by Matt Haig
“This is it,” said Troll-the-Right. “The next time we’ll sleep is when we’re dead. Dead!…Our bodies turned into stone. Our spirits lost in the big black nothingness as though we’d never been born, as though we’d never known the simple pleasures of hurgleberry wine or rabbit casserole.”
“You hate rabbit casserole,” said Troll-the-Left. “And hurgleberry wine makes you sick.”
Troll-the-Right scowled and made a grumbling sound. “No, it doesn’t. I was only sick last time because you drank too much.”
“I can’t help it if we share the same stomach.”
“Well, we won’t share the same anything soon enough. Look, they’re coming for us first.”
Troll-the-Right was right. The huldre guards opened the cage and held out their swords.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Troll-the-Right warned Troll-the-Left.
As Troll-the-Left currently had the blade of Vjpp’s sword tickling his neck, he decided for once to take Troll-the-Right’s advice, and so the two-headed troll was escorted peacefully down the corridor.
Next was the Tomtegubb, who cheerfully thanked the guards for opening the cage door for him.
“I can’t wait for some fresh air,” he told them, before humming his favorite section of “The Purple Trouser Song.”
Then they opened the Snow Witch’s door. The Snow Witch looked confused.
“Why now?” she asked Grentul. “Why after all this time does he suddenly decide to sentence me to death, along with the others?”
She got no answer, or none she could understand, and so she walked out and said to Martha: “Remember. No fear, human child.”
Martha nodded, but fear couldn’t help but rise up inside her as Vjpp unlocked her door and walked toward her. He sheathed his sword and crouched down, bringing the fire of the torch near her face, causing Martha to cower from its heat. Vjpp’s free hand stroked her cheek, brushing back until one of his claws was pointed delicately on her skin. He licked his lips with his blue tongue, as if Martha was a delicious meal set before him.
There had never been a human in huldre prison before, and so Martha was a kind of exotic prize.
Vjpp whispered strange words into Martha’s ear. “Venn op cunneef.”
Then another huldre addressed him. It was Grentul, who seemed to be hurrying Vjpp along.
Martha was pulled out of the cell and down the corridor with Vjpp’s grip unnecessarily tight around her arm. They went up a dark staircase and out into fresh night air, where four white stallions and a wagon awaited them.
The wagon held a large cage, which already contained the Snow Witch, the Tomtegubb and the two-headed troll by the time Martha was thrown inside.
One of the huldre guards—the eldest, judging from his wrinkled face and dry, tattered tail—climbed onto the wooden seat at the front of the wagon. He had a long whip, and used it to startle the horses into motion.
The other huldres walked by the sides of the cage, threatening their captives with torches if they got too close to the bars.
“Oggup flimp!” they kept shouting. “Oggup flimp! Oggup flimp!”
Martha sat cross-legged in the middle of the cage floor. The Tomtegubb sat next to her, humming happy tunes.
The Snow Witch placed herself down close to the front of the cage, away from everyone else. A gentle wind blew her white hair over her face, and she made no effort to pull it back.
Martha looked beyond her, past the wagon driver, at the four white horses in front. She could see, in the torch light, the thin scars on their backs, and she flinched every time she heard the whip.
Behind her, she could hear the two troll heads talking in gentle voices for a change.
“Are you scared?” Troll-the-Left asked.
“Yes,” said Troll-the-Right. “I’m as scared as a rabbit.”
“Me too,” said Troll-the-Left, almost to his own surprise. “Me too.”
Martha closed her eyes, and tried to imagine herself in her mum’s arms. She remembered her warmth. Her smell. The little kiss she always planted on the top of Martha’s head. A kiss-plant.
It was still there.
The love she used to feel passed from her mother. It would have taken more than a falling log to crush that. And she could still feel it now. The love from all those hugs, wrapped around her like a warm blanket, telling her everything was going to be all right. Telling her that even in the cruellest moments of life, love could never die.
A Resting Place
Night fell quickly in the forest. Or rather, it rose.
As Samuel and Ibsen walked down the slope, it seemed as though they were heading down like divers into a lake, as if the night was something they could drown in. And with the darkness came the fear.
By day, the forest had been scary, but in the dark it was absolutely terrifying. Every crack of a twig or hoot of an owl caused Samuel to turn around and look for approaching trolls or other scary creatures. Every tree trunk slid out of the darkness as if to surprise him. Even the three-quarter moon seemed to be gasping in horror as it stared down at the boy and the dog below, walking in such a dangerous place after dark.
At least in daylight, Samuel had been able to see if creatures had a shadow or not. Now, in the dark, it was impossible to tell the good from the bad.
He looked at the ground, and could make out three-toed footprints. Trolls. He kept walking, and tried not to think too much about what would happen if he bumped into a troll. After all, the book had said trolls have no weakness at all, and the book would surely be right, as it was right about the Truth Pixie and all the other creatures.
(But of course, Samuel didn’t know yet that you shouldn’t believe everything you read in books.)
Fortunately, Samuel’s instinct to walk down the hill had been correct. They came to a wide road with wagon tracks pressed into the earth and Samuel was certain it was the one the Truth Pixie had talked about. The one that would lead to the Changemaker.
“Here it is,” Samuel said, feeling he needed to say something. “Here’s the road.”
He turned right along the road, and kept walking, and noticed Ibsen was beginning to get very tired. The dog’s body seemed to be falling asleep as they walked. His tail drooped. His tongue hung out of the side of his mouth like a piece of ham. His paws grew heavier and heavier.
Samuel too was finding it hard.
“Stay awake,” he kept telling himself.
But it was difficult. His eyelids had become heavy weights that could only stay open with the greatest of effort. And his pixie sandals were beginning to rub uncomfortably against his aching feet.
Well, maybe it wouldn’t hurt if I had a nap, he thought.
After all, it’s probably safer to stay still in the dark than to move around. And if they had a little sleep, they would wake up feeling more refreshed and alert and would therefore have a better chance of finding Martha. With that thought in mind, he looked for a suitable hiding place where he could lay himself down.
He led Ibsen off the road and headed in among some pine trees. If they found one with a wide enough trunk, they would be able to lie down behind it and stay safely out of view.
So he walked over to the largest trunk he could find and lay down, holding the book to his chest like a hot water bottle. Ibsen curled up by his side and dozed off in seconds. Samuel found it more difficult. First he rested his head against the trunk, but it made the most hard and painful of pillows. Staring up at the night sky—a giant dot-to-dot drawing of glowing stars—he knew he wasn’t going to fall asleep here.
Next he lowered his head and placed it on the ground, but the earth was hard too. And awkward, from all the pine needles. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but it was as much use as trying to catch up with a rainbow. Every time he seemed to get nearer, it slipped farther away.
He was exhausted, but too uncomfortable. And he kept thinking of something his dad had said after Samuel’s first day of secondary school:
Happiness is e
verywhere, son, you just have to know where to look for it.
His dad had been wrong. Where was the happiness in this forest? There was nothing but fear and cruelty and loneliness. And pine needles.
This is no good. I’ll never fall asleep lying here.
He stood up and brushed away the pine needles from his cheek. Everywhere he looked, it was the same. Hard trees and hard ground. It was as if the whole forest had been designed to stop him from sleeping.
He walked away from Ibsen, in a kind of daze between sleep and wakefulness, forgetting he was in the most dangerous part of the forest. Then, when he was just about to try the ground once again, he tripped over something. Or, more precisely, onto something.
Something soft. Like a large furry pillow. Or stomach.
“My berries!”
The creature Samuel had fallen on was clearly startled to be woken up from its berry-related dream.
Samuel panicked.
“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for the book that had slid down the other side of the creature’s belly. “I’m sorry…I was just…I was looking for…”
“Somewhere to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“You can sleep here,” said the creature, with a yawn. “You can sleep on my belly. I’m sure it must be the comfiest thing around here.”
Samuel couldn’t see the creature’s face very well. It was just dark fur leaning against a darker trunk. But his voice was warm and welcoming and sounded rather like a drink of hot chocolate (if a drink of hot chocolate had a voice).
“I think I might…find my own place to sleep.” Samuel didn’t know what to do. If he ran straight away, the creature might chase him. But if he stayed still…
“Berries,” said the creature, who already seemed halfway back to its dream.
Samuel turned himself on his side, so his right cheek was against the soft fur. The creature was right. Their surely couldn’t be anything comfier than its belly around here.
So warm.
So soft.
The gentle rise and fall of the creature’s breathing had a hypnotic effect. And the smell of his fur seemed to be the smell of sleep itself, as if it sweated dreams the way people sweat off their food.
“Don’t sleep,” Samuel said to himself, knowing that the creature could be dangerous. Knowing it might have no shadow. Knowing he should go back to Ibsen. “Don’t…sleep.”
However, tiredness was winning the battle, tugging down his eyelids and switching off the lights in his mind.
But before his eyes closed fully, he looked at the open book on the ground beside him. The moonlit page read:
THE SLEMP
The Slemp is a large and fur-covered creature who spends most of its life asleep. In most respects, the Slemp is bearlike in appearance, with round ears and soft fur all over its body, but its large protruding jaws are similar to those of a lion.
Due to its fat, comfortable stomach, the Slemp is viewed by weary travelers as a living pillow. In its waking moments, the Slemp encourages passersby to rest their heads on it, in a voice so warm and soothing it is almost impossible to resist.
But resist you should, for if you make the mistake of falling asleep on a Slemp, you are unlikely ever to wake up again. Slemps have extremely sensitive noses, and love the smell of dreams that wafts out of sleeping ears, which reminds them of luscious berries.
Not only do Slemps like the smell of dreams, they also like the taste of them. Even in their sleep they can bite the heads off their dreaming victims without even thinking. Sometimes it is one complete bite. Sometimes it is a series of nibbles, but the jaws are so fast and so strong that in either instance you wouldn’t stand a chance of survival.
WEAKNESS: The Slemp is so tired it rarely has the strength to run after its victims.
Samuel gulped. His body was now wide awake with fear. The fear intensified as one of the Slemp’s giant paws fell across the top of the boy’s pounding chest.
Pressing the paw away from him, Samuel slowly raised his head off the furry stomach.
“More berries,” mumbled the Slemp as Samuel lowered the paw back down.
Samuel stood up. Started walking. Stopped.
The book. You idiot, you forgot the book.
He tiptoed back, picked the book up, his hands trembling with fear.
The Slemp growled, as Samuel was disturbing its sleep. The growl was so deep it seemed to come from the very center of the earth, and there was nothing hot chocolatey about the Slemp now.
In the space of a second, the Slemp sat up and snapped its wide jaws in the direction of Samuel’s head. The Slemp’s sharp teeth were in time to catch a few strands of Samuel’s hair, but nothing else. Samuel had pulled back just in time, and was now running at Olympic speed away from the deadly creature. He turned around and saw that the Slemp was back asleep, and felt relieved. The feeling didn’t last. A moment later he heard something.
At first it sounded like heavy rain, but then he recognized it from the night before. It was the sound of horses on the road. Heading his way.
Having ran closer toward the noise, Samuel now hid behind a tree that was near enough to the road for him to peep out and get a clear view. Already, in the distance, he could see them.
Flaming torches, like those he saw when the huldres caught the Tomtegubb. He waited until the flaming torches were close enough to help Samuel see the rest of them.
Four white horses, lined two by two, pulling a wagon. The wagon held some kind of cage, and there were huldres marching by the sides, carrying the torches. They had swords too, and other unidentifiable weapons attached to their belts.
When one of the huldres on the near side turned around to scan the trees, Samuel could see the creature’s unblinking, wide-apart eyes.
He shot back behind the trunk. Then dared himself to look again a second later. Inside the flame-lit cage, he saw a woman with long white hair in a long white tunic with skin so pale it seemed to shine in the dark.
There was a round, barrel-shaped creature who was singing a faint song. Samuel recognized the Tomtegubb instantly as the one he and his aunt had seen leave the forest. Then at the other end of the cage he saw a large creature with two bearded heads.
A troll, thought Samuel with a shudder. A real-life troll. Just like the one in the painting at Old Tor’s shop.
But it was the sight of the fourth prisoner, however, that really shocked Samuel.
This prisoner wasn’t a witch, or a troll, but something far more familiar.
A ten-year-old girl, in a navy-blue dress, sitting down on the floor, with crossed legs and a face that didn’t look happy or sad or anything at all.
He said her name in a gasp.
“Martha.”
He felt a total and complete joy surge through him.
She’s alive. Alive!
“I’ll save you.” He whispered the promise. “I’ll get you back.”
He walked down the slope and waved his arms. Martha couldn’t see him, so he walked a few steps closer and tried again.
Later he would realize that he should have waited, then followed at a safe distance behind. But that was later, and this was now.
A guard turned around. The same guard who had scanned the trees before. This time Samuel was spotted. Orders were shouted in a strange language, then two of the guards jumped down from the wagon and began to race up the hill toward him.
The Open Door
Ibsen had woken to the sound of hooves on hard ground. Samuel wasn’t there. Ibsen followed his scent trail all the way to the spot where the boy was now standing, the spot where the guards were now running toward.
Ibsen barked behind Samuel, to tell him to get moving, but for a moment Samuel stayed exactly as he was. If he got captured, then he would be with Martha again and that was what he wanted, wasn’t it?
No.
It would be easier to rescue Martha if he stayed free. If the huldres caught him, they would both end up dead.
So Samuel ran.
Fast.
His pixie sandals hardly touched the ground as he chased after Ibsen’s tail, jumping rabbits and dodging trees, hopping over pinecones. He looked behind.
The huldres were getting closer. One pulled a dagger from his belt and sent it spinning through the air toward Samuel. It landed by his feet.
Samuel thought about picking it up, but it would take too long. He kept running, ferns and bracken whipping his legs as he shot past.
They sped by the Slemp, who was still sleeping.
Ibsen galloped farther up the hill. Samuel followed, his chest burning with every uphill step.
The slope got less steep, then leveled out. Ahead, through the trees, there were stone houses in a crooked line, with fenced-off rabbit enclosures behind each one.
“Ibsen!”
The dog ran between two of the enclosures and around to the front of the second house. He ran under an outside table and in through the open front door.
Samuel glimpsed the curve of Ibsen’s tail just as it disappeared inside.
Glancing behind, he realized the two huldres hadn’t yet made it up the hill. If he went through the open door, they wouldn’t see him.
A knife was resting on the outside table. It was stained with fresh blood.
He picked it up and went inside the stone house, shutting the door behind him. And that is when he felt a metal thud on the back of his head, causing his mind to swirl into darkness.
A Troll’s House
The first thing Samuel was aware of was the pain.
His head was pounding with the worst headache of his life.
The second thing he was aware of was the softness beneath the pain. A pillow. He was lying on a bed.
Where am I?
For a moment he thought he was back at home. He thought that everything that had happened since Martha’s birthday had been part of a horrendous nightmare.