West of the Moon

Hilde flew across the yard and wrenched open the farmhouse door to tell everyone about it. She tumbled straight into a colossal row.

“I never heard such a ridiculous idea in my WHOLE LIFE,” Hilde’s mother was yelling at Ralf. “You’re a FARMER, not some sort of VIKING!”

Hilde let go of the door. It slammed behind her with a deafening bang. And so she forgot about the troll, and didn’t see it leap as suddenly as a frog on to the low eaves of their thick turf roof and go scrambling up to the ridge.

“Why should it be ridiculous?” Ralf bellowed back. “That’s what half these fellows ARE – farmers and Vikings!”

“Ma – Pa – stop it!” cried Hilde. “What’s happening? Stop it – you’ll wake the little ones!”

In fact the twins were already awake – and bawling.

The wind managed an extra strong blast. All the birch trees growing up the sides of Troll Fell reeled and danced. Up on the roof the troll clung on, whimpering, and one of its large black ears blew inside out like a dog’s. It squirmed along to where a hole had been cut out to let smoke escape, and peered over at the fierce red eye of the fire. It pulled back, coughing and chattering to itself: “Hutututu!” But the sound was lost in a rattle of sleet that fell hissing into the flames.

“Very well,” said Gudrun, suddenly deadly quiet. “Let’s see what your father thinks about his only son sailing off on a longship into storms and whirlpools and goodness knows what. It will break his heart!”

“Why don’t you let him speak for himself?” Ralf roared. “And why don’t you give us both some supper? Starving us while you nag at me!”

Hilde glanced at her grandfather, Eirik, and saw his eye brighten at the suggestion of supper. Gudrun saw it too. She fetched them both a jug of ale and a bowl of groute, warm barley porridge, served as Eirik liked it with a big lump of butter.

“Eirik, tell Ralf what you think of this mad idea,” she demanded, twisting her hands in her apron. “He’ll listen to you.”

But Eirik’s face lit up. “Aha, if only I were a young fellow again. A brand-new ship! Long Serpent, they’re calling her. Oh, to sail away east of the sun and west of the moon! To follow the whales’ road, seeking adventure!” He tasted his groute. “The whales’ road – d’you know what that means, Hilde, my girl?”

“Yes, Grandfather,” said Hilde kindly. “It’s the sea.”

Eirik broke into a chant from some long saga he was making about Harald the Seafarer, waving his spoon to the beat. While Hilde clapped softly in time, Ralf tiptoed over to the twins, five-year old Sigurd and Sigrid. He sat down between them, an arm round each, and whispered. Suddenly they came jumping out of bed.

“Pa’s going to be a Viking!” they shrieked.

“He’s going to bring us presents!”

“An amber necklace!”

“A real dagger!”

“Ralf!” Gudrun whirled around. “Stop bribing those children!”

Eirik’s poem reached its climax, all dead heroes and burning ships. He sat back happily. Ralf cheered. Gudrun glared at him.

“Oh, that’s a fine way to end, isn’t it – floating face down in the water? And who’ll look after the farm while you’re away? What about the sheep? You know somebody’s stealing them: three lambs gone already. It’s the trolls, or those Grimsson brothers down at the mill. They’re all troublemakers. We can’t spare you!”

Up on the roof the troll remembered the flavour of roast lamb. It licked its lips with a thin black tongue.

“Speaking of the millers,” Ralf began, clearly hoping to change the subject, “did I tell you I met Baldur Grimsson tonight as I came home? The man’s a fool. He sat in his cart in the pouring rain, shouting at me.”

“Why did he shout at you, Pa?” asked Sigrid, wide eyed.

“Because he doesn’t like me,” Ralf grinned.

“Why not?”

“It’s all because of Pa’s golden cup,” said Hilde wisely. “Isn’t it?”

“That’s right, Hilde,” said Ralf with relish. “He’d love to get his hands on that. My troll treasure, my lucky cup!”

“Unlucky cup, more like,” Gudrun sniffed. But Sigurd and Sigrid jumped up and down begging, “Tell us the story, Pa!”

“All right!” Ralf scooped the twins on to his knees. “One wild night just like this, about ten years ago, I was riding home from the market at Hammerhaven, and halfway over Troll Fell, wet and weary, I saw a bright light glowing from the top of the crag and heard snatches of music gusting on the wind.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Gudrun muttered.

“I was in one of our own fields, the high one called the Stonemeadow. I trotted the pony up the slope to see what was happening. Well, if you’ll believe me, the whole rocky summit of the hill had been lifted up, like a great stone lid! It was resting on four stout red pillars, and underneath was a space shining with golden light, and hundreds of trolls, all shapes and sizes, skipping and dancing.”

“How could they lift the whole top of Troll Fell, Pa?” asked Sigurd.

“As easily as you take off the top of your egg,” joked Ralf. He sobered. “Who knows what powers they have, my son? I only tell you what I saw with my own eyes. They had all sorts of food spread out on gold and silver dishes, and little troll servingmen jumping about between the dancers, balancing great loaded trays and never spilling a drop. It made me laugh out loud!

“I was so busy staring, I never noticed this troll girl creeping up on me till she popped up right by the pony’s shoulder. She held out a beautiful golden cup brimful of something steaming hot – spiced ale, I thought. I took it gratefully, cold and wet as I was.”

“Madness,” muttered Gudrun.

“Just before I gulped it down,” Ralf said slowly, “I noticed a gleam in her slanting eyes, a wicked sparkle! And her ears – her hairy, pointed ears – twitched forwards.”

“Go on!” said the children breathlessly.

Ralf leaned forward. “I lifted the cup, as if to take a sip. Then I threw the whole drink out over my shoulder. It splashed out smoking on to the pony’s tail and singed off half his hair! There’s an awful yell from the troll girl, and next thing the pony and I are off down the hill, galloping for our lives. I’m still clutching the golden cup, and half the trolls of Troll Fell are tearing after us!”

Soot showered into the fire. Up on the roof the troll lay flat with one large ear unfurled over the smoke hole. It lashed its tail like a cat, and growled. None of the humans noticed. They were too wrapped up in the story. Ralf wiped his face, trembling with remembered excitement, and laughed.

“I daren’t go home,” he continued. “The trolls would have torn your mother and Hilde to pieces!”

“What about us?” shouted Sigurd.

“You weren’t born, brats,” said Hilde cheerfully. “Go on, Pa!”

“I had one chance,” said Ralf. “At the tall stone called the Finger, I turned off the road and galloped across the big ploughed field above the mill. The trolls found it slow going over the furrows, and the clay clogged their feet. I reached the millstream ahead of them, jumped off and dragged the pony through the water. There was no bridge then. I was safe! The trolls couldn’t follow me over the brook.”

“Were they angry?” asked Sigurd.

“Spitting like cats and hissing like kettles!” said Ralf. “But it was nearly dawn, and off they scuttled up the hill. I staggered over to the mill, and as I banged on the door I heard – no, I felt, through the soles of my feet, a sort of far-off grating shudder as the top of Troll Fell sank into its place again.”

“And then?” prompted Hilde.

“The old miller, Grim, threw the door open, swearing at me for knocking so early. Then he saw the golden cup. A minute later he couldn’t do enough for me. He kicked his sons out of bed, sent his wife running for ale and bread, and it was, “Sit down, Ralf, toast your feet and tell us everything!”

“And you did!” said Gudrun grimly.

“Of course I did,” sighed Ralf. He turned to Hilde. “Fetch down the cup, Hilde. Let’s look at it again!”