Troll Fell

Uncle Baldur rocked back, off balance. He lowered his head and clenched his fists. Then he shrugged. “A dragonship! A pretty toy!” he jeered, turning his back on it. The crowd muttered angrily, but Uncle Baldur ignored them. He seized Peer’s arm again. “You’ll come now. I’m a busy man. I’ve a mill to run, and no time to waste!”

With a bang, a piece of wood exploded in the heart of the pyre. People dodged as the fire spat glowing fragments at their feet. The whole burning structure slipped and settled. Brand stepped in front of Uncle Baldur, barring his way.

“You won’t drag the boy away from his father’s funeral!” he exclaimed. “Why – it’s not even over!”

“A funeral? And I thought it was a pig-roast!” Uncle Baldur crowed with laughter. Sickened, Peer jerked his arm free, as the crowd surged angrily forwards, some crying, “Shame!” They surrounded Uncle Baldur, who shifted uneasily, looking around. “Can’t you take a joke?” he complained.

“Show some respect!” said Brand curtly.

Uncle Baldur grunted. Summing up the crowd with his sharp black eyes, he said at last, “Very well. I’ll stay a day or two. There’ll be stuff to sell off, I suppose?” Jerking his head towards Brand, he asked Peer shrilly, “Has he paid up your dad’s last wages – eh?”

“Yes! Of course he has,” Peer stammered angrily. “He’s been very kind to me – he’s arranged everything.”

“Nothing owing?” Uncle Baldur scowled, disappointed. “I’ll soon see. Your father may have been a halfwit, but nobody cheats me.”

Behind him, the funeral pyre collapsed into a pile of glowing ash and sighed out a last stream of sparks which sped away for ever.

With the eagerness of a pig digging for truffles, Uncle Baldur set about selling off Peer’s home. Stools, pots, blankets, Ulf’s cherished mallets and bright chisels – Uncle Baldur squeezed the last penny out of every deal. At first the neighbours paid generously for Peer’s goods. Then they realised where the money was going.

Brand dared to complain. Uncle Baldur stared at him coldly and jingled the silver and copper in his pocket. “It’s mine,” he said flatly. “Ulf owed me money.”

“That’s not true!” said Peer furiously.

“Prove it!” jeered his uncle. “And what’s that ring you’ve got? Silver, eh? Boys don’t wear rings. Give it here!”

“No! It was my father’s!” Peer backed away, hands behind his back. Uncle Baldur grabbed him, forcing his fingers open. He wrenched the ring off and tried pushing it over his own hairy knuckles, but it was too tight. He bit it. “Silver,” he nodded, and stuffed it in his pocket.

Fat, comfortable Ingrid took Peer in and tried to mother him. “Cheer up, my pet,” she crooned sympathetically, pushing a honey cake into his hand. Peer let his hand fall. The honey cake disappeared into the eager jaws of Loki, who was lurking under the table.

“Ingrid,” Peer said in desperation, “how can that fat beast be my uncle?”

Ingrid’s plump face cramped into worried folds. She sat down heavily and reached across the table to pat his hand. “It’s a sad story, Peer. Your father never wanted to tell you. He was just a boy when his own father died, and his mother married the miller at Trollsvik, the other side of Troll Fell. Poor soul, she lived to regret it. The old miller was a cruel hard man.”

Peer flushed and his fists clenched. “He beat my father?”

“Well,” said Ingrid cautiously, “what your father could not stand, was to see his mother knocked about. So he ran away, you see, and never saw her again. And in the meantime she had two more boys, and this Baldur is one of them. They’re your father’s own half-brothers, but as far as I know, he never laid eyes on them.”

She got up and bustled about, lifting her wooden bread bowl from the hearth and pouring a yeasty froth into the warm flour.

“Still, the old miller’s dead now, and his wife too. Perhaps things will all come right at last! Maybe it’s meant to happen. If your uncles don’t marry, the mill could come to you one day! I know your uncle Baldur is very rough-spoken, and not a bit like your father, but blood is thicker than water. After all, he did come to find you! Surely he’ll look after you, you poor, poor boy.”

“I don’t want to live with him!” Peer shivered. “Or at his mill. What will I do there, way up over Troll Fell? I won’t have any friends.”

“Perhaps you’ll like it,” said Ingrid hopefully. “Though Troll Fell itself is a bleak, unchancy place,” she added, frowning. “I’ve heard many an odd tale— But there! Your uncles are the millers, so I’m sure you’ll live in style. Millers are always well-to-do.”

Peer was silent.

“Ingrid?” He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t I – couldn’t I stay here with you?”

“Oh, my dearie!” cried Ingrid. “Don’t think we haven’t thought about it. But we can’t. He’s your uncle, you see. He’s got a right to you, and we haven’t.”

“No,” said Peer bitterly. “Of course not. I understand.”

Ingrid flushed deeply. “We only want the best for you,” she pleaded. She tried to put an arm round him, but Peer hunched his shoulder at her. “And don’t forget,” she went on, turning back to her bread-making, “he’s not your only uncle. There’s another brother up at the mill, isn’t there? Don’t you think your father would have wanted you to try?”

“Maybe. Yes,” said Peer. He shut his eyes on a sudden glimpse of his father, turning over a piece of oak and saying as he often did, “You’ve got to make the best of the wood you’re given, Peer. And that’s true in life, too!” He could almost smell the sweet sawdust clinging to his father’s clothes.

“I’m worried. About Loki,” he muttered presently, twiddling a piece of dough between his fingers. He pulled little bits off, rolled them into balls and flicked them away. “Uncle Baldur said his dog would eat him. I don’t even know if I’m going to be allowed to keep him!” His voice shook.

“Now that’s silly!” said Ingrid briskly. “Loki will make friends with your uncle’s dog, you’ll see! You’ll be all right, won’t you, boy?” she said to Loki, who thumped his tail.

An ox-cart drove up outside. Loki sprang to his feet barking. The door thudded open and the room darkened as Uncle Baldur bent his head and shoulders to come through.

“Boy!” Uncle Baldur squealed. “Are those chickens in the yard yours? I thought so. I’m taking them. Catch them and put them in the cart. We’re leaving. Run!”

Peer fled outside, Loki at his heels. A fine row blew up indoors as his uncle accused Ingrid of trying to steal the chickens. Peer began stalking a fat speckled hen, but she squawked in fright and ran. Peer chased her. Loki joined in. He dashed at the hens, barking excitedly. Feathers flew as the hens scattered, cackling wildly. “Bad dog! Stop it, Loki!” Peer cried, but Loki had lost his head and was hurtling around the yard with a mouthful of brown tailfeathers.

The house door slammed open, bouncing off the wall. Uncle Baldur burst through, bent down, heaved up the heavy doorstop and hurled it at Loki. There were two shrieks, one from Peer and the other from Loki, who lay down suddenly and licked his flank, whimpering.

“You could have killed him!” Peer yelled. His uncle turned on him.

“If he ever chases my chickens again, I will,” he wheezed savagely. “Now catch them, and tie them up with this.” He threw Peer a hank of twine. “Be quick!”

The exhausted hens crowded together in a frilly huddle. Peer captured them and tied their feet together. “Sorry!” he mumbled to them as he carried them in pairs to the ox-cart. There they lay on the splintery boards, gargling faintly. As Peer finished, Uncle Baldur came up dragging a reluctant Loki along by a string round his neck.

“Fasten ’im to the tail of the cart,” his uncle ordered. “He can run along behind.” He grinned, sneering. “It’s a long way. Think he’ll make it?”

Loki limped pathetically. “Can’t he ride?” Peer faltered. “Look, he’s lame…”

His voice died under Uncle Baldur’s unwinking stare, and miserably he did as he was told. Then he clambered up into the cart himself. It was time to go.

Ingrid came out to see him off, wiping first her hands and then her eyes on her apron.

“You poor lamb!” she wailed. “Dragged off at a moment’s notice! And Brand’s down at the shipyard, and can’t even say goodbye. What he’ll say when he hears, I don’t dare to think! Come back soon, Peer, and see us!”

“I will if I can,” he promised glumly. The cart tipped, creaking, as Uncle Baldur hauled himself up. He took a new piece of twine from his pocket, and tied one end round the rail of the cart. Then he tied the other end, in a businesslike manner, around Peer’s right wrist. Peer’s mouth fell open. He tried to jerk away, and got his ears slapped.

“Whatever are you doing?” shrieked Ingrid, bustling forwards. “Untie the boy, you brute!” Uncle Baldur looked round at her, mildly surprised. “Got to fasten up the livestock,” he explained. “Chickens or boys – can’t have ’em escaping, running around loose.” Ingrid opened her mouth – and shut it. She looked at Peer. Peer looked back. See? he told her silently.

“Gee! Hoick!” screamed Uncle Baldur, climbing on to the driving seat and cracking his whip over the oxen. The cart lurched. Peer stared resolutely forwards. He didn’t wave goodbye to Ingrid.

Soon the town of Hammerhaven was out of sight. The steep, rough road twisted up into stony and boggy moorland, looping round white rocks and black pools of peatwater. Low woods of birch and spruce grew on both sides of the road, and rough clumps of heather and bilberry. If the oxen tried to snatch a mouthful as they passed, Uncle Baldur’s whip snapped out.

“Garn! Grr! Hoick, hoick!” The cart tilted like the deck of a ship as one wheel rose over a huge boulder, then dropped with a crash that nearly drove Peer’s spine right through his skull. The oxen snorted, straining to drag not only the cart, but big fat Uncle Baldur up the steep slope.

“Uncle,” Peer hinted. “Shall I get out and walk?”

But his uncle ignored him. Peer muttered a bad word under his breath and sat down uncomfortably on a pile of sacks. His arm was stretched awkwardly up, still tied with twine to the rail of the cart. The pile of chickens slid about, flapping as the cart jolted. He counted them. They were all there: the little black one with the red comb, the three speckled sisters, the five big brown ones. They rolled red-rimmed eyes at him and squawked.