West of the Moon. Katherine Langrish

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СКАЧАТЬ lifted the lids of several wooden bins, built on either side of the ladder to the loft. Most were empty except for a few dusty grains at the bottom. One held a tangle of old leather harness. And one would not open. The lid was secured with an iron padlock. Peer rattled it. By the fire, Loki raised his head inquiringly. “I’m sure this is the one, Loki!” Peer told him. But knowing that did not help very much.

      Reluctantly he climbed the rickety ladder to the grinding loft. A soft ring of flour encircled the millstones. Peer shovelled it into the waiting sack. He peeped into the hopper, which was getting low, and refilled it from a half-full sack of barley, which he could just lift. Pleased with himself, he was about to climb back down, when Loki leaped from his place by the fire and burst out barking, hackles up. Peer looked over the edge of the loft in alarm. Were his uncles coming back? Was it thieves?

      Loki pranced, growling, then jumped and snapped at something above his head. He backed a few steps and barked some more, watching the rafters.

      Peer slid down the ladder. “Loki, shut up! It’s only a rat.” And he sat on the dirty rush mat and reached out his hands to the fire. Slowly his eyes closed. His head nodded forwards. But Loki barked again, and he sat up with a jerk.

      “Stop it!” he complained. Loki flung him an apologetic glance but continued to stand braced and staring upwards. Peer’s head drooped again, but as his eyelids closed he heard a familiar voice. “See my leg?” it giggled. There was another flurry of barks from Loki, who jumped about as if on springs.

      Peer’s eyes flew wide. By the flickering firelight he saw something sitting on one of the cross beams. A spindly little leg covered in a worn grey stocking dangled temptingly just over Loki’s head.

      “See my little leg?” teased the voice again. Loki leaped again in frustrated frenzy.

      “It’s only the Nis, silly!” Peer got up and grabbed his pet, closing his hand around Loki’s muzzle to keep his mouth shut. “Now be quiet.” He stared up into the beams. The leg had been withdrawn. He could just see a dim shape sitting with its arms wrapped round its knees. “Hello!” he said.

      “You spoiled the fun,” the Nis sulked.

      “I’m sorry.”

      The Nis shuffled round on the beam till it had its back turned.

      “How’s the groute this evening? Have they given you any butter?” asked Peer cunningly. The Nis came to life at once.

      “I doesn’t know, Peer Ulfsson. Has they? Let’s see.”

      It ran briskly along the beam and down the wall like a big spider. Peer watched, delighted. It was a little grey, whiskery thing with big hands and long knobbly fingers. Its ragged grey clothing seemed part of it, but it wore a little red cap on its head. Loki backed away grumbling.

      The Nis scampered to the bowl of groute and lifted it. “Cold!” it muttered. “Cold as their cruel hearts, and lumpy, too!” It stirred the bowl, scooping up the groute in messy splodges, then sat distastefully licking its fingers.

      “Was there any butter?” asked Peer. The Nis shook its head.

      “Now for the housework!” it said suddenly. “I has to do the housework, Peer Ulfsson. As long as they feeds me, I has to do the work. But I doesn’t have to do it well. See me!”

      The little creature seized a broom bigger than itself and went leaping about the room like a grasshopper, sweeping up great clouds of floury dust. Sneezing, it cleared the dishes from the table and hid the bones under Uncle Baldur’s pillow. It polished the plates with one of Uncle Grim’s shirts, and shook the stale crusts and crumbs into his best boots. The pieces of bacon rind it dropped in front of Loki, who ate them suspiciously. Finally it put three wooden spoons and the frying pan tidily away under Uncle Grim’s mattress.

      “Well done,” said Peer, laughing. “Do you always tidy up like that? Won’t they be furious?”

      “What can they do?” asked the Nis. “I doesn’t want much, Peer Ulfsson. Only a bit of butter in my groute. Or a drop of honey to keep me sweet.” Loki had fallen asleep. The Nis began sneaking up on him with the obvious intention of pulling his tail.

      “Don’t do that,” Peer said. “Tell me about my uncles. I’m sure you know all about them. Where have they gone tonight?”

      “To the Stonemeadow. Ssh!” The Nis laid a long finger to its lips and tiptoed closer to Loki.

      “Oh, leave him alone! The Stonemeadow? Where’s that?”

      The Nis gave up. “High up on Troll Fell!” it snapped.

      “I thought they’d gone drinking. What are they doing there?”

      The Nis looked at him out of the corner of one eye.

      “Talking to trolls? Please tell me,” Peer begged. “I heard them say something about trolls, and taking me to the – to the Gaffer, the King of the Trolls. Is that right? And something about a wedding? Do you know anything? Can you help me?”

      The Nis ran into the corner where the big scales hung, and jumped into one of the pans, which hardly moved. It sat there bouncing gently and would not look round.

      Peer saw he had gone about things the wrong way.

      “Nis,” he called quietly, “I think you’re very clever.”

      The Nis sniffed.

      “I know a girl who lives on a farm near here. She has lots of butter. Shall I ask her to give me a big lump all for you?”

      The Nis twitched and the scales swayed.

      “Please be my friend, Nis, and I’ll be yours.” Peer stopped as his voice shook. He so badly wanted a friend.

      The Nis relented. It sat cross-legged in the pan and leaned on the chains to make the scales swing. “What does you want to know, Peer Ulfsson?”

      Peer didn’t know where to start. “Well – what’s this wedding?”

      “Oh!” The Nis got very excited. “A very big wedding indeed! At midwinter, the Gaffer, the old King of Troll Fell, will marry his son to – guess who?”

      “I can’t guess,” said Peer.

      “Guess! Guess!” the Nis insisted.

      “I can’t,” Peer laughed. “Tell me!”

      The Nis paused, and said in a hushed voice, “To the King of the Dovrefell’s daughter!” It sat back.

      It meant something to Peer after all. Even he had heard of the trolls of the Dovrefell, the wild mountain range to the north. “That’s an important match?” he suggested.

      The Nis nodded. “Everyone is going, Peer Ulfsson. They say the bride is very beautiful. There will be such a feast!” It wriggled with delight and cracked its knuckles.

      “Are you going?”

      The Nis’s face fell. “I doesn’t know,” it admitted. “Food and drink, as much as you can hold, music and dancing, and the hill raised up on red pillars СКАЧАТЬ