Troll Fell. Katherine Langrish

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      “May he catch his death!” sniffed Gudrun.

      “Why did he shout at you, Pa?” asked Sigrid, wide-eyed.

      “Because he doesn’t like me!” Ralf grinned.

      “Why not?”

      “It’s all because of Pa’s golden cup,” said Hilde wisely. “Isn’t it?”

      “That’s right, Hilde. He’d love to get his hands on that,” said Ralf with relish. “My troll treasure, my lucky cup!”

      “Unlucky cup, more like,” sniffed Gudrun. But Sigurd and Sigrid jumped up and down, begging, “Tell us the story again, Pa!”

      “All right!” began Ralf, scooping the twins up on to his knees. “It was a wild night just like this, maybe ten years ago. Like tonight, I was riding home from the market at Hammerhaven. I was halfway over Troll Fell, tired and wet and weary, when I saw a bright light glowing from the top of the crag and heard snatches of music gusting on the wind.”

      “Curiosity killed the cat,” Gudrun muttered.

      “I turned the pony off the road and kicked him into a trot up the hillside. I was in one of our own fields, the high one called the Stonemeadow. At the top of the slope I could hardly believe my eyes. The whole rocky summit of the hill had been lifted up, like a great stone lid! It was resting on four stout red pillars. The space underneath was shining with golden light, and there were scores, maybe hundreds, of trolls, all shapes and sizes, skipping and dancing, and the noise they were making! Louder than a sheep fair, what with bleating and baaing, mewing and caterwauling, horns wailing, drums pounding, and squeaking of one-string fiddles!”

      “How could they lift the whole top of Troll Fell, Pa?” asked Sigurd.

      “As easily as you take off the top of your egg,” joked Ralf. He sobered. “Who knows what powers they have, my son? I only tell you what I saw, saw with my own eyes. They were feasting in the great space under the hill: all sorts of food spread out on gold and silver dishes, and little troll servingmen jumping about between the dancers, balancing great loaded trays and never spilling a drop, clever as jugglers! It made me laugh out loud!

      “But the pony shied. I’d been so busy staring, I hadn’t noticed this troll girl creeping up on me till she popped up right by the pony’s shoulder. She held out a beautiful golden cup filled to the brim with something steaming hot – spiced ale I thought, and I took it gratefully from her, cold and wet as I was!”

      “Madness!” muttered Gudrun.

      Ralf looked at the children. “Just before I gulped it down,” he said slowly, “I noticed the look on her face. There was a gleam in her slanting eyes, a wicked sparkle! And her ears – her hairy, pointed ears – twitched forwards.

      “I saw she was up to no good!”

      “Go on!” said the children breathlessly.

      Ralf leaned forwards. “So, I lifted the cup, pretending to sip. Then I jerked the whole drink out over my shoulder. It splashed out smoking, some on to the ground and some on to the pony’s tail, where it singed off half his hair! There’s an awful yell from the troll girl, and the next thing the pony and I are off down the hill, galloping for our lives. I’ve still got the golden cup in one hand – and half the trolls of Troll Fell are tearing after us!”

      Soot showered into the fire. Alf, the old sheepdog, pricked his ears uneasily. Up on the roof the troll lay flat with one large ear unfurled over the smoke hole. Its tail lashed about like a cat’s, and it was growling. But none of the humans noticed. They were too wrapped up in the story. Ralf wiped his face, his hand trembling with remembered excitement and laughed.

      “I daren’t go home,” he continued. “The trolls would have torn your mother and Hilde to pieces!”

      “What about us?” shouted Sigrid.

      “You weren’t born, brats,” said Hilde cheerfully. “Go on, Pa!”

      “I had one chance,” said Ralf. “At the tall stone called the Finger, I turned off the road on to the big ploughed field above the mill. The pony could go quicker over the soft ground, you see, but the trolls found it heavy going across the furrows, and I guess the clay clogged their feet. I got to the millstream ahead of them, jumped off and dragged the pony through the water. There was no bridge then. I was safe! The trolls couldn’t follow me over the brook.”

      “Were they angry?” asked Sigurd, shivering.

      “Spitting like cats and hissing like kettles!” said Ralf. “They threw stones and clods at me, but it was nearly daybreak and off they scuttled up the hillside. The pony and I were spent. I staggered over to the mill and banged on the door. They were all asleep inside, and as I banged again and waited I heard – no, I felt, through the soles of my feet, a sort of far-off grating shudder as the top of Troll Fell sank into its place again.”

      He stopped thoughtfully.

      “And then?” prompted Hilde.

      “The old miller, Grim, threw the door open swearing. What was I doing there so early, and so on – and then he saw the golden cup. His eyes nearly came out on stalks. A minute later he couldn’t do enough for me. He kicked his sons out of bed, made room for me by the fire, sent his wife running for ale and bread, and it was ‘Toast your feet, Ralf, and tell us what happened!’”

      “And you did!” said Gudrun grimly.

      “Yes,” sighed Ralf, “of course I did. I told them everything.” He turned to Hilde. “Fetch down the cup, Hilde. Let’s look at it again.”

      Up on the roof the troll got very excited. It skirmished round and round the smoke hole, like a dog trying to see down a burrow. It dug its nails deep into the sods and leaned over dangerously, trying to get an upside-down glimpse of the golden goblet which Hilde lifted from the shelf and carried over to her father.

      “Lovely!” Ralf whispered, tilting it. The bowl was wide. Two handles like serpents looped from the rim to the foot. The gold shone so richly in the firelight, it looked as if it could melt over his fingers like butter. Ralf stroked it gently, but Gudrun tightened her lips and looked away.

      “Why don’t we ever use it?” asked Sigrid admiringly.

      “Use that?” cried Gudrun in horror. “Never! It’s real bad luck, you mark my words. Many a time I’ve asked your father to take it back up the hill and leave it. But he’s too stubborn.”

      “It’s so pretty,” said Sigrid. She stretched out to touch it, but Gudrun smacked her hand away.

      “Gudrun!” Ralf grumbled. “Always worrying! Who’d believe my story without this cup? My prize, won fair and square! Bad luck goes to people with bad hearts. We have nothing to fear.”

      “Did the old miller like it?” asked Sigurd.

      “Oh yes,” said Ralf seriously. “‘Troll treasure!’ said old Grim, ‘We could do with a bit of that, couldn’t we, boys?’ I began to feel uncomfortable. After all, nobody knew where I was. I got up to go – and there were the СКАЧАТЬ