Troll and Trylleri

by Joyce Holt

  The maiden still clutched the pot in one arm, and a bundle in the other. "I can't! I can't go back to her!" she wailed.

  Jorunn grimaced. "Point me to the cookhouse, if you'd be so kind," she said to the stableman as she latched onto the housegirl.

  He turned her a bit and gave her a nudge forward.

  No longer feathers but grit, snow blasted her cheeks as she hauled the young woman along. She stumbled onto the first rise of the midden, and swung to the side until she found one corner of the cookhouse.

  "You didn't need to grip so tightly," the housegirl said, wrenching free as soon as they stepped inside. "This won't do. This won't do at all. Uff da, the stink! What is that, fried fish? Øy, øy, øy, makes my gorge rise!" She huddled beside the door.

  "Would you rather the hall?"

  "Nei!"

  Jorunn gazed around. Tables and hearth looked empty without their usual clutter of platters, bowls, pots. A few of the cook's girls remained, sweeping up, stirring a lone cauldron of porridge. The rest had gone to join the feast. Jorunn prowled around, found enough leavings for her own supper – though not a scrap of that trout that had set her mouth to watering – and took the flatbread-maker's stool beside the hearth.

  The housegirl's voice quavered from the shadows. "She'll be calling for me soon, and scowling that I don't leap to her summons. Take her word for me, won't you? Tell her, tell her I wrenched my ankle when I dismounted and must prop it a while, wrapped and iced."

  "Tell who?" Jorunn asked, though there could be but one answer. Her belly tightened at the thought of approaching the high table and that dagger-gaze of Rimhildr's.

  "Mistress Gyda, you dolt! Who else?"

  Jorunn stood, held her arms out. "You want me to speak to your mistress?"

  The housegirl let out a groan. "Rags and ashes, nei, that wouldn't do. She'd curl her lip at a kitchen drudge. Tell Drifa! Find Brynja's maid, tell her, and she can pass the word along."

  "The lie won't hold."

  "It will hold long enough to get me home again. Just a few more days. Go tell Drifa. She's the one garbed in green with trim striped in brown and buff."

  Jorunn glanced at the doorway, shook her head, sat down again. "I'm not going out in the houseyard again until the storm winds down, not unless they string guide-ropes."

  "What? Can't find your way around your own steading?"

  "Not mine. Just arrived yesterday."

  The maiden's sniffing turned from self-pity to scorn. "Vel, why didn't you say so sooner!" She turned to another drudge and set to pestering anew about her message to folk in the hall.

  Jorunn went back to her scanty meal. Why was it that those who bring about their own downfall are the loudest to proclaim it wasn't their fault? Toothgnasher could have backed off from Thor's table. The flattered maid could have hushed her suitor, held him at arm's length.

  "Not my fault." Her mother had said those same words, but not to cover up a poor choice. She had followed her mistress' orders and taken the silver out to the houseyard on a sunny day to polish in the good light. No one else was around at the moment it happened. All Ingebjorg heard was a swish, and as she looked up from her work caught a flash of ragged black – right before a great clout to her head knocked her from her stool. When she righted herself, one brooch was gone, and the courtyard was as empty as it had been a moment before.

  "I didn't take it," her mother had said with quiet surety. "I don't know who did. No one admitted to wearing black, and I never more saw a black cloak there. They didn't believe me. Thought I was spinning tales to cover a theft. But even when no one believes you," she had told her daughters, "you know the truth, and that's what counts in the end. Your own sense of honor."

  Honor. Jorunn stared into the embers of the flatbread fire. "Fairest of all," went the proverb her mother had sung to them many a dark night, "are the flames in the hearth, the sweet sight of the sun, health and vigor, song and verse, and a life led with honor."

  The new arrival had sent off her lie of a message, and now was back to weeping. "Not my fault!" she sobbed. "What am I going to do?"

  Jorunn wiped out her bowl, then dipped some porridge and thinned it to a watery gruel. She took the bowl and a fragment of flatbread to the new arrival. "Little nibbles, little sips," she said.

  "I can't!"

  "You must try, if you hope to settle. Beware an empty stomach. That makes it worse."

  "This can't be happening to me."

  "You said your party will be going home soon. When?"

  "Three or four days after Yule." The girl sniffled, wiped her mouth.

  "What a short visit!"

  "We've been making rounds. This is our last stop, I think, then home again."

  "How long a journey back?"

  "Nine days, they said."

  Jorunn stood. "I'll fix you a bag of broken flatbread in the morning. Eat snatches throughout the day. You must keep it always with you, even when traveling."

  "She'll see! She'll notice! She'll demand to know why! And then, øy, the trouble—"

  "She'll see and notice the retching. You have little choice."

  The maid's cheeks flushed. "Who are you to speak such harsh words? I'm of good birth, and you're a drudge."

  Jorunn gave up trying to comfort. If the maiden's kin couldn't persuade her silky-tongued suitor to marry her, she had troubles indeed. But surely somehow she could make her way in the world. After all, as the saying went, "If lame, take to sleighing. If handless, to herding. If deaf, to dueling and swordplay." An unwed mother could always serve as wet nurse to another high-born family.

  Jorunn's cheek twitched in a wry tic, more heartache than humor. Here was one problem she didn't have, and never would. "No one would woo such a wretch as me," she murmured.

  Unbidden came the memory of Oddleif's earnest gaze. "If I were older," he'd said.

  "But you're not," she whispered. "Nor will I ever be one for wooing, whatever our hearts may say."

  8 – Sold for a Wife

  Time came to bank the cook fires. The girl in the brown peaked cap again waved Jorunn to join her and others where they made their bed in the straw, snuggled together for warmth, sharing blankets and body heat.

  Jorunn gave a smile and a shrug, then turned to the newcomer, still hunched all alone with her pot. The stench of vomit didn't turn Jorunn's stomach. Her cottage had reeked as often as not, with her drunken father spewing any time of the night, and the womenfolk expected to clean up come daylight. She settled down beside the miserable housegirl.

  "Where are the cushions?" the newcomer asked.

  Jorunn arched a brow. "In the hall, I would guess. None out here."

  "How are we supposed to sleep? Trampled bracken for a bed? And all strewn with crumbs and pot scrapings—"

  "Nei, the hounds will have snatched up any morsels."

  "And left fleas behind," the housegirl complained. "Nei, not so close. I don't want your lice."

  "And I don't want yours. Add your shawl to mine, or say 'begone.'" Jorunn fluffed the carpeting of crumbling leaves and stalks, patted down the prickly stems, and curled up next to her neighbor's thigh. "I'm called Jorunn."

  After a sniff and a huff and three heavy breaths, the other girl said, "Inga."

  Jorunn's fingers knotted, and something stuck in her throat. Inga. The shortened form of her mother's name. She couldn't bring herself to speak after that, and Inga had nothing to say either. Not "begone" nor any word of thanks.

  Jorunn got little sleep, for Inga's belly would not settle. At every whimper and muttered oath, Jorunn missed her mother all the more. Her patient, long-suffering mother who put up with sorrows and pains this pampered housegirl could never imagine. Against the pitch-black shroud of the night Jorunn saw again her mother's face, always a smile hiding in her glance even in the worst of times. A shared warmth even in silence. And when Knut was out of earshot, øy, the song and tales and merry banter flowed like spring streams in full spate.

  Jorunn dozed in and
out, clinging to the echoes of that beloved voice.

  * * *

  Once more a cook roused the drudges before first light. Inga took again to weeping and moaning.

  "Eat one bite before you move," Jorunn told her, fetching more flatbread. "A nibble. Let your belly take it and no jarring. Count to ninety and nine, and take another bite."

  Inga glared at her but did as she was told.

  Toothgnasher had not come stomping at midnight. Jorunn wondered if he had appeased Loki with the alliterative kenning about the wise wolf, or if that attempt was to come the following day. Should she watch out for him at the midden again?

  She peeked out the door once, twice, thrice, into the predawn darkness, meeting not the frigid bite of a sky shorn of all clouds, nor the icy daggers of storm winds. The air had the feel of a middling winter lull. If she set out early enough, while the tipsy hunters still lay abed, she could make it safely over the ridge to Moen.

  Groa meant her to stay. But would the cook shield her from Rimhildr's wrath, if the lady should learn her parentage? Wend west, and you'll go far. Far from all her troubles and the lies of the past. Far out of her father's reach.

  Again she tended boiling pots, shooed dogs away from the griddles of fish, took for herself one morsel of trout that fell to the bedstraw. She didn't envy the poor fellows who'd spent the short day yesterday ice fishing in the midst of a blizzard. Would they go out again today? Which way – west over the ridge? Would they know the way to Moen?

  She filled a bag with broken flatbread bits and took it to Inga. "This should last you until you get home again. Be sure never to let your stomach go empty."

  Her only thanks was a sniff and a sidewise glance.

  "Your cheeks aren't so blotchy now," Jorunn said. "Perhaps you can face your mistress today."

  The cheeks reddened, whether from fright, shame, or insult, Jorunn couldn't tell.

  When late dawn broke, Jorunn found the world outside white above and white below, with somewhat more of a brightness where the sun lurked behind clouds. New paths criss-crossed the houseyard. She bundled up and went to hunt for her snowshoes.

  Which building? How far down in which drift? She couldn't remember the exact spot. Had someone moved them?

  Perhaps they stood behind the sledge now half-buried against a shed. She scooped at the snow in one place then another, her belly tightening with worry. She must find them. Without skis or snowshoes she'd wallow in the snow and exhaust herself before she reached the forest's eaves. A magic key would have come in handy in such a search, but since she had no such unlikely trinket, she settled for a common ski pole for prodding drifts.

  A snowball smacked the wall above where she dug. She looked up in time to see another sailing straight for her face. She swung the pole and burst the clod into pieces.

  Young voices pealed in laughter, and a troop of children raced past, dodging between buildings.

  "And a merry morning to you too," Jorunn said, crooking a grin that faded in an instant. How she yearned to hear such merriment in Svana's voice, and to see her frolic as carefree as these.

  Two figures appeared at the hall's doorway, Gyda and an older woman garbed in green. The green-clad woman trod across the houseyard to the cookhouse while Gyda fastened the clasps of her coat, picked up her skirts and followed a different track in the snow. She didn't go far beyond the houseyard, just to the edge of the unbroken snowfield sweeping down the hillside. She stood poised several moments like a queen surveying her realm, then turned and made her way back to the center of the houseyard.

  Jorunn pulled out of sight around the corner of a building. How foolish she'd feel if asked her business, prodding drifts, only to say she'd lost her snowshoes. She wouldn't want the question out of another drudge, let alone from the queen of beauty.

  A cry came from the cookhouse. The older woman emerged, with Inga hobbling alongside and leaning on her shoulder. "Au-au-au! Forgive me, mistress, but such pain!"

  Gyda gazed down upon the two of them. She pitched her voice for her subjects, not casting it for all to hear.

  "But mistress," Inga cried, "I couldn't help sobbing at the pain – to save you the trouble, you see – did not want to disturb you—" At another low-pitched reprimand, Inga nodded. "I'll try, I'll do my best." She lurched into step, following as Gyda spun about and returned to the hall.

  "Don't forget which ankle to favor," Jorunn whispered. At last she found her snowshoes jammed between the sledge and the shed. They came loose only with a wrench, which tore the withies in one lattice-work web.

  She was trudging back to the cookhouse, chafing over how to mend it, when across the western ridge skidded a horse-drawn sledge. The driver straddled the load, goading the mare on with shouts and whip-snaps. The poor fjord-horse, sides heaving, struggled through the loose snow.

  Jorunn's pace slowed as she watched. The driver's voice was a woman's, raw, hoarse, keening with need. At the load's rear crouched a smaller figure clenching a spear shaft which waved about with the sledge's lurching like the tail of an eager hound.

  Steading folk gathered in the houseyard. Two stablemen tromped out to help guide the exhausted horse down the last stretch.

  "Troll!" the woman wailed, and her cry carried crisp through the frigid air. Her cheeks were white from the cold, her eyes red. "Just at dawn. My men, in the byre, with naught but wooden spades. The bonfire naught but embers. Thought the danger past, we did! Sky soon to brighten, after all." Her voice cracked.

  Vivid in Jorunn's memory leaped that sight of troll ripping spruce boughs, reaching down the well, snarling, grabbing— She shuddered, teeth clenched.

  Folk gathered round the sledge as it skidded to a stop in the houseyard.

  "I grabbed brands from the hearth when I heard them yell. My brave little daughter, she grabbed her papa's spear, his iron-tipped spear. We drove it off, we two, with fire and iron." The woman's face crumpled. "Too late for my son, my poor, poor son. My man, can you help him?"

  Jorunn caught a glimpse of two bodies on the sledge, one now being hoisted by men of Roald's household. That could have been their fate, hers and Oddleif's. Had he made it safely home that night?

  "Where do you dwell?" someone asked.

  "Eastmost cotter hut above Moen," the woman said. "Troll tracks went that way. Toward Moen. Couldn't seek help that way."

  "We'll send a pair of skiers to the bonde there."

  "Moen," Jorunn breathed. She'd planned on trudging over the ridge to Moen. Would have been there last evening, there or at some cot along the way. She sucked in a breath.

  "Come along inside," someone said, "you and your girl. We'll see to your man."

  The daughter still gripped the spear. Her shoulders hunched, but she wouldn't let go.

  "Shaggy as a bear, but bigger," the woman said as she stepped down to the packed ice. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself and straightened, staring about with a glazed look to her eyes. "A she-troll. Had a hulder-youngling strapped to her back." The woman shuddered. "Both of them, their nasty cow-tails whipping and lashing as she clawed – as she clawed—"

  "Hush, hush, come inside, no more fears." The steading folk ushered the two cotters toward the hall, following the wounded husband.

  The son lay stiff and cold on the sledge. He was missing an arm, and that side of his body was dark with blood. Jorunn's knees wobbled as if she were the one bracing for a flight by sledge with wounded kin aboard and troll wrack behind.

  Was it the same troll that had pursued her and Oddleif? She hadn't noticed any youngling strapped to its back. Was there a whole pack of ogres loose in the forest?

  She lurched about, turning for the cookhouse when a lone figure appeared on the trail from Morgedal, duck-stepping his way over the smooth expanse of snow. Oddleif himself, all rags and tatters and oversized snowshoes.

  Jorunn's heart leaped to see him safe and sound. She ran to the edge of the houseyard's hard-packed footing and waited, heart thumping with new worry. Did he brin
g ill news about Svana?

  He doffed his mossy green hat to wave. His grin of greeting boded well. "Jorunn!" he cried as the wind plucked at his tawny-brown hair. "You made it to shelter! I'm glad, so glad! Been fretting for you. That troll was a bold one. I still jump when snow thumps."

  "Me, too." She hugged him. "What tidings? Is Svana well?"

  "Ja, no worries for her sake. But for your own." He grimaced, scrunching his stubby nose.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The bonde's wife made light of her jest to you about Dondstad, and the houseboys heard, and word got back to your father."

  "Uff da! Why should he care?" She bared her teeth in loathing.

  Oddleif's hazel eyes looked huge as an owl's. "He's been drinking with Utlagi the Sour, and wagering at dice. He's sold you for a wife."

  "What? Utlagi has a wife already! And he can't afford a second. No one would approve."

  Oddleif shook his head. "His wife walked past when Utlagi was chopping firewood, and the axehead flew off the handle. At least, that's how he tells it."

  Jorunn felt the blood rush from her cheeks. "Another wife dead. So soon after the last."

  "And you to be the next." Oddleif scowled, his young face as solemn as a many-winters-worn grandfather. "You must leave quickly, and go far."

  "I was planning to go to Moen, but the troll struck there, and now one snowshoe ruined—" She sucked breath between her teeth.

  "Ruined? What happened?"

  Jorunn told him her whole saga, including Thor's chariot-goat and his babblings about a magic key and his message from the Norns.

  He leaned in to smell her breath.

  She pushed him back. "I haven't had a drop of ale! It's all true! I'll mend my snowshoe, and go over the ridge to Moen. Surely the bonde there will keep extra watch now his folk have already paid so dearly. Uff da! What else can I do? Where else could I go? I must find a haven for myself and Svana, then hurry to fetch her."

  "Not here? Have you tried—" Oddleif glanced past her. His eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. "Who is that?" he asked.

  Jorunn knew before she looked. "Cousin of Prince Dond's great-granddaughter. Comes from a dale to the north. "