began Eirik, working at a meaty crab claw with the point of his knife.
“I utterly forbid it,” Gudrun interrupted. “She’s just a girl. What could she do against those two ruffians and their savage dog? Off with you, Hilde, and milk the cow before it gets too dark.”
Hilde picked up the milking bucket and stool and went, banging the door a little harder than necessary. But once she began climbing the steep pasture behind the farm, she felt better. The wide western sky was full of light. It was a perfect spring evening, very quiet, except for far-off sheep bleating, and the sounds of the cow and the pony tearing up grass.
Then she heard a new sound, the unmistakeable high-pitched rattle of milk squirting into a metal pan – accompanied by a weird growling hum like a very large bee. Goosebumps rose on her skin. She broke into a run and saw a small hairy troll squatting beside Bonny the cow, milking her into a copper pail.
“Oi!” shouted Hilde. The troll snatched up its pail and scampered up the hillside into the twilight. Hilde stood panting, hands on hips. She had to soothe and stroke the cow before Bonny would stand still. But the troll had milked her nearly dry, and Hilde went back to the house with no more than a cupful at the bottom of her pail. As she came to the door her mother called, “Bring the broom in with you, Hilde.”
“What broom?” Hilde asked.
“Isn’t it there?” Gudrun came out. “But I left it right by the door,” she said, vexed. “I can’t lay my hands on anything… Is that all the milk?” She was even more put out when she heard Hilde’s tale.
“They probably stole the broom too,” said Hilde. “You see, mother? It’s not so easy to keep out of trouble.”
“The varmints!” Eirik shook his head. “Worse than rats. They wouldn’t be so bold if my son was here: no, they wouldn’t come robbing us then!”
“They’re becoming a perfect plague,” said Gudrun.
“When I was a young fellow,” said Eirik gloomily, “I could have thrown anyone who so much as stepped on my shadow clean over the barn. No pack of trolls would have bothered me. Now I’m just a useless old man.”
“Nonsense,” Gudrun scolded him. “We need you very much, Eirik. We depend on you for – for wisdom, and advice.”
“Advice! Women never listen to advice,” scoffed Eirik, but he looked pleased.
“And stories! Tell us a story, Grandpa,” little Sigrid piped up from the floor where she was playing with the kitten. Eirik tugged her plait with his gnarled old hand.
“A story, missy? What is it to be about?”
“Trolls!” said her brother, Sigurd. The twins scrambled up and pressed close to Eirik’s knees.
“Let me think,” Eirik began. “Let me see. How about a story from a place far to the north, the wild mountains of the Dovrefell, where there are even more trolls than here? And some of them giants, by what I’ve heard!”
“Giants?” Sigurd’s eyes grew wide.
Eirik nodded. “Trolls come all sizes; and the one in this story was a big one, a little taller than a man. She was pretty, I daresay —”
“A pretty troll!” Sigrid interrupted, laughing.
“Yes, she had yellow hair and a nice long tail that wagged when she was happy. And she married a young farmer and wagged her tail at the wedding.”
Gudrun and Hilde were laughing now.
“Well, this young farmer’s friends and neighbours were disgusted. They thought he was out of his mind to go marrying a troll. They wouldn’t talk to his bride, or visit her. She sat by herself in her nice new house and was very lonely.”
“Poor troll,” said Sigrid.
“Huh,” said Sigurd. “I think he was stupid to marry a troll.”
“See what happened,” said Eirik. “One day, her father paid her a visit. He was a grim old troll from under the Dovrefell, and when he found his daughter sitting crying he said, ‘What’s all this?’” Eirik deepened his voice to a growl. “‘If your husband isn’t kind to you, I’ll tear his arms and legs off!’
“‘It’s the neighbours,’ said the troll bride. ‘They won’t have anything to do with me, and I’m so-o-o lonely!’
“‘Come with me,’ said her father, rolling up his sleeves, ‘and we’ll have a little game of catch.’
“The grim old troll went stamping round the village chasing people out of their houses, and when he got hold of them he threw them right over the Hall roof. And his daughter rushed around the other side and caught each one of them and put them back on their feet.
“When everyone in the village had been thrown over the Hall roof, the old troll shouted, ‘You’d better start being very nice to my daughter. Because if not,’ he glared, ‘if not, I’ll come back and play with you again – only, this time, my daughter will throw, and I will catch!’”
Sigrid looked puzzled. “I don’t understand,” she began.
“Do you think the old troll would really have caught them?” Hilde asked.
“Oh!” Sigrid’s face cleared. “He would have let them fall!”
“Or eaten them up,” said Sigurd with relish.
Eirik nodded. “So after that you’d never believe how polite the neighbours were. They called to see her every day and brought flowers and cakes and baskets of eggs. She was as happy as the day was long, and wagged her tail merrily. And that’s a story from the Dovrefell!” He smiled and stopped.
“Bedtime,” said Gudrun. As the twins hugged their grandfather and said goodnight, Hilde felt sudden sadness wash over her. If only Pa were here, she thought. But at least he’s alive. Not like Peer Ulfsson’s father. Poor Peer, he must hate living at the mill. I wonder what he’s doing right now?
Peer was eating his frugal supper. His uncles had given him some stale bread, a raw onion, a small piece of dry cheese and the end of a rancid sausage, and gone off somewhere taking Grendel with them, leaving Peer to mind the mill alone – except for Loki, who lay asleep by the fire...
The mill was noisily alive. Everything vibrated. The waterwheel thumped like a dark heart beating. The machinery clacked. Old dust trickled down the walls. Up in the loft, finely ground meal was snowing from the rim of the millstones and piling up on a wooden platform. Peer’s job was to climb the ladder from time to time and sweep it into sacks. It was dark up there, full of spooky shadows and old junk: worm-eaten cogwheels with half the teeth missing, a worn old millstone propped against the wall.
Peer gave the sausage to Loki and looked about, still hungry. The table was cluttered with dirty dishes, bacon rinds and crusts. On the floor by the fire his uncles had left a bowl full of cold, congealed groute, but it did not look very appetising.
I suppose that’s for the Nis, anyway, thought Peer. Even Grendel hasn’t touched it.
He
