LITMIR.BIZ

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are you doing to the boy?” Ingrid shrieked.

      Uncle Baldur looked round in surprise. “Got to fasten up the livestock,” he explained. “Chickens or boys – can’t have ’em escaping, running around loose.”

      Ingrid opened her mouth – and shut it. Peer looked at her. See? he told her silently.

      “Gee! Hoick!” Uncle Baldur cracked his whip over the oxen. The cart lurched. Peer stared resolutely ahead. He did not wave goodbye.

      The steep road twisted up into low woods of birch and spruce, then into high meadows, and then stony and boggy moorland. “Garn! Grr! Hoick, hoick!” The oxen snorted, straining. The cart tilted like the deck of a ship and the chickens slid about, flapping.

      “Shall I get out and walk?” Peer suggested.

      His uncle ignored him. Peer muttered a bad word. He sat on a pile of sacks, his arm awkwardly tethered above his head. Over the end of the cart he could see Loki trotting along with his head and tail low. He looked miserable, but the limp had gone – he’d been faking it, Peer decided.

      They came to a bend in the road. Peer looked, then pulled himself up, staring. In front, dwarfing Uncle Baldur’s bulky shoulders, the land swooped upwards. Crag above crag, upland beyond upland, in murky shouldering ridges, clotted with trees and tumbling with rockfalls, the flanks of Troll Fell rose before him. At the summit he glimpsed a savage crown of rocks, but even as he gazed, the clouds came lower. The top of Troll Fell wrapped itself in mist.

      A fine cold rain began to fall, soaking through Peer’s clothes. He dragged out a sack and draped it across his shoulders. Uncle Baldur pulled up the hood of his thick cloak.

      Shadowy boulders loomed out of the drizzle on both sides of the track. They seemed to stare at Peer as he huddled in the bottom of the cart. One looked like a giant’s head with shallow, scooped-out eyes. Something bolted out from underneath it as the cart passed, kicking itself up the hillside with powerful leaps. Peer sat up. What was that? Too big for a hare – and he thought he’d seen elbows…

      A wind sprang up. Mud sprayed from the great wooden cartwheels. Peer clutched the sodden sack under his chin and sat jolting and shivering.

      At last he realised that they were over the saddle of the hill and beginning to descend. Leaning out, he looked down into a great shadowy basin. A few faint lights freckled the valley. That must be the village of Trollsvik. He thought longingly of dry clothes, hot food and a fire. He had hardly spoken to his uncle all the way, but now he called out as politely as he could, “Uncle? How far is the mill?”

      Uncle Baldur pointed. “Down among the trees yonder. A matter of half a mile. Beside the brook.” He sounded quite civil for once, and Peer was encouraged.

      “Home!” his uncle added, in his shrill toad’s croak. “Lived there all me life, and me father before him, and his father before him. Millers all.”

      “That’s nice,” Peer agreed between chattering teeth.

      “Needs a new wheel, and the dam repaired,” complained his uncle. “If I had the money – if I had my rights –”

      You’ve got my money now, Peer thought bitterly.

      “– I’d be the most important man in the place,” his uncle went on. “I’m the miller. I deserve to be rich. I will be rich. Hark!”

      He hauled on the reins. The track plunged between steep banks, and the cart slewed, blocking the road. Uncle Baldur twisted around, straining his thick neck and raising one hand.

      “Hear that?” he muttered. “Someone’s coming…”

      Who? What had Uncle Baldur heard on this wild, lonely road? What was that long burbling cry, drifting on the wind?

      “You hear 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.

      Stones clattered on the track close behind. Loki shot under the tail of the cart and Peer could hear him growling. He braced himself, skin crawling, ready to face anything – monsters or trolls.

      A small, wet pony emerged from the drizzle, picking its way downhill, carrying a rider and a packsaddle. On seeing the cart, it stopped with a snort.

      “Hello!” shouted the rider. “Move the cart, will you? I can’t get past.”

      With a deep breath of fury, Uncle Baldur flung down the reins. He surged to his feet, teetering on the cart’s narrow step.

      “Ralf Eiriksson!” he screamed. “You cheating piece of stinking offal! How dare you creep up on me, you – you crawling worm?”

      “Baldur Grimsson,” the rider groaned. “Just my luck! Shift the cart, you fat fool. I want to get home.”

      “Liar! Thief!” Uncle Baldur swayed, shaking his fist. “You watch out. If the trolls don’t get you, I will! You’ll steal no more. That’s finished. If the Gaffer —”

      A blinding whip of lightning cracked across the sky, accompanied by a heart-stopping jolt of thunder. The rain came down twice as hard. Uncle Baldur threw himself back on his seat and shook the reins. The oxen plodded forwards. The rider trotted past without another word and struck off along an even rougher track that led off to the right.

      Peer clung to the side of the cart.

      Well, that’s it, he said to himself. Uncle Baldur is mad. Completely crazy.

      Sick with cold, he tried to picture his father’s bright, kind eyes – his thin shoulders hunched from bending over chisel and plane. What would he say now, if only he knew?

       He’d say, ‘Keep your heart up!’ After all, I’ve got another uncle at the mill. Maybe he’ll take after my side of the family. Maybe – just maybe – he’ll be a little like Father. There can only be one Uncle Baldur…

      The cart rattled down the last slope and trundled over a shaky wooden bridge. “Gee!” howled Uncle Baldur, his voice almost lost in the roar of the water hurtling beneath. On the other side of the bridge, Peer saw the mill, crouching dismally on the bank with dripping thatch and sly little black windows. Wild trees pressed around it, tossing despairing arms in the wind. Uncle Baldur drove the cart into a pinched little yard. Ahead was a line of mean-looking sheds, and on the other side lurked a dark barn with a gaping entrance like an open mouth.

      The weary oxen splashed to a halt. A wolf-like baying broke out from some unseen dog. Uncle Baldur dropped the reins and stretched his arms till the joints cracked.

      “Home!” he proclaimed, jumping down. He strode across to the door of the mill and kicked it open. Frail firelight leaked out. “Grim!” he called triumphantly. “I’m back. And I’ve got him!” The door banged shut. Peer sat out in the rain, shivering with hope and fear.

      “Grim,” he muttered. “Uncle Grim will be different, I know he will. There can’t be another Uncle Baldur.”

      The latch lifted with a noisy click. A new, deep voice said loudly, “Let’s take a look at him, then!”

      The mill door swung slowly open. Out strode the burly shape of Uncle Baldur. At his heels trod someone else – someone unbelievably familiar. Flabbergasted, Peer squinted through the rain. It couldn’t be true! But it was, and 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 threw down her knitting. Her eyes ached from peering at the stitches in the firelight. And she was worried.

      “Ma? He’s so late. Do you think he’s all right?”

      Before Gudrun could answer, the wind pounced on the house as if trying to tear it loose from the hillside. Eerie voices wailed

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