my money, you thieves,” Peer whispered furiously. A lid creaked open and crashed shut. They had hidden the money in some chest. If he walked in now, he might see where it was.
“About the boy,” said Baldur, and Peer glued his ear to the wet wood. Unfortunately Baldur was 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, “…no point taking him yet. Plenty of time before the wedding.”
What wedding? And who’s the Gaffer? Peer applied his ear to the door again. A succession of thuds sounded like both of his uncles taking their boots off and kicking them across the room. He heard Grim say loudly, “At least we’ll get some work out of him first,” and this seemed to end the discussion.
Peer straightened up and scratched his head. But it was too cold to stand around wondering. The wind bit his ears and a fresh rain shower rattled out of the sky. Inside the mill Baldur 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 the fireside directly at his throat. Uncle Grim stuck out a casual hand and yanked the monster backwards, roaring, “Down, Grendel! Come in and shut the door,” he added roughly to Peer. “Let him smell you. Then he’ll know you.”
Grendel was taller than a wolf. His brindled coat stood up in a thick ruff of fur over his shoulders and down his spine. He smelled Peer’s outstretched fingers, grumbling distrustfully. “Best dog in the valley,” boasted Uncle Grim, giving him an affectionate slap. “Wins every fight: a real killer!”
Thank goodness I didn’t bring Loki in, Peer thought with a shudder as he looked about. The narrow smoke-stained room was a jumble of rickety furniture, bins, barrels and old tools. A sullen fire smouldered in the middle of the floor, and Uncle Baldur sat beside it on a stool, guzzling stew from a bowl in his lap and toasting his vast hairy toes over the embers. Two bunk beds, set into alcoves, trailed tangles of dirty blankets on to the floor.
At the end of the room a short ladder led up to a kind of loft with a raised platform for the millstones. In the shadows Peer could make out the 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.
Cobwebs clung everywhere to the walls, loaded with old flour. Underfoot, the dirt floor felt spongy and damp. A sweetish smell of ancient bran and mouldy grain mingled with the stink of Uncle Baldur’s cheesy feet and a lingering odour of stew.
Peer swallowed. He said faintly, “I did what you said, Uncle. I fed the animals and put them away. Is – is there any stew?”
“Over there,” his uncle grunted, jerking his head at a black iron pot sitting in the embers. Peer looked in. 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.”
“Plenty left,” growled Grim. “Wipe out the pot with bread and be thankful!”
Peer knelt. He found a dry heel of bread and scraped it around inside the pot. There was no meat, barely a spoonful of gravy and few fragments of onion, but the warmth of the iron pot was comforting, and he chewed the bread hungrily, saving a scrap for Loki. When at last he looked up he found Uncle Baldur staring at him. His uncle’s dark little eyes glittered, and he buried his thick fingers in his beard and scratched, rasping slowly up and down.
Peer stared back uneasily. His uncle’s face turned purple. He convulsed. He doubled up, choking, and slapped his knees. “Hee, hee,” he gasped. “Ha, ha! Oh dear. Look at him!” He pointed at Peer. “Look at him, Grim! Some might call him a bad bargain, but to me – to me, he’s worth his weight in gold!”
The brothers howled. “That’s good!” Grim roared, punching Baldur’s shoulder. “Worth his weight in – oh, very good!”
Peer gave them a dark glance. Whatever the joke was, it was clearly not a friendly one. He pretended to yawn. “I’m tired, Uncle. Where do I sleep?”
“Eh?” Uncle Baldur turned to him, wiping tears of laughter from his hairy cheeks. “The lad’s tired, Grim. He wants to sleep.”
Uncle Grim lumbered to his feet. He burrowed into a corner under the loft, kicked aside a couple of dusty baskets and a crate, and revealed a small wooden door not more than three feet high. Peer followed warily. Uncle Grim opened the little door. Behind it was blackness, a strong damp smell, and a sound of trickling water.
Before Peer could protest, Uncle Grim grabbed him and thrust him through the door into the dark space beyond. Peer pitched 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 kicked his legs free, scrambled up and hit his head a stunning blow. Stars spangled the darkness. He felt about and found a huge rounded beam of wood and the cold blunt teeth of some enormous cogwheel. He was in with the machinery under the millstones! A thin line of light indicated the closed door. “Let me out!” He pounded on it, shrieking. “Let me out, let me out!”
The rotten catch gave way. The door sprang open, a magical glimpse of firelight and safety. Peer crawled out and leaped to his feet. Uncle Baldur advanced upon him.
“No!” Peer cried. “Don’t make me sleep in there! I’ll sleep in the barn! Please! Don’t make me!”
Uncle Baldur stopped. “What’s wrong with it? It’s not that bad.”
“It’s too dark! Too dark and cramped. I can’t breathe,” panted Peer, his heart still pounding.
His uncles stared. Baldur began to grin. “Too dark?” 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 brothers roared with laughter. They pounded each other on the back and choked and staggered about. At last Uncle Baldur recovered. The old bad-tempered scowl settled back on his face.
“So go sleep in the barn, Faintheart!” he snarled, throwing himself into his bunk.
With flaming cheeks, Peer tiptoed to the door. He had to step over Grendel, who opened a glinting red eye and wrinkled his lip to show a tooth. He shut the door as quickly and quietly as he could, and crossed the yard. The sky had cleared and the moon had risen.
The barn felt high and sweet and airy. Peer pulled crackling straw over his knees and woke Loki, who gobbled the crust Peer had saved. A few bright strips of moonlight lay across the floor. Cold and exhausted Peer lay back, his arm around Loki, and fell into uneasy dreams.
He dreamed of a little voice, panting and muttering to itself. “Up we go! Up we go! Here we are!” There was 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!” A roosting hen fell off the rafter with a squawk and minced indignantly away. Peer sat up. He
