West of the Moon by Katherine Langrish Page A

lifted. Perhaps Arne or Bjørn had come looking for her! “Over here!” she shouted, and heard an answering shout, blurred by the wind.
    â€œComing!” If only she had a lantern to signal back. The wind flung snow in her face like handfuls of grey soot. Alf barked, and the sound was whipped away.
    The light glimmered again, further off and weaker. “Wait!” Hilde cried. She struggled on, panting. Each gasp filled her mouth with snowflakes like feathers. She coughed. “Wait for me!” She ran, Alf bounding at her heels, overtaking the sheep. The ground sloped. She slowed, afraid to go too fast. “Where are you?” she bellowed between cupped hands.
    Alf sprang up and grabbed her sleeve in his teeth. He tugged, and she sat down hard. “What on earth –!” But the far-away light was returning, impossibly fast. No human being could run so smoothly over such rough ground. The light hurtled towards her, growing brighter and brighter, and halted in the air overhead. Hilde threw herself flat. Alf cowered beside her, growling. With a soft puff! the light went out. There was a wild laugh. Something rushed past them in the darkness and receded up the slope.
    Hilde stood up on wobbling legs. She was on the edge of a cliff. If Alf hadn’t caught her sleeve, she would have pitched straight over. The creature, whatever it was – troll or mountain spirit – had led her completely astray.
    Alf shook himself, as if telling her the danger was over. She patted his rough coat. “Good old Alf! They haven’t done for us yet. That’s the second time you’ve saved me tonight.”
    As she turned to follow the old dog back to the sheep, the dark night and racing snow lit up as if a door had opened. And indeed it had. A few hundred yards up the slope, yellow light poured from a rift in the crag. In fear and amazement, she watched a dark silhouette approach the lighted gap and disappear inside. Spindly limbs and a large head – was that the troll-thing which had misled her? And was it going home?
    Icy fragments of hail flew into her face. She shielded her eyes and looked again. The light was failing. A huge stone door swung ponderously shut. The hillside trembled at the shock, and all was dark.
    Hilde touched Alf ’s neck. “Come!” she murmured.
    At the bottom of the Stonemeadow the snow lay only ankle deep, and Alf drove the little flock briskly along the road till they reached the track to the farm.
    Gudrun had the farmhouse door open in a flash. “You clever girl! You found them! Come inside at once!” She began to hug Hilde but then held her off. “Get those wet things off – you’re frozen! I’ll put the sheep away. There’s hot soup in the pot.”
    â€œAlf shall have some,” declared Hilde. The old dog lay stiffly down by the fire. He gave a perfunctory lick to his bedraggled fur and laid his head between his paws.
    â€œDry him and give him some soup,” Hilde called to the twins, rubbing her hair vigorously. “He was marvellous. He saved my life! Ma, just wait till you hear our adventures. We found the door into Troll Fell!”

Chapter 11
The Dogfight
    P EER WAS SITTING by the hearth one dark afternoon, cleaning his uncles’ boots. Several pairs lay scattered about and he was scraping the mud off and greasing them to keep them waterproof and supple. The best pairs were thick, double-stitched reindeer hide with the fur inside.
    Peer handled them enviously. His own shoes were worn and split, wrapped around with string and stuffed with hay to try and keep his feet warm. They were always wet. His toes were red with chilblains.
    He sat as close to the fire as he could. He’d been out for hours shovelling snow and carrying feed to the animals. There were a lot of them now. Grim had taken Grendel one morning and brought down some sheep he claimed were all his, though Peer, looking suspiciously, spotted a