“But they were great big men, and you were only thirteen years old. It wasn’t your fault!”
Peer shook his head. “I want to take something back from them.”
“What?”
“My self respect,” he said through gritted teeth.
The owl called again, a wild, quivering note. Hilde sighed. “And you can only do that by taking over the mill? All right.” She half-flapped her arms. “All right, Peer, I can see you have to try. So I’ll help you. Count me in!”
Eirik was crying again when Peer and Hilde entered the farmhouse, and this covered the sound of their low-voiced, furious disagreement.
“If it’s safe for you, it’s safe for me.” Hilde held the door for Peer as he carried in the milk pail.
“Well, perhaps it isn’t safe!” Peer poured the milk into the shallow skimming pan so that the cream could rise. “But it’s my business, Hilde, not yours.”
Hilde looked ready to say something sharp, but before she could open her mouth, Gudrun’s voice rose above the clamour.
“You rowed to the skerries in that little boat!” She stood, joggling Eirik in her arms and looking down at Ralf, as he sat in his big wooden chair. “Ralf! You could have capsized – drowned!”
“No, no.” Ralf stretched his legs to the fire with a groan of relief. “Whew! I’m stiff. Bjørn knows every inch of that water, Gudrun. We were quite safe, but he was too tired to go alone. I haven’t rowed so far in ages. Blisters, look! But nothing else to show for it.”
Gudrun looked unconvinced. “Everyone says it’s so dangerous out there when the tide is running.”
“We were there at slack water,” Ralf reassured her. “We tossed around between the stacks, scaring the gulls, shouting like fools for Kersten. And yes, we saw some seals. They took no notice of us, as far as I could tell.
“I’ve been thinking,” he went on. “Seems to me someone should cross to Hammerhaven and find Arne. Bjørn needs his brother at a time like this.”
Arne? Peer glanced at Hilde.
“That’s a good idea,” Gudrun agreed. “Who’ll go for him? Harald Bowlegs, in his boat?” She looked Ralf with suspicion. “Not you, Ralf? We’re so busy. Surely it doesn’t have to be you?”
“No-oo.” Ralf shifted uncomfortably. “But everyone else is busy, too. Einar hasn’t sown his oatfield yet, and Thorkell’s too old.”
“So you’ve offered already!” Gudrun’s eyes snapped sparks. “I might have guessed. You should ask me first before you go promising all sorts of things. Here I am, with an extra child to care for —”
“She’s no trouble, is she?” Ralf demanded. “You’ve got plenty of help – Hilde and Peer, and even the Nis.”
“Oh, have I?” Gudrun cried. “Not today, I haven’t! The Nis has been sulking. It hasn’t so much as swept the hearth.”
“Why are you making such a fuss? I’d only be gone for a couple of days.”
Gudrun tossed her head. “And suppose Arne’s not there? Suppose he’s away? What if he’s joined another of these Viking ships? I expect you’d sail after him, and leave me for months wondering whether you were dead or alive – like last time.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous!” Ralf shouted.
Eirik struggled, screaming in sympathy. Gudrun passed him to Hilde. “Take this child and find him something to chew.” She turned on Ralf, braids flying. “I sometimes think I’m the only one with any sense round here. Worry about us for once, Ralf Eiriksson! What about the trolls, stealing our sheep?”
Ralf paused. “That’s true,” he said more calmly. “That’s true, Gudrun. I’d forgotten about that. I’ll have to move the sheep off the Stonemeadow. Very well. I’ll wait a while and see how Bjørn gets on.”
Chapter 26
Voices at the Mill Pond
NEXT MORNING, THE high Stonemeadow rang to Ralf ’s whistles as Loki raced about, rounding up the sheep.
“A beautiful day!” Hilde called to Peer and the twins. It was true. The last snow had melted, and the ground trickled with water. The mountains to the north and east seemed curled like cats, basking in the sun. To the west, the sea was a warm blue line, smudged with islands.
Peer felt light-hearted, glad to be walking on Troll Fell in the spring sunshine, rather than toiling away at the mill. Lambs played tag around the rocks. An early bee zoomed past. It was hard to believe in trolls – or mills, or wicked uncles! But as they tramped down from the high fields, the sheep trotting ahead of them, Hilde pointed out a low, rocky crag, with a line of thorn trees along the top.
“See the little gully under it, where the brook runs? That’s where we met the trolls, the night before last,” she told Peer. “Just under that scar.”
“When they saw us, they bolted uphill,” said Ralf.
“Scattering bones!” added Hilde.
Peer frowned. “Are they butchering sheep on the hillside?”
“That’s the odd part,” said Hilde. “The bones we saw were old and dry.”
Sigurd broke in. “Perhaps they’re hiding the bones so we won’t know the sheep have been stolen.”
Sigrid shook her head. “Remember when we were kidnapped?”
“Nobody ever lets us forget,” he muttered. “Be careful, twins – don’t go too far – stay with Hilde – get back before dark! What about it?”
“Remember the old Gaffer, the king of the trolls? He wouldn’t bother hiding bones from us. He just wouldn’t care.” She shivered. “I had a nasty dream about him last night. He had those three red eyes, and he jumped out at me like a spider.”
Peer felt a tug at his memory. Someone else had said something, recently, about the Gaffer…
The crag glinted like a line of grey teeth in the hillside. The summit of Troll Fell was out of sight, hiding behind its own ridges. Peer remembered that winter night three years ago, when he’d seen the rocky cap of the hill hoisted up on stout pillars for the midwinter banquet.
“Got it!” He snapped his fingers. They all stared. “I know what’s going on! The Nis told me, the other night. Remember the Gaffer’s daughter, Ralf, who gave you the golden cup, and married the Dovreking’s son? She’s had a son of her own, a new troll prince. And she’s back from the Dovrefell, visiting her father. They’re naming the child on Midsummer Eve. There’s going to be a feast!”
Ralf ’s eyes widened. “That’ll be it,” he growled. “They’ve got extra mouths to feed, and a feast coming up – and they’re dining off our sheep. I suppose they prefer roast mutton to that awful food you told us about, Peer – frogspawn soup, and the like. Who’d be a farmer around here? This hill must be riddled with their rat-holes and burrows. Let’s get going.” He whistled to Loki, for the flock had slowed and was beginning to scatter.
Glancing downhill, Peer felt poised like a bird, high above the world. The woods below looked soft enough to stroke, like the tufts of wool in Gudrun’s scrap basket. Here and there a white sparkle betrayed the stream, flickering with waterfalls. There was a dark spot buried amongst the trees. He pointed. “Look! You can see the roof of the mill from here!”
But Ralf was already moving on.
By noon, the meadows around the farm were dotted with ewes and their lambs, and the farmstead echoed with raucous bleating. Only the home field, walled and fenced, remained empty so that the grass could grow there.
“A good job well done,” commented Ralf, munching bread and cheese. But he looked dissatisfied, and they all knew why. Ralf depended on hay cut from the meadows as well as the home field. If the sheep grazed down here for too long, there would be nothing left for winter feed.
“Well,” he continued, stretching his arms. “What do you say, Peer? We’ve time to look at this mill of yours – if you still want to?”
“Yes,” answered Peer, although yesterday’s enthusiasm had worn off. I can’t give up, he thought, stiffening. I’ve hardly started yet. A man makes his own destiny!
“What’s this?” asked Gudrun.
“The lad wan
ts to do up the old mill,” Ralf explained, and she gasped.
“The mill? Oh, Peer! I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“We’ll help!” said Sigurd eagerly. “I’ve always wanted to see inside.”
“No, you won’t,” said Gudrun quickly.
He glared at her. “Why not?”
“Because it isn’t safe.”
“Hilde’s going!”
“That’s different,” said Hilde, as Gudrun exclaimed, “We’ll see about that!”
Hilde stared defiantly at her mother, her flyaway hair glinting in the sunlight, her colour high. Gudrun gave in. “Very well. Hilde may go. But the twins may not: and that’s the end of it.”
“It isn’t fair,” yelled Sigurd. “You never let us do anything!”
Ralf held up a big hand. “Don’t speak to your mother like that. You’ll stay at home and do as you’re told. Hilde and I will help Peer. There’s no reason why the place should be dangerous – in daylight, at least.”
They trooped down through the wood, carrying brooms, spades and sickles. Ralf had a pickaxe over his shoulder. No one had much to say, and Peer led Ralf and Hilde into the mill yard with a mixture of bravado and nerves. As Ralf went poking through the sheds, Hilde stood in the centre of the yard, arms crossed, peering up at the sagging rooflines and sliding thatch.
“It’s horrid. All those dark doorways. And look at the holes in the roof. The lubbers might be hiding anywhere. I’ll bet they just waited for you to go and then came creeping back.”
“They probably did,” said Peer. “But they’re scared of me now. I’ve got the measure of them, Hilde. You don’t have to worry.”
“Hmm.” Hilde looked sceptical.
Ralf emerged from the pigsty. “All clear,” he shouted. “The sheds are empty. Let’s start by tearing down that old privy. No sense in leaving any bolt-holes!”
“Hush, Ralf,” Peer said instinctively. “Not so loud.”
“No need to tiptoe around whispering,” Ralf said, surprised. “We’ll make plenty of noise as soon as we start work.”
“Pa’s right,” said Hilde. “The Grimssons have gone.” She laughed suddenly. “Peer, relax! Look at you – you’re all hunched up!”
“Am I?” Discovering it was true, he straightened. “I’m expecting Uncle Baldur to come and start screaming at us. It’s as if the last three years have been a dream, and I’m going to wake up,” he said uncertainly.
“You’re awake,” Hilde told him. “I’ll pinch you, if you like.”
Ralf set about the privy with the pickaxe. Hilde came into the mill with Peer, and helped force back the shutters. Sunshine and fresh air streamed in, lighting up the dismal interior. She looked around in disgust.
“You should have seen the blankets I threw out,” Peer told her. “But it won’t be so bad when it’s swept and cleaned.”
“Won’t it?” Hilde kicked at a pile of sacks that had rotted together into a thick mat. A cloud of mould spores rose into the air, and she choked, covering her nose. “Peer, what an awful place. You can’t live here!”
“The machinery’s all right,” said Peer, to avoid answering. “Let’s get all this rubbish outside.”
They emptied the mill. Out went the stinking sacks, the armfuls of mouldy baskets, the worm-eaten stools and the broken table. “Everything on the heap!” called Ralf, as they passed in the doorway.
A huge pile of rubbish built up in the centre of the yard. Inside the mill, nothing was left except the rectangular hearth in the middle of the floor, and, against the wall, the two bunk beds and the tall grain bins with their sloping lids. Hilde weeded the fireplace. She swept the walls free of cobwebs – disturbing ancient, floury dust which settled in their hair, their eyes, and their lungs. They retreated into the yard, sneezing. Loki lifted his head. He was lying tightly curled up in a patch of sunshine near the lane, and his eyes implored, Are we leaving yet?
“Poor Loki,” said Peer, wiping his face with his arm. “He hates this place.”
“You can’t blame him,” coughed Hilde. “Nothing nice ever happened to him here.”
A cloud passed over the sun. Uncle Baldur’s shrill voice echoed in Peer’s mind: What d’you call that? A dog? Looks more like a rat. You know what we do to rats round here? Set Grendel on ’em! One chomp – that’s all it takes!
“Back to work,” he said fiercely. He would sweep away every trace of his uncles. He would never think of them again.
He dived back in. Hilde followed, shaking her head. “What’s in the grain bins?” she asked, chasing a large spider across the floor with her broom.
Ralf knocked on the nearest, and opened the lid. Delving in, he brought out a handful of greyish, crumbly meal. He pulled a face. “What’s this?”
Hilde shrugged. “Some sort of oatmeal?”
“Whatever it was, it’s gone off,” declared Ralf. “We’ll have to throw it out and leave the bin in the sun to sweeten. What’s in the others?”
There were three more large grain bins. One contained a tangle of mouldy harness, one was empty, and in the third…
“Oh, yuck,” cried Hilde. “Something’s died in here!” The bottom of the bin was covered with little skeletons.
“Rats!” said Ralf. “They must have got trapped somehow, and starved.”
“Horrible,” Hilde shuddered. “I hate this place! Brrr! I’m going outside.”
Peer remembered his daydream of a smiling Hilde, living happily with him at the mill. Thank goodness she didn’t know. He gnawed a knuckle. If only he could impress her. If only the lubbers would creep up on her, so he could chase them off! But as soon as he thought of it, he knew that Hilde was perfectly capable of chasing them off herself.
“I’ll go after her,” he muttered to Ralf. “Just in case. It might not be safe for her to wander about alone.”
“Thanks, lad,” said Ralf gravely. Was he hiding a smile?
Hilde was standing on the bridge, undoing her plait and running her hands through her hair, shaking it loose. Peer watched, thinking how long and pretty it was, as she combed it with her fingers and tidied it. He had a sudden idea. I’ll make her a comb! Carved out of ash wood, with patterns on the back. It’ll be useful, and she’ll like it, and… He cleared his throat. “Are you all right?” he asked gruffly. “I’m sorry about the rats.”
“Never mind,” said Hilde. Finishing off her plait, she flipped it over her shoulder and looked at him. “Peer, think again about this. The place… feels wrong. Where are the lubbers? Where’s Granny Greenteeth?” She paused. “Dare to walk up to the mill pond with me?”
“We’d better be careful,” said Peer. “It’ll be dusk soon.” But he followed her to the dam, and Loki came too, trotting along with his nose down. The pond was calm today, and the duckweed spread across it, temptingly flat, like a green floor. Peer imagined walking on it, and then, with a shiver, plunging through. There was a glossy streak in the middle, where the current wandered towards the weir. Midges danced in the mild air, and the sullen willows were combing tangled tresses into the water.
“She’s in there, somewhere,” said Hilde.
They listened to the endless music of the water hurrying over the weir. “It’s funny,” said Hilde after a while. “It’s like voices, in a language you can’t quite understand. What do you think they’re saying?”
“Sad things,” said Peer.
“Listen again.” Hilde’s finger went to her lips. “Ssh!”
Peer closed his eyes. Almost at once he began to hear a low conversation. There was a lapping, gurgling voice, as though the owner was speaking through a mouth half-full of water; and two snivelling, flat, nasal voices.
“They’ve driven us out,” one of the flat voices whimpered. “We’ve nowhere to go. I want my blanket. I’m cold, cold!”
“‘Cold, cold,’” the watery voice mimicked with a chuckle, “‘and nowhere to go!’ I’ll remember that when I sit under the weir, singing my songs. All my sad songs, I too
k 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 want my blanket!” croaked the first voice.
“Finders, keepers,” sneered the other flat voice. “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 lubber.
“Here – take your old blanket. I want a new one too!” croaked the second lubber greedily.
“Not so fast,” gargled the watery voice. “You’ll have to do something for me first. You’ll have to be helpful…”
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.”
“Wait,” Peer breathed. What was that, rustling in the dark bushes? Loki pricked his ears and uttered a little grumbling woof.
“What’s the matter?”
“The Nis!” Something small and spindly, with a wisp of hair like grey smoke, dashed along the edge of the pond and scuttled into the trees. “Loki always makes that noise when he sees it...”
“It can’t be,” Hilde whispered. “What would the Nis be doing here?”
She was right. Why should the Nis come down to the mill? Peer hesitated, and then 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 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 Greenteeth? That was her, wasn’t it, talking to the lubbers? Plotting. There’ll be trouble. She hates the mill, doesn’t she? She hates the miller, whoever he is!”
West of the Moon Page 20
