West of the Moon (18 page)

Go on. Go in!

Peer hesitated. It was all so very quiet, and he was by himself.

Scared? In broad daylight? Faintheart!

He walked slowly into the yard, his feet sinking into soft, untrodden leaf-mould and moss. Underneath were cobblestones, buried by years of neglect. Peer padded warily towards the barn and looked inside. There was a smell of damp, mildewed straw, a litter of bird droppings, and a breathless, dusty silence. He backed out, trying to look over both shoulders at once.

Something bitter rose in his throat. A rush of memories swept over him. He was thirteen years old again, cringing half defensively, half defiantly under the harsh hand of Uncle Baldur.

He'd slept in that dusty barn, in the straw with the hens. Over there by the mill door, Uncle Baldur had knocked him down. Peer remembered every inch of the yard. One hot summer's day, Baldur's twin brother, Uncle Grim, had made him sweep it twice over, first with a broom, and then on his knees with a hand brush. He could still see his uncle's red face, oozing little beads of sweat, gloating as he pointed out tiny bits of twig and chicken feathers that Peer had missed.

Clean it up, boy! No supper until you do…

Peer's fists clenched, the nails digging into his palms.

Nobody, nobody, was going to treat him like that again!

N
OBODY'S EVER GOING
to treat me like that again!
The words rang out in Peer's mind. He straightened his shoulders, letting the anger drain away. A subdued Loki looked up at him, pressing closely to his legs.

They stood in front of the mossy mill door. It leaned on its hinges, half open. Peer pushed, and it scraped inwards over a rubble of earth and stones and decayed leaves. He stepped through.

With a shriek and a clatter of feathers, a frantic starling swept out over his head and disappeared over the barn roof, chattering hysterically. Loki rushed after it.

Peer sank against the doorpost, his heart thundering. “It's all right, Loki!” he managed to say, as the dog returned at a stiff trot, hackles high. “Just a bird! What a couple of cowards we are. Come on!”

It was dark inside. The shutters were closed. Peer trod carefully. There was a strong damp smell, and his nose prickled. As his eyes got used to the gloom, he saw spectral weeds growing in the long-dead ashes of the central fireplace. Pale and unhealthy, they straggled upwards on hopeless spindly stalks, trying to reach the weak light filtering through the smoke-hole. Peer brushed past them, shuddering.

The place was smaller than he remembered. At the far end, a ladder led up into the shadowy grinding loft, and at its foot lay a worn old millstone, cracked in two, amongst a litter of splintered and broken wood. On either side of the hearth were the two bunks that his uncles had slept in, built into dark alcoves in the wall. A lump of some pale fungus was growing over the pillow end of the nearest. The ruckled blankets trailed in damp, dirty folds and looked as though they had been nibbled by mice. Peer bumped into a huge pair of scales, dangling from the rafters on a rusty chain. They squeaked and swung: there was a bird's nest in one of the pans. Alarmed by the noise, Peer tried to steady them. They bobbed and ducked and seesawed into stillness.

He let out his breath, turning around. It didn't look as if anyone had been here. Loki nosed about the spongy floor. He growled at the bedding, sniffed and sneezed.

Peer struggled with one of the shutters, brushing away a tangle of cobwebs and dead bluebottles. A narrow column of daylight slanted in and lay in a pale stripe across the ghostly hearth and the filthy floor. Dusting his hands together, Peer lifted the lid of one of the old grain bins. It was a third full of some sort of coarse grey flour. It didn't look edible any more. He lowered the lid and craned his neck to see up on to the floor of the grinding loft, where the millstones rested. It looked dark and creepy up there, and he fought a wish to get out into the open air.

I'd better look
, he thought. He couldn't see why anyone should have been up there – yet the mill had been working.
I'll nip up the ladder and see.

He climbed the rough ladder, leaving Loki sitting below. The big grain hopper loomed over him, hanging from the rafters on ropes. It was made of blackish oak, blending with the darkness, and he misjudged his distance and hit his head.

Muttering curses, he crouched to inspect the millstones. A tiny gable window, half blocked with an old flour sack, provided a glimmer of daylight, but not really enough to see by. He ran his hands over the upper millstone, and then round the edges, covering his fingers with gritty powder. He sniffed. It smelled of stone and dust, nothing like the yeasty smell of freshly ground grain. He stood, and gave one of the hoists an experimental tug. The rope ran easily over the squeaking pulley.

“I don't know, Loki. Everything works, but nobody's been grinding corn. The place is a mess. It's a pity somebody doesn't fix it. We could all do with a proper mill again…”

Why not me?

Peer stood still, high up under the rafters, staring at the room below. Baldur, he remembered, had been fiercely proud of his mill. He and Grim might have lived like pigs, but they'd kept the machinery in good order. Peer vaulted down from the loft, not bothering with the ladder. Clearing aside a stack of old crates and some mouldy baskets, he exposed a small door that led to the cramped space directly under the millstones. He dropped on his knees to open it. A crude wooden swivel kept it shut. He paused.

Uncle Grim, opening this door, forcing him through into the blackness beyond. Himself screaming, panting for breath, bursting his way out, and begging, pleading, not to be thrown back in again…

His mouth hardened. Deliberately he turned the catch, dragged the door open, and stuck his head through. Even in daylight, it was very dark in there, and full of the noise of the stream. He could dimly see the great axle of the waterwheel, piercing the wall on the right, and the toothed edges of the pit wheel and lantern gear that drove the millstones.

Peer got up slowly, dirty patches on his knees.

“It's my mill now,” he said aloud. Loki whined unhappily, but Peer felt furious excitement welling up. “It
is
my mill. It belonged to my uncles, and I'm the only one left. I can get it working again. I can be independent.”

His words sank into the damp, unhealthy siftings that covered the floor. The walls seemed to squeeze inwards like a tightening fist. He hurried for the door, tripping over the hearth and kicking up wads of damp ashes.

The yard seemed bright after the darkness indoors. Loki shook his ears till they rattled, and trotted towards the lane, but Peer called him back. “No, boy, we're not leaving yet.”

Arne may have a boat
, he thought.
But I've got a mill!

He imagined the yard cleared and swept, with gleaming cobbles. Shutters and doors mended; sheds and outhouses rebuilt. Everything tidy and cool and clean. He saw himself welcoming the neighbours as they brought their sacks of barley and rye. For a second, he even allowed himself to imagine Hilde standing in the doorway, smiling at him, and throwing corn to the chickens from the pocket of her apron…

He found some old tools leaning in a corner of the barn, a collection of toothless hay rakes and rusty scythes. He picked a battered old shovel and began scraping moss from the cobbles.

Loki watched, his tail swinging slower and slower. He seemed to realise that they would not be going to the village after all. He settled down with his nose on his paws, keeping one wary eye open.

“That's right, Loki,” panted Peer. “On guard!” The edge of the shovel rattled noisily over the cobbles, and he knew he wouldn't hear anyone coming up behind him… but that was a foolish thought. Baldur and Grim were gone.

He worked on, falling into a stubborn rhythm. The sunshine faded: thin clouds spread across the sky like spilt milk. Loki rose, his short fur bristling. He barked once, sharp and loud, staring at the mill door. Peer looked up.

But the mill was empty! Wasn't it…?

Holding the shovel like an axe, he tiptoed over the cobbles. Had something slipped into the mill while he wasn't looking? He listened and heard nothing. After a second or two he gave the door a push and jumped back. Still nothing.

Probably Loki had seen a rat. Peer stepped inside. It was even darker than it had been earlier, and for a moment he was half blind. The fusty, mouldy smell rose into his nostrils. He blundered a couple of paces, and scanned the room. This end, by the door, didn't bother him. The feeble daylight showed him it was empty, except for a couple of worm-eaten stools and a pile of sacks. But the far end was a different matter. Anything might be crouching up in the shadow-draped loft, or hiding in the big square grain bins with their slanting lids.

He took another tense step, level now with the hearth.
Aaahhh!
There was a sound like a shifting sigh. Peer stared at the dirty bunk beds against the wall. Nothing moved, but the whole shadowy room had the feeling of a joke about to be played, a trap about to be sprung. He prodded the greasy bedclothes nearest to him. They were so snarled together and rolled up, it looked as if a body was lying there – a long, thin body. And that pale fungus made a sort of shapeless head –

“
BOO!
” The fungus opened two glittering, hungry eyes and a wide, split-like mouth. It sat up. The other bunk bed heaved. A second shape catapulted out and leap-frogged towards him. Peer shrieked and struck out with the shovel. It connected with a satisfying
ding
! With an anguished yelp the creature rushed past on flat, slapping feet. The other one followed. Colliding at the door, they wrestled briefly, elbowing and pushing to get out first. They fell into the yard and dashed off in different directions. His blood up, Peer charged out in time to see Loki chasing one of them around the end of the barn. He joined in.

Trees grew close up to the back of the building. Peer raced through a sea of young nettles, leaving great bruising footmarks. More marks showed where someone had dashed on ahead.

Peer wasn't going to play tag around the barn – not when they might circle round behind and grab him. He whistled to Loki, sweeping his arm back towards the yard. Loki streaked off, and Peer hurried the opposite way, hoping that he and Loki would catch the creatures between them. But as he rounded the other end of the barn, Loki was casting about, clearly at a loss, and the yard was empty.

So the lubbers were loose! He shivered, recalling their skinny limbs, clammy hands and blotchy features. They had lived in the old lean-to privy of wattle and daub, built against the end of the barn nearest the road.

And that was the answer, he realised. The lubbers had taken over the empty mill. They must have been playing about with the machinery.
That's why the wheel was turning: that's who followed me up the hill!

If he wanted the mill for himself, he had to get rid of them. But how?

He stared at the privy. They were sure to be hiding there now. The door was blocked by a stack of firewood. No one could get through it – but there was a ragged hole in the mouldering thatch. Peer stood back and looked at it. He'd made that hole himself, the night he'd escaped from his uncles. But it seemed to have got bigger. He squeezed up close to the wall and listened.

He heard creaking sounds, huffing and puffing. An agitated voice broke out: “Ow, me leg hurts, it hurts! He got me with his shovel. It's bleeding. Look at that gash!”

“Lick it, stupid,” the other one growled. “Why did you get in the way? I was just going to grab him.”

“Why didn't you lie low?” the first voice snuffled. “He'd never have spotted us, if you hadn't jumped out like that. He didn't the first time.”

“'Cos I couldn't stand it, see? I'm highly strung. Me nerves couldn't take it.”

“There I lay, hardly breathing,” the first lubber hiccupped, “while he prowls up the room with his dog and his shovel.”

“Yeah. He's vicious, that boy is. Vicious!”

There was a short silence.

“It's all slimy in here,” lamented the first lubber. “I wish I'd brung me blanket. Where's yours?”

“Left it behind,” said the other in a hollow voice. “Heartbreaking, innit? First blankets we ever had. Blankets and beds, all cosy and nice, and what happens? Thrown out. Evicted by a nasty young thug with a dog and a shovel.” Its voice sharpened. “Oooh – a snail!”

“I want it! I oughter have it, 'cos I cut my leg,” shrieked the wounded lubber. “Got it!” it added, with a slurping crunch.

“Bet you never see your blanket again,” said the other spitefully. “Kiss goodbye to it. It's
his
, now.”

“But it's mine! I wa-a-ant it!”

Peer turned and ran through the nettles, across the yard and into the mill. He groped his way to the nearest bunk bed, felt for the blanket and jerked. It came up in stiff, stinking folds. It felt like something that had died and was rotting. He could hardly bring himself to touch the other one, but he did, and dragged them both out into the yard. Black stuff showered off – woodlice, and pieces of decaying wool, and mouse droppings.

“I've got your blankets here,” he yelled at the top of his voice. “And if you don't come out, I'll throw them in the millpond!”

There was a shriek of alarm.

“So come and get them!” Peer shouted. “Both of you! I know you're in there. Do you want me to come after you?
With my dog and my shovel?
”

He stopped, panting. With a thud and a scrabbling sound, a shape appeared through the privy roof. It clambered out, becoming a spindly figure with a very large head and one flyaway ear, just visible against the dark trees.

Peer backed a few steps. “Where's your friend?” he called roughly. “Come on, I want both of you out of there!”

A second head emerged from the hole in the privy roof. It was pale and bald, and glimmered horribly in the dusk. He couldn't make out any eyes, and didn't know if it was looking at him or not. He took another step back and nearly fell over Loki. Recovering, he brandished the blankets, and more pieces dropped off. “Here they are! But you can't have them till you're out of the yard.”

The lubbers twisted over the edge and slithered into the nettles. They crouched, gaping at Peer with dark, frog-like mouths, and he stared back, quivering with revulsion. One of them hissed, a loud, startling noise. He flinched, and both lubbers twitched forwards. A moment's loss of nerve, and they would rush him.

“Out!” he yelled, waving the blankets like a banner. “Come on, Loki!” He ran at them, gripping the shovel in his left hand like a sword. Loki hurtled ahead, barking. The lubbers fled. Peer drove them before him, right out of the yard, across the lane and into the wood. With all his strength, he flung the reeking folds after them. In a flash, the nearest turned and snatched up both blankets. It gambolled away into the trees, lifting its bony knees high. The other limped after it, screaming. The crashes and cries and howls grew fainter and further away.

Peer burst out laughing. “What cowards! We've done it, Loki, we've cleared them out of the mill!”