Troll and Trylleri

by Joyce Holt

  Jorunn blessed her own calluses, and peered out from the cleft in the cliff. Without the rowan wand, how would they find their way to the passage home? She couldn't see far through the mists, had no idea which way to turn and hunt along the mountain wall.

  She drew out the key and whispered, "The white snake." She peered through the key's ring to the right, in great hope. Nothing. Her stomach clenched. She looked to left, where echoes rang of trolls and bear still snarling and bickering.

  Not that way either.

  Was this the right stretch of mountainside? Mists everywhere, she might be wrong. Was she facing the right direction? No sun or moon or stars to guide her here in Svart-alfheim. The passage into the mountain had led westwards, as it was reckoned in her own world. They needed to head east, but which way was that?

  Svana and Oddleif she would find to the south. "Svana," she breathed into the key. "Ah," she sighed after searching in an arc. She found her sister working at a loom beside the door of the cottage. Someone must have mended the framework. The lop-sided thing had sat broken and neglected for months after one of Knut's raving fits.

  Jorunn peered closer. The selvages were ragged. Svana needed a good weaver at her side to show her how to keep the edges even.

  "What are you doing?" Gyda hissed.

  Jorunn hushed her, still peering through the key's ring. "Oddleif?" she asked, then blinked to see the tall youth her young friend had become. Long limbs, a leaner face – catching up to her in years, she realized with a start.

  He was herding cattle, she soon saw. Two grey-brown heifers and a brindle. Jorunn's heart welled to see him thrive. He'd found a place for himself, a foothold to escape that wretched hut in the woods.

  For himself. Leaving Svana alone at her own wretched hut. Jorunn's gladness twisted into blame. How could he have abandoned Svana? Panic and anger surged. No one to trust in all the world, not even her dearest of friends. She had to get back.

  "Eirikr of Hordaland," she tried next. If she could find him anywhere in his own realm, to the west, they must turn their backs to seek the way home.

  He stood on a mountain peak overlooking the sea. What was he watching? Flecks in the distance crept south on the waves. "Your father still lives," she told Gyda.

  "You see him?" Disbelief put a curl in her voice. "Vel, why wouldn't he still be living?"

  "Battles. Dreadful battles, all along the coast." Jorunn didn't know how to break the tidings. "I think it has something to do with the foul air here in Svartalfheim," she said at last. "We've been careful not to eat or drink, but we've been sucking in the ill vapors with every breath. Drinking to our sorrow."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Years are passing at home. Summers. Winters. At least three years, maybe four. Since you were snatched. Since we left our own realm. The world whirls on without us."

  53 – Tusmørke

  Oddleif's brothers joined him in clearing land for a hayfield and building a byre. Their small plot in the forest had once been part of a larger farm, split off and sold a hundred years ago to their great-grandfather.

  Now the eldest brother held the odel rights. No one could legally take the land away, except, perhaps, to settle a debt. Even then, the matter had to come before the Alting to ensure it was handled in a lawful manner under the watchful eyes of all landowners in the dale.

  "Did you hear? Harald Tanglehair claims all odel rights," Oddleif told his brothers as they roofed the byre. "Everywhere he goes! Folk have to pay for the right to live on lands their families have held for generations!"

  "Only on the coast. Lucky us. Unlucky vik-dwellers."

  "And he overrules every Alting in his lands, the greedy, grasping troll."

  "Is Roald back yet from Hordaland?" the next eldest brother asked.

  "Nei. They must be plotting the war to end all wars. There. I'm done for the day. Must run off and gather my ladies in for the night."

  "Hope they haven't strayed far!"

  Oddleif loped up the forest trail. There'd been no sign of trolls for months now, but other threats had risen to take their place. He'd seen odd lights on the ridge tops at dusk, heard wild laughter in the woods at dawn. And now, already, the daylight was dimming. "Loki's Luck," he muttered. He should have left sooner.

  Oddleif slowed when he came out above the treeline. This time of year his three precious cows grazed on high pastures belonging to an elderly widow to whom he would give several cheeses, come autumn. The late summer sun lanced its light across the rounding heights further up. He studied the slopes until he spotted his tiny herd. The two grey-brown cows and the brindle had meandered southeast along the ridge.

  He broke into a lope again. Risky to leave them alone, and to leave them so late. Here he was, a three-cow bonde, and he needed to hire a herder. "Only on days I'm building a byre," he puffed. "Or summoned to Dondstad to play skaldling. Or dropping in on Svana." He nodded in time with his pace. "I need a herder."

  He was still a long bowshot away when the purpling sky swallowed the day's last ray of sunlight. At that moment, several odd-looking cattle clattered up from a dip in the rumpled landscape. Their flanks were russet-red, but back ridges and bellies and chests gleamed white. They had long graceful horns poised on trim heads. Their udders swelled with bountiful milk, swaying as the cows trotted along, downslope from his own.

  The greys and the brindle gazed at the newcomers and swung about to watch them pass.

  "Nei, don't think of it," Oddleif muttered and burst into a full-out run. The red-sided cattle were trotting at a good pace. He didn't want to lose his three into someone else's herd.

  Up from the same dip in the hillside now appeared a herder.

  "Good," Oddleif gasped. "We'll get them sorted." Then he stumbled to a stop.

  The herder, garbed in pale blue, glowed in the tusmørke of twilight. Tusmørke. The murky time when tusse-folk roam abroad.

  Laughter pealed across the mountainside. The blue figure bounded like a deer after the cattle, waving them on, waving them all on with flurries of light flung from the fingers.

  "Nei, those are mine!" Oddleif shrieked and set off running again.

  But it was too late. The greys and the brindle joined the red-sided cattle in a fleet dance up the mountainside. They all vanished into a crack in the ground, followed by the light-footed herder.

  Oddleif reached the spot and searched all around. There was no crevice. There was no ravine. The tusse had lured his precious cows into glorious Alfheim.

  54 – Beware the Yew

  At the base of the cliffs in ever-gloomy Svart-alfheim, Jorunn brought the key to her lips again. "The wolverine that first spoke to me." Through the bow she peered to the right along the cliff base, and whooshed with relief to see the weasel-faced beast. The wolverine nosed at the air, twitching its ears as it listened. To the clamor of bear and trolls?

  "That way." Jorunn pointed. She drew Gyda to her feet, then skidded down the slope of scree to less treacherous ground. "It must be somewhere along this rank of cliffs. Watch for a cairn of stones and a twig of rowan stuck in the ground."

  "That's not much to go on." Gyda looked at all the piles of rocks fallen from the cliff, cluttered with windblown branches.

  "Nei, it isn't."

  Without another word they set off, winding their way along. A buttress of granite blocked their path and forced them downhill, into the forest. As they followed a faint trail, Jorunn peered through the maze of trunks to their right, searching for a way through. Massive deadfalls and boulders from landslides threw up a scattershot palisade at the base of the slope.

  The owl swooped so close past their heads the wind of its passage ruffled their hair. It landed on a branch just ahead. "News for you. Beware the yew."

  "You feathered pest—" Gyda swore, stooping for a stone, but Jorunn grabbed her hand.

  "Save it for the wolverine," she warned, "or for the bear, if we're so unlucky."

  Heavy footsteps crashed about, not far away, and
stones went rolling.

  Jorunn called for the wolverine as she looked through the magic key again. She altered the direction of their flight.

  "What's that you're doing?" Gyda demanded. "That's how you see afar, isn't it?"

  Jorunn stumbled to a halt.

  The wolverine squatted in their path, its heavy fur coat brushing the dirt. It bared its fangs in an evil grimace and flexed the finger-long claws of one forefoot, scratching furrows in the duff.

  She looked all around. To the right, up a tunnel-like passageway through heavy-hanging yew branches, she saw the pitted face of the cliff. Among all the debris and scree at the foot of the sheer rock face, beside an orderly pile of stones and in front of a narrow crevice, there stood a young rowan sapling, in full leaf and covered with white blossoms.

  Jorunn pointed and shoved Gyda's shoulder. "Go." Wishing for a dagger or spear, or a warrior with a sword, she brandished the spoon-staff in one hand and with the other, drew her short, broken-bladed knife. "Iron," she said. "Deadly to all creatures of the other worlds."

  "Silly tales," rasped the wolverine. "Come see how false they be."

  "Mine, mine, mine!" roared the bear, hurtling around the last curve of the trail.

  The wolverine pulled back, snarling at the sight.

  Jorunn raced after Gyda. As she passed under the last yew tree, a screech came from above. Something crashed onto her back and knocked her to the ground. Wiry fingers grappled for her neck. Jorunn flung herself to the side and nearly broke free.

  "You mine!" Dimplekin shrieked as she clawed for a grip. "I got you now! I eat you! I eat you, I will!"

  "I'll eat you first!" Gyda cried, and thrashed about Dimplekin's head and shoulders with a sprig torn from the rowan sapling.

  The troll-child howled as if beaten by a club, and leaped back – right into the path of the galloping bear. The monstrous beast swatted the imp and tossed her into the brush.

  Jorunn scrambled to her feet, grabbed her staff, and followed Gyda in a mad dash to the cliff face. She snatched a glance over her shoulder and gasped, "Nei!" – for the ravenous bear had turned aside and pounced upon the troll-child. Jorunn whipped about. She took one step toward the battling creatures, raising her staff.

  Gyda grabbed her wrist, spun her around and dragged her on. "Too late to save her. Save us!" she snapped as Dimplekin's shriek cut off in mid-cry. "Run!"

  Jorunn tore her gaze away from the carnage and followed. The rowan leaned its young branches across the crack in the cliff. At the sapling's feet waited the white snake coiled on the scree. "Follow me," it hissed, and slithered into the dark crevice, a glowing tendril beckoning them onward.

  Gyda's pace faltered at the sight, and she let out a whimper. "In there?"

  Jorunn took her wrist and yanked her into the crevice. The sound of their panting breaths trembled in echoes around them as they stumbled through the darkness. Hand in hand they plunged deep into the belly of the mountain where gloom wrapped them in shrouds of never-ending night.

  As they stumbled along, Gyda's grip shuddered and shook. Her gasps came ragged with fear.

  "We've been through here before," Jorunn soothed her, reining back a flare of the same dread. "It will come to an end. Just think what awaits on the far side. Fairest of all," she quoted in the dark, "are the flames in the hearth, the sweet sight of the sun—"

  "Ahh—" Gyda panted. " The sun. Fairest of all."

  "The flames in the hearth, the sweet sight of the sun, health and vigor, song and verse, and a life led with honor."

  "The sweet sight of the sun," Gyda echoed, her gasps slowing. Soon her trembling ceased, and her grip relaxed, then tightened with a steady resolve.

  Jorunn murmured other sayings as they blundered on. She sang threshing songs, hummed one of Valka's tunes.

  Gyda broke her long silence, her voice once again strong and imperious. "You spoke of leaving my service, but I need you now more than ever. Name your price for staying."

  "If you offered me half your father's kingdom, I'd still say nei," Jorunn said. "I've waited far too long as it is."

  "Far too long for what?"

  "You wouldn't know, would you? Never listened to my tale."

  Gyda sniffed. "Had no need to know."

  "And now?"

  "Things are different."

  Jorunn chuckled, soft and dry. "Different. So different." And the greatest change was one deep inside. She had broken free of bonds. She had wrested back the reins of her own life. She had ordered another to her bidding, else all would have been lost. Confidence welled in her heart.

  "Don't laugh at me," Gyda grumbled, and asked again, "Waited too long for what?"

  Jorunn pursed her lips and thought back over the tumult of her life. Her troubles began long before her birth. "There was one time at Dondstad," she said at last as they trudged onward, "a housegirl in service to Brynja's grandmother Rimhildr. Ingebjorg was freeborn, and well-favored. The granddaughter of a skald, and versed by him in sagas and sayings. She was the finest flatbread-maker in all Morgedal."

  She told of that fateful day when some black-cloaked thief had clouted her mother, knocking her dizzy, then stole one of the silver brooches Ingebjorg had been polishing in the sunny houseyard. The cry of "thief" had haunted Ingebjorg from mead-hall to bonde-hall to outfarm to cot, till none would have her but that brute Knut. The cry of "thief" still echoed down the years when it came Jorunn's turn to wander in despair, seeking shelter and a place of service, heart torn with fears for the sister she'd had to leave behind. She told of her father's drunken gambling, how he'd tried to sell her to a wife-killer, and planned the same fate for little Svana.

  Gyda hissed in astonishment. "Such a misdeed my Beste-Papa would never allow in our dale."

  "Nei? Everyone knows your smith was ill-treating his wife, and groping any young woman within reach. After his wife at last took courage to cast him off, we housegirls had to go about in twos to avoid his grasp."

  "Truly?" Gyda asked, her voice troubled a moment. Then she huffed. "Why did you never say so?"

  "We did! You weren't listening! You wouldn't help. Sverri Pig-keeper, him I could fend with words, but not Fleinn the smith."

  "I'll see the smith well and duly punished when we return," Gyda said with steel in her voice. "You handled the pigkeeper with skill, I must admit. Skill and power. King's verse, of all things. The air fairly thrummed with the power of it." She sniffed. "King's verse. The Sayings of the Wise. The Lay of Rig. How is it a drudge—" Gyda faltered, then went on. "How is it a cotter's daughter knows the skaldic arts as well as you do?"

  "All learned from my mother," Jorunn said, still and forever missing Ingebjorg's beloved voice. "And she, learned from her grandfather, who died long before my time. She had no kinfolk to call upon when her fate fell into ruin, and all because of one black-cloaked thief."

  "She taught you the knack of far-seeing, too, I suppose. Where did she get the magic amulet you wield?"

  "Nei, it wasn't hers. It was given me not long ago, a token of thanks from someone I aided."

  "And now you've aided me," Gyda mused, "and beg in token of thanks to be given leave to depart."

  "Nei," Jorunn said, her voice short and gruff. "I don't beg leave. I take my leave, whether you will or no."

  "You will not get far on your own. You need my blessing, and my help in your travels."

  "I can forage in the wilds. I'll scale cliffs to return home for Svana, if I must."

  Gyda huffed, but when she spoke her voice came low and subdued. "I can believe that, after our time in the trolls' realm." Scorn returned to her voice. "But what about ruffians you meet on the way? Too perilous for a lone maiden!"

  "If skaldic verse won't do, I have a staff that served to ward off a monstrous bear." She thumped the great spoon on the dark path before her. In spite of her words, Jorunn shivered. Gyda was right. She'd make easy prey on the long journey home, in peril from the brutes of her own world.

  Yet she had faced a
troop of fearsome foes in Svartalfheim, and come off triumphant. Confidence and fear took turns flitting along her nerves, overtaken at last by weariness. How long since she had slept?

  "If you're so bent on leaving me," Gyda asked in a voice more perplexed than demanding, "why did you come after me?"

  Jorunn let a long sigh escape. At last she said, "I've been asking myself the same thing ever since you were taken. But no one deserves such a fate."

  Gyda huffed again. "You'd have gone in after anyone?"

  Jorunn thought a moment. "Nei. Not after Fleinn. Too bad they didn't take him for their white-skin potion." She drew a deep breath. "I'd have gone in after anyone I cared about."

  "Ah," Gyda gloated. "So you do still hold me in esteem."

  "Esteem?" Jorunn shook her head, unseen in the dark. "I admire your wit and your grit, your courage – and curiosity for matters abroad. You have a far-seeing of your own. But you're also rather difficult."

  "Difficult?"

  "Haughty. Vain. And just a little bit—" Jorunn tossed off the last word— "pampered."

  "Pampered?"

  "Ja." Jorunn grinned into the gloom. "But not nearly as pampered as that Dimplekin."

  "Uff da! That's good to hear." From the wry tone of Gyda's voice, Jorunn could picture the twist of her lips.

  Jorunn sniffed. Among the earthy grotto smells wafted a clean scent of heather and pine. She tightened her fingers around Gyda's and pulled her forward with eager pace. "Look!" she cried. "Daylight!"

  Not far ahead, their glowing guide surged over one backlit rump of stone and vanished behind another. The two young women dashed around three more bends of the tunnel and out into the golden sunshine of a bright summer's day.

  55 – Sweet Sight of the Sun

  Jorunn and Gyda broke into the open on the sunny slopes high above Kvien. Several eager steps along, Gyda glanced down at her yoke apron. She frowned at the great blotches of rusty brown. "What's this? All down the front, crusty and—" She gasped and stumbled to a stop. "My mare," she cried. "My lovely, smooth-gaited mare. The great brute of a troll bit her head off! Her blood – her blood still stains – still stains—" She burst into tears.