West of the Moon

“No!” Hilde cried.

“We don’t have tails,” Peer shouted. “We think they’re ugly!”

The Dovre princess screamed. “Oh, what an insult!”

The Gaffer stepped in, bowing as gallantly as he could. “Now, now,” he rumbled. “No cause for concern. We all appreciate your beauty, my dear. I myself have three eyes,” he coughed modestly, “but three tails are rare indeed.”

His own daughter scowled. The Dovre princess simpered.

“No,” the Gaffer went on, “we’ve simply neglected one small ceremony. After that, these humans will see things as we do. Here, you two!” He snapped his fingers and led them aside.

“Ceremony?” asked Peer apprehensively.

The Gaffer nodded. “You haven’t yet tasted our beer. A single sip of the bog-wife’s brew, and you’ll see things our way for ever and ever!”

“For ever?” Peer repeated slowly.

“Excuse me – but we’ll think the Dovre princess is beautiful?” asked Hilde.

“You will indeed,” said the Gaffer.

“And the food?” Peer was too shaken to mince his words. “We’ll enjoy eating frog soup and rat stew? And the music? It sounds like – like a cat on the roof, or a cow in pain.”

“It’s giving me a headache,” Hilde added.

“I’m getting annoyed!” The Gaffer squared up to them. “See here! We can’t have servants that don’t admire us. Once you’ve drunk our brew you’ll think black is white. You think night is day and day is night. And so they are! It’s only another way of seeing.”

“But then,” said Hilde, appalled, “we won’t be us. We are what we think!” She looked around wildly. “We won’t be humans any more. Inside, we’ll be trolls!”

“AND WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH THAT?” roared the Gaffer.

Peer and Hilde stared at the glittering crowds, and then at each other. Everything was very sharp and clear, and also a little distant. Peer tasted fear, sour in his mouth. Between the red pillars supporting the roof he could see the dark spaces of the night sky. Out there lay freedom, the snowy slopes, the stars. But he would never reach it.

We’ll never escape, he thought. We’ll never follow the stream out of the hill.

Once he and Hilde had drunk a drop of the bog-wife’s beer, they wouldn’t even want to leave. They would live the rest of their lives like earthworms buried under Troll Fell. They would still look the same, but on the inside they would have changed completely. Peer thought he would rather be dead.

One of the Gaffer’s trolls came trotting up. Dimly Peer recognised it: the kitchen troll with the long beak. It bowed to the Gaffer, presenting a golden cup. The cup was Ralf ’s cup – the Bride Cup – and it was half full of brown beer.

“Right!” Briskly the Gaffer lashed his tail. “Who’s going first?”

Hilde met Peer’s eyes, despairing but steady. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Peer.”

“You didn’t,” said Peer. “I wanted to come.”

She reached for the cup, but Peer was quicker and snatched it up. “Wait!” he said breathlessly.

He looked into the cup. The dark liquid swirled, a bottomless whirlpool. He glanced up, to see the world for the last time as himself. His throat closed up. There was a drumming in his ears – or was that the Gaffer growling? He bent his head, lifting the cup reluctantly to his lips, spinning out the seconds…