Troll Mill (9 page)

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 mill door. It leaned on its hinges, half open, streaked with bright green moss. Peer pushed gently, and it scraped inward over a rubble of earth and stones and decayed leaves. Holding his breath, he cautiously stepped through.

There was a shriek and a clatter of feathers. Peer reeled back. A frantic starling swept out over his head and disappeared over the barn roof, chattering hysterically. Loki rushed after it, barking.

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, so the small, deeply set windows were outlined only by a few bright cracks of daylight. Peer trod carefully forward. There was a strong damp smell, and his nose prickled. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw spectral weeds growing in the long-dead ashes of the central fireplace. Pale and unhealthy, they straggled upward 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, among 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 of the
nearest. The wrinkled blankets trailed in damp, dirty folds and looked as though they had been nibbled by mice. Peer looked away, grimacing, and 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 a cautious 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, forcing it open, 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 remaining grain bins. It was a third full of some sort of gray, mealy substance. Whatever it had once been, it didn’t look edible anymore. He lowered the lid and craned his neck to see up onto 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 walked into it.

“Ouch!” Peer clutched his ringing forehead. The hopper was so heavy, it didn’t even move. Muttering curses, he crouched down to inspect the millstones. A tiny gable window, half blocked with an old flour sack, provided a glimmer of dim bluish daylight, but not really enough to see by. He ran his hands over the upper millstone and then around the edges, covering his fingers with gritty dust. He sniffed. They smelled of stone and a sort of acrid, dryish powder: nothing like the warm 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 what to make of it, Loki. Everything works, but I’m sure 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….”

And the idea came to him. He stood, his head high up under the rafters, staring down at the room below.

Why not me?

Uncle Baldur had been fiercely proud of his mill. He and Grim might have lived like pigs, but they’d certainly 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 moldy baskets, he exposed a small door that led to the cramped space directly under the millstones. He dropped onto 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 in. Sour, cold air blew past him like an escaping ghost. 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 water wheel piercing the wall on the right, and the toothed edges of the pit wheel, and the lantern gear that drove the millstones.

Peer got up slowly, dirty patches on his knees. He wasn’t ready to crawl in. Not without a light. He supposed that if you wanted to check the machinery, there must be a shutter that would let daylight in, but he didn’t feel like looking for it. It would be too easy for—for somebody to shut the door and trap him.

All the same, “It’s my mill, Loki!” he said aloud. Loki whined unhappily, but Peer felt irresistible 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 inward like a tightening
fist. He caught his breath and hurried toward the door, tripping over the hearth in his haste, and kicking up wads of damp ashes.

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

Arnë may have a boat
, he thought.
But I’ve got a mill!

He shut his eyes and imagined the yard cleared and swept, with gleaming cobbles. The mill with a new roof of trim, shining thatch. Shutters and doors mended; sheds and outhouses rebuilt. Everything tidy and cool and clean, indoors and out. He saw himself welcoming the neighbors as they brought their sacks of barley and rye. For a second, he even allowed himself to imagine Hilde, standing in the mill doorway, smiling at him and throwing corn to the chickens from the pocket of her apron. There’d be no more miserable hand-grinding for Hilde if she were the miller’s wife….

He’d be that miller: the miller of Troll Fell, the best they’d ever had!

Now to make a start. There’d been some
old tools leaning in a corner of the barn, a collection of toothless hay rakes and rusty scythes. He found a battered old shovel and began scraping moss from the cobbles.

Loki watched, his tail swinging slower and slower. At last he seemed to realize that they would not be going to the village after all. He settled down with his nose on his paws, keeping a wary eye trained on the mill.

“That’s right, Loki,” panted Peer. “On guard!” The edge of the shovel rattled noisily over the cobbles, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hear anyone coming up behind him.

It’s like that game, where one child turns his back, and the others creep up closer and closer….
He whirled, checking the dark openings of the barn and sheds, half expecting to see figures freezing into stillness. Of course, no one was there. It felt almost too quiet.

Can I really change this place?

Thin clouds leaked across the sky like spilled milk, and the sunlight faded. Peer fell into a stubborn rhythm. He kept his head down, still haunted by the feeling that if he looked up, his uncles would be there: Baldur lounging in the doorframe, picking his teeth;
Grim caressing the head of his massive dog; both of them keeping their sharp little black eyes fixed on him.

They’ve gone
, he repeated to himself.
They’ve gone!

At last he took a rest, leaning on the shovel. “What do you think?” he said to Loki, dropping a hand to pat him. “Is that enough for today?”

Loki rose, his short fur bristling under Peer’s fingers. He barked once, staring at the mill door. Peer looked up sharply.

But the mill’s empty! I’m sure it was….

Lifting the shovel like an axe, he tiptoed over the cobbles and sidled up to the mill door. Had something slipped past him while he wasn’t looking? He listened. There was no sound from within. After a second or two he gave the door a push and jumped back. Still nothing moved.

Peer felt foolish. Loki had probably seen a rat. He ducked under the lintel and stepped boldly into the mill. It was much darker inside than it had been earlier, and for a moment or two he was half blind. The musty, moldy smell rose into his nostrils. He
coughed, blundered forward a couple of paces, and stood screwing up his eyes, scanning 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 one of the big square grain bins with their slanting lids.

He took another tense step forward, level now with the hearth.
Aaahhh!
There was a sound like a shifting sigh. Peer swung around. He 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, splitlike mouth. It sat up. The other bunk bed heaved and writhed. A second shape catapulted upright and
leapfrogged toward him. Peer shrieked and swung 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 hurled himself after them, charging out in time to see Loki chasing one of them around the end of the barn. Without thinking, he ran after.

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

Peer slid to a halt. He wasn’t going to play tag around the barn—not when they might circle around behind and grab him. He whistled to Loki. “Get back!” he cried, sweeping his arm back toward 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, cold, 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.

But that’s the answer
, he realized.
Since my uncles have gone, the lubbers have had the run of the whole mill. They’ve been playing about with the machinery. That’s why the wheel was turning! That’s who followed me up the hill! And if I want the mill for myself, I’ll have to get rid of them. But how?

He stared at the privy. They were sure to be hiding there now. The wormy old door was blocked by a stack of firewood. No one could get through it—but there was a ragged hole in the moldering 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. Quietly he squeezed up close to the wall and leaned his ear to the decaying surface of crumbling clay and woven twigs.

He heard creaking sounds and a lot of huffing and puffing. An agitated voice broke out, “Ooh, me leg hurts. It hurts! He got me with his shovel.” After a pause it added shrilly, “It’s bleeding. Look at that gash!”

“Lick it, stupid,” the other one growled. “Why did you have to 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 hiccuped, “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 second in a hollow voice. “Heartbreaking, innit? First blankets we ever had. Blankets, and beds, all nice and cozy … and look at us! Thrown out.
Evicted by a nasty young thug with a dog and a shovel.” Its voice sharpened. “Oooh, a snail!” There was a slapping flurry of activity, and the wall shook against Peer’s ear.

“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’ll never see your blanket again!” said the first spitefully.

“If he steals it, I’ll kill him! Oooh, yes. I’ll chew him up and spit out the pieces! Blanket of his own means a lot to a person. I want my blanket!”

“Kiss good-bye to it. It’s
his
, now.”

Peer imagined sleeping in those bedclothes, and shuddered.

“But I
wa-a-ant
it!”