Troll and Trylleri by Joyce Holt

Author:Joyce Holt [Holt, Joyce]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2018-02-10T07:00:00+00:00

29 – Seen from Afar

Jorunn's fingers tightened on the key until her flesh turned white. Valka, a hulder-maid! Valka, of troll-kind! What was she doing living among Gunnarr's household?

Not searching for a husband from among humankind or she would have cast a glamour of human beauty upon herself. Nei, she went about shrouded in a shawl, slinking away from com-panionship.

Why didn't the goats trample and bleat in panic? "Øy," Jorunn breathed, "just look how they crowd around her knees, begging for a scratch between the horns."

Jorunn arched brows as it all came clear. The flute, the magical flute – of course! Valka had brought the flute from her otherworldly home, using its trylleri to charm the herd.

That was why the goatherd forever lusted after creamy, buttery porridge. Since cattle do not thrive in Svartalfheim, trolls must steal the delights of cream and butter from other worlds.

By now, Valka had tucked her tail under, donned her outer gown, and wrapped up in her shawl. She settled down among the goats and drew out her flute.

Jorunn shook her head. No wonder Valka didn't fear the pig-keeper. It's a marvel she hadn't ripped his arms off. Why did she hold back and play the simpleton? Why did she hide among Gunnarr's folk?

Why had she shown Jorunn that kindness, shielding her from Sverri's attacks? All the sagas portrayed trolls as creatures of greed and sloth and cruelty, seeking only their own pleasure, looking upon stray folk of Midgard as fair prey.

She put aside the key, for the journey went on. Gyda drowsed off at last, but Jorunn couldn't spy back to Kvien without twisting in her seat and rousing her mistress. The creek bed they followed took a turn to the south, so she whispered a look at Svana hauling a bucket of snow, at Oddleif checking snares in the woods, at Inga stranded at Dondstad.

The pregnant housegirl still looked wan. Jorunn saw her nibble a piece of flatbread from the pouch she'd given her. The girl had finally listened to that word of wisdom.

Inga stood in the houseyard at Dondstad, staring at the hall. Jorunn whispered a look at the building. A section of wall was giving way. Not the door. A hatch she hadn't noticed before. Roald came out, stooping low, bearing the leading edge of a bier.

Someone had died. They were using the death door that would soon be hammered closed, so the spirit of the dead could not retrace its path back inside and haunt the living.

Jorunn's heart clutched with dulled grief, remembering the death door at her own ramshackle hut, her father dragging her mother out with rough hands and rougher speech.

Roald's brother Hadd bore the other end of the bier. They came out into the courtyard, and folk gathered around, many of them weeping. The crowd moved away. Jorunn was left staring at the still-gaping death door.

"Show me who died at Dondstad," Jorunn whispered. She drew a sharp breath, then blurted, "Prince Dond, he's dead!"

Brynja sat forward with a cry.

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