The Buttersmiths' Gold

by Adam Glendon Sidwell

  He squeezed from the base of the teat downward. It felt firmer than he would have expected, and it took more force to push the milk out than he remembered. A dribble of watery, yellow milk leaked out the hole in the bottom of the rightmost teat.

  Then, Melkhjert mooed a long and sad moo, like she was speaking for all the bovines of the herd, and saying the thing they had kept inside their hearts for centuries. Torbjorn squeezed again; She mooed again, and this time, out came a thick, yellow cream that dripped in soft, oversized pearls, like golden dewdrops onto the crisp white snow. It shined in the moonlight.

  What have I done? wondered Torbjorn. He had never seen anything like this come from an udder. Perhaps he had milked her wrong. Perhaps Melkhjert was hurt. Perhaps his weariness had so far overcome him now, he was not seeing things as they really were. He might have believed that too, if the golden drops were not so beautiful and somehow… familiar.

  “Brother,” whispered Torbjorn. If only Storfjell were awake.

  Torbjorn squeezed out another golden, creamy stream into his hand, and it piled up there like a smooth mountain of thick honey. He put it to his cracked and bleeding lips.

  When it touched them it was like a warmth he had never known. While it was on his tongue all the sorrows and terror of the battle and the defeat of his people melted away, and he felt like a child again. It tasted creamy and sweet like honey, but salty like the sea. If snow could be warm, this was it. It was more than a taste – it was an embrace.

  Something he had tasted before was hidden inside the golden creamy drops. Something he had known and loved, magnified into its full potential. Then he realized it: butter.

  What Melkhjert had given him was not just milk; somehow it was butter.

  Somewhere deep in her heart she had found a way to bless her masters with more than milk. And what was inside the swollen pink udder that hung from her belly was a glowing gift of life. A sun on the horizon.

  Never had the Nine Churns of Asgard given life to the Nectar of Moo like the golden dewdrops that melted on his tongue right now.

  Torbjorn swallowed, and his throat felt warm, then his belly. He could feel strength spreading outward, from his stomach to his limbs and out his bones. It glowed. Then, like a coal in the winter, it faded away.

  He needed more. He squeezed Melkhjert’s udder again, and a fresh stream of thick golden butter squirted into his open palm. He squeezed, and squeezed, milking her until he had a glob of butter curled up in his hand.

  Then he ate, scooping up the smooth butter with his tongue and half chewing, half drinking it. The butter covered the insides of his mouth in a smooth, rich film. His belly felt warm strength again. It grew out across his body, stronger this time, until it reached his fingertips – a rejuvenating sensation, as if it were sleep washing out through his blood. The soreness and knots in his back and shoulders slowly unraveled, smoothed, and faded away. He ate.

  Melkhjert mooed a happy moo, and Torbjorn lay on the ground beneath her udder, milking her so that the creamy butter squirted straight into his open mouth. He closed his eyes and drank as quickly as he could, until finally, what seemed like hours later, his hunger was only a memory.

  And he was filled.

  Melkhjert seemed happy too; she dropped her head and sighed.

  A deep, contented feeling overtook Torbjorn, and his eyelids grew heavy. There was nothing more he wanted than to sleep. Then Smakkerdette mooed and looked at him painfully.

  She needed him too. Storfjell needs me, he thought. So he crawled over to the spotted cow and milked her. From her udder there came the same thing: instead of milk, rich, creamy butter.

  Torbjorn nearly laughed at how all of it. He milked a fresh glob of butter into his hand, then smeared it across Storfjell’s lips.

  The gigantic man’s mouth pursed together, and he swallowed. His face relaxed, and color flowed into the loose, grey skin under his eyes again. Then his tongue licked across his lips searching for more, so that Storfjell for that moment reminded Torbjorn of Smakkerdette.

  Torbjorn milked Smakkerdette again, then fed his brother more, smearing the shining butter across his lips and into his mouth. Storfjell did not wake, but he swallowed, and Torbjorn wondered if Storfjell were half dreaming, half awake.

  Torbjorn continued his task until finally Storfjell smacked his lips, smiled wide, and turned on his side. He began to snore.

  Smakkerdette ambled over to Melkhjert and nuzzled her, then rested her chin on Melkhjert’s shoulder and went to sleep.

  Torbjorn felt oh-so-tired and happy. He did not have the strength to care what may come. Even if he’d tried, he could not walk another step, and finally, he too collapsed, closed his eyes and let sleep overcome him. Meanwhile, high up on the ridge, the trolls were searching for a way down the snowy mountain.

  Chapter 14 — The Buttersmiths’ Gold

  Torbjorn felt something from high up on the mountain calling him. He could not remember where he was, but he knew he’d been there a long time and that he’d never been so happy. In his dream his belly was full. He had the vague sense that he was lying in a feather bed as tall as a house. The Nine Churns surrounded him. His clan stood at his side, singing soft, melodic songs that he hadn’t heard since he was cradled as a baby in his Mother’s arms. He wasn’t sure, but it felt like he’d been asleep for a thousand years.

  The voice on the mountaintop came down and called again. This time it was in his face. “Torbjorn!” The voice pulled him up and out of the feather bed.

  Then the voice shook him, and he felt hot breath on his face. “Torbjorn!” it shouted. Torbjorn recognized it. Storfjell. His brother.

  “You must wake up!” Storfjell said. Suddenly, Torbjorn was at the foot of the mountain again. He forced his heavy eyelids open. There was Storfjell, his helmet fixed to his head, his eyes sharp and fierce.

  “Torbjorn, it is the middle of the night!” Storfjell said. The moon was high in the sky still – higher than it had been before. How long had Torbjorn slept? “It is a wonder the trolls are not already upon us!”

  With that, all the peace and rest Torbjorn felt fled, and familiar panic returned to his chest. He propped himself up on his elbows. It was dark.

  A loud, guttural growl echoed through the forest from behind a copse of trees just to the north of them.

  “They are here!” cried Storfjell.

  Torbjorn leapt to his feet. It was easier than he expected after such a long sleep, and he turned his head this way and that, looking for the bovines.

  The two of them were standing under a tree nearby, between Torbjorn and the sound of the troll. They turned round and round, stamping the ground. He could see terror in their wide eyes.

  “Brother, we must run this way!” said Storfjell, pointing to an opening in the forest away from the copse of trees.

  Just then, the red troll smashed through the trees behind the bovines. It roared so loud, pine needles shook and the air shivered. It was so close that for the first time, Torbjorn could see into its open jaws. Its teeth were long and blunt at the end, like the horns of a bull that had been ground across rock and stone. Gravel crumbled out of its gums. Its tongue was wide as a shovel’s head and covered in warts. The needle-like hairs on its back stood on end, like an angry dog’s that was ready to fight.

  He could not leave Melkhjert. Without thinking, Torbjorn darted between the troll and her. He picked her up with both arms and to his surprise, she was lighter than usual, so he slung her under one arm and scooped up Smakkerdette with the other. Then, with a bovine under each arm, he charged away from the troll as fast as he could.

  He could have sworn the ground was flat, but he felt like he was flying downhill again, his legs moved so easily.

  He flew by Storfjell, and with one strong heave, tossed Smakkerdette into the air at his brother. “Catch,” Torbjorn said, surprised at himself. He was even more surprised at how Smakkerdette flew into Storfjell’s open arms.

  Storfjell caught her with a gru
nt and chased after Torbjorn, his legs beating like dragonfly wings.

  They flew across the small clearing in no time, passed the trees, and were just about to reach a pile of boulders on the other side when the rocks at the top of the pile shattered to pieces in a deafening crack. He veered left, away from the sound.

  The huge, grey-colored troll leapt down from the stack of boulders onto the ground. He pounded both huge fists into the dirt and snarled at the forest all around him. The earth quaked under Torbjorn’s feet. The birds in the trees cried shrill and loud and flapped away by the flock, and suddenly Torbjorn had nowhere to go.

  There were only a few yards of open ground between him and the grey troll. Storfjell stood next to him, with Smakkerdette under his arm. There was nowhere to run. It was time to stand.

  Torbjorn set down Melkhjert in the dirt, threw back his cloak, and drew his knife from his belt. Storfjell dropped Smakkerdette and drew his battle axe.

  Torbjorn placed his hand in the short fur on Melkhjert’s back. It was comforting, for that one moment, to feel her breath go in and out, as fast as it was, and to know that her heart was beating inside her. Torbjorn had never heard of a man fighting a troll. He’d only heard of the end result: the troll grinding the man’s bones in its jaws. What had so often been just stories was now his fate.

  The grey troll leapt forward and came crashing down in front of Torbjorn. It raised both its fists over its head, like it was about to swing them down on top of Torbjorn’s skull.

  Torbjorn remembered what Storfjell had said about loving one’s clan. He crouched. “BATTLE!” he cried, with the full force and fury of his hardened life in the snows and icy waves of the North.

  And then Torbjorn felt something hit him hard from behind. It was like a house had fallen on him from the side, so large was the blow. It knocked him in the back, shoulders, arms and legs all simultaneously, so that he flew past the grey troll through the air and smashed into the stack of boulders.

  The boulders hit him even harder than the blow from behind. The forest flashed red and all the air was knocked from his lungs; he was certain, from the pain, that his ribs had been crushed flat too. I am broken, thought Torbjorn, knowing that a blow like that was sure to shatter his bones.

  He slid off the boulder onto the ground. He lay on the earth and tried to force the spinning, blurry forest to stop. He rolled awkwardly on his front, pushed up with his arms, and to his surprise, was able to stand.

  Torbjorn looked at his hands. They were scratched, but unbroken. He took a deep breath, and though he felt his lungs were only half full, there was a surge of life inside him. He was alive.

  He looked back. The red troll crouched in the clearing where Torbjorn had been moments before. It had hit him from behind. Melkhjert was gone.

  There was a gasp of pain. The grey troll seized Storfjell by the neck with both of its gigantic, three-fingered hands and lifted him in the air. Storfjell’s battle axe lay on the ground below his feet. He clutched at the troll’s wrists, struggling to breathe.

  “Brother!” Torbjorn cried. He wrenched a boulder twice the size of his head free from the stack – he’d never been able to lift one that size before – with both arms Torbjorn heaved the boulder over his head at the grey troll.

  The boulder flew through the air and smashed the troll at the base of its head and crumbled into pieces. The troll roared up at the sky, dropping Storfjell and writhing and clawing at the back of its head like an injured snake.

  “Fiend!” Torbjorn cried. He had never expected to insult a troll to its face. But ever since he’d woken up from his sleep, his belly still glowed inside him, and there was something in his arms and legs that gave him strength, as if the golden butter had coated his innards with life. He felt nothing less than mighty.

  The grey troll’s eyes were squinty, and it was still beating itself on the head and thrashing at the ground in pain. The red troll crouched low, creeping its way across the earth toward Torbjorn, its eyes pouring red hot heat out their sockets. The bovines were nowhere to be seen.

  Torbjorn clattered up the stack of boulders and seized a tree branch as thick as his arm that hung nearby. He slid one hand up the branch toward the trunk, and heaving all his weight downward, yanked it with both arms. The wood splintered, then broke. He wrenched the branch free. He could not have done that before – not without the strength of the golden butter in his bones.

  The red troll leapt at him first. Torbjorn dodged to his right. It missed him by a hand’s breadth and skidded across the boulder top.

  The grey troll swiped at his leg from the other side, catching Torbjorn by the ankle and knocking him off his footing. Torbjorn steadied himself, then swung the stout branch with both arms like a club. He caught the grey troll full in the face. Its face crumpled, the blow knocking the troll backward. It squealed in pain.

  Then Torbjorn felt a tug at his ankle, and he was yanked off his feet backwards and swung over the rocks to the ground behind. In the instant Torbjorn was in the air, he saw two things: the red troll beneath him, throwing him by the ankles, and a cliff a few arm lengths away with a lake below. Strange, the moonlight on the water looks so beautiful, he thought. He slammed against the dirt.

  “Storfjell!” he coughed, forcing himself to ignore the pain. He wasn’t sure where Storfjell was. The red troll charged, its teeth bared and its tongue slithering as it hissed hot, steamy breath at Torbjorn.

  “We can defeat the foes!” he cried, even as he rolled, and the red troll’s fists smashed the ground right next to him. There was strength inside Torbjorn now beyond any a Smordaler ever possessed. They could not give up, not now that mighty strength surged through their bones.

  The red troll lashed out again, swiping at Torbjorn’s head. This time Torbjorn caught its arm in his hands. Its skin was rough like broken stone on his palms. He pulled, twisting and throwing his weight downward. The troll was incredibly heavy, but Torbjorn pulled with such fury that the troll tumbled over his back and with a heave, he threw it off the edge of the cliff.

  Torbjorn looked down at the lake. It wasn’t far to the water below. Probably only half the length of a longboat. But it was too far for the troll. It splashed into the deep, blue water and sank out of sight. A burst of bubbles and steam rose up where the troll had broken the water’s surface. From there, small waves radiated out into the lake and died away.

  Torbjorn sighed. Trolls can’t cross water. To drown in it was doom.

  Torbjorn turned, and his moment of triumph faded. Right behind him stood the huge grey troll, blocking his escape. He did not think he had that much strength to throw the large one.

  “Duck!” cried Storfjell. Torbjorn did not know what his brother would do – there was no time to ask. Torbjorn flattened himself on the ground.

  A huge log swung horizontally at the troll, catching it squarely in the back. The troll fell forward, landing face-first in the dirt. It twisted like a snake, brought its gaping jaws backward and upward and bit down Storfjell’s arm.

  “Beeegawwwwwwww!” wailed Storfjell. He wrestled to break free, but the troll’s grip was too strong. It shook its head back and forth like a hound, whipping Storfjell into a nearby tree like a ragged doll.

  “Storfjell!” cried Torbjorn. He leapt to his feet and flung himself onto the troll’s back. Storfjell’s arm was still clamped in the beast’s monstrous jaws.

  The grey troll clawed over his shoulders at Torbjorn’s back. Torbjorn held tightly, then, caring nothing for his own limbs, rammed his fingers like spear heads into the troll’s mouth.

  He felt hot, sticky spit smear across his hands. His fingers dug into gravelly gums until he found a pair of blunt teeth. Then, using all the strength of Smordal and the magic of the golden butter inside him, he pried the jaws of the troll slowly apart one inch. It was like splitting apart a boulder with bare hands, the troll’s tongue writhing and scraping across his fingers, trying to break his hold while its claws struck at Torbjorn’s back. He held on, a
nd pulled all the harder, giving every ounce of might in his bones, until there was a crack, and the troll’s jaws flapped open wide.

  Storfjell wrenched his arm free. He fell to the ground. The troll screamed so shrilly, it was like the rocks inside his belly had split open and shot out into the night. It teetered, then fell onto Storfjell.

  Exhausted, Torbjorn set his shoulder against the beast and shoved it toward the cliff. It rolled over, and Storfjell kicked out his legs against the troll’s belly. “By Thor’s hammer, push!” shouted Storfjell. Torbjorn shoved again. It was not enough. The troll was too heavy.

  There was a rustle in the trees. Smakkerdette and Melkhjert came charging out of the forest. They lowered their heads, and in unison, rammed the troll.

  It skidded over the cliff, clawing at the edge as it went tumbling down to the water below.

  Torbjorn fell back onto the ground. Hot tears came to his eyes. Storfjell lay on the ground behind him, a great big pine tree as thick as a sheep at his head. It was still green, and its roots were covered in fresh dirt. Storfjell must have ripped it out of the ground.

  “Brother, we have vanquished the foes!” Storfjell said, holding his arm limply. He was grinning so wide his mustache did not hide it this time. His teeth looked like a row of polished white rocks.

  Torbjorn peered over the edge of the cliff. There was no sign of either troll, only bubbles and steam.

  He let out a long whistle. “Yah! And you have also vanquished that tree!” he said.

  Storfjell patted the pine he’d ripped out of the ground. “Then let that be a lesson to all the forest,” he said grinning, “that none shall stand against the mighty brothers.”

  “Nor their bovines!” said Torbjorn. He patted Melkhjert’s ear. Melkhjert licked his hand.

  Storfjell’s warm, orange complexion had returned to his cheeks, and he seemed to glow as if the moon were shining just on him. “Do you feel good, my brother?” asked Torbjorn.