible, swinging rebellious legs. “Come down from there at once!”

  The dangling legs withdrew with a jerk. There was an angry squeak, so high and sharp, it made Gudrun wince. A little gray shadow pattered down the wall like a shower of raindrops, scuttled across the floor, and dived under the table.

  Gudrun stood still, with the baby pressed against her. “That was extremely silly,” she said coldly. “Sweep up the mess you’ve made. If you can’t behave better than this, you’ll have to go!”

  There was a subdued silence. With her head bent over the baby, she was aware of a sulky shape creeping about in the corners with a brush. She ignored it, and after a while it slunk out of sight like a scolded puppy.

  Ran fed hungrily. The seal-baby, Gudrun thought uneasily, as if the Nis’s little voice still tickled and droned in her ear. She looked down at the small dark head butting her breast. For a moment she saw a sleek little animal that snuffled and sucked, and spread out cold webbed fingers against her skin. She almost plucked it away.

  Then she thought of the joy of cuddling Eirik, and the way he laughed and cried and made endless trouble. “She’s not my own,” she said to herself. “That makes enough difference without looking for more. I’ll love her yet.”

  She put Ran back in the cradle and looked around. The house was quiet again. All the soot had been swept up. The brush had been laid tidily near the hearth. The barley broth was bubbling gently. Gudrun tested it. The barley was tender and cooked, so she lifted the pot into the ashes to keep warm for supper.

  There was no sign of the Nis. Gudrun sat down and picked up Sigrid’s knitting, but she couldn’t settle. After a few rows she put down the needles and fetched a shallow bowl. She poured some milk for the Nis and placed it under the table.

  “There now,” she said brightly. “You see? Live and let live. There’s plenty for everyone!” She went back to her knitting, glancing at the bowl from time to time, but the milk remained untouched.

  Gudrun drooped. The fire was low, and drafts blew over the floor. She stepped outside to bring in logs and peat. The sun had sunk behind the woods, and the hillside above the farm looked cold against a clear yellow sky. A trailing skein of geese flew over, honking mournfully. Gudrun shivered. She called for the twins. No one answered, but down in the dark spaces of the wood, a dog barked. It sounded like Alf, and the twins would be with him. They would soon be home.

  Back in the house, a steady lapping came from the bowl under the table. Gudrun smiled to herself and pretended to pay no attention. Then, as she built up the fire, one of the cats strolled out from under the table, licking her whiskers.

  Gudrun’s hands flew to her face. “Oh, my goodness!” she wailed. The Nis was fiercely protective of its food. All the household animals had learned to stay well clear of its dish, on pain of pinched ears and tweaked whiskers. The complacent cat sat down by the hearth for a good wash—and Gudrun knew that the Nis had gone.

  Run away? For good? She turned to the door quickly, with the idea of calling it back. But before she got there, the door flew open and the twins tumbled in with Alf, slamming it behind them.

  “Ma!” Sigrid grabbed her with cold hands. “There are trolls in the wood! We saw a little dark thing slinking between the trees!”

  “Trolls? Why, no, that could be the Nis,” said Gudrun. “Which way was it going? It’s been very naughty!”

  “The Nis?” Sigrid’s face cleared. “It was going down toward the mill. What’s it done?”

  “Only spilt the broth! Only thrown soot all over the place!”

  Sigurd’s face was a mixture of awe and amusement. He nudged his sister. “What would Ma do to us if we were that bad?”

  “It wasn’t funny,” Gudrun began, but she was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “I’ll go!” cried Sigurd, before Gudrun could speak. Using both hands, he lifted the latch and opened the door a few inches, blocking it with his body.

  Gudrun and Sigrid tried to see past, but all they could hear was a low mumble from outside and Sigurd’s polite answers:

  “Yes, this is Ralf Eiriksson’s house. I’m his son.

  “A new baby? Yes, we have!

  “I don’t know, I’ll ask.”

  He turned, holding the door half open. “It’s an old lady, Ma. She wants to see the baby. Can she come in?”

  For the rest of her life, Gudrun wondered what stopped her from saying yes. Had it been Alf, stiffly facing the door with his lips raised over his teeth? Or the damp draft, flowing into the house like a breath from the weedy bottom of a well? Or had she simply felt unwilling to let a stranger into the house after sunset? Whatever the reason, she placed a hand on Sigurd’s shoulder, moved him aside, and confronted the visitor herself.

  And indeed it was only an old woman leaning on a stick. Her bent body was a dark outline against the last of the light, and a greenish-black scarf was wrapped tightly around her head. All Gudrun could see of her face was her eyes, glittering like two stars reflected in dark water.

  “Good evening to you,” said the old woman with a sly chuckle. “That’s a fine boy you have there, mistress. A handsome fellow. And the little girl, too. I was watching them, the pretty pair, as I came up through the wood. Running ahead, they were, and never saw me. Aren’t you afraid to let them play so late?”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Gudrun asked.

  “I’ve been told about this baby you’ve taken in, mistress. I’d like to see the bairn.”

  Gudrun shook her head. “She’s asleep, and I won’t wake her.”

  “Old granny won’t wake her, dearie! I’ve rocked many a baby to sleep.”

  “I can’t let you in, I’m too busy,” said Gudrun. “Good night.” She tried to close the door, but the old woman thrust her stick in the way and leaned her weight on it. “Busy? Of course you are. A mother’s always busy. You look tired, mistress—white and pinched. And no wonder, wearing yourself out looking after all these children, and a man who’s always roaming, never home.”

  “He’ll be home soon enough,” said Gudrun. She pushed at the door, but the old woman’s stick appeared to have taken root and Gudrun couldn’t shift it.

  “And isn’t it good of you to take in another bairn,” crooned the old woman. “Another mouth to feed. Another child to wake you at night and chain you to the house by day, to be cleaned and carried and nursed and sung to.”

  Gudrun bit her lip.

  The old woman shifted her grip on the stick. Her voice dropped. “I know how you feel, my dearie. I know the black hour in the middle of the night, when you can’t sleep for the crying child and you’re like to drop from weariness. I know your bones ache to the very marrow. I know your heart sank when the boy brought this baby home.”

&nb
sp; “N-no!” Gudrun stammered. The numbing draft blew around her, colder and colder, and the sweetish, rotten smell grew stronger.

  The old woman leaned forward. “And who could blame you?” she muttered. “After all, the child isn’t yours. She’s barely human. The offspring of a fisherman and a seal-woman? The seal-folk don’t want her. As for the fisherman—every time he looks at her, he’ll be reminded of what he’s lost. Give her to me!”

  Barely human? Gudrun’s skin stung at the remembered touch of Ran’s cold little fingers. She clutched at her breast.

  “Give her to me, mistress,” coaxed the old woman. “I’ll take good care of her. The stream can sing to her all night. She’ll have the softest, softest cradle. Her own mother didn’t want her. Let me take up the burden. She’s no good to you!”

  Gudrun struggled. Behind her, Sigurd crouched on the floor like a rabbit facing a stoat. Alf was growling steadily. There seemed to be a high-pitched ringing in her ears, singing danger, danger. “Why do you want her?” she gasped.

  “Because nobody else does,” hissed the old woman. “I look after all the unwanted ones. They come to me for a little comfort and a long sleep. And I’m lonely, mistress. You have plenty. Give me the child to rock to my bosom at night.”

  Gudrun couldn’t breathe. Her head hurt. In the quiet she heard water dripping. She looked down at where a pair of very large bare feet protruded from the hem of the old woman’s dark dress. They were gnarled and sinewy and streaked with mud, and seemed to be a greenish color. And water leaked around them, pooling and spreading.

  “Let me in,” whispered the old woman. One of those big, wet feet shuffled forward over the threshold.

  As hard as she could, Gudrun stamped on it.

  The old woman yelled and snatched her foot back. Gudrun fell against the door. She slammed it shut and began dragging the heavy wooden bar across. “Help me, twins!” Sigurd flung himself alongside her. The bar clattered into the slots. Sigurd yelped and sucked his thumb. There was a shriek from outside.

  “Very well, my fine mistress! We’ll see! You’ll soon weary of a bairn that’s half a seal pup out of the sea. She’ll come to me at last, to darkness under the water. And I’ll dandle her in my arms….”