pity your father was dirt-poor,” his uncle went on. “I’m proud of that place. I’d do a lot for that place. I’m the miller. The miller is an important man. I deserve to be rich. I will be rich. Hark!”
He leaned back hard, forcing the oxen to stop. The track here plunged between steep banks, and the cart slewed, blocking the road. Loki yelped as the string yanked him off his feet. Peer cried out in distress, but Uncle Baldur twisted round, straining his thick neck and raising one hand.
“Quiet!” he muttered. “Hear that? Someone coming. Catching us up.”
Peer stared uneasily into the night, listening. It was too dark to see properly. What had Uncle Baldur heard? Why would he stop on this wild, lonely road? He held his breath. Was that a bird shrieking – that long, burbling cry drifting on the wind?
“Who is it? Who is it?” Uncle Baldur hissed eagerly. “Could be friends of mine, boy – I’ve got some funny friends. People you’d be surprised to meet!” He giggled, and Peer’s skin crawled. The darkness, the whole wild hillside – suddenly anywhere seemed safer than staying with Uncle Baldur in this cart. He tugged the twine that held his wrist, testing it. It felt tight and strong. He couldn’t jump out and run.
Stones clattered on the track close behind. Loki scuttled under the tail of the cart, and Peer heard him growling. He braced himself. What was coming?
There was a loud, disapproving snort. Out of the rain emerged the dim shape of a small, wet pony picking its way downhill, carrying a rider and a packsaddle. On seeing the cart, it flung up its head and shied. There was no room to pass. The rider shouted, “Hello there! Can you move that cart? I can’t get through.”
Uncle Baldur sat motionless for a second, taking deep breaths of fury. To Peer’s amazement, he then flung down the reins and surged to his feet, teetering on the cart’s narrow step. His shock of black hair and tangled beard mingled with the thunderclouds: he looked like a mighty headless pillar.
“Ralf Eiriksson!” he screamed. “I know you, you cheating piece of stinking offal! How dare you creep around up here, you – you crawling worm!”
“Baldur Grimsson!” muttered the rider wearily. “Just my luck! Shift your cart, you fat fool. I’m trying to get home.”
“Liar!” Uncle Baldur swayed dangerously, shaking his fist. “Thief! You watch out. If the trolls don’t get you, I will! You’ll steal no more. That’s finished! If the Gaffer—”
Troll Fell cracked out a blinding whip of lightning and a heart-stopping jolt of thunder. The rain began falling twice as hard. Beaten by the downpour, Uncle Baldur threw himself back on to his seat and grabbed for the reins. The oxen slowly plodded forwards. Without another word, the rider trotted briskly past, and soon struck off along an even rougher track that led away to the right.
Gritting his teeth, Peer clung to the side of the cart as it crashed and slithered down the slope.
Well, that’s it, he said to himself. Uncle Baldur is mad. Completely crazy.
Sick, cold and miserable, he tried to picture his father, as if the memory could blot out Uncle Baldur. He thought of his father’s bright, kind eyes, his thin shoulders hunched from bending over his chisel and plane. What would he say now, if only he knew?
I can guess, he told himself sternly. He’d say, “Keep your heart up, Peer!” Like Ingrid said, I’ve got another uncle at the mill, and he can’t be as bad as this. There can only be one Uncle Baldur. Maybe Uncle Grim will take after my side of the family. Maybe – just maybe – he might even be a little bit like Father!
The cart rattled down one last slope and trundled over a shaky wooden bridge. Peer looked down apprehensively at the black glancing water hurtling underneath. “Gee!” howled Uncle Baldur, cracking his whip. The sound was lost in the roar of the stream. On the other side of the bridge, Peer saw the mill.
It crouched dismally on the bank, squinting into the stream, a long black building that looked as if it had been cold for ages and didn’t know how to get warm again. Wild trees pressed around it, tossing despairing arms in the wind. Uncle Baldur drove the cart round the end of the building, into a pinched little yard on the other side. As the sky lit up again with lightning, Peer saw to his right the stained frontage of the mill, with dripping thatch hanging low over sly little black windows. To his left lurked a dark barn, with a gaping entrance like an open mouth. Ahead stretched a line of mean-looking sheds. The weary oxen splashed to a halt, and a wolf-like baying broke out from some unseen dog. Uncle Baldur dropped the reins, stretching his arms till the joints cracked.
“Home!” he proclaimed, jumping down. He strode across to the door of the mill and kicked it open. Weak firelight leaked into the yard. “Grim!” he called triumphantly. “I’m back. And I’ve got him!” The door banged shut behind him. Peer sat out in the rain, shivering with hope and fear.
“Uncle Grim will be different,” he muttered aloud desperately. “I know he will. There can’t be another Uncle Baldur. Even his own brother couldn’t—”
The latch lifted with a noisy click, and he heard a new, deep voice saying loudly, “Let’s take a look at him, then!”
The mill door swung slowly open, shuddering. Peer held his breath. Out strode the burly shape of Uncle Baldur. At his heels trod someone else – someone unbelievably familiar. Flabbergasted, Peer squinted through the rain, telling himself it couldn’t be true. But it was. There was nothing left to hope for. He shook his head in horrified despair.
CHAPTER 2
The Departure of Ralf
In a small, damp farmhouse higher up the valley, Hilde scowled down at her knitting needles. Her head ached from the strain of peering at the stitches in the firelight. She dropped one, and muttered angrily as a ladder ran down the rough grey sock she was making. It was impossible to concentrate. She felt too worried. And she knew her mother did too, although she was calmly patching a pair of trousers. Hilde took a deep breath.
“Ma? He’s so late. Do you think he’s all right?”
Before Gudrun could answer, the wind pounced on the house like a wolf on a sheep, snarling and worrying it, as if trying to tear it loose from the hillside. Eerie voices wailed and chattered outside as the rain struck the closed wooden shutters. It was a night for wolves, trolls, bears. Hilde imagined her father out there, riding home over the shaggy black shoulder of Troll Fell, lashed by rain. Even if he was hurt or in trouble, she and her mother could only wait, anxiously listening, while her old grandfather dozed fitfully by the fire. But just then she heard a muffled shout, and the clop and clatter of the pony’s feet trotting into the yard.
“At last!” said Gudrun, smiling in relief. As Hilde ran joyfully out into the wild, wet night, the wind snatched the heavy farmhouse door from her hands and slammed it violently behind her.
“I’m back!” said her father, throwing her the reins. “Rub him down well, but hurry! I’ve got news.” His long blond hair was plastered to his head and his boots and leggings were covered in mud.
“You’re soaking! Go in and get dry,” said Hilde, leading the steaming pony into
