The Buttersmiths' Gold

by Adam Glendon Sidwell

  Torbjorn welcomed the rest. It was much easier to follow his brother’s path.

  They came out of the trees to a rocky ridge where they could see the last rays of the sun bending over distant mountains. The light glowed orange on the skyline for a moment, then was gone.

  “Night,” said Storfjell.

  As darkness fell they ran onward, the bovines bouncing up and down on their backs. For a few hopeful minutes, Torbjorn did not hear the roar of trolls at their backs. He even began to wonder if they’d lost them. He set down Melkhjert on a boulder overlooking a deep, clear stream, knowing that it could only be for a moment.

  “I think we are almost faster than trolls,” said Storfjell. He too unloaded his bovine-burden.

  “Yes,” panted Torbjorn. He and his brother seemed to have gained a lead over the beasts. “They must not be so fast on snow as they are on the rocks. Maybe we have gotten away.”

  They rested there, not willing or able to force themselves to go on just yet. The stars blinked into view and shined on the snow. It must have been well past midnight. Torbjorn even closed his eyes for a moment, thinking he might sleep, when suddenly, at the edge of a row of jagged boulders, the giant grey troll tore out of the woods and leapt onto the rocks not a boat’s length behind them. It snarled.

  “This way!” shouted Storfjell. He heaved Smakkerdette up onto his back, turned and skipped down the boulders to the edge of the stream below. Torbjorn was on his feet in a flash, pulling Melkhjert onto his shoulders.

  Storfjell plunged into the tumbling water up to his waist. He pushed ahead, wading through up to his chest, the water swirling and beating around him, Smakkerdette raising her head to keep dry. It was madness to plunge into icy water at night. Torbjorn could guess why his brother did it: the lore says trolls can’t cross water. They would find out soon enough if that were true.

  Torbjorn forced himself to jump into the cold stream. In an instant his chest froze, his lungs tightened, his breath turned to an icicle in his throat and choked him, his mind blanked. His limbs numbed until they were lead. He could not feel Melkhjert on his back. Surely the giant grey troll could smash him from the shore. He forced himself forward. He had to get to dry ground.

  He pushed the several remaining arm lengths to the opposite shore. Storfjell reached out his arm and pulled Torbjorn up into the snow.

  The grey troll was perched on all fours on the bank they’d just left, hissing and growling at the water’s edge.

  “So it is true. The water dissuades them,” smiled Storfjell.

  “Yah!” gasped Torbjorn, trying to catch his breath again. That seemed to be true, and it had saved them, but whatever lead Storfjell and Torbjorn had, it was gone. The trolls had caught up.

  “I wonder if as the sun disappears, they run faster,” said Storfjell, looking up at the night sky.

  It made sense. The legends said that the sun turned trolls to stone. That could not be entirely true, since the sun had shone on the trolls all that day, and the trolls were yet alive and running. Still, there must have been a glimmer of truth in such ancient tales. The lower the sun dipped, the faster the trolls seemed to go. How else had they suddenly run so fast if it weren’t for the darkness?

  The red troll leapt up and down the rocks on the opposite bank. He scrambled back and forth at the water line, his blunt nose to the ground, his molten eyes darting back and forth, from rock to stream, and worst of all, to Torbjorn. The beast moved twice as quickly as he had in the twilight.

  “He’s looking for a way to cross,” said Storfjell.

  “I do not want to be here when he finds it,” replied Torbjorn. He stood, hoisted Melkhjert onto his sopping wet back, and ran downstream.

  The brothers and the bovines ran into the night for hours, ever leading the trolls southeast and away from their clan. They ran through a wide meadow where the moon shone bright and clear on the snow. They ran through a thicket and back up the next mountain, where they could see the burning eyes of the trolls speeding along in the meadow far below.

  Torbjorn was glad they hadn’t met the trolls in winter. Only a few months from now, the sun would disappear completely until spring. He dared not think how fast the trolls would be in the dead of a winter’s night. “If only we’d met them when the sun was up all night,” said Torbjorn.

  “But they are here now, and we must run yet in the darkness,” said Storfjell. However much Torbjorn didn’t like it, Storfjell was right.

  The snows in the forest were deeper than they were in the meadow, and Torbjorn once again found himself plowing through drifts. It was hard work, Melkhjert’s head bouncing up and down with each of Torbjorn’s steps. “You ever think that maybe this might be easier without bovines atop our backs?” asked Torbjorn.

  Melkhjert mooed reproachfully. Perhaps it was coincidence, but she seemed to understand what Torbjorn was getting at.

  They stopped to take off their loads of bovine and rest from time to time. Crossing the stream had given the brothers a considerable lead. They had not seen the trolls for more than an hour, but they could hear them just beyond the trees, crashing through the forest and groaning as they went.

  It seemed that no matter how far they ran, they could not escape the trolls. Torbjorn’s bones were beginning to tire. He did not know how much longer he could go.

  Chapter 13 — The Brink

  They did not stop running until the whole night had passed, and the moon began to fade and the black sky began to soften before the morning light. Their bones were sore and their backs weary. Torbjorn had to focus on lifting his foot with each step, and at times, he found himself lapsing into sleep as he ran, until the whole day and night seemed like one exhausting dream.

  Sometime during the night, Torbjorn thought he glimpsed the trolls on a ledge behind them. Torbjorn did not see them until the trolls heaved a boulder the size of sheep at Storfjell’s head. It missed, and smashed into a tree next to them, splitting the trunk in two.

  All the while as they ran, Torbjorn wondered what the clan would think when they heard of the brave feat he and his brother had done for them. That single thought sustained him. His feet hurt, and the cloth bound around them was beginning to wear thin and tear. He did not want to say it, but he didn’t think he could go on much longer.

  “Brother,” said Torbjorn, “Do you think that the clan will sing songs of our deeds?”

  “I do not know that the Clan of Smordal will ever know that we gave our lives for them,” said Storfjell.

  Torbjorn did not expect Storfjell to say that. Give our lives? Is that what Storfjell expected? Torbjorn still hoped they’d find a way out of this. He’d always believed they could. Is that how Storfjell thought it might end? “Then Smordal will never even know what doom we spared them from!” Torbjorn said.

  Storfjell was silent, except for his heavy breath and his steps in the snow. Then he spoke. “Do you love our clan because you want them to give you glory, or because you want them to live?” It did not sound like a reproof; it was an honest question.

  Torbjorn did not know how to answer. Ever since Storfjell burned the churns, Storfjell had done things for his own mysterious reasons. Storfjell hadn’t cared if Mannkraft, or Father, or even the entire clan was against him. He’d only cared about one thing: the life of the clan.

  “I…” was all Torbjorn could reply. For many miles and many hours afterward he tried to think of what to say as he trudged over hills, through clearings, and back into the deep forest. He did not know why he was doing this – why he was risking his life on a quest that no one might ever know about, for a clan that had forced him into exile.

  They stopped to rest in the forest again in a thicket of trees. Melkhjert’s udder had swollen so large, it looked like she was about to lay a giant pink egg. Torbjorn hadn’t thought of it until now, but the two bovines had probably not been milked since before they’d left the village. That was a full day and a half ago. It wasn’t good to leave a bovine un-milked for long. No doubt
the constant bouncing was taking its toll.

  Torbjorn would have milked her right then, had not the tops of the trees somewhere behind them shook; a flock of ravens squawked and flew from their roosts. The trolls were near.

  So Torbjorn and Storfjell ran on, as weary as they were, until the sun had climbed high above them. Finally, when the color in the forest and sky glowed green and blue, they stopped again to lift the bovines off their backs and rest.

  “Now that it is the middle of the day, we can outrun these fiends of stone,” said Torbjorn. His feet were bleeding on the snow. He could not run forever.

  Storfjell grunted. “We cannot. There must be a clear track for them to follow.”

  “Why? The sun is at its highest! We can escape them if we hurry,” said Torbjorn.

  Storfjell shook his head. “But then who knows if they will return and find our clan. We are too close still.”

  It made sense. They had come far, but the natural way for the trolls to return would be the way they’d come – if they were smart enough to smell the rocks back to their ships. They could easily happen upon the Smordaler again and catch them by surprise.

  Torbjorn staggered to his feet. His belly had collapsed inside him. Their last morsels of bread had been ruined while fording the stream. He hadn’t eaten anything in so long, his head was beginning to give him strange thoughts and his eyes could not focus for lack of food.

  They stumbled on for most of the afternoon, hoping that the sun would keep the trolls at bay as it crawled through the sky. Melkhjert’s and Smakkerdette’s udders began to look like pink swollen peaches just ripe for the picking. Torbjorn felt sorry for them, even though they did not complain. They crossed meadows, valleys, and mountains, until finally, as the sun was beginning to disappear behind the mountains again, they came to a ridge where the mountain fell steeply away to the east in a wide bowl that curled out on either side.

  “Night…” said Storfjell. The word sent shivers through Torbjorn’s spine. The trolls would be getting faster. He was so tired.

  There was a roar and a crash in the forest behind them. This time, it was closer than before.

  “We must use the land to our advantage,” said Storfjell. Without more warning than that, he leapt off the edge of the mountain and landed on his back, sliding down the steep mountainside through the snow. Smakkerdette’s udder bobbed and jostled up and down as they both slid down the hill, tumbling faster than Torbjorn could ever run.

  Torbjorn looked back. There was no mistake about it this time: the trolls were gaining on them. He looked over the edge – it was a very long way to the bottom. Storfjell’s slide turned into a tumble; he lost his hold on Smakkerdette. He and she both began to roll, bounce, and jumble down the hill at incredible speeds in two different directions.

  The trolls broke out of the forest. The red one rushed in at Torbjorn’s left; the grey flanked him on the right. They were trying to cut him off. Torbjorn peered down at his brother below, still sliding and tumbling, and wondered for a moment what it must be like to be bitten by a troll. “You’ll not taste me!” he cried, and jumped, feet pointed like an arrow down the mountain.

  His back hit first, knocking the wind from his chest. His helmeted head bumped back against Melkhjert’s soft ribs, and she cried out in pain. He held as tight as he could to her ankles and tried to keep a straight course. He dug his heels into the snow, hoping to slow himself down. That only sprayed snow up in his face, stinging his eyes so that he had to close them.

  The mountain behind him turned downward steeply, and he felt himself go airborne, his stomach lurching upward into his chest, Melkhjert floating above him like an iron cloud. Torbjorn had lost all control. His momentum carried his legs and feet upward, and for a moment, he wondered exactly which way was up.

  Then the ground swung up and smashed him on the side. He hit first. Melkhjert landed next – right on top of Torbjorn’s gut. She flopped over him, mooing as she landed, two of her legs sprawled out in a way that did not look possible for a bovine. She was wrenched free from his grip.

  She flew, tumbling like a boulder in an avalanche down the hill. Torbjorn hit another bump, and went airborne again. He twisted around on his stomach and clawed at the snow, digging in with his fingers to slow his fall. It only half worked, and he kept sliding further and further down the slope.

  He hit a rock, bounced upward, dug his heels in, then as the slope gradually leveled out, slowed to a stop.

  Torbjorn did not feel well. His wool pants were twisted and pulled up to his armpits. His belt had come unlatched and was lying in the snow next to him. His cloak was tied up in knots around his arms, and his horned helmet had fallen off and was gone. He looked back up at the slope. His helmet was up the mountainside, too far up to retrieve without an hour’s worth of climbing. Melkhjert was somewhere in the thicket of trees, mooing in short bursts that sounded almost like crying.

  Torbjorn sat up with a groan. His side hurt where Melkhjert had struck him in the gut. He put his hands first on his sides, then his face, then his thighs and knees. He was bruised, battered, beaten, bumbled, but alive. He looked around. His head still turned – that was fortunate.

  Storfjell and Smakkerdette were nowhere to be found.

  Torbjorn carefully propped himself up on his knees, then stood. He was shaky at first, but his legs seemed to work fine. Then he lifted his arms – those worked too.

  “Yah well!” he cried back up at the mountain. That was probably the fastest he’d travelled in his entire life, and the trolls were so far up there, he could not even see them. It was thrilling, to have come so far so fast.

  “Mooo-oooo-ooo,” cried Melkhjert in short bursts, from somewhere in the trees. It sounded like sobbing.

  Torbjorn ran shakily over in the direction of the sound. She was lying on her back behind an old gnarled pine. She looked up at him, her eyes round and wide, her head bobbling around on top of her neck. Her muzzle was turned up at the corners almost in what looked like a smile.

  Torbjorn took a step back and cocked his head to one side. Now that he saw her, Melkhjert’s crying sounded more like laughter.

  “I might even guess that Melkhjert would like to tumble down the mountain again,” said Torbjorn.

  She mooed a happy moo. It sounded like a yes.

  “Do not say that to me, four-footed beast! I am not climbing back up there!” Torbjorn said, pointing to the mountain ledge far above. She chewed, her muzzle going up and down and in a way that looked to Torbjorn almost like she was thinking about what he said.

  “Brother, we have not finished yet,” said Storfjell from behind Torbjorn. He’d come out of the trees, Smakkerdette in his arms. She had the same giddy look on her face that Melkhjert did. “See!” Storfjell turned his head and looked up at a rocky ledge that grew vertically out of the top half of the face of the mountain.

  Near the top of that ledge, there were what looked like two sets of boulders scraping and falling in short bursts down the rock. “The trolls!” said Torbjorn.

  “Yes, they will be quick on the rock, but not so fast as us when they hit the snow, I think,” said Storfjell.

  “Yah!” grinned Torbjorn, “We were quite fast.” His whole body felt like he was glowing with the magic courage of battle, so quick was the slide. “Then let us run.”

  Melkhjert mooed painfully at him. Her udder was full, fuller than he had ever seen it. It was bulging and the skin was so tight and pink, Torbjorn could almost see right through it. The constant up and down of running in the snow must have agitated it horribly. Even more so, to tumble down a mountainside, it was too much for a bovine to bear.

  Smakkerdette looked even worse. She stood in the snow, her blue eyes big and sad. “The pride of Smordal – our herds,” said Storfjell, “and they have come to this.” He patted her on the head.

  “Brother, let us milk our tiny herd of two, and squeeze their udders so they do not suffer such milk-pains,” said Torbjorn.

  “And then per
haps we can drink a little for some nourishment, for today we will need our strength,” nodded Storfjell. His lower lids had sunk into shadow beneath his eyes. His cheeks had lost the orange hue they usually had. Storfjell looked as tired as Torbjorn felt.

  Storfjell took a step forward. Then, without warning, he collapsed onto his knees and fell face-first like a tree into the snow.

  Torbjorn rushed to him and knelt by his side. “Brother! Speak to me!” he said. He pushed his hands like spades under Storfjell and pried him over, rolling him onto his back.

  Storfjell’s eyes were closed. His lips trembling out faint traces of frosty air. He was alive, but as worn as shoe leather that’s walked too many miles on stony earth.

  Torbjorn pressed the palms of his hands onto Storfjell’s cheeks. He did not stir. “Brother!” cried Torbjorn. Was he dead? There was still breath in him, but he did not wake.

  The trolls were coming. Torbjorn could not carry two bovines and his brother too. He barely had strength to walk himself. He was stranded, it would be night soon, and suddenly, he felt all alone.

  Torbjorn straightened his brother’s arms and laid his cloak underneath Storfjell’s neck. He didn’t know what else to do. He felt stupid and helpless. He never should have started this chase. Now his brother was lying there in the snow, maybe even dead from exhaustion.

  Torbjorn slumped down on a patch of bare ground and hung his head. He would have to wait for him to wake.

  Melkhjert pressed her muzzle into Storfjell’s cheek. She looked so sad in the growing darkness.

  Torbjorn smoothed out Melkhjert’s reddish fur. It had become matted and tangled during the past few days. She did not deserve this. Poor, poor Melkhjert, thought Torbjorn, and in despair, he did the only thing he could think to do – he would milk her. It was the least he could do for such a loyal bovine.

  He led her onto flat ground where he stamped out a patch of firm snow. He knelt on one knee, and like he had learned when he was very young, grasped two of the four teats hanging from her udder. Mooverk had often talked of how gentle one must be when milking the bovines, and Torbjorn tried to remember all of his words.