West of the Moon. Katherine Langrish

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СКАЧАТЬ at him and they talked cheerfully as they went on up the path. By now the little ones were straggling.

      “I’m tired,” Sigurd complained. “My feet ache.”

      “Get on the pony,” said Hilde, lifting him up.

      “I’m tired too,” wailed Sigrid.

      Peer felt strong and capable. “I’ll give you a ride!” he said, bending down, and Sigrid gleefully scrambled on to his back. She was very light. He bounded up the track, bumping to make her laugh, till they came in sight of the mill. A figure like a dark stone tower stood at the entrance to the yard, glaring down the road.

      Heart thudding, mouth dry, Peer uncurled Sigrid’s warm little hands from their stranglehold around his neck and lowered her gently to the ground.

      “I’m for it,” he whispered to Hilde. “Better get out while you can.”

      “Boy!” Uncle Baldur’s voice cracked, shooting into a scream. “Come here AT ONCE!”

      “Who is that nasty man?” asked Sigrid in a high, alarmed little voice.

      “The miller,” said Hilde crisply. “Come here, Sigrid.”

      “Go home,” said Peer distractedly. “Go on, Hilde – go!”

      He went warily forwards. Behind him Sigrid was asking piercingly, “Why is the nasty man angry with Peer?”

      “Just wait till I get my hands on you,” Uncle Baldur shrieked. “Corn to grind and work to do, and you run off to play?” He lunged, and Peer instinctively dodged him. Even madder, Uncle Baldur grabbed again, got Peer by the wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. Peer gasped.

      “Wastrel!” Uncle Baldur shook him. Through the drumming blood in his ears Peer heard Loki barking, Hilde shouting, “Let go of him!” and above it all little Sigrid screaming, “I don’t like that nasty man! I hate him!”

      “Hilde!” he yelled, struggling to see through a red flood of shame. Uncle Baldur had him doubled over now, and was raining blows on him. And Hilde was witnessing it all! “Hilde, for goodness’ sake, get those kids away from here!”

      The noise attracted Uncle Grim. He stood watching for a moment and then roared, “Let go of ’im, Baldur. Let ’im go!”

      Uncle Baldur stopped in astonishment. He looked at his brother. Grim simply jerked his head towards Hilde, who was hurriedly lifting the shrieking twins on to the pony. Then he turned and walked away.

      “Ha.” Uncle Baldur let Peer go. Peer fell to the ground. Baldur’s little piggy eyes twinkled, dark and calculating. He scratched his beard.

      “Maybe I was hasty,” he puffed. “A boy has to have friends, eh? I like a lad of spirit. Don’t you be scared of me, my dear,” he cooed to Hilde, who was dragging the pony towards the bridge. “This lad of mine is the apple of my eye. He is! I used to play truant myself, once, and my dear old dad used to beat me for it. Made me the man I am today!”

      “Goodbye,” said Hilde quickly to Peer.

      “Boys will be boys,” went on Uncle Baldur, following her around the end of the building. “Don’t go yet! How about a bite to eat, or a drink of, er – a drink of – of buttermilk?” He stopped, watching as Hilde urged the pony across the bridge and uphill towards the wood.

      “Come again to play with the boy!” he shouted after her. “Bring the kiddies. Don’t be shy!” Sigurd and Sigrid were still crying. Uncle Baldur stood staring after them until they disappeared into the trees. At last he turned on his heel and strode back to the yard.

      “I’m a fair man, see,” he said to Peer, showing his teeth. “You deserve a bit of fun. Bring your friends here any time you like. Make sure you tell them. Any time! Show them how the mill works. They’ll like that.”

      “Yes, Uncle.” Peer was determined to do no such thing. Baldur opened his mouth as if to say something more, and changed his mind. He swung away, aiming a kick at Loki, who jumped deftly aside.

      Peer lay in the straw that night, wrapped in the worn old cloak Hilde had given him. Though his bruises hurt, he didn’t mind them, because now he had a future. At midwinter – or sooner, as soon as Ralf Eiriksson came home – he and Loki would escape up the valley.

      Ralf would protect them. Secretly Peer hoped that Ralf would let him stay. Surely a boy could help on the farm? Peer wouldn’t eat much. He would train Loki to herd sheep. As for his uncles – well, perhaps once their plan had failed, they would not care enough to try and recapture him.

      He pulled the cloak over his head and fell asleep. But dark water came spilling into his dreams. He was swimming in the middle of the millpond, far from the bank. Below him, Granny Greenteeth came rising through the water. She wrapped long skinny arms about his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. “Come to me,” she crooned. “Come to your old granny. Nobody else cares!”

      “No, no!” cried Peer. But tangled in her strong arms he sank deeper and deeper.

      He woke sweating, all wound up in the cloak. The barn was completely dark. Loki pushed a cold nose into his hand, a mouse whisked over his foot, and a scuffling overhead suggested the Nis. Peer stood up. He needed to go outside.

      It was raining. A sweet smell of new hay puffed from the damp fields. The rain came on harder, as if it had been just waiting for him to step outside. Peer could not afford to let his only cloak get soaked. He felt his way along the side of the barn to the privy, a small stone shed built against the wall, pushed at the creaky old door and slipped inside.

      Here it was warm and smelly. Some Grimsson ancestor had built it years before, dug a deep trench and erected a plank seat with three holes in it. Peer wrinkled his nose. But it was a dry place to go. He sat down on the first seat.

      It was too dark to see much. Just as well, thought Peer, or I might start imagining things. There was a black shadow away to his left that was just the shape of a person sitting there. Probably a stain on the wall. He stared at it harder. Actually it wasn’t so like a person. No one could really have such a short body and lumpy head, with one ear much, much bigger than the other. No one could really —

      The shadow sitting on the third seat coughed quietly, and Peer’s hair stood upright on his head. He burst into the yard trying to run and haul his trousers up at the same time. He had the nasty impression, though he could not swear to it, that a second misshapen head had popped up through the middle seat as he rushed out.

      He went quickly behind the barn, among the wet nettles, and returned to Loki, zinging with nerves.

      It was a relief to hear the Nis skipping about again after all that. Peer called to it, and in a trembling voice, asked what he had seen.

      “Lubbers,” replied the Nis with a contemptuous sniff.

      “Not trolls?” Peer cleared his throat. “What’s a lubber?”

      The Nis would not come down. It was chasing spiders, and he heard it muttering to itself: “Butter! They all promises butter to poor Nithing. But promises melt easy in the mouth.”

      “I’m sorry.” Peer saw he was out of favour. “I did ask my friend СКАЧАТЬ