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troll fell
KATHERINE LANGRISH
This book is for my mother and father
*
Among the many people I have to thank:
Alan Stoyel and Critchell Britten, for patiently and kindly answering dozens of questions about watermills
Susan Price, for the tail-wagging troll
Lyndsay Stringfellow, for letting me talk trolls on innumerable walks
Liz Kessler of Cornerstones, for warmth, enthusiasm, spot-on criticism and friendship
Catherine Clarke, agent extraordinaire
Zoë Clarke, Robin Stamm and all at HarperCollins
and Dave, Alice and Isobel – first and best of readers
CHAPTER 1
The Coming of Uncle Baldur
Peer Ulfsson stood miserably at his father’s funeral pyre, watching the sparks whirl up like millions of shining spirits streaking away into the dark.
Dizzily he followed their bright career, unwilling to lower his eyes. The fire gobbled everything like a starving monster, crackling and crunching on bone-dry branches, hissing and spitting on green timber, licking up dribbles of resin from bleeding chunks of pinewood.
The heat struck his face and scorched his clothes. Tears baked on his cheeks. But his back was freezing, and a raw wind fingered the nape of his neck.
Father! thought Peer desperately. Where have you gone?
Suddenly he was sure the whole thing must be a bad dream. If he turned round, his father would be standing close, ready to give him a comforting squeeze. Behind me – just behind me! thought Peer. He turned slowly, stiffly, wanting to see his father’s thin, tanned face carved with deep lines of laughter and life. The black wind cut tears from his eyes. The sloping shingle beach ran steep and empty into the sea.
A small body bumped Peer’s legs. He reached down. His dog Loki leaned against him, a rough-haired, fleabitten brown mongrel – all the family Peer had left. Friends and neighbours crowded in a ring around the pyre, patiently watching and waiting. Their faces were curves of light and hollows of darkness: the flames lit up their steaming breath like dragon-smoke; they blew on their fingers and turned up their collars against the piercing wind.
The pyre flung violent shadows up and down the beach. Stones bigger than a man’s head blackened and cracked around it. Hidden in its white depths his father’s body lay, folded in flames.
Over the fire the night air wobbled and shook, magnifying the shapes of the people opposite. It was like looking through a magic glass into a world of ghosts and monsters, perhaps the world to which his father’s spirit was passing, beginning the long journey to the land of the dead. Peer gazed, awed, into the hot shimmer. What if he comes to me? What if I see him? Smoke unravelled in the air like half-finished gestures. Was that a pale face turning towards him? A dim arm waving? Peer’s breath stuck. A shadow lurched into life, beyond the fire. It can’t be! He glanced round in panic. Can anyone else see it? The shadow tramped forwards, man-shaped, looming up behind the people, who hadn’t noticed – who still hadn’t noticed—
Peer gave a strangled shout: “What’s that?”
A huge man lumbered into the circle of firelight, a sort of black haystack with thick groping arms. His scowling face shone red in the firelight as he elbowed rudely through the crowd. People turned, scattering. A mutter of alarm ran around the gathering.
Shoving forwards, the stranger tramped right up to the pyre and turned, his boots carelessly planted among the glowing ashes. Now he was a black giant against the flames. Everyone stared in uneasy silence. What did he want?
He spoke in a high, cracked voice, shrill as a whistle. “I’ve come for the boy. Which is Ulf’s son?”
Nobody answered. A shiver ran across the crowd. The men closest to Peer shuffled quietly nearer, drawing close around him. Catching the movement, the giant turned slowly, watching them. He lifted his head like a wolf smelling out its prey. Peer forgot to breathe. Their eyes met, and he winced. Sharp as little black glittering drills, those eyes seemed to bore through to the back of his head.
The stranger gave a satisfied grunt and bore down on him like a landslide. Enormous fingers crunched on his arm, hauling him out of the crowd. High over his head the reedy voice piped tonelessly, “I’m your uncle, Baldur Grimsson. From now on, you’ll be living with me!”
“But I haven’t got an uncle!” Peer gasped.
The huge stranger paid no attention. He dragged Peer’s arm up, twisting it. Peer yelped in pain, and Loki began to growl.
“I don’t like saying things twice!” said the man menacingly. “I’m your Uncle Baldur, the miller of Trollsvik. Come on!” He challenged the crowd. “You all know it’s true. Tell him so, before I twist his arm off!”
“Why—” Brand the shipbuilder stepped forwards uncertainly, rubbing his hands. Peer stared at him in disbelief. Brand spread his arms helplessly. “This – that is to say, Peer, your father did tell me once—”
His wife Ingrid pushed in front of him, glaring. “Let go of the boy, you brute! How dare you show your face here? We all know that poor Ulf never had anything to do with you!”
“Is this my uncle?” Peer whispered. He twisted his head and looked up at Uncle Baldur. It was like looking up at a dark cliff. First came a powerful chest, then a thick neck, gleaming like naked rock. There was a black beard like a rook’s nest. Then a face of stony slabs with bristling black eyebrows for ledges. At the top came a tangled bush of black hair.
Loki’s body tensed against Peer’s legs, quivering with growls. In another moment he would bite. Uncle Baldur knew it too, and Peer read the death penalty in his face. “Loki!” he cried sharply, afraid. “Quiet!”
Loki subsided. Uncle Baldur let Peer go and bent his shaggy head to look at the dog.
“What d’you call that?” he taunted.
“He’s my dog, Loki,” said Peer defiantly, rubbing his bruised arm.
“That, a dog? Wait till my dog meets him. He’ll eat ’im!” Uncle Baldur tipped back his head and yelped with laughter. Peer glared at him. Brand put a protective arm round his shoulder.
“You can’t take the boy away,” he began. “We’re looking after him!”
“You? Who are you?”
