howled with laughter. “That’s funny!” Grim roared, punching his brother’s shoulder. “Worth his weight in – oh, very good!”
Peer looked at them darkly. Whatever the joke was, it was clearly not a nice one. But what was the good of protesting? It would only make them laugh louder. He gave a deliberate yawn. “I’m tired, Uncle Baldur. Where do I sleep?”
“Eh?” Uncle Baldur turned to him, tears of laughter glistening on his hairy face. He wiped them away and snorted. “The pipsqueak’s tired, Grim. He wants to sleep. Where shall we put him?”
“On the floor with the dog?” Peer suggested sarcastically. The two wide bunks belonged to his uncles, so he fully expected to be told something of the kind. But Uncle Grim lumbered to his feet.
“Under the millstones,” he grunted. He tramped down the room towards the loft ladder, but instead of climbing it, he burrowed into a corner, kicked aside a couple of dusty baskets and a broken crate, and revealed a small wooden door not more than three feet high. Peer followed him warily. Uncle Grim opened the little door. It was not a cupboard. Behind it was blackness, a strong damp smell, and a sound of trickling water.
Before he could protest, Uncle Grim grabbed Peer by the arm, forced him to his knees and shoved him through into the dark space beyond. Peer pitched forwards on to his face. With a flump, a pile of mouldy sacks landed on his legs. “You can sleep on those!” his uncle shouted. Peer jerked and kicked to free his legs. He stopped breathing. His throat closed up. He scrambled to his feet and hit his head a stunning blow. Stars spangled the darkness. He felt above him madly. His hands fumbled along a huge rounded beam of wood and found the cold blunt teeth of an enormous cogwheel. He turned desperately. A thin line of light indicated the closed door. His chest heaved. Air gushed into his lungs.
“Uncle Baldur!” Peer screamed. He threw himself at the door, hammering on it. “Let me out! Let me out!”
He pounded the door, shrieking, and the rotten catch gave way. The door swung wide, a magical glimpse of firelight and safety. Sobbing in relief, Peer crawled out and leaped to his feet. Uncle Baldur advanced upon him.
“No!” Peer cried. He ducked under Uncle Baldur’s arm and backed up the room, shaking. “Uncle Baldur, no, don’t make me sleep in there. Please! I’ll sleep in the barn with Loki, I’d rather, really!”
“You’ll sleep where I tell you to sleep!” Uncle Baldur reached out for him.
“I’ll shout and yell all night!” Peer glared at him wildly. “You won’t sleep a wink!”
Uncle Baldur stopped. He frowned at Peer. “What’s wrong with you?” he sneered. “Bedding down near all that fine machinery – I’d have loved it when I was a lad!”
“On nice soft sacks!” Grim offered.
“It’s too small – I can’t breathe. Cramped – dark!” panted Peer, shamefaced, his heart still pounding.
His uncles stared at him unbelievingly. Slowly, Baldur began to grin. “Cramped! Dark!” he mimicked. His grin developed into a chuckle. “D’you hear that, Grim? He’s afraid of the dark! The boy’s afraid of the dark!”
For the second time that night, the two brothers roared with laughter, while Peer glowered at the floor. They pounded one another on the back, they coughed and choked and staggered about. At last, Uncle Baldur recovered. The old, bad-tempered scowl settled back on his face.
“So go and sleep in the barn!” he snarled at Peer, who nodded speechlessly, his cheeks flaming.
“It’s late, you know!” yawned Grim.
“Bedtime,” nodded his brother. They sat down heavily on their bunks, wrestled with the blankets, wrapped themselves up and turned over.
Peer tiptoed past. On his way to the door he had to step over Grendel, who opened one glinting red eye and wrinkled his lips in a silent snarl. Quickly and quietly Peer got through the door and crossed the yard.
The barn was dark, but it felt high and sweet and airy. Peer pulled crackling straw up over his knees and woke Loki, who gobbled the crust Peer had saved for him.
“There’s no more,” said Peer. He pushed aside Loki’s hopeful nose, and lay down, exhausted.
It was not completely dark in the barn. Outside the sky had cleared and the moon had risen. A few bright stripes of moonlight lay across the floor and wooden stalls. Peer lay on his back, too tired to sleep, his mind working restlessly.
There’s something funny going on.
What does Uncle Baldur want me for?
He tossed and turned, pulling more straw over him. Gradually he fell into uneasy dreams. Beside him Loki slept, whimpering and twitching.
A strange sound crept into Peer’s sleep. He dreamed of a hoarse little voice, panting, and muttering to itself, “Up we go. Here we are!” There was a scrabbling like rats in the rafters, and a smell of porridge. Peer rolled over.
“Up we go,” muttered the hoarse little voice again, and then more loudly, “Move over, you great fat hen. Budge, I say!” This was followed by a squawk. One of the hens fell off the rafter and minced indignantly away to find another perch. Peer screwed up his eyes and tried to focus. He could see nothing but black shapes and shadows.
“Aaah!” A long sigh from overhead set his hair on end. The smell of porridge was quite strong. There came a sound of lapping or slurping. This went on for a few minutes. Peer listened, fascinated.
“No butter!” the little voice said discontentedly. “No butter in me groute!” It mumbled to itself in disappointment. “The cheapskates, the skinflints, the hard-hearted misers! But wait! Maybe the butter’s at the bottom. Let’s find out.” The slurping began again. Next came a sucking sound, as if the person – or whatever it was – had scraped the bowl with its fingers and was licking them off. There was a silence.
“No butter,” sulked the voice in deep displeasure. A wooden bowl dropped out of the rafters straight on to Peer’s head.
“Ow!” said Peer.
There was a gasp and a scuffle. The next time the voice spoke it was from a corner on the other side of the barn.
“Who’s there?” it quavered.
“I’m Peer Ulfsson,” said Peer. “Who are you?”
“Nobody,” said the voice quickly. “Nobody at all.”
Loki had woken up when the bowl fell, but Peer stroked him gently to reassure him. He didn’t want any barking.
“I think you’re a nis,” he said to the voice. A nis was a sort of house-spirit. Peer had heard about them, but never expected to meet one. “Are you a nis?” he persisted.
There was a bit of a silence. “What if I am?” the voice asked huffily.
Peer wanted to be friends with someone in this place, and now he thought he knew a way. “Didn’t they give you any butter?” he asked sympathetically.
