West of the Moon (20 page)

“Quick!” Hilde pulled him away. They ran back to the bridge, Loki bounding behind them with his hackles up.

“I'm sure I saw the Nis,” Peer panted.

“Never mind the Nis!” said Hilde. “What about Granny Greenteeth? That was her, wasn't it, talking to the lubbers? Plotting. There'll be trouble. She hates the mill, doesn't she? She hates the miller, whoever he is!”

She yanked on his hand and tugged him round to face her. Her hair was coming loose again in tousled strands. Bits of willow twig were stuck in it, and her eyes blazed dark in her pale face. Peer stared at her, transfixed. He found his voice.

“Maybe she does,” he said. “But we knew that already. My uncles managed to run the mill with Granny Greenteeth and the lubbers about, so why shouldn't I? I'm going to do it, Hilde. I'm not giving up!”

“H
USH, BABY, HUSH-A-BYE
,
can you see the swans fly?
” Gudrun sang as she sat at her loom near the open door. She was weaving, and keeping an eye on Eirik who had crawled outside and was busy in the dirt by the doorstep, digging with a stick.

In the big cradle next to the loom, little Ran slept. Sigrid sat by the fire wielding a pair of knitting needles, while Sigurd peeled rushes, extracting the long white pith to use for lamp wicks.

“
Hush, baby, hush-a-bye, far away the swans fly.
Over hill and over river, white wings waft together…
” Gudrun's voice sank into a low humming.

“You used to sing that song to us,” Sigrid yawned, tangling the wool round her fingers. “Bother! I've dropped a stitch.”

“I used to sing it to Hilde,” said Gudrun. She rose to take Sigrid's knitting. “You've both worked well today. Go out and play before it gets dark. Take Alf,” she added as the twins headed gladly for the door.

“Oh Ma, do we have to? He's so slow!” wailed Sigurd.

“Never mind,” said Gudrun, coming to the doorway. “He'll look after you.”

“We don't need looking after,” muttered Sigurd.

“Don't go up the hill. Play in the wood!” Gudrun called. She watched as they ran eagerly out of the yard and down the track.

“Now then, pickle,” she sighed, looking down at baby Eirik. “It's your turn.” Eirik raised his face. He dropped the stick and put up his arms. “Ma!” he cooed.

Gudrun swooped on him with a gasp of delight. “Say it again! Say, ‘Ma!'”

“Ma!” said Eirik boldly. He stared at her and laughed.

“My gorgeous boy!” said Gudrun, carrying him in. She wiped his fingers and gave him a piece of bread to chew while she washed and changed him. “Let's get you fed before little Ran wakes.” Holding him on her hip, she peeked into the cradle and saw the baby girl was wide awake, but lying quietly. Eirik leaned to see her too. He pointed. “Ba!” he exclaimed.

“Baby,” cried Gudrun. “That's right, Eirik. Baby!”

“Ba,” said Eirik with deep satisfaction. Gudrun hugged him, while Ran stared up with dark, unreadable eyes.

“Clever little boy!” said Gudrun. She took Eirik on her knee and fed him sweet milky groute. The house was peaceful, full of quiet, pleasant sounds. Somewhere in the background, the Nis was busy. She was half aware of it whisking the floor, giving the pot a stir, tweaking the bedclothes.
It's got over its sulks
, she thought.
That's good!
At last, Eirik's head nodded and his eyes closed. Gudrun lowered him into the cradle beside Ran. To her surprise, little Ran rolled her eyes towards Eirik. Her thin arms waved, and she kicked feebly. She looked scrawny and brown beside him; her hair grew over her round head in a soft dark –
pelt
was the word, Gudrun thought suddenly, startled.

The baby seemed to be clutching something. She uncurled one of the tiny hands. There was nothing in the palm, but between all the fingers was a thin web of skin.

Gudrun tucked the fingers closed again and picked the baby up. “You strange little creature,” she murmured. “I wish you'd smile. Or even cry!”

Ran looked back with her still, vague gaze. Gudrun gave her a little shake. “Well? Aren't you hungry?” she asked, and sat down to nurse her.

Something jumped across the room like an angry grasshopper. A string of onions tumbled from the wall. The cookpot capsized into the fire. Gudrun dumped Ran unceremoniously back in the cradle, and rushed for a cloth to lift the pot back on to its trivet. Barley broth scorched and bubbled in the flames.

“Drat!” Gudrun panted, righting the pot. There wasn't much left, and sighing she tipped in more barley and extra water.

Something tugged the hem of her skirt. Gudrun stopped dead. She didn't see anything, but a little humming voice buzzed like a sleepy bee: “The mistress mustn't feed the seal baby!”

“Let me go!” Gudrun snapped. The hem swished free. “Now,” she went on in the same sharp voice, “like it or not, I'm going to feed this baby. Behave!”

She lifted Ran and sat down. The Nis whirled into the rafters where the soot fluttered like black rags, and kicked down a shower of smuts to settle on Gudrun's face and arms, on the floor, the bedding and the scrubbed table.

“Stop it!” Gudrun shrieked. Through falling flakes like a swarm of black butterflies, she glimpsed a small figure, swinging rebellious legs. “Stop it at ONCE!”

With an angry squeak, so high and sharp it made Gudrun wince, a shadow pattered down the wall and dived under the table.

Gudrun pressed the baby against her. “I won't have any more of this nonsense,” she announced in a cold voice. “Sweep up the mess you've made. If you can't behave better than this, you'll have to go!”

She bent her head over the baby, aware of a small shape creeping about in the corners with a brush. She ignored it, and it slunk out of sight like a scolded puppy.

Ran fed hungrily.
The seal baby
, Gudrun thought. She looked down at the small dark head butting her breast. For a moment she saw a sleek little animal that snuffled and sucked, and spread out cold webbed fingers against her skin. She almost plucked it away.

Then she thought of the joy of cuddling Eirik, and the way he laughed and cried and made endless trouble. “She's not my own,” she said to herself. “That makes enough difference without looking for more. I'll love her yet.”

She put Ran back in the cradle and looked around. The soot had been swept up. The brush was laid tidily near the hearth. The barley broth was bubbling gently. Gudrun lifted the pot into the ashes to keep warm for supper. She poured some milk for the Nis and placed it under the table.

“There now,” she said. “You see? Live and let live. There's plenty for everyone.” She went back to her knitting, glancing at the bowl from time to time, but the milk remained untouched.

The fire was low. Draughts blew over the floor. Gudrun stepped outside to fetch logs and call for the twins. No one answered, but down in the dark spaces of the wood, a dog barked. It sounded like Alf, and the twins would be with him. They would soon be home.

Back in the house, a steady lapping came from the bowl under the table. Gudrun smiled to herself, and pretended to pay no attention. Then, as she built up the fire, one of the cats strolled out from under the table, licking her whiskers.

Gudrun's hands flew to her face. “Oh, my goodness!” she wailed. The Nis was fiercely protective of its food. All the household animals had learned to stay well clear of its dish, on pain of pinched ears and tweaked whiskers. The complacent cat sat down by the hearth for a good wash – and Gudrun knew that the Nis had gone.

Run away? For good?
She turned to the door quickly, with the idea of calling it back; but before she got there the latch flew up, and the twins tumbled in with Alf, slamming it behind them.

“There are trolls in the wood! We saw a little dark thing slinking between the trees!”

“Trolls? No, it must have been the Nis,” said Gudrun. “I scolded it and it ran off. It's been very naughty.”

“The Nis?” Sigrid's face cleared. “Why? What's it done?”

“Only spilt the broth! Only thrown soot all over the place!” Gudrun began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“I'll go!” cried Sigurd. Using both hands, he lifted the latch and opened the door a few inches, blocking it with his body. Gudrun and Sigrid heard a voice mumbling questions, and Sigurd's polite answers:

“Yes, this is Ralf Eiriksson's house. I'm his son. A new baby? Yes, we have!

“I don't know, I'll ask.” He turned, with the door still in his hands. “It's an old lady, Ma. She wants to see the baby. Can she come in?”

For ever after, Gudrun wondered what prevented her from saying yes. Had it been Alf, facing the door with his lips curled over his teeth? Or the draught, like a breath from the weedy bottom of a well? Or had she simply been unwilling to let a stranger into the house after sunset? She placed a hand on Sigurd's shoulder, moved him aside, and confronted the visitor herself.

And indeed it was only an old woman leaning on a stick. Her bent body was a dark outline against the last of the light, and a greenish-black scarf was wrapped around her head.

“Good evening,” said the old woman. “A fine boy you have there, mistress. And the little girl, too! I was watching them, the pretty pair, as I came up through the wood. Running ahead, they were, and never saw me. Aren't you afraid to let them play so late?”

“Who are you? What do you want?” Gudrun asked.

“I've been told about this baby you've taken in, mistress. I'd like to see her.”

Gudrun shook her head. “She's asleep, and I won't wake her.”

“Old granny won't wake her, dearie. I've rocked many a baby to sleep.”

“I'm afraid I'm too busy,” said Gudrun. “Goodnight.” She tried to close the door, but the old woman thrust her stick in the way. “Of course you are. A mother's always busy. You look tired, mistress. And no wonder, wearing yourself out, looking after all these children, and a man who's always roaming, never home.”

“He'll be home soon enough!” Gudrun pushed at the door, but the old woman's stick appeared to have taken root, and she couldn't shift it.

“And isn't it good of you to take in another bairn,” crooned the old woman. “Another child to wake you at night, to clean and carry and nurse and sing to!”

Gudrun bit her lip.

The old woman shifted the grip of her hands on the stick. Her voice dropped. “I know how you feel, dearie. I know how your heart sank when the boy brought this baby home.”

“No…” Gudrun protested. The cold draught blew colder.

The old woman leaned forward. “And who could blame you?” she muttered. “After all, the child's barely human. But the seal folk don't want her. As for the fisherman, every time he looks at her, he'll be reminded of what he's lost. Give her to me.”

Barely human? Gudrun remembered the touch of Ran's cold little fingers.

“Give her to me,” coaxed the old woman. “I'll take good care of her! The stream can sing to her all night long. She'll have the softest, softest cradle. And I'm lonely, mistress. I'm lonely… Give me the child to rock to my bosom at night.”

Water dripped. Gudrun looked down. A pair of very large bare feet protruded from the hem of the old woman's dark dress. They were gnarled and sinewy and streaked with mud. Water leaked around them, pooling and spreading.

“Let me in,” whispered the old woman. One of those big, wet feet shuffled forward over the threshold. As hard as she could, Gudrun stamped on it.

The old woman yelled and snatched her foot back. Gudrun slammed the door and began dragging the heavy wooden bar across. “Help me, twins!” Sigurd flung himself beside her. The bar clattered home into the slots. Sigurd yelped and sucked his thumb.

There was a shriek from outside. “Very well, my fine mistress! You'll soon weary of a bairn that's half a seal pup out of the sea. She'll come to me at last, to darkness under the water. And I'll dandle her in my arms…”

Gudrun put her arm round Sigurd and hugged him tightly. Her hair was coming down, and she swiped a strand out of her eyes and looked up, across the room. Sigrid was backed against the far wall, with Ran in her arms. Her eyes were wild, her lips trembled. “Has it gone? It can't have her, Mamma. It can't have her!”

“Yes, yes, it's gone,” soothed Gudrun. There were no more sounds from outside, but she wasn't going to open the door and check. She let go of Sigurd and came towards Sigrid, her arms out. “That's right, Sigrid! Ran's
our
baby! It can't have her!”

Her knees gave way, and she sat down.

P
EER
, H
ILDE AND
Ralf stopped on the doorstep to take off their boots. Ralf tried the door, and then thumped on it. “We're back!”

There was a muffled cry from inside. Gudrun and the children unbarred the door. “Ralf!” Gudrun wailed.

Ralf made for her at once, one boot on and one off. “What's wrong?”

Gudrun clutched him. “Granny Greenteeth was here!”

“Granny Greenteeth?” Hilde screeched.

“What?” exclaimed Ralf. “Are you all right, Gudrun? Sure? What happened? Tell me quickly.”

Gudrun gripped his hand. “An old woman came. She was dripping all over the doorstep. Look, it's still wet! She came for Ran. She wanted to take her away. I wouldn't let her in. Oh, Ralf! I stamped on her foot!”

Ralf began to laugh. “You stamped on old Granny Greenteeth? Good for you! My, the sparks must have flown.”

Instead of answering, Gudrun gulped on a sob. Ralf looked into her face.

“I'm sorry.” He hugged her again. “I'm a fool. I wish I'd been here. But you're safe, and I'm proud of you. Proud of you!”

Gudrun cried into his shoulder. Then she pulled herself together. “The twins were so brave! Sigurd helped me bar the door, and Sigrid – why, she picked up little Ran and stood there like a – a…”

“Wolf at bay!” supplied Sigurd, and Sigrid dissolved into shaky giggles.

“However did Granny Greenteeth find out about Ran?” Hilde muttered to Peer. Gudrun heard the question. “I think I know!” she cried, nodding.

“Just let me get my other boot off, and then tell us everything.” Ralf turned to shut the door, but before he could close it, something small shot in from outside and hurtled between his legs. He gasped and swore. “What in thunder —?”

Over by the fire, the cat rose up in an arch, spat, and dashed outside. Under the table something clattered and fizzed. The Nis's empty dish came careering out on its rim and bowled to a giddy standstill against the wall.

“The Nis is back.” Gudrun gave a hysterical laugh. “That's the sort of tantrum I've been putting up with today. And there's your answer, Hilde. The Nis has been jealous of little Ran ever since she came. This evening it upset the broth and threw soot about, and when I scolded, it rushed out of the house in a temper. The twins spotted it, going down through the wood. I believe it went straight to Granny Greenteeth!”

“Oh no,” breathed Peer.

With a stab of dread, he remembered the scuttling shadow he had seen near the millpond. So it must have been the Nis! But why? He tried to think of an innocent reason why the Nis might want to visit the mill, and failed. The Nis hated the place as much as Peer did, and for the same reason: it had been badly treated by the Grimsson brothers. It would never go there, unless for some special purpose.

He had to tell. “I think I saw it this evening,” he began in a troubled voice, and broke off as something nudged him under the table. He glanced down, expecting Loki. Instead, light dry fingers caught at his knee. Two beady eyes glinted pleadingly up at him.

He stopped. But everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to finish. Should he lie?
But Hilde was there too. And it is very jealous of Ran. What if it went to Granny Greenteeth in a fit of temper?

“Down by the millpond, I saw it,” he stammered. “But I'm sure there's an explanation, Gudrun. I mean, I know it can be vain and quarrelsome, but I'm sure it wouldn't be treacherous.”

The clutching hand abruptly let go. Ralf wore a dark frown on his usually pleasant face. “The Nis was at the millpond? It rushed down there in a temper, just before Granny Greenteeth turned up? That's bad, Peer. That looks very bad.”

Everyone looked into the corners of the room to see where the Nis was lurking.

“What will you do?” Peer felt a complete traitor. The Nis was his oldest friend. He'd met it even before he'd met Hilde.
It saved my life, and it saved Loki. I was the one who brought it here
.

“I don't know,” said Gudrun wearily. “I think it may have to go. I don't see how we can trust it again.”

“Don't feel bad, Peer,” said Ralf in a kind voice. “It isn't your fault.” He looked at his wife. “Shall we talk about it later? After supper?”

Gudrun whirled with a cry of alarm and lifted the pot of barley broth from the embers. “Oh dear!” She was almost in tears again. “It's been keeping warm for hours, and now look at it! All dried up.”

“Blame old Granny Greenteeth for that, not yourself,” said Ralf.

“Blame the Nis,” Gudrun muttered.

They both believed the Nis was guilty. Peer looked at Hilde, who was rocking Ran on her knee, murmuring old nursery rhymes. “What do you think?” he asked in a low voice. She shook her head, avoiding his eye.

“This child is asleep. Why don't you put her in the cradle for me? Come on, Peer. Take your baby!”

“Why mine?” asked Peer gruffly, allowing Hilde to hand Ran over.

“Yours, because you rescued her.” She added quietly, “And I wonder, Peer, if you hadn't been there, what Kersten would have done with her?”

“I've wondered that, too.” Peer remembered the cold waves crashing on the beach. He looked down at the sleepy face, and felt his heart squeeze. Little Ran seemed surrounded by dangers. Did he have to protect her from the Nis as well?

Peer woke in the middle of the night.

“No groute!”

It was a thread of a voice, the tiniest whisper. There was a hiccupping sniff. Peer's eyes flew wide. A dismal little shape was crouching by the hearth. Gudrun had forgotten to put out food for the Nis.

He lay, wondering what to do. Should he get up? Gudrun had never forgotten before. Perhaps this was its punishment.

“No groute! Everybody hates the poor Nis.” There was a bitter little sob.

Whether the Nis was guilty or not, Peer couldn't bear it. He called out gently. “Nis, we don't all hate you, truly we don't. But I did see you down at the mill. What you were up to?”

“The mistress wants me to go.” The Nis sounded hartbroken and Peer wasn't sure it was even listening to him. “And so – I goes!”

With a faint flutter like falling ash, the small humped shape vanished.

I'd better get up and fill its bowl… but it didn't answer the question…

He lay back, groaning. Why did the Nis have to be so difficult all the time? He was stiff, aching from hours of work. The bed was warm. He didn't fancy blundering around in the dark, and maybe waking the family. And Loki was lying across his legs; and besides, he was sleepy… so sleepy…

“Well, the Nis is gone!” snapped Gudrun next morning, slapping breakfast on the table.

“How do you know?” asked Hilde.

“I just do,” said Gudrun. “And look at Eirik: crotchety, mardy – he knows too. If the Nis were here, it'd be keeping him happy. It adored Eirik, I will say that. Still, if it's gone, it's gone.”

“It's upset,” said Peer. “I heard it last night. You forgot to put its food out.”

Gudrun flushed. “I cannot think of everything. I've a house to run, and two babies to look after. When's Bjørn coming to see his daughter? I hope he doesn't suppose he can just leave the child to me.”

“I'll feed the Nis, Ma,” said Sigrid. “I'm sure it didn't mean to do wrong.” She measured a ladleful of groute into a bowl, and looked at her mother. “Shall I put in some butter?”

“If you must,” said Gudrun. Sigrid cut a very small lump. She placed the bowl in the hearth among the warm ashes, and the family watched as if she were doing something very iportant. It was easier than talking, with Gudrun in this mood.

Next day, to Sigrid's sorrow, the Nis's bowl was still full of congealed groute. She scraped it out for the dogs, poured a fresh one, and wandered round the farmstead with the bowl in her hand, calling for the Nis as though it were a lost kitten. And although Gudrun muttered that it was a shocking waste of good food, she didn't try to prevent Sigrid from putting food out in various different places around the farm. The bowl she left in the cowshed seemed to get cleaned out most regularly.

“I'm sure it's the Nis,” said Sigrid wistfully.

“It's rats,” snapped Gudrun. “I don't know why the cats don't get them.”

“The cats won't go in the cowshed any more,” said Sigrid – so quietly, that nobody heard her.