West of the Moon

by Katherine Langrish

  Footsteps battered the bridge. Baldur and Grim charged around the end of the mill and into the yard. Baldur yelled with triumph and punched Grim in the shoulder. “We’ve got him, brother! He didn’t even try to hide.” Grim threw back his head and howled. Chests heaving, they moved towards him and Peer retreated, step by step.

  “In a minute,” Baldur growled. “I’m going to break every bone in your body. But before I do, you’ll answer that question you asked me.” He paused, trembling, and his eyes glowed in the torchlight, red as a rat’s.

  “Yes, you’ll answer that question,” he repeated, licking his lips, savouring the words. “And you’ll answer it loud and clear. Who’s the miller of Troll Fell, boy? You – or me?”

  Peer backed another step. “Neither of us,” he said quietly. The flames streamed from the end of his torch, twining towards his hand.

  “What’s that? Speak up, boy! WHO IS THE MILLER? WHO?”

  “NO ONE!” Peer lifted his arm and hurled the torch – but not at Uncle Baldur. He sent it spinning up in a fiery arc. End over end it wheeled through the air and plumped down on the mill roof, amongst the thatch.

  A fierce column of fire sprang into the night.

  Uncle Baldur stood speechless, while the flames lit the yard a glaring orange. “Fire, Grim! Fire! Fetch water! Fetch water, you!” He whirled a fist at Peer, knocking him to the ground. “Fetch water! Buckets in the barn!” He trampled towards the mill pond, yelling.

  While his uncles charged to and fro, Peer dragged himself up on his elbow. He gazed at his handiwork.

  It was beautiful. A tracery of smoke trickled from the edges of the thatch, as if the whole roof were slowly breathing out its last, grey breath.

  The smoke thickened. It came in dense, billowing clouds, which boiled, and climbed, and doubled. There was a sudden sucking whoomph. Flames and smoke rushed upwards. The whole roof crept and crackled. The eaves dripped glowing straws, which fell to the cobbles and started little fires of their own, or were caught in the updraught and whirled away burning into the night. And still the mill clacked stubbornly away, and under the blazing roof the millstones grumbled round and round.

  The smoke spread across the yard, choking and blinding. Peer struggled to his knees, and then to his feet. Uncle Baldur had hit him hard, and when he put his hand to his forehead it came away dark with blood. He stood unsteadily, awed by the speed with which the mill had gone up. With stinging eyes he staggered towards the bridge.

  Running down through the wood, Hilde smelled smoke on the air. She emerged from the trees and stared, transfixed. The mill roof was a bright lozenge of fire. Convolutions of smoke tisted up from it, their undersides lit a lurid orange. The trees around the mill seemed to shrivel in the blaze, their leaves withering. Sparks fell around her, even this far up the hill. The mill pond was a mirror of black and gold ripples. Figures were dashing about down there, dipping bucketfuls of water and flinging them at the mill roof. Hilde shook her head in disbelief. Can’t they see it’s hopeless?

  Where’s Peer?

  She tore down the hill, coughing in gusts of smoke, terrified Peer might be inside the mill. Torrents of water rushed past the blazing walls; the waterwheel chopped the mill race into blood-red foam. Hilde raced to the bridge. Someone loomed up out of the smoke cloud.

  “Peer!” She seized him. “What happened?”

  “I set the mill on fire.”

  “What?”

  “Stop, Hilde – you’ve got a spark in your hair.” He disentangled it and pinched it out.

  “But Peer, why?” Hilde cried. “All that work! Your dream of being a miller! What will you do?”

  Peer put an arm around her shoulders. “It would never have worked,” he said. He gazed at the mill, and the flames filled his eyes. “I see that now. The mill brings nothing but trouble. Let it go.”

  Hilde gave a shout. “The roof!”

  With an exhausted sigh, the centre of the roof collapsed. Chunks of blazing thatch tumbled into the racing water. One piece fell on to the wheel and was carried round till it plunged into the sluice and was extinguished.

  “Burned! All burned!” The wild figure of Baldur Grimsson came charging though the clutter of flying sparks. He seized Peer, sobbing. “You! You destroyed it! I’ll burn you, too. You’ll burn!” He dragged Peer towards the dam. Peer fought, punching and kicking, and Hilde grabbed Baldur’s arm. He threw her off and forced Peer on to the plank above the weir. It sagged under their combined weight. At the far end of the plank roared the open sluice. The heat of the burning walls beat on their bodies. Under them raced the hungry water.

  Peer hooked his free arm around one of the posts of the plank bridge, but Baldur jerked him away. They wrestled, right above the open sluice, Baldur trying to wrench Peer off his feet and pitch him into the burning building. Peer grabbed at the handle of the sluice gate.

  “Hold on, Peer! Hold on!” Hilde screamed.

  Baldur tore Peer loose, lifting him, his muscles bulging with effort. He flung his head back, hair and beard spangled with sparks, his tusks gleaming in the flames. Hilde hid her eyes, then looked through her fingers. Peer twisted out of Baldur’s arms like an eel and threw himself flat along the plank, his arms wrapped round it, almost in the water.

  What was that glistening swirl in the mill pond?

  A green hand slid out of the scummy water and closed around Baldur’s ankle. There was a sharp splash, and Baldur was toppling forwards. Like an oak tree struck by lightning, he crashed over into the sluice. The dripping vanes of the mill wheel struck him down, shuddering. Hilde rushed on to the plank. Peer pushed himself up, trying to scramble to his feet. There was nothing they could do. The wheel drove Baldur Grimsson deep into the black water, and he rose no more.

  Chapter 39

  Kersten

  IN THE SMALL, cold hours before dawn, Hilde woke.

  They had got back to the farmhouse to find the babies asleep, the trolls gone, and Gudrun tucking the exhausted twins into bed. She listened wide-eyed to their story. “Baldur Grimsson, drowned? What about his brother? Didn’t Grim try to help?”

  “We shouted for him,” said Peer. “But I think Grim’s more like an animal now. He came across the bridge, but he didn’t seem to understand us. He just howled, and ran off up the hill.”

  “The mill’s still burning,” said Hilde. “There’ll be nothing left by morning.”

  “Oh, Peer!” said Gudrun. “Your precious mill!”

  Peer dropped wearily on to a bench. He closed his eyes.

  Hilde coughed and turned to Gudrun. “What happened here? I left you gossiping with the troll princess, for all the world like a couple of neighbours chatting over a fence.”

  “Well,” Gudrun said defensively, “she’s not very old. I just gave her a few tips about bringing up children.”

  “I knew it! Early to bed and early to rise – that means late for trolls, of course – and the importance of settling them into a good routine,” Hilde teased.

  “She was quite grateful,” said Gudrun with dignity. “And the little prince spoke up and said what fun he’d had with the twins. Still, I felt that the twins didn’t have as much fun as he had.”

  Sigurd sat up in bed. “Fun? It was awful. And then she invited us to his naming feast.”

  “Very gracious, I dare say,” said Gudrun, “but it wouldn’t have been wise to accept… So I told her our contribution would be the sheep they’d taken. That made her blush!” She yawned. “And then the Nis came back, happy as a dog with two tails, and lapped up its groute.”

  A spatter of rain struck the shutters and drove the smoke back down through the smoke hole. Gudrun cast an anxious eye at the rattling door.

  “The weather’s worsening. Oh, I do wish Ralf was here!”

  Peer looked up. “Don’t worry. Bjørn and Ralf and Arne know what they’re doing. They won’t set out unless it’s safe.”

  So that had been that, and they had all gone to bed and slept like the dead –
although in that case, Hilde thought, the dead must dream very strange dreams…

  The wind blustered outside, like some big animal trying to get in. Was that why she’d woken? Then something moved on the bed, something light that pattered quickly across her legs. One of the cats? She opened her eyes.

  The Nis was so shy of being seen, Hilde had never more than glimpsed it. Now it crouched beside her, pin-prick eyes gleaming, trembling as though all its bones had come loose.

  “What’s the matter?” Hilde breathed, enchanted but concerned. She lifted the bedclothes, and the Nis crept under them and burrowed down into the darkness. It went right to the bottom of the bed: she could feel it somewhere near her toes, shivering as continuously as a cat purrs.

  Hilde lay stiff, unwilling to look into the room. What could possibly frighten the Nis so much? There was something there, she could feel it.

  There was a sound, too, now she was listening. An eerie wordless humming mingled with the rushing wind outside. With it came a slow creaking that Hilde recognised. Somebody was rocking the cradle.

  Skin prickling, Hilde sat up and peered around the panel of her bed. Across the dark room she saw the outline of a woman, rimmed in pale flickers, bending over the cradle. Granny Greenteeth? Her back was to Hilde, and she crooned that mournful, unearthly lullaby.

  The crooning ceased. The woman turned. Her face was dark, shrouded in tangles of long hair. A cloak trailed to the floor from her naked shoulders, and the sea water ran from her in rivulets of blue fire.

  “Kersten?” Hilde’s heart banged.

  The woman nodded. “My name was Kersten.”

  The air smelled of salt and seaweed, and there was a rushing sound in the room, like the tide creeping up the beach, or the sea in a shell. Hilde remembered the seal in the water, strong and happy in its own element. She knew without being told that the old Kersten was gone for ever.

  Why did you leave Bjørn, Kersten? Why did you leave your baby? What happened to the girl who used to laugh and spin and cook the fish Bjørn caught, and joke with me in the summer evenings?

  “Why…?” Hilde began, and couldn’t finish. There was something hard in her throat.

  “Everything ends as it must. And then begins again, like the waves,” the seal woman whispered. “But get up quickly, Hilde, and come with me, if you want to save your father.”

  “What?”

  “The black seal has tempted them out to the skerries. He will sink the boat. Come now. Wake Peer. Leave your bed.”

  “The black seal! Who is he? What is he to you?”

  “My husband, Hilde, my seal husband. I had a mate and children in the sea before ever I married Bjørn the fisherman.” She wrung her hands. “Aiee! Seven years they were lost to me, seven long years I loved a mortal man. But the sea called me home. Never again for me the cradle and the hearth. Never again will I take my little child in my arms. Aiee!” She leaned over the cradle, and her hair fell across it in a loose curtain. “Farewell, my sweeting, my mortal darling. Look after her well, Hilde.

  “Now come. There is no time to lose.”

  “How will we get there?” Hilde was scrambling out of bed.

  “I will lead you. Hurry! You are needed, needed, out amongst the skerries… skerries...” How long that last word was, a lingering sibilance like a wave washing over the sand! The figure was fading, holding out two arms from which the sea fire splashed and spilled and vanished. Hilde rubbed her eyes. Not a glimmer remained; not so much as a wet spot on the floor.

  But the warning was true; it ran in her blood like a fever. She pulled her dress over her shift, and jumped across the hearth to wake Peer. As she dragged back the panel of his bunk, Loki lifted his muzzle from Peer’s legs and thumped his tail. And that’s why the Nis came to me. It doesn’t like Loki.

  “Peer, wake up.” He groaned, flung an arm over his face, tried to roll over. She shook him ruthlessly. “Wake up!”

  “Wha’sa’marrer? ’S not morning yet…”

  Hilde dipped a cupful from the water jar and threw it into his face. He sat up, shocked and gasping. “What’s that for? I’m soaked!”

  “Ssh! Don’t wake mother. We’ve got to get up, Peer. I’ve just seen Kersten. She says Pa and the others are in danger, out by the skerries!”

  Peer shook his head. “Kersten? Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

  “Ask the Nis! It’s hiding at the bottom of my bed.”

  She peeled the blankets back to a muffled shriek. The Nis scuffled away from her, further and further down, pressing its face into the straw mattress. “Has she gone? Has she gone?” it kept asking piteously. Finally it hopped out, cross as a cat that has made a fool of itself, hair and beard straggling everywhere, and leaped straight into the rafters, tutting and muttering.

  “Was it a ghost?” Peer asked. But the Nis refused to answer.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Hilde whispered impatiently. “It was a warning. We’ve got to go, now.”

  “Out to the skerries?” Peer looked at her.

  “Yes! If you don’t come with me, I’ll go alone.”

  “You know I’ll come.”

  They opened the door together, lifting the bar down as quietly as they could. Wind whirled into the house. “On guard, Loki! Stay!” Peer ordered, as Loki tried to follow. Alf was still asleep, flat out by the fire. Perched high on the cross beam, the Nis watched them go, its little eyes glowing.

  Clouds tore across the face of the moon, and wild shadows flew. Hilde crossed the yard, her cloak billowing. As Peer caught up with her, she caught his arm and pointed. “Look! There she goes, slipping between the trees. Come on. She’ll guide us.”

  The wood roared about their heads, and the path was no more than a dim trace in the darkness, but Hilde seemed able to see her way. “She’s ahead of us,” she shouted over the noise of the wind. “She’s beckoning.”

  They came down the hill to smell ash and burning. The mill was a patch of glowing red and black that creaked and ticked; and flurries of golden sparks chased in circles as the wind woke the embers. The handrail of the bridge was still hot to touch. Not even the great wheel had survived. Falling debris had jammed it solid, and the top half was burned away.

  They hurried past the entrance to the yard and ran down to the village, past the sleeping, shaggy-roofed houses where the smoke blew to and fro, and up over the soft sand dunes, and down to the shore. Here the wind was even stronger. The fjord tossed and snored like an uneasy sleeper. Waves crashed on the pebbles. It would be very rough, beyond the point. “She’s going into the sea!” Hilde cried, and the memory of Kersten plunging into the waves was so strong, that Peer almost saw her himself.

  Hilde seized the prow of Harald’s boat. “We’ll take this one!” The wind whipped her hair across her face. “Can we sail her, Peer?”

  “We’ll try,” Peer answered grimly. He jumped into the boat as it lay tilted on the shingle. It was a six-oarer, Harald’s pride and joy: bigger than Bjørn’s faering. He hauled the yard to the masthead. Hilde hurried to help him untie the tags which held the sail reefed. It unfurled, flying loose.

  “Jump out and push!” They leaned on the boat, driving it down over the stones. The first cold wave caught Peer around the knees, and he felt the boat lift. Hilde sprang in. He followed, grinding an oar into the shingle to send them surging out, bucking over the wave troughs. Hilde hauled on the sheets and braces and the sail bellied out with a crack. Instantly they were yards from land.

  “Sit down!” Peer yelled, and sat down hard himself, leaning to grab the steering oar. The moon dashed out from between the clouds, the water rushed past the sides of the boat in long silky stripes. With a snort and a splash, something broke from a wave on the starboard side. Hilde cried out and pointed, but Peer had already seen the sleek head, pointed muzzle and dark eyes. The seal plunged past, leading them onwards: dancing ahead of them towards the fjord mouth.

  The boat slipped over the water, supple as a snake. Spray flew in, rattlin
g into Peer’s face. He shook his head, and suddenly wild excitement swept him away. The whole broad fjord was their racecourse, and they sped along with hurtling clouds and streaming moon, while the dark mountains pressed in on either side to see the winner.

  Beyond the mouth of the fjord they sped, into rough black water that snapped and chopped in white snarls of foam. Clouds poured over the moon. Darkness rushed from the north with stinging rain. The world vanished, leaving them tossing from wave to wave.

  The moment of exhilaration faded. It was crazy to come out here for nothing but a dream or a ghost… How would they find Bjørn’s boat? Where was their guide? The seal had gone. Maybe it was a trap, maybe they had been lured out here to their doom. Peer clung to the steering oar, as the boat kicked over the waves.

  In the bows, Hilde screamed. “Rocks, Peer! The skerries!” The sea tilted upwards: spray burst around them. Then they were pitched away and hurled on, missing the black jawbone of rock by barely an oar’s length.

  Peer stared into the mirk. This was the seals’ kingdom: their fortress and refuge. Here they would lie on the rocks and skerries, or dart through the dangerous waters. He imagined them, plunging into whirlpools that would suck down a ship, weaving through the tangled ribbons of the kelp forests, snatching fish from the darting shoals. Some had human faces, gleaming pale in the water. And one black shape came thrusting through the weeds, trailing a broken harpoon from its shoulder, eyes glaring angrily through the gloom…

  The moon floated out past a cloud edge. Hilde screamed again. “A boat! That’s the faering! PA!”

  Through the constant spray Peer saw it too, a long low hull wallowing between the wavebacks; the mast bare; the three men wrenching at the oars, turning blanched faces at Hilde’s call. The faering was riding low. There was a dark clot clinging to her prow, a great knot of seaweed perhaps, or a tangled net. No. It was alive. It threw black arms up and wrapped them around the bows, clambering out of the sea and into the boat. Man or seal? It sat there, heavy-shouldered.