Troll and Trylleri

by Joyce Holt

  "I don't remember this path being so long," Oddleif said as twilight cloaked the forest in shadow.

  Jorunn hushed him, for she'd heard a bough snap. Their breaths puffed in clouds as they peered all about in the gloom. Clouds of dread. Jorunn spotted a three-trunked spruce. "There," she whispered, pointing. "The best shelter from a troll, so my mother says."

  Their snowshoes whisked in the snow. Jorunn heard the thump of snow hitting the ground, a bough-load giving way all at once. Then another thump, and another.

  "Run!" she shrieked.

  Now they could hear the monster's breath, panting and grunting like a charging bull.

  Oddleif leaped with a clatter of snowshoes into the gap between the spruce trunks and flattened himself to make room for Jorunn, a step behind. "Now what?" he yelped.

  "Cling to the trunk as still as a snail," Jorunn hissed. "Close your mouth. Breathe in tiny puffs." Her ankles twisted at a painful angle, jammed into the narrow space, two pairs of snowshoes and all.

  The half-light dimmed to full dark as something large loomed just beyond the spruce's heavy boughs. The creature must be taller than a storage loft, Jorunn realized with a lurch. Her eyes widened in terror at the sight of a huge horny hand swatting at the branches. The monster bent to peer after its prey.

  Jorunn nearly gagged at the stench of its breath, like a midden stirred up on a hot day. She clenched her jaw and stared at the shadowy rough-skinned face, nose like a barrel, fangs glinting like swords. Scalp – and various other body parts – shaggier than a wolverine.

  The troll squinted, flared nostrils, bellowed disgust, turned to circle the three-trunked spruce. Its tail flashing past looked thicker than her arm, and ended in a dung-streaked tuft – though tuft was too pretty a word for that mangy hank of fur.

  In the dim glow of twilight, Jorunn saw that Oddleif's eyes had turned from fox to owl again. He pressed tight against the trunk. His rag-wrapped hands clawed into the bark of the spruce.

  Jorunn watched the troll's movements as it came back to her side of the tree, growling like boulders in a river flood. The monster battered at the boughs, ripping them clean away. "Crunch, munch," the ogre thundered. "Hungry, hungry!"

  Oddleif let loose a strangled cry.

  The troll dropped to all fours and pressed its great snout close to the trunk. "Smell you, hear you, where you be?" it howled.

  Oddleif made to bolt. Jorunn clamped her arm around his shoulders, pinning him in place.

  One great taloned hand reached, grabbed – and raked claws down the outer side of the trunk. Jorunn felt the impact shudder the whole tree. The troll struck harder still, then scrambled around to the other side, flinging great clods of snow in its haste.

  Oddleif trembled under Jorunn's touch. He pressed his forehead to the trunk as if he yearned to burrow into the living wood. "Odin, Thor, Freyr," he cried, "save us!"

  More limbs snapped as the troll rose to full height and waged battle with the spruce. The ogre stripped one trunk bare, then grabbed that bole and wrenched. The tree did not give way.

  "I'm sorry for your wounds, grandfather," Jorunn murmured, lips close to the bark.

  The troll sank its fangs into the trunk as if it was some foe – then fell still as stone. There was just enough twilight to see one watery eye peering down the well between the trunks.

  The fangs ripped free. The huge beast roared. "There! There! I see!" A hulking arm heaved into view above and came grasping down the crevice.

  3 – Bells and Spears

  Jorunn dragged Oddleif down to squat as low as they could.

  Talons scraped the inner trunks at what had been, moments before, head-height.

  "Give me your hares!" Jorunn hissed.

  Oddleif goggled at her, then loosed them from his belt.

  "Don't move," she ordered him, and gave him a shake until he nodded. She drew a deep breath. Keeping the bulk of the spruce in between, she dashed out from cover, screaming with all the air in her lungs, snowshoes clattering rim to rim. She threw the hares, their feet lashed together, then scurried back to the three-trunk refuge.

  The troll burst away from the other side and thundered around the tree. It searched the path its prey must have taken and found the hares. One gulp later, the ogre took to muttering. "Looked bigger, huh. Scrawny man-thing." It lumbered about, snuffling. "Where other one? Want more!" The troll struck at a different spruce, started pulling limbs to bits. "You in here, white-skin?"

  Oddleif gaped.

  Jorunn put finger to lips. Oh woe if the troll turned around – like that, like that— She gulped. The great idiot studied the ground, peered at one spruce after another in the starlight. One more quarter turn and it would spy the ruined branches above their heads.

  The troll whipped about. But not to leap back into attack. Its bear-like ears twitched. Its head swiveled. It growled a deep low grumble, clamped those great paws over its ears, and tromped away through the forest.

  Bells. Jorunn heard bells clanging. Far away, but growing louder by the moment.

  "Thank Frigg, we're saved!" she cried. "Come quickly, back to the path." She hauled Oddleif from hiding and they shuffled their snowshoes at a half-trot.

  They reached the track just in time to see two men ski past, their poles hung with cow bells.

  Behind them, a dozen more skiers used spear shafts for balance poles. Now she could hear the thud of horse hooves and the jingle of harness bells. Around the curve in the trail came riders with torches held high, two sleighs carrying folk swaddled like babes against the cold, five sledges piled high with baggage, followed by a string of spare horses and skiers bearing swords and spears and torches and bells.

  "The guests, going to Dondstad," Jorunn told Oddleif, her heart near bursting with relief. "Thank Frigg for their bells – the clamor drove the troll off! The road is safe, for a short while. Go home while you can! Tell Svana I'll keep my vow. I will come back for her."

  He nodded. "And I'll tell her you've gone to Dondstad."

  "For tonight. I won't likely stay. This is where they hurled false charges at my mother. This is where they cast her out into the winter's teeth, and no one would take her in but that – that lout. My father. They won't want me here, but I'm sure to find a corner overnight, if only in the byre." Jorunn bent and hugged him. "I'm sorry about the hares."

  He shrugged. "My snares are set. I'll catch more yet. Farewell!"

  Oddleif set off one direction, and Jorunn the other. The trampled snowpack made for easier going. Jorunn shuffled around the next bend in the path, but the forest still arched its gloomy boughs overhead. No sight of the steading, nor any stragglers by sleigh or ski.

  She heaved a weary breath before pushing on – then wrinkled her nose. A strong odor wafted on the chilly night wind. Sour, like the bottom of an apple barrel. Didn't smell like troll-stink, but it didn't belong, and that set her skin to shivering worse than did the cold. Did other creatures stalk the forest this haunted night? Knee-high nisse-folk? Glamorous tusse-folk? Wyrms and drakes and harpe-plucking, waterfall-dwelling fossegrims?

  Jorunn peered both sides of the trail, turned around and looked along the trail to Morgedal. Oddleif had vanished already. She walked backwards a step or two, glancing about.

  A footstep crunched right behind her, right in her path.

  She whirled with a gasp, caught one snowshoe on the other and toppled into a drift.

  No great heavy foot stomped onto Jorunn's back. No monstrous clawed hand scooped her from the drift. She flailed about and stared up – into the face of a goat. The clouds of her panic rose in streamers to wreathe the buck's tranquil gaze.

  Nothing but a goat. She sagged back, panting, heart still thundering from the fright – and so she didn't make out at first the oddity in the buck's bleat.

  "It wasn't my fau-au-ault, you know," the creature blatted. Its jaw worked sideways, chewing cud that smelled of sour apple cider and fermenting grain.

  Jorunn gaped. She scrabbled backwards thr
ough the snow. "I – I – I'm sure it wasn't," she stammered, only now noticing the size of the buck – like a small pony. Its fleece wafted about on the frigid air, all creamy white in the starlight but for russet-red ears. Long gilded horns twisted in arches over its back.

  "It wasn't my fault, I tell you," the goat went on. "If they didn't want to share their golden a-a-acorns and skaldic mead, they shouldn't have left the table spread and no one to guard it. They knew I was coming. It was my day for chariot duty. My yokemate was da-a-allying, as usual, and I got there first. No Thor to be seen, no Mistress Sif, just the remains of a feast. What did they expect? Tasting is in my nature. I only ate one acorn, and took but a slurp from the goblet."

  Jorunn stared at the buck in disbelief while she struggled to her feet. Thor and Sif? Thor's chariot-goat, from Asgard? Here in the world of mankind?

  "Close your mouth, girl. You look like a fledgling waiting for food."

  She snapped shut, glanced left and right in the gathering gloom. No troll. Just a large talking goat. From Asgard.

  "Thor got so ma-a-ad he roasted me on the spot with a lightning bolt. He ate me up, every shred of flesh, but that wasn't enough. Oh nei, he had to go wave his hammer over my sorry bones and bring me back to life. He's done it before, though always with a word of apology. Must feast the guests, you know, even when there's no other fare at hand. But this time? Nei, this time, all fury and raging. He cursed me, can you believe it? He cursed me!"

  Wide-eyed, Jorunn backed away from the creature.

  The buck trotted closer. "It wasn't the acorn that got his goat, so to speak. It was the skaldic mead. Odin is awfully stingy about giving folks a sip, but if it's so precious, why didn't Thor drink it before he left the ta-a-able? Why leave it unattended when they knew the chariot-goats would be along any moment? So it really wasn't my fault."

  Jorunn snowshoed around another turn in the trail. Ahead at last she saw the forest open up onto the sprawling hamlet of Dondstad. As she hurried her pace, she found herself alone again. The goat had vanished.

  Her heart thumped still from the shock of it. A chariot-beast from Asgard. What would such a being be doing, roaming the realms of mankind? And why would it speak to her, of all people?

  She reached the break in the trees. There, crowning the scene, stood a hogback hall with smoke sifting up from three smokeholes. Jorunn slowed her step as she approached the cluster of log buildings. Her mother had served here. Served faithfully. Served well. And then – took such a harsh reward.

  Might be they'd still be telling those lies about her. Might be they wouldn't want her daughter to set foot on their land.

  Might be Jorunn wouldn't want to set foot here, either. She glanced over her shoulder at the brooding forest where roamed a monstrous troll and an Asgardian goat. She had no choice. Not until morn, at any rate.

  Newcomers still milled on the packed ice of the houseyard. Stablemen unharnessed ponies from their traces while young men hauled heavy crates from the sledges and womenfolk toted baskets. Jorunn leaned against one outbuilding long enough to take off her snowshoes and prop them out of the way, then joined the throng. The greetings were over. She couldn't tell who was hosting and who had just arrived. How would she know which person to ask about taking a place here?

  She looked past the women wearing travel garb, searching for a lady standing tall and proud and bearing a ring of keys.

  "Don't just mull about like a lost lamb," someone said, shoving a basket into her arms and giving her a push. "Take this to the loft by the cookhouse. That's the one your lady has given over for our stay."

  Jorunn had no chance to explain she wasn't one of the Dondstad-folk. "Not a good time," she muttered, "for a nobody to be begging the lady's notice." She pitched in and helped with the unloading, hauling one basket after another up ladders to guest quarters, then got swept inside the hall along with everyone else.

  Trestle tables ran the length of the vast open chamber. At the far end, on a dais, another table hosted the fine folk of Dondstad and their guests. Jorunn glanced about at the carven roof-pillars, the shields painted in red, green and blue hanging on the walls, the weavings mounted high above the dais – all as her mother had described, like the splendors found in saga.

  She took a stool near the door. "When seeking shelter at a stranger's hall," she quoted to herself, "watch warily on every hand. Ears a-listening, eyes following all, and thus learn the lay of the land."

  Hounds snuffled at every guest's ankles, but they lingered longest in Jorunn's corner, nosing boots and gown and snorting their surprise. "That's a whiff of Asgard you smell," she whispered to the shaggy black-and-white dogs as she scratched one thick ruff.

  A young woman at the nearest table waved Jorunn to join her. After a moment's hesitation she slid her stool up next to the housegirl and stared into the huge bowl of porridge being passed around. The thick barley gruel swam yellow with butter. She'd never seen such a wonder, though she'd heard tell.

  Her throat tightened. Her mother would have sat at this table for countless such meals – before being turned out. Jorunn ought to shrink back. But her belly clenched, her mouth watered. She fished her bowl and spoon from her belt pouch and dipped herself a serving.

  "More than that, go on!" her neighbor urged. The maiden had a nose as straight as Jorunn's was bent, and a tiny mouth no bigger than a babe's, pursing in a heart-shaped smile. "I'm Yrsa. Welcome to Dondstad. You must have traveled far today."

  "Far. Ja, I have," Jorunn said, thinking how the only world she'd ever known had shattered, had fallen behind. She felt like a half-weaned bear cub ousted from its den, pushed out into the wilderness to seek a new lair. Far indeed.

  "What?" the housegirl said. "Speak up! It's noisy as a pig sty in here!"

  "I had hoped to see Prince Dond, but the highest chair is empty."

  "Most days he's not well enough to leave his chamber. He's old. Feeble and frail. But he won't be missing Yule, you can wager on it."

  "Is that the lady of the hall, there on the dais? With ash-grey hair and garbed in red?"

  "Ja. Widowed mother of Roald and Hadd. Rimhildr, cousin of the king." Yrsa turned back to her gossip with others.

  The first spoonful of porridge slopped out of Jorunn's wooden spoon back into her bowl. Rimhildr. The very woman who had heaped blame on a guiltless housegirl sixteen years ago. Since then, into her hands had fallen the keys of the hall, the rule of her sons' household. How could Jorunn face the spiteful she-wolf, let alone beg a boon?

  4 – She-wolf

  Jorunn stared through the haze of the hall at the woman sitting at the high table. Her gray braid dangled from a knot perched high up the back of her head, Jorunn could see when Rimhildr turned to speak to the guest beside her. Amber glinted at her neck, and rings flashed on her fingers. Her cream-colored yoke-apron hung from brooches pinned at the shoulders.

  Jorunn stared for many heartbeats at the oval silver brooches, then tore her gaze away. She darted her glance to every person in sight, sitting high, sitting low. No one wore a black cloak or shawl. Blacker than soot, her mother had said from that one glimpse she'd had of the true thief.

  But thieves can change their garb. And their dwelling. The thief may have gone slinking away long ago.

  Even if Jorunn did spy a black cloak, that wouldn't be proof enough to clear her mother's name. There was no way to battle those lies.

  She fought back a groan and spooned up a bite of the rich, buttery gruel, forcing all her attention to the taste on her tongue, to the brush of fur on her ankle from a puppy hunting for scraps, to the melody of many voices blending like spring birdsong. She'd have this one delightful meal and find a warm corner to sleep in before making her plea to the lady of Dondstad on the morrow – and getting cast out into the wilds.

  Jorunn shuddered. Better yet, just slip away without risking that scourge. As soon as she could, she must ask directions to the closest steading beyond Morgedal, ready to make a hurried trek in the morning. Mus
t arrive somewhere safe before nightfall tomorrow with its threat of trolls on the prowl.

  Before she had a chance to ask Yrsa or her friends, one of the kitchen women caught sight of Jorunn's plain garb and work-roughened hands, and shooed her off to help scrub porridge pots. "Those who storm the byre at feeding time," the cook said, "need to help with the mucking out afterwards."

  "A twisted metaphor," Jorunn murmured as she set to her task. "Those who feed in the byre are not the ones who do the mucking out." But she hadn't the wits after this horrid day to come up with a better kenning.

  As she scrubbed, she thought of Svana curling up in a corner of their hut after a meal of thin gruel. No light but the glow of hearth embers. Their father would be drunk again, his nails dirty from grave-digging. Had he remembered to cut their mother's nails before burying her?

  "Vel, if anyone deserves a haunting, it's him," she muttered. He could torment his wife no more. A worthy revenge it would be, if her ghost came back to plague him.

  Drops of wash water splashed onto Jorunn's cheek. Wash water, that's all it was.

  Jorunn carried the scoured pot out into the half-lit night. A full moon edged over mountains in the east and painted the western slopes silver. At either end of the hamlet, bonfires flared amber. Guards with spears and bells already stood post around the steading, keeping troll-watch. Smoke hung overhead as if fearing to climb into the star-studded sky, but even so the breeze felt fresh and brisk after the thick air indoors.

  As Jorunn dumped the scummy washwater onto the midden, a shape heaved up from the far side, and she jumped in alarm.

  "So before I'm allowed ba-a-ack in the herd," Thor's goat bleated, taking up his blather again, "I have to give ninety and nine pieces of good advice, each on a different day, to use up all the wisdom I drank. You wouldn't think that's such a terrible curse, would you?"

  Jorunn shook her head in three short jerks and backed away. Her breath hissed in fright.

  "The problem is," the goat went on, climbing up onto the trash pile and munching something other than cud, "if I don't give my tidbit of wisdom in proper skaldic form, I also have to cough up a finger-ingot of silver. Now, once a season I can ha-a-andle, your typical do-me-a-good-deed or give-me-a-kind-word and, hack-hack-hack, up comes a slug of metal, but every day or two? So there's the real punishment. Thor knows we goats have no sense of poetry. Not even that slurp of the skaldic mead could give me a skaldic tongue."