West of the Moon

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 could see only black shapes and shadows.

“Aaah!” A long sigh from overhead set his hair on end. There came a sound of lapping or slurping. Peer listened, fascinated.

“No butter!” the little voice complained. “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. Then a sucking sound, as if the person – whoever it was – had scraped the bowl with its fingers and was licking them off. There was a pause.

“No butter,” sulked the voice in deep displeasure. A wooden bowl dropped out of the rafters on to Peer’s head.

“Ow!” said Peer.

There was a gasp and a scuffle. Next time the voice spoke it was from a far corner.

“Who’s there?” it quavered.

“I’m Peer Ulfsson,” said Peer. “Who are you?”

“Nobody,” said the voice quickly. “Nobody at all.”

“I think you’re a Nis,” said Peer. A Nis was a sort of house spirit. Peer had heard of 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.

“Didn’t they give you any butter?” Peer asked, hoping to make friends.

This set the creature off. “Plain groute!” it exclaimed. “Nary a bit of butter for poor Nithing, but plain barley porridge. Me that does half the work around here, me that sweeps and dusts, me that polishes away cobwebs!” Recalling the dirt he had seen earlier, Peer doubted that it did any of these things well, but he did not say so.

“And they has mountains of butter,” went on the Nis, working itself up, “in the dairy. In a wooden barrel,” it added darkly, “to keep off cats and mice and the likes of me. Plain groute they puts in my bowl by the fire, and I sees it, and I fetches it away, and I tastes it – and no butter!”

“I know how you feel,” said Peer, “they didn’t leave me any stew, either.”

“No butter.” It was still brooding over its wrongs. “Could you get me butter?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Peer gloomily, “if they caught me stealing butter I should think they’d half kill me. I don’t suppose I’m going to get much to eat here. I’m sorry,” he added.

“Have an egg!” said the Nis with a squeak of laughter. And it spoke no more that night.

In the morning when Peer woke up, he wondered if it had been a dream. Then he felt something in the straw just under his hand. It was a smooth brown hen’s egg. Loki looked eagerly at it, ears pricked. He knew what an egg was.

“Thanks!” said Peer to the rafters. He broke the egg for Loki, who lapped it up as noisily as the Nis, while Peer stretched and brushed straw from his clothes.

“Come on, Loki,” he said, pushing the barn door open. “Let’s go and explore!”

Chapter 4

Meeting Hilde

THE SKY WAS fresh and clear. It was still very early. Peer splashed through the puddles, keeping a wary eye on the silent mill with its blind shutters and tattered thatch. A dismal thread of smoke wavered from the roof and trickled into the yard. There was no sign of anyone about.

Peer walked around the end of the building to the bridge. He leaned on the rail, looking upstream at the big wooden waterwheel. It towered higher than his head, its dark teeth dripping. A cold breath came off the water, which flowed listlessly under the bridge in inky creases.