LITMIR.BIZ

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FIRST stunned moment, Peer began to laugh – tight, hiccupping laughter that hurt his chest.

      Uncle Grim and Uncle Baldur were identical twins. Same barrel chests and muscular, knotted arms. Same mean little eyes peering from masses of black tangled beard and hair. Uncle Baldur was still wrapped in his wet cloak, however, while his brother seemed to have been eating supper, for he was holding a knife with a piece of meat skewered to the point.

      “Shut up,” he said to Peer. “And get down.” Only the voice was different – deep and rough.

      With a stitch in his side from laughing – or sobbing – Peer held up his wrist, still tethered to the side of the cart. Uncle Grim snapped the twine with a contemptuous jerk. He sucked the meat off his knife, licked the blade, and severed the string holding Loki. “Now get down,” he ordered through his food. He turned to his brother as Peer jumped stiffly into the mud. “Not much, is he?”

      “But he’ll do,” grunted Uncle Baldur. “Here!” He thrust the lantern at Peer. “Take this. Put the oxen in the stalls. Put the hens in the barn. Feed them. Move!” He threw an arm over Grim’s shoulder and as the two of them slouched away, Peer heard Baldur saying, “What’s in the pot? Stew? I’ll have some of that!” The door shut.

      Peer stood in the rain with the lantern. All desire to laugh left him. Loki whined, his head on one side. “Come on, boy,” said Peer wearily. “Let’s get on with it.”

      He unloaded the hens and set them loose on the barn floor, where an arrogant black cockerel came strutting to inspect them. Then he unhitched the oxen and gave them some hay. Loki curled up in the straw and fell asleep. Peer decided to leave him there. There had been a big dog barking inside the mill, and he hadn’t forgotten what Uncle Baldur had said about his dog eating Loki. Taking the lantern, he set off across the yard. It had stopped raining, and tatters of cloud blew wildly overhead.

      Not a glimmer of light escaped from the mill. Peer hoped his uncles hadn’t locked him out. Cold, damp and hungry, he hesitated on the step, afraid to go in. Voices mumbled inside. What were they saying? Was it about him? He put his ear to the door and listened.

      “There wasn’t much,” Baldur was saying.

      “Count it anyway,” said Grim’s deep voice, and Peer realised they were counting the money Baldur had made from the sale.

      “Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, in copper and silver,” Baldur finished. “Lock it up! We don’t want the boy finding it.”

      “It’s 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

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