West of the Moon

Chapter 2

The Departure of Ralf

IN A SMALL damp farmhouse higher up the valley, Hilde threw down her knitting. Her eyes ached from peering at the stitches in the firelight. And she was worried.

“Ma? He’s so late. Do you think he’s all right?”

Before Gudrun could answer, the wind pounced on the house as if trying to tear it loose from the hillside. Eerie voices wailed and chattered outside as rain lashed the closed wooden shutters. It was a night for wolves, trolls, bears. And Hilde’s father was out there, riding home over the shaggy black shoulder of Troll Fell. Even if he was hurt or in trouble, she and her mother could only wait, anxiously listening, while her grandfather dozed fitfully by the fire. But then she heard the clop and clatter of the pony’s feet trotting into the yard.

“At last!” said Gudrun, smiling. And Hilde ran out into the wild, wet night.

“I’m back!” Ralf threw her the reins. His long blond hair was plastered to his head, and his boots and leggings were covered in mud.

“You’re soaking! I’ll rub the pony down. You go in and get dry,” said Hilde, leading the steaming animal into the stable. Ralf came with her to unbuckle the packs. “How was the trip?”

“Fine! I got everything your mother wanted from the market. It’s been a long day, though. And I overtook that madman Baldur Grimsson coming back over Troll Fell.”

“What happened?” asked Hilde sharply.

“Oh, he yelled a few insults, as usual. That’s not my news. Hilde —” Ralf stopped and gave her a strange look, excited yet apprehensive.

“What? What is it?” Hilde stopped grooming the pony.

“There’s a new ship in the harbour! A new longship, ready to sail! And I – well, no, I’d better tell your mother first. Be quick as you can, now, and you’ll soon hear all about it.” He tugged her long hair and left her.

What was he up to? Hilde rubbed the pony dry and threw down fresh straw, hurrying so she could get back to the family. It was creepy in the stable with the wind howling outside. The lantern cast huge shadows. Whistling to keep up her courage, she turned to the door – and saw with horror a thin black arm come through the loophole and grope about for the latch. She screamed and hit it with the broom. It vanished.

“Trolls!” Hilde hissed. “Not again!” Clutching the broom she waited a moment, recovered her breath, tiptoed to the door and peered out.

Falling rain glittered in the doorway. A black shadow shifted in the mud. Squatting there, its knees up past its ears, was a thing about the size of a large dog. She saw a fat paunchy body slung between long legs, and damp bald skin twitching in the rain. Glowing yellow eyes blinked from a wrinkled pug face. For one fascinated second they stared at each other, troll and girl; then Hilde was splattered with mud as the troll sprang away in a couple of long, liquid jumps.

Hilde flew across the yard and wrenched open the farmhouse door to tell everyone about it. She tumbled straight into a colossal row.

“I never heard such a ridiculous idea in my WHOLE LIFE,” Hilde’s mother was yelling at Ralf. “You’re a FARMER, not some sort of VIKING!”

Hilde let go of the door. It slammed behind her with a deafening bang. And so she forgot about the troll, and didn’t see it leap as suddenly as a frog on to the low eaves of their thick turf roof and go scrambling up to the ridge.

“Why should it be ridiculous?” Ralf bellowed back. “That’s what half these fellows ARE – farmers and Vikings!”

“Ma – Pa – stop it!” cried Hilde. “What’s happening? Stop it – you’ll wake the little ones!”

In fact the twins were already awake – and bawling.

The wind managed an extra strong blast. All the birch trees growing up the sides of Troll Fell reeled and danced. Up on the roof the troll clung on, whimpering, and one of its large black ears blew inside out like a dog’s. It squirmed along to where a hole had been cut out to let smoke escape, and peered over at the fierce red eye of the fire. It pulled back, coughing and chattering to itself: “Hutututu!” But the sound was lost in a rattle of sleet that fell hissing into the flames.

“Very well,” said Gudrun, suddenly deadly quiet. “Let’s see what your father thinks about his only son sailing off on a longship into storms and whirlpools and goodness knows what. It will break his heart!”

“Why don’t you let him speak for himself?” Ralf roared. “And why don’t you give us both some supper? Starving us while you nag at me!”

Hilde glanced at her grandfather, Eirik, and saw his eye brighten at the suggestion of supper. Gudrun saw it too. She fetched them both a jug of ale and a bowl of groute, warm barley porridge, served as Eirik liked it with a big lump of butter.

“Eirik, tell Ralf what you think of this mad idea,” she demanded, twisting her hands in her apron. “He’ll listen to you.”

But Eirik’s face lit up. “Aha, if only I were a young fellow again. A brand-new ship! Long Serpent, they’re calling her. Oh, to sail away east of the sun and west of the moon! To follow the whales’ road, seeking adventure!” He tasted his groute. “The whales’ road – d’you know what that means, Hilde, my girl?”

“Yes, Grandfather,” said Hilde kindly. “It’s the sea.”

Eirik broke into a chant from some long saga he was making about Harald the Seafarer, waving his spoon to the beat. While Hilde clapped softly in time, Ralf tiptoed over to the twins, five-year old Sigurd and Sigrid. He sat down between them, an arm round each, and whispered. Suddenly they came jumping out of bed.

“Pa’s going to be a Viking!” they shrieked.

“He’s going to bring us presents!”

“An amber necklace!”

“A real dagger!”

“Ralf!” Gudrun whirled around. “Stop bribing those children!”

Eirik’s poem reached its climax, all dead heroes and burning ships. He sat back happily. Ralf cheered. Gudrun glared at him.

“Oh, that’s a fine way to end, isn’t it – floating face down in the water? And who’ll look after the farm while you’re away? What about the sheep? You know somebody’s stealing them: three lambs gone already. It’s the trolls, or those Grimsson brothers down at the mill. They’re all troublemakers. We can’t spare you!”

Up on the roof the troll remembered the flavour of roast lamb. It licked its lips with a thin black tongue.

“Speaking of the millers,” Ralf began, clearly hoping to change the subject, “did I tell you I met Baldur Grimsson tonight as I came home? The man’s a fool. He sat in his cart in the pouring rain, shouting at me.”

“Why did he shout at you, Pa?” asked Sigrid, wide eyed.

“Because he doesn’t like me,” Ralf grinned.

“Why not?”

“It’s all because of Pa’s golden cup,” said Hilde wisely. “Isn’t it?”

“That’s right, Hilde,” said Ralf with relish. “He’d love to get his hands on that. My troll treasure, my lucky cup!”

“Unlucky cup, more like,” Gudrun sniffed. But Sigurd and Sigrid jumped up and down begging, “Tell us the story, Pa!”

“All right!” Ralf scooped the twins on to his knees. “One wild night just like this, about ten years ago, I was riding home from the market at Hammerhaven, and halfway over Troll Fell, wet and weary, I saw a bright light glowing from the top of the crag and heard snatches of music gusting on the wind.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Gudrun muttered.

“I was in one of our own fields, the high one called the Stonemeadow. I trotted the pony up the slope to see what was happening. Well, if you’ll believe me, the whole rocky summit of the hill had been lifted up, like a great stone lid! It was resting on four stout red pillars, and underneath was a space shining with golden light, and hundreds of trolls, all shapes and sizes, skipping and dancing.”

“How could they lift the whole top of Troll Fell, Pa?” asked Sigurd.

“As easily as you take off the top of your egg,” joked Ralf. He sobered. “Who knows what powers they have, my son? I only tell you what I saw with my own eyes. They had all sorts of food spread out on gold and silver dishes, and little troll servingmen jumping about between the dancers, balancing great loaded trays and never spilling a drop. It made me laugh out loud!

“I was so busy staring, I never noticed this troll girl creeping up on me till she popped up right by the pony’s shoulder. She held out a beautiful golden cup brimful of something steaming hot – spiced ale, I thought. I took it gratefully, cold and wet as I was.”

“Madness,” muttered Gudrun.

“Just before I gulped it down,” Ralf said slowly, “I noticed a gleam in her slanting eyes, a wicked sparkle! And her ears – her hairy, pointed ears – twitched forwards.”

“Go on!” said the children breathlessly.

Ralf leaned forward. “I lifted the cup, as if to take a sip. Then I threw the whole drink out over my shoulder. It splashed out smoking on to the pony’s tail and singed off half his hair! There’s an awful yell from the troll girl, and next thing the pony and I are off down the hill, galloping for our lives. I’m still clutching the golden cup, and half the trolls of Troll Fell are tearing after us!”

Soot showered into the fire. Up on the roof the troll lay flat with one large ear unfurled over the smoke hole. It lashed its tail like a cat, and growled. None of the humans noticed. They were too wrapped up in the story. Ralf wiped his face, trembling with remembered excitement, and laughed.

“I daren’t go home,” he continued. “The trolls would have torn your mother and Hilde to pieces!”

“What about us?” shouted Sigurd.

“You weren’t born, brats,” said Hilde cheerfully. “Go on, Pa!”

“I had one chance,” said Ralf. “At the tall stone called the Finger, I turned off the road and galloped across the big ploughed field above the mill. The trolls found it slow going over the furrows, and the clay clogged their feet. I reached the millstream ahead of them, jumped off and dragged the pony through the water. There was no bridge then. I was safe! The trolls couldn’t follow me over the brook.”

“Were they angry?” asked Sigurd.

“Spitting like cats and hissing like kettles!” said Ralf. “But it was nearly dawn, and off they scuttled up the hill. I staggered over to the mill, and as I banged on the door I heard – no, I felt, through the soles of my feet, a sort of far-off grating shudder as the top of Troll Fell sank into its place again.”

“And then?” prompted Hilde.

“The old miller, Grim, threw the door open, swearing at me for knocking so early. Then he saw the golden cup. A minute later he couldn’t do enough for me. He kicked his sons out of bed, sent his wife running for ale and bread, and it was, “Sit down, Ralf, toast your feet and tell us everything!”

“And you did!” said Gudrun grimly.

“Of course I did,” sighed Ralf. He turned to Hilde. “Fetch down the cup, Hilde. Let’s look at it again!”

The troll on the roof skirmished around the smoke hole like a dog at a rabbit-burrow, trying to get an upside-down glimpse of the golden goblet, which Hilde lifted from the shelf and carried to her father.

“Lovely!” Ralf whispered, tilting it. The bowl was wide. Two handles like serpents looped from the rim to the foot. The gold shone in the firelight as if it might melt over his fingers like butter.

“It’s so pretty!” said Sigrid. “Why don’t we ever use it?”

“Use that?” cried Gudrun in horror. “Never! It’s real bad luck, you mark my words. Many a time I’ve asked your father to take it back up the hill and leave it. But he’s too stubborn.”

“Gudrun!” Ralf grumbled. “Always worrying! Who’d believe my story without this cup? My prize, won fair and square. Bad luck goes to people with bad hearts. We have nothing to fear.”

“Did the old miller like it?” asked Sigurd.

“Oh yes! ‘Troll treasure!’ said old Grim. ‘We could use a bit of that, couldn’t we, boys?’ The way he was looking at it made me uneasy. After all, no one knew where I was. I got up to go – and there were the boys in front of me, blocking the door, and old Grim behind me, picking up a log from the woodpile!” Ralf looked grim. “If it hadn’t been for Bjørn and Arne Egilsson coming to the door that moment with a sack of barley to grind, I might have been knocked on the head for this cup.”

“And that’s why the millers hate us?” said Hilde. “Because we’ve got the cup and they haven’t?”

“There’s more to it than that,” said Gudrun. “Old Grim was crazy to have that cup, or something like it. Next day he came round pestering your father to sell him the Stonemeadow. He thought if he owned it, he could dig it up for treasure.”

“I turned him down flat,” said Ralf. “‘If there’s any treasure up there,’ I told him, ‘it belongs to the trolls and they’ll be guarding it. Leave well alone!’”

“Now that was sense,” said Gudrun. “But what happened? Old Grim tells everyone that your father’s cheated him – taken his money and kept the land!”

“A dirty lie!” said Ralf, reddening.

“But old Grim’s dead now, isn’t he?” asked Hilde.

“Yes,” said Ralf, “he died last winter. But do you know why? Because he hung about on that hill in all weathers, hoping to find the way in, and he got caught in a snowstorm.”

“His sons found him,” added Gudrun, “lying under a crag, clawing at the rocks. Weeping that he’d found the gate, and could hear the gatekeeper laughing at him from inside the hill. They carried him back to the mill, but he was too far gone. They blamed your father, of course.”

“That’s not fair!” said Hilde.

“It’s not fair,” said Gudrun, “but it’s the way things are. Which makes it madness for your father to be thinking of taking off on a foolhardy voyage. Ralf,” she begged, “you know these trips are a gamble. Don’t go!”

Ralf scratched his head. “I want some adventure, Gudrun. All my life I’ve lived here, in this one little valley. I want new skies – new seas – new places.” He looked at her pleadingly. “Can’t you see?”

“All I can see,” Gudrun flashed, “is that you want to desert us, and throw away good money on a selfish pleasure trip.”

Ralf went scarlet. “If the money worries you, sell this!” he roared, brandishing the golden cup. “It’s gold, it will fetch a good price, and I know you’ve always hated it! But I’m sailing on that longship!”

“You’ll drown!” Gudrun sobbed. “And all the time I’m waiting and waiting for you, you’ll be riding over Hel’s bridge with the rest of the dead!”

There was an awful silence.

Ralf put the cup down and took Gudrun by the shoulders. He gave her a little shake and said gently, “You’re a wonderful woman, Gudrun. I married a grand woman, sure enough. But I’ve got to take this chance of going a-Viking.”

The gale buffeted the house. Draughts crept moaning under the door. Gudrun drew a long, shaky breath. “When do you go?”

Ralf looked at the floor. “Tomorrow morning,” he admitted in a low voice. “I’m sorry, Gudrun. The ship sails tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” Gudrun’s lips whitened. She turned her face against Ralf ’s shoulder and shuddered. “Ralf, Ralf! It’s no weather for sailors!”

“This will blow itself out by morning,” Ralf consoled her.

Up on the roof, the troll lost interest. It sat riding the ridge, waving its arms in the wind and calling loudly, “Hoooo! Hututututu!”

“How the wind shrieks!” said Gudrun. She took the poker and stirred up the fire. A stream of sparks shot through the smoke hole, and the startled troll threw itself backwards and rolled off the roof. Then it prowled inquisitively round the buildings, leaving odd little eight-toed footprints in the mud. The farmhouse door had a horseshoe nailed over it. The troll wouldn’t go near that. But it pried into every other corner of the farmyard, leaving smears of bad luck, like snail-tracks, on everything it touched.

Chapter 3

Talking to the Nis

AFTER THE FIRST stunned moment, Peer began to laugh – tight, hiccupping laughter that hurt his chest.

Uncle Grim and Uncle Baldur were identical twins. Same barrel chests and muscular, knotted arms. Same mean little eyes peering from masses of black tangled beard and hair. Uncle Baldur was still wrapped in his wet cloak, however, while his brother seemed to have been eating supper, for he was holding a knife with a piece of meat skewered to the point.

“Shut up,” he said to Peer. “And get down.” Only the voice was different – deep and rough.

With a stitch in his side from laughing – or sobbing – Peer held up his wrist, still tethered to the side of the cart. Uncle Grim snapped the twine with a contemptuous jerk. He sucked the meat off his knife, licked the blade, and severed the string holding Loki. “Now get down,” he ordered through his food. He turned to his brother as Peer jumped stiffly into the mud. “Not much, is he?”

“But he’ll do,” grunted Uncle Baldur. “Here!” He thrust the lantern at Peer. “Take this. Put the oxen in the stalls. Put the hens in the barn. Feed them. Move!” He threw an arm over Grim’s shoulder and as the two of them slouched away, Peer heard Baldur saying, “What’s in the pot? Stew? I’ll have some of that!” The door shut.

Peer stood in the rain with the lantern. All desire to laugh left him. Loki whined, his head on one side. “Come on, boy,” said Peer wearily. “Let’s get on with it.”

He unloaded the hens and set them loose on the barn floor, where an arrogant black cockerel came strutting to inspect them. Then he unhitched the oxen and gave them some hay. Loki curled up in the straw and fell asleep. Peer decided to leave him there. There had been a big dog barking inside the mill, and he hadn’t forgotten what Uncle Baldur had said about his dog eating Loki. Taking the lantern, he set off across the yard. It had stopped raining, and tatters of cloud blew wildly overhead.

Not a glimmer of light escaped from the mill. Peer hoped his uncles hadn’t locked him out. Cold, damp and hungry, he hesitated on the step, afraid to go in. Voices mumbled inside. What were they saying? Was it about him? He put his ear to the door and listened.

“There wasn’t much,” Baldur was saying.

“Count it anyway,” said Grim’s deep voice, and Peer realised they were counting the money Baldur had made from the sale.

“Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, in copper and silver,” Baldur finished. “Lock it up! We don’t want the boy finding it.”

“It’s my money, you thieves,” Peer whispered furiously. A lid creaked open and crashed shut. They had hidden the money in some chest. If he walked in now, he might see where it was.

“About the boy,” said Baldur, and Peer glued his ear to the wet wood. Unfortunately Baldur was walking about, for he could hear feet clumping to and fro, and the words came in snatches.

“…time to take him to the Gaffer?” Peer heard, and, “…no point taking him yet. Plenty of time before the wedding.”

What wedding? And who’s the Gaffer? Peer applied his ear to the door again. A succession of thuds sounded like both of his uncles taking their boots off and kicking them across the room. He heard Grim say loudly, “At least we’ll get some work out of him first,” and this seemed to end the discussion.

Peer straightened up and scratched his head. But it was too cold to stand around wondering. The wind bit his ears and a fresh rain shower rattled out of the sky. Inside the mill Baldur was saying, “Hasn’t that pesky lad finished yet?” Hastily Peer knocked and lifted the latch.

With a blood-curdling bellow, the most enormous dog Peer had ever seen launched itself from the fireside directly at his throat. Uncle Grim stuck out a casual hand and yanked the monster backwards, roaring, “Down, Grendel! Come in and shut the door,” he added roughly to Peer. “Let him smell you. Then he’ll know you.”

Grendel was taller than a wolf. His brindled coat stood up in a thick ruff of fur over his shoulders and down his spine. He smelled Peer’s outstretched fingers, grumbling distrustfully. “Best dog in the valley,” boasted Uncle Grim, giving him an affectionate slap. “Wins every fight: a real killer!”

Thank goodness I didn’t bring Loki in, Peer thought with a shudder as he looked about. The narrow smoke-stained room was a jumble of rickety furniture, bins, barrels and old tools. A sullen fire smouldered in the middle of the floor, and Uncle Baldur sat beside it on a stool, guzzling stew from a bowl in his lap and toasting his vast hairy toes over the embers. Two bunk beds, set into alcoves, trailed tangles of dirty blankets on to the floor.

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!”