tough, independent little sheep roamed where they pleased and were often widely scattered. As she climbed the shoulder of Troll Fell, the wind hit her, burning her ears and forcing tears from her eyes. More ominously, the first grey flakes of snow came whizzing past.
The sheep seemed to have disappeared. Hilde listened for the sound of bleating, or the clonking of the sheep bell worn by the old ewe who led the flock. A flurry of snow whirled down from the north-east, erasing the hillside, leaving nothing visible but a few blurred yards of wet bent grass already turning white.
Hilde trudged on, unwilling to give up. She began to wonder if Baldur and Grim had already taken the sheep away. Perhaps there were none to find. Then it dawned on her that the sheep would shelter from the weather on the western side of the crags. She turned in that direction. Alf trotted ahead, the wind blowing up his thick fur to show the pale skin at the roots.
A blue, unfriendly twilight descended on Troll Fell, and the snow grew deeper. Grey shapes were slinking and sliding about on the edge of sight, and Hilde remembered the trolls. And then Alf barked, once. He stood with one front paw raised, listening intently.
“Have you found them?” Hilde gasped. “Good lad! Go on, then – fetch ’em down!” Alf sped away into the gloom.
Hilde waited, stamping her feet. In a moment a couple of sheep came jogging into view. Snow was piling up on their backs, but Hilde knew they couldn’t feel it under their thick fleeces. Two more arrived at their heels – black faced and scrawny, but to Hilde a beautiful sight.
She whistled. Alf came running, head low, snaking along behind another little group of startled, put-out looking sheep. A bell clonked dismally – he had found the old ewe. Alf looked extremely pleased with himself and grinned at her, panting.
“Good lad!” Hilde did a quick head count and decided there should be some more. “Go on Alf. Seek ’em out!” Alf whisked around the sheep he had gathered, nudging them into a compact group, and dashed off into the storm.
Hilde was smiling to see the old dog so proud of his work, when something small and solid hurled itself into her back and knocked her down. She grovelled on the wet ground, twisting and grappling. The unseen attacker let go, and she scrambled up dizzily, looking for her stick, which had spun away into the snow. Before she could find it, the creature scuttled back and gripped her around the thighs. She looked down into the enigmatic yellow eyes of a small troll, doing its best to heave her off her feet. She hammered it on the head and yelled, then stuck two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle.
Alf came streaking downhill so fast that he overshot. His back legs slid from under him as he turned, snarling, to attack. The troll let go abruptly and melted into the darkness. Alf pursued it for a few yards, hackles up, before returning to Hilde to check that all was well.
“Hey,” said Hilde gently. “You brave old boy, what a good dog!” She rubbed his chest and neck. His heart was thudding against his ribs, but his eyes were bright. It was Alf ’s glory to be useful, and this was his great day.
“Let’s just round up the ones we’ve got, and go.” They were near the western edge of the Stonemeadow, where the ground broke up into dangerous clefts, rocks and cliffs. It was now too dark to see where she put her feet. The best thing was to go slowly and let Alf and the sheep pick their own path.
A gust of wind parted the whirling snow. Not too far ahead a light waved, dim and smeary, such as might come from a traveller’s lantern. Hilde’s heart lifted. Perhaps Arne or Bjørn had come looking for her! “Over here!” she shouted, and heard an answering shout, blurred by the wind.
“Coming!” If only she had a lantern to signal back. The wind flung snow in her face like handfuls of grey soot. Alf barked, and the sound was whipped away.
The light glimmered again, further off and weaker. “Wait!” Hilde cried. She struggled on, panting. Each gasp filled her mouth with snowflakes like feathers. She coughed. “Wait for me!” She ran, Alf bounding at her heels, overtaking the sheep. The ground sloped. She slowed, afraid to go too fast. “Where are you?” she bellowed between cupped hands.
Alf sprang up and grabbed her sleeve in his teeth. He tugged, and she sat down hard. “What on earth –!” But the far-away light was returning, impossibly fast. No human being could run so smoothly over such rough ground. The light hurtled towards her, growing brighter and brighter, and halted in the air overhead. Hilde threw herself flat. Alf cowered beside her, growling. With a soft puff! the light went out. There was a wild laugh. Something rushed past them in the darkness and receded up the slope.
Hilde stood up on wobbling legs. She was on the edge of a cliff. If Alf hadn’t caught her sleeve, she would have pitched straight over. The creature, whatever it was – troll or mountain spirit – had led her completely astray.
Alf shook himself, as if telling her the danger was over. She patted his rough coat. “Good old Alf! They haven’t done for us yet. That’s the second time you’ve saved me tonight.”
As she turned to follow the old dog back to the sheep, the dark night and racing snow lit up as if a door had opened. And indeed it had. A few hundred yards up the slope, yellow light poured from a rift in the crag. In fear and amazement, she watched a dark silhouette approach the lighted gap and disappear inside. Spindly limbs and a large head – was that the troll-thing which had misled her? And was it going home?
Icy fragments of hail flew into her face. She shielded her eyes and looked again. The light was failing. A huge stone door swung ponderously shut. The hillside trembled at the shock, and all was dark.
Hilde touched Alf ’s neck. “Come!” she murmured.
At the bottom of the Stonemeadow the snow lay only ankle deep, and Alf drove the little flock briskly along the road till they reached the track to the farm.
Gudrun had the farmhouse door open in a flash. “You clever girl! You found them! Come inside at once!” She began to hug Hilde but then held her off. “Get those wet things off – you’re frozen! I’ll put the sheep away. There’s hot soup in the pot.”
“Alf shall have some,” declared Hilde. The old dog lay stiffly down by the fire. He gave a perfunctory lick to his bedraggled fur and laid his head between his paws.
“Dry him and give him some soup,” Hilde called to the twins, rubbing her hair vigorously. “He was marvellous. He saved my life! Ma, just wait till you hear our adventures. We found the door into Troll Fell!”
Chapter 11
The Dogfight
PEER WAS SITTING by the hearth one dark afternoon, cleaning his uncles’ boots. Several pairs lay scattered about and he was scraping the mud off and greasing them to keep them waterproof and supple. The best pairs were thick, double-stitched reindeer hide with the fur inside.
Peer handled them enviously. His own shoes were worn and split, wrapped around with string and stuffed with hay to try and keep his feet warm. They were always wet. His toes were red with chilblains.
He sat as close to the fire as he could. He’d been out for hours shovelling snow and carrying feed to the animals. There were a lot of them now. Grim had taken Grendel one morning and brought down some sheep he claimed were all his, though Peer, looking suspiciously, spotted a variety of different marks. The sheep were penned behind a wattle fence in a corner of the yard, where their breath hung in clouds over their draggled woolly backs.
The mill had been silent for a
