Katherine Langrish - West of the Moon

“You’ll not drag the boy away from his father’s funeral?” Brand exclaimed. “Why, it’s not even over!”

And the villagers surged around, crying, “Shame!”

“Show some respect!” said Brand hotly.

Uncle Baldur grunted. Summing up the crowd with his sharp black eyes, he said at last, “Very well. I’ll stay a day or two. There’s stuff to sell, I suppose.” Jerking his head at Brand he demanded, “Has he paid your dad’s last wages – eh?”

“Of c-course he has,” Peer stammered in fury. “He’s been very k-kind – he’s arranged everything.”

“Nothing owing?” Uncle Baldur scowled. “I’ll look into that. Nobody cheats me .”

Behind him, Ulf ’s funeral pyre collapsed into a pile of glowing ash and sighed out a last stream of sparks which sped away for ever.

Eager as a pig digging for truffles, Uncle Baldur set about selling off Peer’s home. Benches, pots, blankets, Ulf ’s cherished mallets and bright chisels – he squeezed the last penny out of each deal.

Brand dared to complain. Uncle Baldur stared at him coldly and jingled the silver and copper in his pocket. “It’s mine,” he said. “Ulf owed me money.”

“That’s not true!” cried Peer.

“How would you know?” jeered his uncle. “And what’s that ring on your finger? Silver, eh? Boys don’t wear rings. Give it here.”

“No! It was my father’s!” Peer backed away, fists clenched. Uncle Baldur grabbed him, prised his fingers open and wrenched the ring off.

“Silver,” he nodded. It was too tight to fit over his own hairy knuckles, so he stuffed it in his pocket.

Fat comfortable Ingrid took Peer in and tried to mother him. “Cheer up, my pet!” She pushed a honey cake into his hand. Peer dropped it, and it disappeared into the eager jaws of Loki, lurking under the table.

“Ingrid,” he asked in desperation, “how can that fat beast be my uncle?”

Ingrid’s plump face creased into worried folds. “Oh Peer, it’s a sad story. Your father was just a boy when his own father died. His mother married the miller at Trollsvik, the other side of Troll Fell. Poor soul, she lived to regret it. The old miller was a cruel hard man. He used his fists on both of them.”

Peer flinched. “He never told me. What happened?”

“Your father ran away and never saw his mother again. But she had two more boys, and this Baldur is one of them. He’s your father’s own half-brother, though as far as I know, they never met.” Ingrid lifted her wooden bread bowl from the hearth and poured a yeasty froth into the warm flour. “But that was all long ago. I know your Uncle Baldur is very rough-spoken, and not a bit like your father, but blood is thicker than water. Surely he’ll look after you, you poor boy!”

Peer was silent. He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t I stay here with you?”

“Oh my dearie!” Ingrid cried. “We’ve thought of it. But we can’t. He’s your uncle. He’s got a right to you, and we haven’t.”

“No,” said Peer bitterly. “Of course not.”

Ingrid tried to put an arm around his shoulders. “Give your uncles a chance,” she pleaded. “Don’t you think your father would want you to try?”

“Maybe…” Peer shut his eyes on a sudden glimpse of his father, turning over a piece of oak and saying as he often did, “You’ve got to make the best of the wood you’re given, Peer. And that’s true of life, too!” He could almost smell the sweet sawdust clinging to his father’s clothes.

Loki sprang to his feet barking. The door opened and Uncle Baldur thrust his head and shoulders in. “Boy!” he squealed. “Are those chickens in the yard yours? Catch them and put them in the cart. We’re leaving. Run! ”

A fine row blew up indoors as his uncle accused Ingrid of trying to steal the chickens. Peer fled outside and began stalking a fat speckled hen. Loki joined in. He dashed at the hens, which scattered, cackling. “Bad dog!” cried Peer, but Loki had lost his head and was hurtling around the yard with a mouthful of brown tail feathers.

Uncle Baldur burst out of the house. He bent down, heaved up the heavy stone doorstop and hurled it at Loki. There were two shrieks, one from Peer and the other from Loki who lay down suddenly and licked his flank, whimpering.

“You could have killed him!” Peer yelled. His uncle turned on him. “If he ever chases my chickens again, I will. Now catch them and tie them up with this.” He threw Peer a hank of twine. “Be quick!”

As Peer captured the last of the hens, Uncle Baldur tied a string around Loki’s neck. “Fasten ’im to the tail of the cart. He can run behind.”

“Can’t he ride?” Peer asked. “He’s limping...” But his voice died under Uncle Baldur’s unwinking stare, and miserably he did as he was told. Then he clambered into the cart himself.

Ingrid came out to see him off, mopping first her hands and then her eyes on her apron. “Poor lamb,” she wailed. “And Brand’s down at the shipyard and can’t even say goodbye. Whatever will he say when he hears?”

The cart creaked as Uncle Baldur climbed aboard. He took a new piece of twine from his pocket and tied one end around the rail of the cart. Then he tied the other end around Peer’s right wrist. Peer’s mouth fell open. He tried to pull away and got his ears slapped.

“What are you doing to the boy?” Ingrid shrieked.

Uncle Baldur looked round in surprise. “Got to fasten up the livestock,” he explained. “Chickens or boys – can’t have ’em escaping, running around loose.”

Ingrid opened her mouth – and shut it. Peer looked at her. See? he told her silently.

“Gee! Hoick!” Uncle Baldur cracked his whip over the oxen. The cart lurched. Peer stared resolutely ahead. He did not wave goodbye.

The steep road twisted up into low woods of birch and spruce, then into high meadows, and then stony and boggy moorland. “Garn! Grr! Hoick, hoick!” The oxen snorted, straining. The cart tilted like the deck of a ship and the chickens slid about, flapping.

“Shall I get out and walk?” Peer suggested.

His uncle ignored him. Peer muttered a bad word. He sat on a pile of sacks, his arm awkwardly tethered above his head. Over the end of the cart he could see Loki trotting along with his head and tail low. He looked miserable, but the limp had gone – he’d been faking it, Peer decided.

They came to a bend in the road. Peer looked, then pulled himself up, staring. In front, dwarfing Uncle Baldur’s bulky shoulders, the land swooped upwards. Crag above crag, upland beyond upland, in murky shouldering ridges, clotted with trees and tumbling with rockfalls, the flanks of Troll Fell rose before him. At the summit he glimpsed a savage crown of rocks, but even as he gazed, the clouds came lower. The top of Troll Fell wrapped itself in mist.

A fine cold rain began to fall, soaking through Peer’s clothes. He dragged out a sack and draped it across his shoulders. Uncle Baldur pulled up the hood of his thick cloak.

Shadowy boulders loomed out of the drizzle on both sides of the track. They seemed to stare at Peer as he huddled in the bottom of the cart. One looked like a giant’s head with shallow, scooped-out eyes. Something bolted out from underneath it as the cart passed, kicking itself up the hillside with powerful leaps. Peer sat up. What was that? Too big for a hare – and he thought he’d seen elbows …

A wind sprang up. Mud sprayed from the great wooden cartwheels. Peer clutched the sodden sack under his chin and sat jolting and shivering.

At last he realised that they were over the saddle of the hill and beginning to descend. Leaning out, he looked down into a great shadowy basin. A few faint lights freckled the valley. That must be the village of Trollsvik. He thought longingly of dry clothes, hot food and a fire. He had hardly spoken to his uncle all the way, but now he called out as politely as he could, “Uncle? How far is the mill?”