Katherine Langrish - West of the Moon

“A little bird told us,” Baldur sneered in his high voice, “that Daddy’s gone away. The great Ralf Eiriksson, who thinks he’s so important. Is that right? Eh?”

“Only for the summer,” said Hilde icily. “He’ll be back before winter with a bunch of his Viking friends, so don’t give me any trouble, Baldur Grimsson.”

“Vikings!” said Baldur. “I don’t give that for Vikings.” He spat. “Besides, what with storms and whirlpools and sea serpents, he’ll never come back.”

“Is that all you have to say?” snapped Hilde.

“No!” Baldur snarled. He came up close and grabbed the pony by the bridle. “Tell your mother – and your grandpa –” he emphasised the words with a stab of his thick forefinger, “to keep off that land on Troll Fell that belongs to us. You ask your mother which she’d prefer. Those fields – or that golden cup? The land is ours. And so are the sheep you’ve been grazing on it. You and your family keep off the Stonemeadow!”

He let go of the bridle and whistled. Grendel came hurtling out of the mill.

“See ’em off!” shouted Grim.

Hilde grabbed the mane. The terrified pony whirled out of the yard and bolted over the bridge and up the hill. Clinging to her bouncing basket, she hauled on the reins and slithered off sideways as the pony came to a snorting halt. “It’s all right! It’s all right.” She patted its steaming neck. “The dog’s not after you now…”

But the pony rolled a wild eye as a little brown dog burst out of the bushes. There was a crackling, crashing noise as someone tackled the steep and brambly shortcut up the side of the hill. Hilde shook back her hair. “Who’s there?” she challenged.

Peer’s pale and dirty face became visible as he parted some branches. “Are you all right?” he puffed.

“No thanks to you!” Hilde scowled at him. “Was it you who told those – those oafs – that my father has gone away?”

“Yes, it was,” said Peer miserably. “I didn’t mean any harm – I didn’t know it was important. I’m sorry, Hilde.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Hilde recovered her temper. “Stop apologising. You haven’t done anything. They’d have heard soon enough. Everybody knows everything in a little place like this.” She gave him a sharp look. “Why are you hiding in the bushes, Peer? Are you scared of the millers? Or are you scared of me?”

Peer flushed. He didn’t answer.

“Well,” Hilde went on, “I expect there’s going to be trouble. I’m sorry, Peer, but I absolutely detest your uncles.”

“So do I,” said Peer in a low, savage voice. “I don’t know why they want me. There’s something going on that I don’t understand. Some strange plan. They stole my father’s money. I heard them counting it and talking about someone called the Gaffer – and a wedding. And if I don’t do everything they say, they’ll set their dog on Loki. He’ll be killed.”

“That’s terrible!” Hilde cried. She patted Loki, who collapsed on to his back and folded up his paws to let her rub his tummy. She scratched his chest. “Money, and a wedding?” she repeated, frowning. “I can’t imagine. Of course, old Grim, their father, was always poking about looking for the trolls’ treasure.”

“ Was he? Why?”

“It’s a long story. Have you got time? And anyway, whose side are you on?”

“On your side,” said Peer with determination. “Even if they are my uncles. But I can’t help living with them. I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

Hilde patted the ground beside her. “Sit down and I’ll tell you about the trolls. It’s a good story, and it’s true. Years ago, my father was riding over Troll Fell late one night when he stumbled on a troll banquet…” She told Peer what had happened, and how Ralf had raced to the mill for shelter, and old Grim had seen the golden cup.

“Mother swears it’s unlucky,” she went on, “and it certainly was for Grim. He spent the rest of his days wandering around Troll Fell, looking for the gate into the hill.”

“What gate? I thought you said the whole place was up on pillars?”

“I think they only do that for special occasions. But there must be a gateway into the hill. We have trolls the way other people have rats and mice, and they’re all getting out somewhere. And wherever it is, it seems Grim found it, only it was winter, and he collapsed up there and died later.”

“So my uncles must know where it is,” said Peer thoughtfully.

“Yes, but what good is that? The trolls aren’t going to come out and just give them presents,” said Hilde. She was still scratching Loki’s tummy. “Goodness, Loki, how much more of this do you want?”

“Oh, he’ll go on for ever,” said Peer, laughing. Just then a distant bellow floated up from the mill. He stopped laughing and jumped up. “I’d better go.”

“Yes, you’d better.” Hilde looked sorry for him. “Watch out for yourself, Peer.” She offered her hand, which Peer took shyly. “See you soon!”

Peer raced for the mill, Loki bounding ahead. He reached the yard to find his uncles talking to a carter, a surly-looking man who had just unloaded some sacks of barley. Grendel lay in a patch of sunlight by the mill door, gnawing a bone. He growled at Loki, who pottered past and cocked a cheeky leg on the corner of the barn.

“Grind it small,” shouted the carter as he drove his cart out into the lane. “We want fine meal. I’ll collect it tomorrow.”

“You’re going to learn about the mill, boy,” said Uncle Baldur to Peer. “Grim’s just a farmer, but me – I’m the miller!” He rapped his chest. “You’re a lucky lad to have me to teach you. I hope you’re thankful.”

Something flamed up in Peer’s heart. “Thankful? What have I got to be thankful for? You treat me like a slave, you can’t even remember my name! ”

Baldur raised a fist the size of a ham and clouted Peer casually over the ear. Peer found himself sitting on the ground, clutching his ringing head. Loki streaked across the yard, teeth bared for Uncle Baldur’s leg. Grendel rose silently from the doorstep and hurled himself at Loki.

“Loki!” Peer screamed. Loki saw Grendel out of the tail of his eye and veered off around the corner. Grendel dropped his hackles and slouched back to his bone.

“Come inside,” said Uncle Baldur as if nothing had happened. “I’ll show you what to do. Pay attention. You’ll be doing a lot of this.”

“You’re not going to take me to the Gaffer, then?” said Peer on impulse.

Uncle Baldur swung round, fast for such a big man.

“What?” he said in a menacing whisper. Their eyes met. Peer thought fast. “Something Uncle Grim said,” he invented. “He said, er, if I didn’t work hard, you’d give me to the Gaffer.” Come to think of it, it sounded exactly the sort of thing Uncle Grim would say.

Uncle Baldur clearly believed it. He muttered something about Grim being a chattering fool, then grabbed Peer. “The Gaffer,” he whispered, “is the King of Troll Fell. He lives up there under the crags, not far away. And naughty boys, why, he likes to tear them in pieces! So watch your step, laddie.”

He pulled Peer into the mill and climbed the creaking ladder to the loft. Peer followed, overhung by his uncle’s bulky bottom, and found himself standing on a dark, dusty platform, badly lit by one little louvred window high in the apex of the roof. In front of him in the middle of the floor sat two millstones, one above the other, cartwheel sized slabs of gritstone rimmed with iron.

“Power!” Baldur wheezed, slapping the upper millstone. “See how heavy that is? But finely balanced. What drives it? Water power. Ah, but who controls the water? Me, the miller!