Troll Fell. Katherine Langrish

      The narrow, smoke-stained room was a jumble of rickety furniture, bins, barrels and old tools. A table, crumbling with woodworm, leaned against the wall on tottering legs. Two bunk beds trailed tangles of untidy blankets on to the floor.

      At the far end of the room a short ladder led up to a kind of loft with a raised platform for the millstones. Though it was very dark up there, Peer could make out various looming shapes of 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.

      Uncle Baldur belched loudly and put his dish on the floor for Grendel. Suddenly the room spun around Peer. Sick and dizzy, he put his hand against the wall for support, and snatched it quickly away, his palm covered in grey dust and sticky black cobwebs. Cobwebs clung everywhere to the walls, loaded with old flour. Underfoot, the dirt floor felt spongy and damp from a thick deposit of ancient bran. A sweetish smell of rotten grain and mouldy flour blended with the stink of Uncle Baldur’s cheesy socks. There was also a lingering odour of stew.

      Peer swallowed queasily. He said faintly, “I did what you said, Uncle Baldur. I fed the animals and put them away. Is there – is there any stew?”

      “Over there,” his uncle grunted, jerking his head towards a black iron pot sitting in the embers. Peer took a look. 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!”

      “There’s plenty there,” growled Grim. “Wipe out the pot with bread and be thankful. Waste not, want not.”

      Silently, Peer knelt down. He found a dry heel of bread and scraped it round inside the pot. There was no meat left, barely a spoonful of gravy and a few fragments of onion, but the warm iron pot was comforting to hold, and he chewed the bread hungrily, saving a crust for Loki. When he had finished, he looked up and found Uncle Baldur staring at him broodingly. His uncle’s dark little eyes glittered meanly, and he buried his thick fingers in his beard and scratched, rasping slowly up and down.

      Peer stared back uneasily. His uncle convulsed. He doubled up, choking, and slapped his knees violently. He jerked to and fro, snorting for breath. “Ha, ha, ha!” he gasped. His face turned purple. “Hee, hee! Oh, dear. Oh, dear me!” He pointed at Peer. “Look at him, Grim! Look at him! Some might call him a bad bargain, but to me – to me, he’s worth his weight in gold!”

      The two brothers 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