Читать книгу West of the Moon - Katherine Langrish - Страница 11

Chapter 5

Trouble at the Mill

HILDE’S SHOES SANK into the wet sand. She rubbed her arms, willing the sun to climb higher. It was chilly here on the beach in the shadow of Troll Fell. The tide was going out, and cold grey waves splashed on the shore.

“Half a dozen herring and a couple of crabs? Done!” agreed Bjørn cheerfully. He shouted to his brother who sat in the boat sorting the catch, “Find us a couple of good big crabs, Arne!” He turned back to Hilde. “Any news?”

“I should say so,” said Hilde gloomily. “My father’s left. Gone off for the whole summer on the new longship they’ve built at Hammerhaven.”

Bjørn whistled, Arne clambered out of the boat, and Hilde discovered that explaining it all to two interested young men cheered her up – especially when Arne fixed his vivid blue eyes on her face. “Lucky Ralf,” he said enviously. “I wish I’d heard about it. What’s the ship like?”

“Lovely,” Hilde assured him. “She’s got a dragon head, all carved and painted.”

“Yes,” Bjørn laughed, “but how long is she? How many oars?”

Hilde didn’t know. “That boy at the mill could tell you. His father built her.”

“What boy?”

“The millers’ nephew. I met him this morning. They’ve taken him in because his father died.”

Bjørn’s eyebrows rose. “The millers have taken in an orphan? What’s he like?”

“He’s all right,” said Hilde without enthusiasm. “He seems a bit nervous.”

“I’d be nervous in his shoes,” said Bjørn darkly. “Arne! Dreamer! Give the girl her fish!”

With her basket full of herring and the two live crabs wrapped firmly in a cloth, Hilde rode whistling back up the steep path out of the village. Her good mood lasted until she came in sight of the mill. Even the spring sunshine could not gild its slimy black thatch. The brook rushed away from it, tumbling over itself in a white cascade. Nobody happy had ever lived there.

Hilde felt sorry for the boy, Peer, but she didn’t want to stop. She gathered up the reins and trotted, hoping to get past without being seen, but as she reached the bridge, Peer dashed out of the yard. “Hilde! Hilde!” He ran up, looking pale and miserable. “I’m sorry. My uncles want to talk to you. Will you come?”

Hilde rode warily into the yard. Both the millers were there, lounging on the doorstep. They lowered their heads threateningly – like a couple of prize bulls, Hilde thought.

“What d’you want?” she demanded.

“A little bird told us,” Baldur sneered in his high voice, “that Daddy’s gone away. The great Ralf Eiriksson, who thinks he’s so important. Is that right? Eh?”

“Only for the summer,” said Hilde icily. “He’ll be back before winter with a bunch of his Viking friends, so don’t give me any trouble, Baldur Grimsson.”

“Vikings!” said Baldur. “I don’t give that for Vikings.” He spat. “Besides, what with storms and whirlpools and sea serpents, he’ll never come back.”

“Is that all you have to say?” snapped Hilde.

“No!” Baldur snarled. He came up close and grabbed the pony by the bridle. “Tell your mother – and your grandpa –” he emphasised the words with a stab of his thick forefinger, “to keep off that land on Troll Fell that belongs to us. You ask your mother which she’d prefer. Those fields – or that golden cup? The land is ours. And so are the sheep you’ve been grazing on it. You and your family keep off the Stonemeadow!”

He let go of the bridle and whistled. Grendel came hurtling out of the mill.

“See ’em off!” shouted Grim.

Hilde grabbed the mane. The terrified pony whirled out of the yard and bolted over the bridge and up the hill. Clinging to her bouncing basket, she hauled on the reins and slithered off sideways as the pony came to a snorting halt. “It’s all right! It’s all right.” She patted its steaming neck. “The dog’s not after you now…”

But the pony rolled a wild eye as a little brown dog burst out of the bushes. There was a crackling, crashing noise as someone tackled the steep and brambly shortcut up the side of the hill. Hilde shook back her hair. “Who’s there?” she challenged.

Peer’s pale and dirty face became visible as he parted some branches. “Are you all right?” he puffed.

“No thanks to you!” Hilde scowled at him. “Was it you who told those – those oafs – that my father has gone away?”

“Yes, it was,” said Peer miserably. “I didn’t mean any harm – I didn’t know it was important. I’m sorry, Hilde.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Hilde recovered her temper. “Stop apologising. You haven’t done anything. They’d have heard soon enough. Everybody knows everything in a little place like this.” She gave him a sharp look. “Why are you hiding in the bushes, Peer? Are you scared of the millers? Or are you scared of me?”

Peer flushed. He didn’t answer.

“Well,” Hilde went on, “I expect there’s going to be trouble. I’m sorry, Peer, but I absolutely detest your uncles.”

“So do I,” said Peer in a low, savage voice. “I don’t know why they want me. There’s something going on that I don’t understand. Some strange plan. They stole my father’s money. I heard them counting it and talking about someone called the Gaffer – and a wedding. And if I don’t do everything they say, they’ll set their dog on Loki. He’ll be killed.”

“That’s terrible!” Hilde cried. She patted Loki, who collapsed on to his back and folded up his paws to let her rub his tummy. She scratched his chest. “Money, and a wedding?” she repeated, frowning. “I can’t imagine. Of course, old Grim, their father, was always poking about looking for the trolls’ treasure.”

“Was he? Why?”

“It’s a long story. Have you got time? And anyway, whose side are you on?”

“On your side,” said Peer with determination. “Even if they are my uncles. But I can’t help living with them. I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

Hilde patted the ground beside her. “Sit down and I’ll tell you about the trolls. It’s a good story, and it’s true. Years ago, my father was riding over Troll Fell late one night when he stumbled on a troll banquet…” She told Peer what had happened, and how Ralf had raced to the mill for shelter, and old Grim had seen the golden cup.

“Mother swears it’s unlucky,” she went on, “and it certainly was for Grim. He spent the rest of his days wandering around Troll Fell, looking for the gate into the hill.”

“What gate? I thought you said the whole place was up on pillars?”

“I think they only do that for special occasions. But there must be a gateway into the hill. We have trolls the way other people have rats and mice, and they’re all getting out somewhere. And wherever it is, it seems Grim found it, only it was winter, and he collapsed up there and died later.”

“So my uncles must know where it is,” said Peer thoughtfully.

“Yes, but what good is that? The trolls aren’t going to come out and just give them presents,” said Hilde. She was still scratching Loki’s tummy. “Goodness, Loki, how much more of this do you want?”

“Oh, he’ll go on for ever,” said Peer, laughing. Just then a distant bellow floated up from the mill. He stopped laughing and jumped up. “I’d better go.”

“Yes, you’d better.” Hilde looked sorry for him. “Watch out for yourself, Peer.” She offered her hand, which Peer took shyly. “See you soon!”

Peer raced for the mill, Loki bounding ahead. He reached the yard to find his uncles talking to a carter, a surly-looking man who had just unloaded some sacks of barley. Grendel lay in a patch of sunlight by the mill door, gnawing a bone. He growled at Loki, who pottered past and cocked a cheeky leg on the corner of the barn.

“Grind it small,” shouted the carter as he drove his cart out into the lane. “We want fine meal. I’ll collect it tomorrow.”

“You’re going to learn about the mill, boy,” said Uncle Baldur to Peer. “Grim’s just a farmer, but me – I’m the miller!” He rapped his chest. “You’re a lucky lad to have me to teach you. I hope you’re thankful.”

Something flamed up in Peer’s heart. “Thankful? What have I got to be thankful for? You treat me like a slave, you can’t even remember my name!”

Baldur raised a fist the size of a ham and clouted Peer casually over the ear. Peer found himself sitting on the ground, clutching his ringing head. Loki streaked across the yard, teeth bared for Uncle Baldur’s leg. Grendel rose silently from the doorstep and hurled himself at Loki.

“Loki!” Peer screamed. Loki saw Grendel out of the tail of his eye and veered off around the corner. Grendel dropped his hackles and slouched back to his bone.

“Come inside,” said Uncle Baldur as if nothing had happened. “I’ll show you what to do. Pay attention. You’ll be doing a lot of this.”

“You’re not going to take me to the Gaffer, then?” said Peer on impulse.

Uncle Baldur swung round, fast for such a big man.

“What?” he said in a menacing whisper. Their eyes met. Peer thought fast. “Something Uncle Grim said,” he invented. “He said, er, if I didn’t work hard, you’d give me to the Gaffer.” Come to think of it, it sounded exactly the sort of thing Uncle Grim would say.

Uncle Baldur clearly believed it. He muttered something about Grim being a chattering fool, then grabbed Peer. “The Gaffer,” he whispered, “is the King of Troll Fell. He lives up there under the crags, not far away. And naughty boys, why, he likes to tear them in pieces! So watch your step, laddie.”

He pulled Peer into the mill and climbed the creaking ladder to the loft. Peer followed, overhung by his uncle’s bulky bottom, and found himself standing on a dark, dusty platform, badly lit by one little louvred window high in the apex of the roof. In front of him in the middle of the floor sat two millstones, one above the other, cartwheel sized slabs of gritstone rimmed with iron.

“Power!” Baldur wheezed, slapping the upper millstone. “See how heavy that is? But finely balanced. What drives it? Water power. Ah, but who controls the water? Me, the miller!

“The brook obeys me, boy. I control it with my dam and my sluice gates. It turns my waterwheel and drives my millstones.

“It all comes down to power. The power of the water, the power of the stones and me. I’m the most powerful man in the valley.” He gave the millstone another affectionate pat.

“See that?” he went on, straightening up. Peer banged his head on the corner of a big wooden box with sloping sides that hung suspended over the millstones from four thick ropes. “The hopper,” his uncle grunted. “You fill it with barley, which runs out through this hole in the bottom, and shakes down through this hole in the upper millstone, which is called the runnerstone. Because it’s the one that turns. Understand?”

To his own surprise, Peer did. He tried to show an interest. “Does everyone bring their corn here?” Perhaps Hilde had been exaggerating. Perhaps the mill was doing quite well.

But Uncle Baldur scowled. “They soon will,” he growled, “now that blackguard Ralf Eiriksson has gone. Spreading lies…Telling everyone I put chalk in the flour – or dirt –” He shook his fist. “This will be the best mill in the valley. I’ll put in another wheel – another pair of stones. They’ll come to me from miles around. But first —” He stopped. “But first,” he said in a different tone of voice, “get that hopper filled, boy. I haven’t got all night!”

To lift the sack high enough to pour the barley into the hopper was quite beyond Peer. With a bad-tempered grunt, Uncle Baldur hefted the sack in his thick arms and let the glossy grain pour effortlessly into the hopper. Then he took Peer outside to open the sluice and start the wheel.

It was getting late. The sun had set and it was cold by the stream. Peer looked anxiously for Loki as he followed his uncle up to the dam. The millpond seemed more sinister than ever as darkness fell. A little breeze shivered the surface and the trees sighed sadly. He hoped with all his heart that Loki had kept away from this dark water.

Uncle Baldur showed Peer how to work the sluice gate. He stood on a narrow plank bridge and simply tugged the gate up. It slid up and down between grooves in two big timber posts. He banged in some wedges to keep it stuck in place. A rush of water boiled from under the gate, filling the air with thunder, and the great black waterwheel stirred into life. The mill machinery began to clack.

“You’ll do that job next time,” Uncle Baldur said. “And don’t hang about here after dark. Or Granny Greenteeth will get you.”

As if he cared, thought Peer. Aloud he asked, “Who is Granny Greenteeth?”

“She lives at the bottom of the pond,” said Uncle Baldur briefly. “She likes to come out at night – the old hag. So watch yourself.”

It was now almost quite dark. Peer looked over his shoulder as they walked back to the mill. What was that dark patch floating in the shadow of the willows? Weeds? Or the spreading hair of Granny Greenteeth rising from her slimy bed? A fish splashed, and ripples lapped against the bank… He hurried after his uncle. Something crashed through a nearby bramble bush and leaped on to the path. Peer’s heart nearly stopped – then he saw what it was.

“Loki!” he gasped in relief. “You crazy dog!” Loki leaped and lashed his tail. Peer hugged him. “Come on,” he said, and they ran into the yard together.