Moa woke to mooing. She wrapped her blanket around her like a shawl, put her feet in her clogs, and went to milk the cows.
Life moves slowly in winter. Moa took the milk to the cold cellar and returned to bed, to wait for sunrise. It didn’t come.
The sky above the smoke hole in the thatch remained dark. Moa’s family would not wake from their sleep, despite her crying.
Moa dried her tears. Then she hung the lamp from the door on the billygoat’s horn, filled his panniers, and lead him east.
They made good progress through the snow. Soon they came to the bridge over the river.
“Hello,” Moa called. “Master Troll?”
The troll climbed up.
“Where’s the sun?” he said. “I can’t sleep in darkness.”
“I’ll find out,” Moa said. “Will you help?”