Peer felt Hilde pinch him. “We’ve got to get out, Peer. We’ve got to run for it.”
“It’s Uncle Baldur,” said Peer stonily. “Baldur Grimsson.”
“I know, I know. And we’ve got to run before he sees us!”
Too late. A little, frisking troll was dragging a basket of broken bones to the foot of the ladder. Its tail switched with effort as it heaved the basket along. It looked over its shoulder, its head swiveling like an owl’s to see how far it had come—and spotted Hilde and Peer. With a shriek it sprang away, bushing out its fur and chattering.
Every head in the room turned. With a slow gesture, Uncle Baldur bent down, sweeping the torch low toward the corner where Hilde and Peer crouched. The streaming flames lit his face from below, so that nostrils and brows were bright, while his eye sockets turned into black holes. The tusks threw sharp stripes of shadow up his face and into his hair. Hilde and Peer stiffened, hoping against hope that somehow he would miss them.
“Well, well, well!” The high whistling voice of Peer’s nightmares was accompanied by a gust of hot, bad breath. “It’s my little nephew again! How are you, sonny? But I needn’t ask. Scared, as usual. Crouching in a corner like a rabbit, as usual. And your girlfriend, too. Two rats in a trap!”
Peer got up. He’d have liked to step forward, but Uncle Baldur was standing so close, there was no room to move. He reached down and pulled Hilde to her feet.
Sometimes, in daydreams, he’d imagined facing Uncle Baldur again. In those daydreams, Peer had grown, while Uncle Baldur had shrunk. Tall and strong and capable, he’d been able to stare his uncle straight in the eye. He’d not been afraid.
But this was a nightmare. His knees shook.
Uncle Baldur towered over him, reeking of animal power and savagery. With those cruel tusks curving up over his face, he looked less than human. Legs straddled apart, he waved the torch in front of their faces gloatingly. Peer felt his hair sizzle and jerked back, trying to push Hilde behind him.
“I ought to break your necks,” said Uncle Baldur softly. “That’s what you do with rats and rabbits. One quick twist and a jerk. Snap! It’s all over.” Peer felt Hilde shudder. “Or I could hand you over to this lot!” He waved the torch behind him at the shifting, sniggering, rustling crowd of trolls. There was a pause while the millstones overhead continued sullenly chewing up bones, and the mill thrummed and shivered.
“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.
CHAPTER 15
THE LUBBERS AT LARGE
AFTER PEER’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.
“Wh
ere is he?” Sigrid choked. “What if he’s in one of those sacks?”
It was an unbearable thought. “We’ll follow!” Sigurd caught his sister’s arm. “Come on! We won’t lose them again!”
The odd procession gamboled past, and the twins fell in at the back. The trolls never looked around, but jogged on with their burdens. Sigrid and Sigurd struggled after them through the last of the birch forest, following the course of a tiny stream that tinkled down off the fell. They clambered beside steep little waterfalls, splashed ankle-deep through boggy pockets of marsh. Suddenly they were out on the bare hillside. Troll Fell reared up ahead, featureless against the sky. A bright, thumbnail moon was edging over the crest.
From far up the hill came the long warbling cries of the trolls.
With bursting lungs, Sigurd and Sigrid ran, trotted, and ran again, falling farther and farther behind. Their knees ached, and their legs wobbled.
“Come on, Siggy,” gasped Sigurd.
“I’m—trying,” panted Sigrid. “But I’ve—got a—stitch.”
Sigurd dashed the hair out of his eyes. The column of trolls had vanished. But there was a scurrying dark blot on the slope not far ahead: one lone, lame straggler. His spirits rose.
“Come on, Siggy, we can keep up with that one!”
They puffed on. Soon Sigurd exclaimed, “I see where we are now! There’s that scar, the crag where we bumped into the trolls before. And this is the stream that comes out from it.”
The twins dodged up the slope, taking cover in the black moonshadow at the foot of each gray rock. Soon they could see and hear more clearly. Confronted by the low, rugged cliff, the troll seemed to be in difficulties. It was a smallish creature, with fur like a kitten’s and a long stripy tail. The pale moonlight showed two little knobby horns on top of its head. Its ears were folded flat, and it was hissing and spitting to itself as it worked to get its heavy sack up the rocks. First, it tried pulling, but could only haul the sack halfway. Then it clambered awkwardly down—“Poor thing, it’s limping,” breathed Sigrid—and tried pushing the sack from below, head and shoulders almost buried. This was better. It got the weight balanced on a ledge, and scrambled up—just as the whole thing tumbled off.
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