Baldur saying, “What’s in the pot? Stew? I’ll have some of that!”
The door shut. Peer stood in the mud, the rain drumming on his head, the lantern shaking in his hand. All desire to laugh left him. Loki picked himself up out of the puddle and shook himself wearily. He whined. Peer drew a deep breath. “All right, Loki. Let’s get on with it, boy!”
Struggling with the wet harness he unhitched the oxen and led them into their stalls. He tried to rub them dry with wisps of straw. He unloaded the hens and set them loose on the barn floor, where an arrogant, black cockerel and a couple of scrawny females came strutting to inspect them. He found some corn and scattered it. By now the stiffness had worn off, but he was damp, cold and exhausted. The hens found places to roost, clucking suspiciously. Loki curled up in the straw and fell fast asleep. Peer decided to leave him there. He hadn’t forgotten what Uncle Baldur had said about his dog eating Loki, and he certainly had heard a big dog barking inside the mill. He took up the lantern and set off across the yard, picking his way through the mud. The storm was passing, and tatters of cloud blew wildly overhead. It had stopped raining.
The mill looked black and forbidding. Not a glimmer of light escaped from the tightly closed shutters. Peer hoped he hadn’t been locked out. His stomach growled. There was stew inside, waiting for him! But he stopped at the door, afraid to go in. Did they expect him to knock? Voices mumbled inside. Were they talking about him?
He put his head to the door and listened.
“Not worth much!” Baldur was saying.
There was a sort of thump and clink. “Count it anyway,” said Grim’s deep voice, and Peer realised that Uncle Baldur had thrown a bag of money down. Next came a muffled, rhythmical chanting. His uncles were counting the money together. They kept stopping and cursing and getting it wrong.
“Thirty, thirty-one,” Baldur finished at last. “Lock it up!” His voice grew fainter, as he moved further from the door. “We don’t want the boy getting his hands on it.”
Peer clenched his fists. “That’s my money, you thieves!” he whispered furiously. A lid creaked open and crashed shut. They had hidden his money in some chest, and if he walked in now, he might see where it was.
“About the lad,” came Baldur’s voice. Peer stopped. He glued his ear to the wet wood. Unfortunately Baldur seemed to be walking about, for he could hear feet clumping to and fro, and the words came in snatches.
“…time to take him to the Gaffer?” Peer heard, and something like,“…no point in taking him too soon.”
The Gaffer? He said that before, up on the hill, thought Peer with an uneasy shiver. What does it mean? He strained his ears again. Rumble, whistle, rumble, went the two voices. He thought he heard something about “trolls”, followed quite clearly by: “Plenty of time before the wedding.” A succession of thuds sounded like both of his uncles taking their boots off and kicking them across the room. Finally he heard one of them, Grim it must be, say loudly, “At least we’ll get some work out of him first.”
That seemed to conclude the discussion. Peer straightened up and scratched his head. A chilly wind blew round his ears and a fresh rainshower rattled out of the sky. Inside the mill one of the brothers was saying, “Hasn’t that pesky lad finished yet?” Hastily Peer knocked and lifted the latch.
With a blood-curdling bellow, the most enormous dog Peer had ever seen launched itself from its place by the fireside directly at his throat. Huge rows of yellow, dripping teeth were closing in on his face when Uncle Grim put out a casual arm and yanked the monster backwards off its feet, roaring, “Down, Grendel!”
The huge dog cringed. “Come in and shut the door,” Grim growled roughly to Peer. “Don’t stand there like a fool. Let him smell you. Then he’ll know you.”
Nervously Peer held out his hand, expecting the animal to take it off at the wrist. Grendel stood taller than a wolf. His coat was brindled, brown and black, and a thick ruff of coarse fur grew over his shoulders and down his spine. Hackles up, he lowered his massive head and smelled Peer’s hand as if it were garbage, rumbling distrustfully. Uncle Grim gave Grendel an affectionate slap and rubbed him round the jaws. “Who’s a good doggie? Who’s a good boy, then?” he cooed admiringly. Peer wiped a slobbery hand on his trousers. He thought that Grendel looked a real killer – just the sort of dog the Grimsson brothers would have.
“This dog’s a killer,” boasted Uncle Grim, as if he could read Peer’s mind. “Best dog in the valley. Wins every fight. Not a scratch on him. That’s what I call a proper dog!”
Thank goodness I didn’t bring Loki in! Peer shuddered. Uncle Grim fussed Grendel, tugging his ears and calling him a good fellow. Grateful to be ignored, Peer looked around at his new home.
A sullen fire smouldered in the middle of the room. Uncle Baldur sat beside it on a stool, guzzling stew from a bowl in his lap, and toasting his bare feet. His wet socks steamed on the black hearthstones. He twiddled his vast, hairy toes over the embers. His long, curved toenails looked like dirty claws.
The narrow, smoke-stained room was a jumble of rickety furniture, bins, barrels and old tools. A table, crumbling with woodworm, leaned against the wall on tottering legs. Two bunk beds trailed tangles of untidy blankets on to the floor.
At the far end of the room a short ladder led up to a kind of loft with a raised platform for the millstones. Though it was very dark up there, Peer could make out various looming shapes of mill machinery: hoists and hoppers, chains and hooks. A huge pair of iron scales hung from the roof. Swags of rope looped from beam to beam.
Uncle Baldur belched loudly and put his dish on the floor for Grendel. Suddenly the room spun around Peer. Sick and dizzy, he put his hand against the wall for support, and snatched it quickly away, his palm covered in grey dust and sticky black cobwebs. Cobwebs clung everywhere to the walls, loaded with old flour. Underfoot, the dirt floor felt spongy and damp from a thick deposit of ancient bran. A sweetish smell of rotten grain and mouldy flour blended with the stink of Uncle Baldur’s cheesy socks. There was also a lingering odour of stew.
Peer swallowed queasily. He said faintly, “I did what you said, Uncle Baldur. I fed the animals and put them away. Is there – is there any stew?”
“Over there,” his uncle grunted, jerking his head towards a black iron pot sitting in the embers. Peer took a look. It was nearly empty.
“But it’s all gone,” he said in dismay.
“All gone?” Uncle Baldur’s face blackened. “All gone? This boy’s been spoilt, Grim. I can see that. The boy’s been spoilt!”
“There’s plenty there,” growled Grim. “Wipe out the pot with bread and be thankful. Waste not, want not.”
Silently, Peer knelt down. He found a dry heel of bread and scraped it round inside the pot. There was no meat left, barely a spoonful of gravy and a few fragments of onion, but the warm iron pot was comforting to hold, and he chewed the bread hungrily, saving a crust for Loki. When he had finished, he looked up and found Uncle Baldur staring at him broodingly. His uncle’s dark little eyes glittered meanly, and he buried his thick fingers in his beard and scratched, rasping slowly up and down.
Peer stared back uneasily. His uncle convulsed. He doubled up, choking, and slapped his knees violently. He jerked to and fro, snorting for breath. “Ha, ha, ha!” he gasped. His face turned purple. “Hee, hee! Oh,
