West of the Moon (24 page)

A
FTER
P
EER'S STICK
came whistling down through the leaves, the lubbers dived into the undergrowth and began creeping stealthily uphill. At the edge of the wood they parted the last twigs with their clammy fingers, and stuck out their heads, peering with greedy eyes at Ralf 's farm.

The door was shut. Loki was visible on the doorstep, lying with his nose on his paws, waiting for Peer to come home.

The lubbers blinked at him. “See?” muttered one. “It's no use. There's always a dog somewhere about. I hate dogs.”

“Patience,” said the other in a hollow whisper. “They'll get careless. They've drove out their Nis already, right? Think of those thick, green blankets waiting for us – if we do the job!”

“Aaah…” The first lubber dragged the blackish threads of its old blanket around its sharp shoulders. “You're right. We'll wait.” It flung itself down like an abandoned scarecrow.

The other crouched, clawing at the leaf mould for beetles and small worms. After a while, there was a hooting and a pattering in the wood. Hidden in the bushes, the lubbers listened intently.

“Trolls,” mumbled the crouching lubber. “A whole bunch of trolls going down to the mill. Pah!” It spat out a mouthful of shiny black wing-cases and legs, and ran an exploratory finger around its teeth. “That'll give that boy a shock. Him, and his dog, and his shovel!”

“Hark!” The other lubber tensed. “Here's someone else. Coming this way. Someone big. Someone heavy!”

With slow thudding footfalls, a man as huge as a marching tree-trunk came up the path. He clutched a club. Shaggy black hair hung over his shoulders, and as he flung back his head, the lubbers saw the pale flash of tusks.

The first lubber sank back with a sigh of relief. “It's only one of them man-trolls from the mill.”

“What d'you mean, ‘only'?” hissed the other. “Look at him! Big enough to tear us limb from limb.”

“But he's not after
us
, is he?”

Over by the farmhouse door, Loki raised his head, suddenly alert. He sprang up, barking. The man broke into a run. With Loki snarling at his heels, he loped past the farmhouse and out of sight, heading for the sheep pastures. A chorus of terrified bleating rose into the air.

The woman who lived in the farmhouse ran out into the twilight, the old brindled sheepdog trotting after her. A couple of fair-haired children followed, a boy and a girl. “Loki? Peer?” cried the woman. “Hilde? I'm coming!” She turned to the children. “Get back inside. It'll be trolls, after the sheep. The three of us can deal with it.”

“Let me come,” the boy pleaded.

“
Do as I say
,” said the woman fiercely, and, with the old sheepdog following at a shambling canter, she picked up her skirts and ran towards the pasture. Instead of obeying her, the children climbed on the gate, trying to see.

The farmhouse door stood open, unguarded. Nudging each other, the lubbers crawled out of the bushes and slipped like shadows into the house.

The fire was as bright as a bar of red-hot iron, and it hurt their eyes. A reek and fug of humans swirled about them: peat smoke and salt fish, dogs and leather and oil, broth and cheese and onions. They stood snuffling, blinking and gaping.

From a sort of box near the hearth came a sleepy wail. The lubbers' mouths spread into wide slit-like grins, and they tiptoed nearer.

“Keep a look out,” whispered one. “I'll grab the baby.”

“Oh no you don't;
I'll
grab the baby,” the other pushed in front.

“Let me!”

“Let
me
!”

There was a scuffle, and then, as the lubbers ended up with their heads over the cradle, an astounded silence.

“There's
two
babies!”

“Which one does she want?”

“Don't be more stupid than you can help,” growled the first lubber. “We'll take 'em both! And if old Granny doesn't want two, we'll keep the extra one!” It plunged skinny hands into the cradle and picked up Eirik. The other lubber shouldered in greedily, snatching up Ran. “Here, that's not fair – yours is bigger!”

For about a second, Eirik's tousled head nodded sleepily on the first lubber's bony shoulder. Then he woke. His eyes flew open. His body went rigid. Drawing a gigantic breath, he threw back his head and began to scream and scream.

“Shut him up!” The other lubber danced in terror. “Shut him up!”

The one carrying Eirik tried to get a hand over the little boy's mouth. Eirik bit it and went on screaming.

“Run for it! Quick!”

They burst out of the farmhouse door. Eirik's yells faded as his lungs emptied. Sucking in another enormous breath, he began again.

Balanced on the gate, Sigurd and Sigrid turned in time to see two grotesque figures dashing away from the house. One had some sort of bundle tucked under its scrawny elbow. On the shoulder of the other bounced the face of their baby brother, his eyes screwed shut, his mouth wide.

Adding their screams to his, the twins leaped from the gate and tore after him.

“MA!” shrieked Sigrid. “COME QUICKLY! THE TROLLS HAVE GOT EIRIK!”

“MA! PEER! HILDE!” Sigurd yelled. Ahead of them, the lubbers swerved into the wood and vanished into black shadows.

“Which way? Which way?” Sigrid sobbed.

Among the trees, it was hard to tell the direction of Eirik's terrible screams, and they were getting fainter. Sigurd looked wildly this way and that.

“Uphill!” he cried. “They'll be taking him back up Troll Fell. Quick!”

Scrabbling, panting, crying, the twins clawed their way up through the birch forest, clutching at branches, heaving themselves higher and higher.

“MA!” Sigurd's voice cracked.

“It's no good,” wept Sigrid. “She can't hear. Oh, oh, we've got to find him!”

“Listen.” Sigurd jerked to a halt. “Is he still screaming?”

Over their thumping hearts and rasping breath, they thought they could still hear a distant cry. Then an owl swooped past with a long, shivering hoot.

“We've lost him!” Sigrid burst out. Sigurd punched the trunk of the nearest birch tree as hard as he could. He nursed his broken knuckles.

A lonely wind sighed through the boughs. Then there was a rustling, a pattering, a crackling, as if the undergrowth was on fire, as if all the creeping things in the wood were stirring and scurrying and hurrying up hill. Sigurd caught his sister's hand.

“We haven't lost him yet, twin. See, here come the trolls.”

Something bounded out of the bushes. It was too dark to see very well, but the twins thought it had a longish beak. Its arms seemed far too long for its body. It let out a deafening cry: “
Huuuutututututututu!
”

Sigrid hid her face. The crackling and pattering got closer. Then the leading troll bounded on, and after it in a long file came other shapes, eyes dimly gleaming green and red; snuffling and snorting, panting and wheezing, carrying baskets and bundles and sacks. But the gangling figures with the big heads, which had carried Eirik away from the farm, were nowhere to be seen.

“Where is he?” Sigrid choked. “What if he's in one of those sacks?”

It was an unbearable thought. “We'll follow,” Sigurd whispered. “Come on! We mustn't lose them again.”

They fell in at the back of the odd procession. The trolls never looked round, but jogged on with their burdens. Sigrid and Sigurd struggled after them. They clambered beside steep little waterfalls, splashed ankle deep through boggy pockets of marsh. Suddenly they were out on the bare hillside. Troll Fell reared up ahead, featureless against the sky. A bright, thumb-nail moon was edging over the crest.

From far up the hill came the warbling cries of the trolls.

With bursting lungs, Sigurd and Sigrid ran, and trotted, and ran again, falling further and further behind. “Come on, Siggy,” gasped Sigurd.

“I'm – trying,” panted Sigrid. “But I've – got a – stitch.”

Sigurd dashed the hair out of his eyes. The column of trolls was out of sight, but there was one lone, lame straggler. “Come on, Siggy, we can keep up with that one!”

They puffed on. Presently Sigurd gave an exclamation. “I see where we are. That's the crag where we bumped into the trolls before. And this is the stream that runs out from it.”

The twins dodged up the slope, taking cover in the black moon-shadow at the foot of each grey rock. The troll was in difficulties. It was a smallish furry creature, with a long stripy tail. The pale moonlight showed two little knobby horns on top of its head. Its ears were folded flat, and it was hissing and spitting to itself, as it worked to get its heavy sack up the rocks. First it tried pulling. Then it clambered awkwardly down – “Poor thing, it's limping!” breathed Sigrid – and tried pushing the sack from below, head and shoulders almost buried. This was better. It got the weight balanced on a ledge, and scrambled up – just as the whole thing tumbled off.

Sigurd whispered, “It makes you want to go and help!”

With a sizzling noise exactly like water drops scalding in a hot frying pan, the troll jumped down again. It wrestled the sack up the cliff, clinging on somehow to invisible cracks and crannies. It reached the top, and its whisking tail disappeared over the edge.

“Quick! We mustn't lose it.”

There were plenty of ledges and footholds: even in the shadow it was easy to climb. With grazed knees and knuckles the twins pulled themselves up.

The top of the scar was split, as though a giant axe had chopped through the rocks in a criss-cross pattern. In the moonlight, the clefts were very black. Small thorn trees grew out of them, their dry roots clinging to the stones.

The troll had vanished, but the twins could still hear muffled noises. They hunted about between the rocks. One of the clefts was particularly deep. They knelt side by side on the edge, peering in, and sounds of bumping, squeaking and snarling floated up to them.

“It went down there,” said Sigurd.

They looked at each other, ghostly in the moonlight. Sigurd squared his shoulders. “Go home, Siggy. Tell Ma and Peer what's happened. I'll go on.”

“No!” said Sigrid.

“But you're frightened of trolls.”

“No I'm not. I was before we started chasing them, but now, I don't know why, I've stopped.” She stuck out her bottom lip. “I'm not afraid of them any more. I want to find Eirik.”

Sigurd looked undecided. “I don't know, Siggy. I think you should go back.”

“Well I won't!” hissed Sigrid. “You can't make me! And we're wasting time!”

Sigurd shrugged. “All right then. Follow me.”

And he swung his legs into the hole.

E
LBOWS BRACED
, S
IGURD
kicked for a foothold. “It goes down a long way!”

“Don't get stuck,” whispered Sigrid as he sank into black shadow.

“There's loads of room. Ouch!” he added. Sigrid heard gasps and grunts. “Your turn,” he called softly. “I'm down.”

With Sigurd guiding her, Sigrid joined him at the bottom of the crevice. It was completely dark, except for the narrow streak of sky overhead, fringed with ferns.

“This way!” Sigurd pulled her hand. “It keeps going. There's a passage into the hill.” He twisted round and squeezed himself into a gap at the end of the crevice. With a shiver, Sigrid followed.

The passage was not wide. They had to slide along crab-wise, bruising knees and elbows on projecting ribs of rock. Sigrid didn't realise at first that the troll was only just ahead of them. It was twittering and swearing as it yanked the sack along.

A wider space opened out. The troll dropped the sack with a thump. It whistled; shrill and impatient. A slow light dawned. The twins saw the passage walls, streaked with water, and, only a few yards away, the small hunched back of the troll, sitting on the sack with its tail twitching. A globe of swirling bluish fire sped around a distant bend in the tunnel, whirled up to the troll, and hung, dancing up and down in the air.

The troll jumped up. “To the kitchens!” it squeaked, heaving the sack on to its shoulders. The light began floating down the tunnel, and the little troll hobbled after it, still muttering and complaining. Its claws scritched on the stones as it trotted away.

Sigrid started forwards, but Sigurd caught her arm. “Let it go, Siggy. We don't want the kitchens.”

“But we can't find our way in the dark!”

“I know. I've got an idea.” The troll turned a corner, and huge shadows squeezed back down the tunnel. Sigurd fumbled in his pocket and produced Peer's little wooden whistle. “We'll call for our own light,” he said.

“Can we?”

“Let's see!” Night swept over them again as Sigurd blew. Two pure little notes warbled out, mimicking the sound the troll had made. Blinking uselessly in the darkness, Sigurd waited a moment and tried again.

“It's working!” Sigrid saw a cold glow far down the passage. They turned dirty faces to each other in triumph. Another of the blue lights came dashing up like a dog answering the whistle, and drifted around their heads, crackling. Fine strands of Sigrid's hair floated up towards it, and their scalps prickled.

“Take us to Eirik!” Sigurd demanded. The ball of light flickered. It sank, pulsing nervously.

“You can't ask that,” Sigrid said. “It doesn't know who Eirik is. You're confusing it. Eirik's a baby,” she explained to the light. “We want to find him. Can you take us? Where's the baby?”

The ball of light brightened. It zoomed off, and the twins hurried hopefully after. The stone floor rose and fell, and sometimes narrowed to a deep V with water at the bottom, so that they had to scuffle along with a foot braced on each side. Cold air breathed from cracks and splits in the tunnel wall. Through one opening they heard a sort of pounding rumble, and smelt spray: an underground waterfall pouring invisibly from darkness into darkness. Through another, they heard distant voices. Sigurd glanced at their guiding light. “I hope it's taking us by the back ways,” he muttered. “Hey, you up there! We don't want to meet anyone.”

The light winked, and vanished through a black hole in the ceiling.

“How do we get up there?” Sigrid wailed.

Her brother pointed. A dead pine tree had been propped against the wall. Its roughly trimmed branches formed a crude ladder. Sigurd shook it dubiously. “I'll hold it for you,” he suggested, “and then you hold it at the top for me.”

Prickly pine needles showered on Sigurd as Sigrid clambered up. Then it was his turn to climb the sharp spokes of the branches. They sat at the top, sucking their sore fingers.

“I'm
so
tired,” Sigrid moaned. “How long have we been in here?”

“Seems like hours. It must be daybreak, outside. Ma will be frantic.”

“I'm thirsty.” Sigrid licked her lips.

“So am I. But,” warned her brother, “we mustn't eat or drink any troll food.”

“Or we'll turn into trolls. I know. That's what happened” – Sigrid's face went suddenly white – “to the Grimsson brothers. Oh, they're down here, too! What if we meet them?”

“Let's hope we don't.”

“I wish Peer was with us,” said Sigrid.

“So do I. But wishing's no good. Let's find Eirik!”

They got up, looking around at the new tunnel. It was smaller, and warmer, and the walls were smoothly cut.

As though sensing their tiredness, the ball of light bobbed along slowly. Sigurd and Sigrid followed, holding hands.

Somewhere down the passageway, a door opened and closed. They heard footsteps, briskly approaching.

Sigurd whirled. “Hide!”

“Where? Keep walking,” Sigrid ordered urgently. “With any luck, they'll think we're trolls. Pull up your hood and keep your head down!” She beckoned the light with a fierce gesture, and obediently it spun behind them, so their faces were in shadow. Hearts pounding, the twins walked on.

Stealing a look under the edge of her hood, Sigrid saw a new light approaching, a greenish one this time. A bulky figure trotted along behind it, wearing hard shoes that clicked on the floor. It was carrying something that looked like an enormous stack of folded linen. As it got closer, they heard it complaining to itself in a thick, muffled voice: “‘
Fetch this, nursie! Fetch that, nursie!
' Ooh, my poor feet. Now, let's see. Green nettle coverlets, half a dozen. Sheepskins, a score. The best silk spiderweb sheets for my lady's bedchamber, or she'll make trouble. Nothing but work, work, work! – and never a chance for poor nursie to sit down and drink a drop of beer with her old friend the bog-wife!”

The green light and the twins' blue light met in the tunnel roof and whirled around like a couple of friendly puppies. The twins shrank close to the wall as a strange figure came hurrying past: a large troll with a piggish face, pressing its chin into the teetering pile of linen. A white cap perched on its head, with little peaks like curly horns. Without so much as glancing at them, it tapped by on horny, cloven hooves – not shoes at all – muttering, “Rush here, rush there – not a moment's peace since my lady came back from the Dovrefell! And the washing bills from the water nixies –
scandalous!
”

It was gone.

Sigrid and Sigurd scuttled on, while their blue light disentangled itself from the green one, and sped after them. And a moment later, they had arrived in a square hall. To the right, and straight ahead, were the dark mouths of two more tunnels. To the left was a carved doorway, set with a stout oak door. The light floated towards it.

Sigrid trembled. “Is this it? Have you brought us to the baby?” The light flashed brightly. “Yes! We've found him, Sigurd! Quick!”

“Ssh. Not too fast.” Sigurd leaned his ear against the thick oak planking, and listened. “Can't hear a thing.” He lifted the latch as carefully as he could, and the door swung silently open. They slipped inside.

It was a large chamber with an arched roof. The entire roof and walls sparkled with sharp white crystals. In amazement, Sigrid put out a finger to touch the glittering crust. A bead of blood sprang on her fingertip.

To one side of the door was a stone platform covered with fleeces, obviously a bed. On the other side was a plain wooden chair with a straw seat and a carved back, and next to it, a high chair with a bar across the seat to stop a child from falling out.

At the foot of the bed, near the brazier, was a stout wooden cot, carved in woven patterns with little snarling faces. A string of pine cones dangled over it.

“It's a nursery,” Sigurd said. “He must be in the cot. Hurry!”

Sigrid peered into the cot, her heart banging with hope and terror. She drew a joyful breath. There at the bottom was a soft humped shape, just Eirik's size: an infant sleeping on its side, rolled up in black lambskins.

“Oh, he's safe! We've found him.” She reached in. “Stop!”

“What's wrong?” She turned a frightened face to her brother, who was staring into the cot as if he'd seen an adder.

He said in a choked whisper, “It isn't him.”

The infant rolled on to its back, and the blue glow from the light played over its sleeping face. Sigrid pressed her hands to her mouth.

It was the ugliest baby she had ever seen.

Its skin was crumpled, wrinkled and damp, like hands that have been in the wash too long. A squashed little snout twitched and snuffled in the middle of its face. Above the tightly shut eyes, long hairs sprang from its brows, like bristles on a pig's skin. Its mouth was extremely wide, and its ears were hairy.

Sigurd looked sick. “It's a troll. We've come all this way for nothing!”

“Where's Eirik?” asked Sigrid faintly.

“How should I know?” Sigurd kicked the floor. “We'd better go.”

“But we haven't got Eirik!”

“How can we find him now?” Sigurd asked in despair. “He might be anywhere.” He tried to drag her towards the door.

Sigrid resisted. “But the light was taking us to him!”

In the cradle, the troll baby cautiously opened one eye.

The twins didn't notice. “Don't you see?” Sigurd jigged with panicked impatience. “We asked the light to take us to a
baby
. So it brought us here, to the only baby it knows.”

The troll baby quickly closed its eye. Then it opened the other a slit, and peeked through its lashes.

“That's not a baby, it's a monster,” Sigrid cried.

“It's a prince,” said Sigurd gloomily. “Remember what the Nis told Peer, about the troll princess's son?”

Sigrid stiffened. “A prince!”

“What does it matter, Sigrid – just come, now, before we get caught!”

But Sigrid seemed to catch fire. She jerked free from Sigurd, flew back to the cradle, and scooped the troll baby into her arms, swaddled up like an enormous cocoon, with its wizened face sticking out at the end.

“What are you
doing?
” Sigurd screeched.

“We're taking it with us.” She gripped the baby – which appeared to be sound asleep – and faced Sigurd with hot cheeks and flashing eyes. “If they've got our baby – we'll take theirs!”

Sigrid's mouth fell open. “We can't do that.”

“Yes, we can!” Sigrid stamped her foot.

Their eyes met. Slowly, Sigurd's stunned expression altered to one of mischievous delight. He laughed excitedly. “We'll do it. We'll trade their prince for Eirik. Let's go!”

They stole out into the corridor, the ball of light bouncing gently after them. Sigurd looked up, his face stark in the blue glow. “Back the way we came, please!” he ordered, with a slight quiver to his voice. What if it realised what they were doing? But obediently it began rolling along the ceiling.

They hurried after. Sigrid kept stopping to hitch up the troll baby. “It's awfully heavy,” she whispered.

“Let me take it.” They shuffled the baby from Sigrid's arms to Sigurd's. Its cold, hairy ear twitched against his cheek, and he shuddered. “Is it awake?”

A diamond glint squeezed through the troll baby's flickering lashes. Next second, its eyes were tightly shut again. The twins exchanged scared glances. “Hurry!” said Sigurd. “We're done for if it starts yelling.”

Moments later, they reached the dark pit in the floor of the tunnel. The light hovered, sinking slowly.

“Here we go,” panted Sigurd. “Back down the pine tree. Listen. You climb down halfway and I'll try and lower the baby to you. Then I'll climb past you, and we'll do the same thing again.”

Sigrid nodded. She sat on the edge and dipped her legs into the darkness, feeling about for the first spokes of the pine tree. She turned on her stomach and slithered down, till she was neck deep in the hole.

“All right?” whispered Sigurd.

“I can't see my feet. And my skirt's catching!” The dead tree shivered and rustled as she kicked her way lower.

“Stop there!” Sigurd hissed. “Are you ready? Reach up as high as you can. Here it comes!” He knelt awkwardly on the brink of the pit, and, getting a good grip of the swaddled bundle, lifted it out over the drop.

The troll baby's eyes flew open. It grimaced in alarm.

“Don't drop me!” it squawked in a shrill, harsh voice. Sigurd almost let go.