“No!” Hilde cried.
“We don’t have tails,” Peer shouted. “We think they’re ugly!”
The Dovre princess screamed. “Oh, what an insult!”
The Gaffer stepped in, bowing as gallantly as he could. “Now, now,” he rumbled. “No cause for concern. We all appreciate your beauty, my dear. I myself have three eyes,” he coughed modestly, “but three tails are rare indeed.”
His own daughter scowled. The Dovre princess simpered.
“No,” the Gaffer went on, “we’ve simply neglected one small ceremony. After that, these humans will see things as we do. Here, you two!” He snapped his fingers and led them aside.
“Ceremony?” asked Peer apprehensively.
The Gaffer nodded. “You haven’t yet tasted our beer. A single sip of the bog-wife’s brew, and you’ll see things our way for ever and ever!”
“For ever?” Peer repeated slowly.
“Excuse me – but we’ll think the Dovre princess is beautiful?” asked Hilde.
“You will indeed,” said the Gaffer.
“And the food?” Peer was too shaken to mince his words. “We’ll enjoy eating frog soup and rat stew? And the music? It sounds like – like a cat on the roof, or a cow in pain.”
“It’s giving me a headache,” Hilde added.
“I’m getting annoyed!” The Gaffer squared up to them. “See here! We can’t have servants that don’t admire us. Once you’ve drunk our brew you’ll think black is white. You think night is day and day is night. And so they are! It’s only another way of seeing.”
“But then,” said Hilde, appalled, “we won’t be us. We are what we think!” She looked around wildly. “We won’t be humans any more. Inside, we’ll be trolls!”
“AND WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH THAT?” roared the Gaffer.
Peer and Hilde stared at the glittering crowds, and then at each other. Everything was very sharp and clear, and also a little distant. Peer tasted fear, sour in his mouth. Between the red pillars supporting the roof he could see the dark spaces of the night sky. Out there lay freedom, the snowy slopes, the stars. But he would never reach it.
We’ll never escape, he thought. We’ll never follow the stream out of the hill.
Once he and Hilde had drunk a drop of the bog-wife’s beer, they wouldn’t even want to leave. They would live the rest of their lives like earthworms buried under Troll Fell. They would still look the same, but on the inside they would have changed completely. Peer thought he would rather be dead.
One of the Gaffer’s trolls came trotting up. Dimly Peer recognised it: the kitchen troll with the long beak. It bowed to the Gaffer, presenting a golden cup. The cup was Ralf ’s cup – the Bride Cup – and it was half full of brown beer.
“Right!” Briskly the Gaffer lashed his tail. “Who’s going first?”
Hilde met Peer’s eyes, despairing but steady. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Peer.”
“You didn’t,” said Peer. “I wanted to come.”
She reached for the cup, but Peer was quicker and snatched it up. “Wait!” he said breathlessly.
He looked into the cup. The dark liquid swirled, a bottomless whirlpool. He glanced up, to see the world for the last time as himself. His throat closed up. There was a drumming in his ears – or was that the Gaffer growling? He bent his head, lifting the cup reluctantly to his lips, spinning out the seconds…
The moment dragged past. There was no time left.
And Hilde shouted. “Peer! Stop!” He lowered the cup.
Out in the dark beyond the pillars, he saw lights. Lanterns! People were out there, real people, struggling through the snow! Voices shouted; a dog barked. The trolls began to turn around, chattering uneasily. More shouts, closer! A scuffle broke out, a clang of metal, and then uproar as a band of rough-looking men came shoving their way into the Hall. Hey, that was Bjørn! And there was Arne! But who was the big man in front, wearing a dented iron helmet over his long hair? He was looking about anxiously and shouting, “Hilde! Hilde!”
“Peer! That’s my father!” Hilde’s face was shocked and white, her eyes like stars.
“Pa! Pa!” Sigurd and Sigrid picked themselves up from the corner where they had been sitting, quiet as mice, and flung themselves into Ralf ’s arms. Gudrun appeared behind him, bundled in furs, her thin face alive with gladness. Two dogs dashed through the crowd. Alf threaded his way up to Hilde, followed by Loki, who threw himself on Peer.
“The dogs knew!” bellowed Ralf, thrusting his way towards Hilde. “By thunder, they knew! They’ve dragged us all the way up from the fjord – ripped my clothes, see? We had to leave poor old Eirik behind – he’d have killed himself trying.” He reached Hilde and wrapped her in a bear hug. “We’ve been desperate – searching the slopes for hours. Thank God they opened the hill!”
Trolls howled, squeaked and grunted. The Dovre princess fainted. The Dovreking drew himself up, outraged and alarmed. The Gaffer of Troll Fell raised his arms and tried to speak. No one listened. His tail coiling with fury, he grabbed a horn from the nearest musician and blew a deafening blast.
“QUIET!” he roared, and silence fell.
“Get out of here, Ralf Eiriksson,” yelled the old troll, glaring at Ralf like a spider out of all three eyes. “Out! It’s all settled. You can take your younger children home, but the elder girl stays. And the boy, too.”
Ralf held on to Hilde. He looked tall, strong and dangerous. Peer, sitting on the ground with his arm around Loki’s neck, looked up in hope. Surely Ralf could save them? He spared a glance for his two uncles. They were staring at Ralf with horrified, bulging eyes, as if they had seen a ghost.
“Do you think I’d leave any of my children?” Ralf demanded. “How dare you trolls steal them?”
“Trolls didn’t steal them!” shouted the Gaffer. “Men did!” He pointed at Baldur and Grim. Ralf, who had not noticed them before, swung round.
“Men?” he asked contemptuously. “Men? Those aren’t men. Those are animals – beasts!”
“Don’t get high and mighty with me,” snarled the Gaffer. “They’re men – your own sort. And you can take away the children they stole. The other two are staying of their own free will.”
“That’s a lie,” said Ralf.
“We did promise,” said Hilde faintly, “but it was to save Sigurd and Sigrid. He said he had to have two of us as – as servants. Wedding presents – for them!” She nodded towards the princes and princesses. Ralf ’s eyes followed, and he spotted the Troll Fell princess with a frown of recognition. “I know you,” he said slowly. She gave him a sly, curling smile. Ralf ’s fist clenched. “By thunder, that’s it! You’re the one who gave me the cup, all that time ago. Aren’t you? Well, here’s a deal.” He swung round on her father. “Give me the children and you shall have your golden cup!”
The Gaffer picked up the cup from where Peer had put it on the table in front of him. He raised it to Ralf in a mocking toast, slurped the beer in one greedy gulp and set it down with a bang.
“I already tried that, Pa, and it didn’t work,” said Hilde miserably. Ralf rubbed a big hand over his face. “What’s to prevent us grabbing the children and leaving now?” he enquired.
“What’s to prevent us tearing you all to pieces?” the Gaffer asked with a grin.
Ralf looked around, poised tensely on the balls of his feet, as if ready to attack. Arne, Bjørn and the other men edged nearer to him. Peer and Hilde looked around too. There were too many trolls to be counted, all waiting with teeth and claws and hooves and horns, their glittering eyes fixed on the village people. The odds were hopeless. Peer held his breath, preparing himself for a frightful battle. But then Ralf sighed deeply and his shoulders slumped in defeat. The Gaffer saw it and clapped his hands.
“But no fighting at a wedding,” he roared. “Beer all round! It’s time to pledge the health of the two happy couples.”
All the guests broke into cheers and laughter. With a rumbling sound the big barrel
s were rolled forward and broached. Little trolls sprang into action with cups, jugs and pitchers and rushed to serve the tables. Up from the kitchens poured a stream of even more trolls bearing trays of smoking and steaming food.
Peer felt a nudge at his elbow. A small troll was impatiently shoving a jug of beer at him and making signs that he was to pour it out for the top table. Peer took it uncertainly and held it for a moment.
I suppose I’m still a servant, he thought. He sniffed the beer cautiously. It smelled all right, though it looked very dark. Perhaps there was a slight marshy whiff.
He glanced around. The royal party was recovering: the princes and princesses were seating themselves at their tables. The Gaffer laid an arm over the Dovreking’s shoulders and led him to his place.
Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim were happily sitting on their benches again, comparing fistfuls of jewels, which they had collected from the floor. Their bushy beards wagged as they argued about their shares. Peer hoped the Gaffer would notice they were stealing, but none of the trolls seemed to care. The Gaffer was not going to fuss about losing a few jewels when he wanted to impress the Dovreking.
“We won’t go without you!” Ralf was swearing to Hilde.
“Pa, what can you do?” Hilde asked despairingly.
Ralf clenched his fist. “We can fight! We can form a shield wall – go down like heroes —”
“Don’t be silly,” said Gudrun bitterly. “You don’t have any shields.”
Peer looked back at his two uncles and absolutely hated them. They had caused all this misery, and they didn’t care a fig. In fact Baldur was chuckling now, and rubbing his hands. They would walk out of here with all those jewels and go home to the mill. Ralf couldn’t stop them, unless he killed them. And somehow Peer knew Ralf wouldn’t kill them. Ralf wasn’t the type.
If anyone’s going to get them, Peer thought, it’ll have to be me. And the very next moment, he saw how to do it. Simple, obvious and beautiful.
Had Baldur and Grim overheard what the Gaffer had said about the effects of troll beer? Peer didn’t think so. They hadn’t been close enough. He walked quietly to the table and picked up the beautiful golden cup. No one was watching. And even if they were, he was only doing what a servant should. He gave it a quick polish on his sleeve and filled it with beer.
The bog-wife’s brew rushed foaming into the cup, a rich, bitter broth with a tang of moss. Careful not to splash, Peer carried it smoothly to his uncles and set it down between them.
They didn’t even look up to see who he was. Arguing over a big emerald, Uncle Baldur seized the cup in one hairy hand. He tipped his head back. The bog-wife’s beer glugged down his throat.
“Give me some of that!” His brother snatched the cup and swirled it. “There’s only half left!” he snarled, gulping it down and pushing the cup back at Peer. “It’s good! Here boy – fill that up!” Peer gladly obliged.
As Baldur once again raised the cup to his lips, it jarred and slopped. It had struck something hard. Peer backed away, holding his breath. Something was growing through Baldur’s beard. Something hard and curved and pointed. Baldur grabbed at his face. He stared at his brother. Grim too was feeling his face. From the hairy tangles of black beard protruded two curving white…
“Tusks!” Peer’s yell of delight echoed through the Hall. “Look! Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim have got tusks!”
Everyone looked. And from both trolls and men came a mighty roar of laughter, as Baldur and Grim stood rubbing their jowls in bewilderment, their treasure quite forgotten.
“Like pigs! We always thought they looked like pigs,” Hilde called to Peer, laughing between her tears.
The Troll Fell princess came slipping up to Ralf. “That would have happened to you too, if you had drunk from it,” she murmured, pinching his arm. “What a pity you didn’t stay with me. So big and strong!” Ralf brushed her off angrily, but then his eyes widened. “Hey, your Majesty, or whatever you call yourself?”
The Gaffer turned.
“You wanted two?” Ralf asked. “Two human servants? A matching pair?”
“You know I do,” scowled the old troll. Ralf pointed at Baldur and Grim. “Then there they are,” he roared. “THERE’S YOUR MATCHING PAIR!”
“Oh yes,” cried Hilde in delight. “Twins! And they’ve already drunk your beer. Oh Peer, well done!”
She beamed at him. Peer grinned. Breathlessly, they looked at the Gaffer, who looked at his guests. “I wanted a boy and a girl. But it’s for the bride to say,” he remarked, staring at the Dovre princess who rose to her feet with an ill-tempered shrug. She took a look at Baldur and Grim, who still stood there swaying and fingering their faces. She flicked her napkin. “Yes, yes, they’ll do,” she said pettishly. “Better than the others in fact. They have such nice, trollish faces.”
“Yes!!!”
Peer rushed at Hilde and swung her off her feet. Laughing and crying, she hugged him back. And then Peer found himself surrounded by friendly villagers, all trying at once to shake his hand and rumple his hair and bang him on the back. He came face to face with Gudrun. “Oh Peer! You blessed boy!” She kissed him on both cheeks. Beside him, Loki leaped, jealous for his share. Lovingly he nipped Peer’s fingers.
And now Ralf and Bjørn and the villagers were shepherding them out. The trolls fell back to open a path for them. Peer cast a backwards glance over his shoulder. Goodbye, the glittering splendour of the Hall under Troll Fell. The musicians were already striking up again. Couples ventured on to the dance floor. Wasn’t that the Troll Fell prince, doing an astounding somersault to impress his bride? And there were Uncle Baldur and Uncle Grim, sitting down, reaching for more of the beer that had turned them into trolls. Much good those jewels would do them now!
“Perhaps they always were trolls, on the inside,” Peer murmured. “Perhaps it won’t change them very much.”
A dark figure flitted through the throng. Could that be Granny Greenteeth? He tried to wave, but Hilde had his hand and was dragging him along. “What’s the matter with you, Peer? Come on!”
His foot sank into snow. A chill wind curled around him and his breath smoked. He had crossed the boundary and was outside, on the slopes of Troll Fell.
Chapter 18
Home
“BUT WHERE HAD you been?” Hilde asked Ralf the next day.
It was late morning, and the little farmhouse seemed very full. Gudrun was baking oatcakes on the griddle. She put a dab of butter on the first one and handed it to Peer over the heads of Sigrid and Sigurd. “For the guest of honour!”
It was smoking hot. The butter ran over his fingers. Peer juggled it from hand to hand before taking the first nibble. It was delicious, crumbly and buttery and salty, the best food he had ever tasted.
“Mmmm!” he exclaimed, finishing it rapidly. Loki materialised beside him, thumping his tail and gluing greedy eyes on the last piece.
“Go on!” said Peer, giving in. It vanished like lightning.
“Give Loki an oatcake, Ma,” begged Hilde. “He deserves it. Alf too.”
“Waste good food on the dogs?” asked Gudrun. But she patted Alf as she passed him and said, “Good boy!” to Loki. “It’s amazing how they found us,” she said, shaking her head. “How could they tell we were down by the fjord? We shall never know.”
Everyone looked at the dogs in silence. The dogs looked embarrassed.
“They do deserve an oatcake,” said Hilde.
“They can have the one Sigurd dropped,” said Gudrun. At that, Sigrid deliberately dropped hers, so that the dogs could have one each.
When Gudrun had finished scolding (and trying not to laugh), Hilde asked Ralf, “But Pa, where had you been?”
“Now there’s a story,” said Ralf happily, “that will last us for many a winter’s night.” He stretched his arms and looked around the room.
“We know you went down the coast, southwards,” said Gudrun. “Arne told us that. But, afterwards – and he said there’d been a sin
king —”
Her voice trembled and she stopped abruptly.
“Poor old girl,” exclaimed Ralf, squeezing her hand. “How I wish Arne had never told you that. He meant well, I know, and some poor sailormen must have drowned. But it wasn’t us, you see. We were right as rain.”
“So what happened?” asked Hilde impatiently.
“We sailed west,” said Ralf. “West for the Shetlands and then northwest for the Faroes. They live by keeping sheep and catching whales. Aye, they drive the whales on to the beaches and kill them there. We helped! And seabirds! I’ve never seen so many.
“But our skipper Thorolf – you saw him yesterday, he’s staying with Bjørn and Kersten – he has a brother in Iceland, on Breidafjord. So from the Faroes we set off again, northwest for Iceland. And this would be late summer.
“Now here it gets exciting!” He winked at Hilde. “We never made Iceland. We were struck by a terrible gale and driven west. Three days it blew; we spent all our time bailing and hoping to make Greenland. But after the storm we had a north wind, and then fog. For days we were lost, helpless.”
“Go on,” gasped Gudrun.
“At last the sun came out,” said Ralf, “the fog cleared and there we all were, hanging on to the ropes, staring out for a sight of where we might be – and we saw it. Land!”
“Greenland!” said Hilde knowingly.
Ralf shook his head. “No. Greenland is all ice and mountains. We saw low hills, covered in green shaggy forests.” He leaned forward impressively. “We had found the land that lies west of the moon – the land at the other end of the world!”
The family sat with their eyes and mouths wide open.
“And you set foot on it?” gasped Hilde.
“Aye, that we did! We longed for fresh water and dry ground. But as we rowed in we all wondered if the land was real or an enchantment. Would it vanish as we set foot on it, and leave us struggling in the grey sea?”
He looked around at their faces and said mischievously, “I’m still hungry, Gudrun. Any more of those oatcakes?”
West of the Moon Page 13
