PEER WAS SITTING by the hearth one dark afternoon, cleaning his uncles’ boots. Several pairs lay scattered about and he was scraping the mud off and greasing them to keep them waterproof and supple. The best pairs were thick, double-stitched reindeer hide with the fur inside.
Peer handled them enviously. His own shoes were worn and split, wrapped around with string and stuffed with hay to try and keep his feet warm. They were always wet. His toes were red with chilblains.
He sat as close to the fire as he could. He’d been out for hours shovelling snow and carrying feed to the animals. There were a lot of them now. Grim had taken Grendel one morning and brought down some sheep he claimed were all his, though Peer, looking suspiciously, spotted a variety of different marks. The sheep were penned behind a wattle fence in a corner of the yard, where their breath hung in clouds over their draggled woolly backs.
The mill had been silent for a week. The millpond was freezing. Already the weir was fringed with icicles, and the waterwheel glazed with dark ice. No power. While the ice lasted, Uncle Baldur was a miller no longer. Only a farmer.
Bored and lonely, Peer smeared more grease on to the toe of the fifth boot. Uncle Grim lay snoring in his bunk. Baldur was out. Peer guessed he was down in the village, drinking with his cronies – if he had any.
There was no one to talk to. He hadn’t seen Hilde for weeks, and since the spider episode, the Nis had ignored him, though he often heard it skipping about at night. Peer remembered last winter’s fun, snowball fights and skating with the other boys in Hammerhaven. It felt like another life.
The door crashed open, and Uncle Baldur stamped in, beating snow from his mittens. “He’s dead!” he cried.
Uncle Grim jerked awake in mid-snore. He struggled up. “Who’s dead?”
“Ralf Eiriksson. It’s all around the village,” shrilled Uncle Baldur. “His ship was wrecked and they were all drowned. Just as I thought!”
The brothers flung their arms around each other and began a sort of stamping dance. Peer dropped the boot he was holding and sat in open-mouthed horror.
“Dead as a doornail,” chortled Uncle Baldur.
“A drowned doornail,” Grim wheezed, and Grendel leaped around them shattering the air with his barks.
“Is this sure?” asked Grim, sobering suddenly.
“Certain sure,” Baldur nodded. “Arne Egilsson’s been saying so. I went specially to ask him as soon as I heard. He didn’t like telling me, but he couldn’t deny the facts. The ship’s long overdue, and her timbers have been washing up further down the coast. She sank, it’s obvious.”
Grim smacked his brother on the shoulder. “Then the land’s ours! No one will argue about that if Ralf ’s dead.”
Baldur laughed. He paced up and down, slapping his great thighs. “We’ll be rich, brother. We’ll own the best half of Troll Fell. And after tonight, with the Gaffer’s gold —”
Uncle Grim nodded at Peer. “The boy’s listening,” he growled.
“Who cares?” Uncle Baldur caught Peer by the scruff and shook him. “He don’t know what I’m talking about. We’ll get the goods for the Gaffer now, all right. Who’s to stop us? With Ralf out of the way, we can do whatever we like!”
He whacked Peer on the ear and dropped him. Peer felt sick. Poor, poor Hilde. Poor Ralf! And his father’s lovely ship, smashed on the rocks and lost for ever! Then with a stab of fear he saw what this meant for himself. No safety up at the farm. No escape from Baldur and Grim.
“This calls for a drop of ale!” Baldur declared, rubbing his hands.
“Mead,” Grim suggested.
“You’re right.” Uncle Baldur licked his lips. “Something strong!”
Soon the two brothers were singing noisily, banging their cups together. Mechanically, Peer finished cleaning the boots. He lined them up by the door and sank to the floor. Something gnawed at his mind. Tonight? Had Uncle Baldur said “tonight”?
Midwinter! He’d been talking and thinking and planning about it for months. Now, with a shock like icy water dashed in his face, he realised he had no idea how close midwinter was. He thought back, counting on his fingers. How long since the first snow? Weeks? It seemed a long time. And the days were so short now; it was dark outside already. Midwinter must be nearly upon them.
There was a bang at the door. Peer looked at his uncles. They were singing so loudly that neither they nor Grendel had heard. Peer shrugged and went wearily to open it. With his hand on the latch he paused. What if it was Granny Greenteeth, come to pay a visit before the ice locked her in for the winter? Well, let her come! He jerked the door open.
A cutting wind whirled in. There stood two ordinary men, muffled up against the cold. They stepped quickly in and shook snow from their clothes.
“Shut that DOOR!” Uncle Baldur yelled. Then he saw the visitors and staggered to his feet. “Look who’s here.” He prodded Grim. “It’s Arne and Bjørn.”
“Give ’em a drink,” hiccupped Grim.
But Bjørn’s good-natured face was stern. “Hey, Peer,” he said quietly, dropping a friendly hand on Peer’s shoulder. “Grim, Baldur,” he went on, “we’ve not come to drink with you. We’ve come to say one thing. Leave Ralf ’s family alone!”
Uncle Baldur sprawled back on the bench. He gave an unpleasant laugh. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do,” said Arne. “You’re after Ralf ’s land on Troll Fell.”
“But you won’t get it,” said Bjørn. “Arne and I will stand witness against you. It was never yours, and you know it!”
Peer felt like cheering. He glowed with admiration for the two young men. They looked like heroes to him as they stood there together, their faces tight with anger. Baldur and Grim exchanged glances.
“Why are you interfering?” asked Baldur with a suspicious scowl. “What’s in it for you?”
“Why?” exploded Bjørn. “Because Ralf was our friend. Because the land was his. Because you’re a couple of cheating pigs who’d rob a widow and her family!”
“Don’t bother trying to understand,” added Arne.
“Get out!” Baldur surged to his feet. “Out, before I set the dog on you!”
“Oh, we’ll go,” said Bjørn coldly. “I wouldn’t stay in your stinking mill for all the gold on Troll Fell.”
He strode for the door, but Uncle Baldur grabbed his arm. “Gold?” he croaked. “What do you mean? What do you know about troll gold?”
Bjørn stared at him and whistled. “That’s your game, is it? Don’t you worry, Grimsson. The only thing I know about troll gold is this: it’s unlucky and I don’t want anything to do with it. And if you’ll take my advice, neither will you. Goodnight!”
Peer stepped hopefully forwards. If he could only catch Bjørn’s eye; if he could only go with him! But this time, Bjørn did not notice Peer. He and Arne slipped through the door and vanished into the night.
Uncle Baldur sat down heavily. He tried to pour himself another drink, but the bottle was empty. He swore.
“There’s no fun for a man round here,” he grumbled. “Nothing but trouble and work —”
“Let’s have a dogfight,” suggested Grim. Peer looked up.
“What with?” asked Uncle Baldur scornfully. “That thing of the lad’s? He wouldn’t last a minute with Grendel.”
“He’s nippy,” offered Grim. “Bet you he’d last five.”
A grin spread over Baldur’s face. “All right!” he said.
“No!” Peer shrieked. “You can’t! You can’t, you bullies!” He hurled himself at Uncle Baldur, kicking and biting.
“The boy’s mad!” Uncle Baldur twisted Peer’s wrist up behind his back. “Keep still, or I’ll break yer arm. You go and fetch the dog, Grim. The boy might turn him loose.”
“Let go of me,” panted Peer, still struggling as Grim nodded and went out. “Let me go!”
Loki trotted in at Uncle Grim’s heels, looking wary and puzzled.
“They can’t fight in here,” said Uncle Baldur over Peer’s head.
“No,” Grim agreed, “we’ll have it in the yard. I give you ten to one he lasts a good five minutes before Grendel grips him. He’s quick, you see.”
“Done!” Baldur grinned. “Speed won’t save him from Grendel. One good crunch and it’ll all be over.” Peer couldn’t believe they were talking about his beloved dog.
“Loki can’t fight, he won’t fight,” he cried. “He doesn’t know how.”
Paying no attention, Uncle Baldur dragged him outside with Loki, while Uncle Grim brought Grendel along by the collar, holding a flaring torch in the other hand to light the dogfight. The snow had stopped falling, but was blowing about the yard chased by a cruel little wind. It was an unbearably cold night.
Peer looked at the two dogs in despair. Grendel dwarfed little Loki. He was built like a wolf, but thicker and taller, with massive head and powerful jaws. Loki curled his tail between his legs and trembled.
“Three… two… one! Eat him, Grendel!” yelled Uncle Baldur, releasing Loki. At the same moment Uncle Grim let go of Grendel, who sprang forward snarling.
Loki took one look and ran for his life. But Grendel’s long legs gained on him. At the edge of the sheepfold Loki doubled back, his front and back legs crossing each other in his efforts to escape, and the two dogs merged in a rolling tangle near the barn wall, falling over and over in a spray of snow. “Gren-del! Gren-del!” shouted Baldur.
“Loki! Run!” screamed Peer.
Suddenly an avalanche of snow slumped off the barn roof on top of the two dogs, burying them. There was a moment’s surprised silence as they struggled to rise, shaking themselves free. Peer caught a flicker of movement running along the barn roof, and was sure it was the Nis. “Oh, thank you,” he breathed.
Loki got his wits back before Grendel did. He jumped out of the drift and raced across the yard towards the road. “Head him off!” shouted Uncle Baldur, and Grim tried to bar his way, swinging the blazing torch. Loki whizzed between his legs and was out of the yard and over the wooden bridge before Grendel could catch him. Grim slipped and fell, cursing. Peer and Uncle Baldur ran past, following the two dogs over the icy bridge. They were already out of sight. Where, oh where was Loki?
A shivering howl of triumph quivered up and up until it seemed to reach the frosty stars. It lingered in the cold air, holding Peer motionless till it died away. Uncle Baldur too, was frozen in his steps. Grim came limping up, the blazing branch in one hand, the other hand pressed to his hip.
“He’s got the little beggar,” he said.
Tears of horror rose in Peer’s eyes. He stumbled along the kicked-up path to the millpond, and his uncles followed, Baldur grumbling: “Didn’t get to see anything. No fun at all. Call that a fight?”
Peer blundered out of the bushes on the edge of the millpond, and stopped dead. A few yards away Grendel stood with his back to Peer, hackles raised and head lowered threateningly. At the very brink of the millpond, Loki faced him at bay. Loki’s head was up and he looked this way and that with quick, desperate movements.
No wonder Grendel had howled in triumph. Loki was cornered. Behind him, the millpond reflected the starlight with a thin layer of milky ice. To his left, the dark waters of the sluice poured in icicles down to the rapidly freezing stream.
Grendel’s breath steamed. The flames from Grim’s torch lit the snow to rosy warmth and glistened on every yellow tooth in Grendel’s head. He was waiting for his master’s signal to bring the fight to its end. Even across the yards of snow, Peer could see Loki shaking.
“Good lad, Grendel,” puffed Uncle Baldur. “Get him!”
Peer clapped his hands over his eyes, but lowered them at a shout from Baldur. Loki had turned and leaped out on to the ice. Amazingly, it held him. He slithered across it, paws scrabbling.
“Oh Loki – go on, go on,” panted Peer. Uncle Grim gave a bellow of alarm. “Grendel! Stop!”
He was too late. Grendel launched himself after Loki. With a splintering crash he went straight through the fragile ice and was struggling in the black water.
Grim ran to the edge. He plunged the branch he held into the water. The flames sizzled out. “Here Grendel! Grip hold!” he shouted, but Grendel took no notice. He tried to follow Loki, snarling and raking at the ice with his claws. It broke into crazy pieces. He could smash his way across!
Loki had reached the far bank. It was steep; he scrambled up, clinging desperately with his front paws, kicking with his back legs, but the loose snow collapsed under him and he tumbled back on to the ice.
“Pay up,” said Grim to Baldur.
“He’ll catch him yet,” said Baldur, watching Grendel crashing his way across.
Loki flung himself a second time at the bank. Again his twisting body fell back on to the ice. Grendel was halfway over by now, his great strength breaking a jagged passage. Peer could not stand it. Without even thinking he filled his lungs and ran forward. “Granny!” he yelled, so loudly his voice cracked. “Granny Greenteeth!”
Baldur and Grim glanced at him in angry surprise. Then Baldur bit off an exclamation and pointed.
Something was happening to Grendel, out there in the middle of the pond. He writhed, splashing, biting at something that seemed to have risen beside him. It was hard to see in the bitter starlight. Could those be skinny white arms twining about Grendel’s neck, pulling him under? The chunks of broken ice danced and clashed. There was a thrashing struggle just below the surface, a choked-off bark – and Grendel was gone.
“Granny Greenteeth!” Peer whispered, hugging himself and shuddering.
There was a loud wail from Uncle Grim. “Grendel!”
“She’s got him,” said Uncle Baldur, shrugging, but his mouth was set.
On his third try, Loki reached the top of the bank and hurtled away into the woods. Uncle Grim forgot his sorrow. “You owe me, Baldur. Pay up!”
“Later,” said Baldur. “When we’re rich. And we’d better get on with that.” He stared at Peer, who quailed, expecting to be blamed for Grendel’s awful fate. But it seemed that Uncle Baldur had taken Peer’s shout for a warning, and wasn’t thinking about that.
“Tonight is midwinter’s eve,” he said softly, still staring at Peer. “Don’t forget, Grim, we’re invited to a wedding. It’s time we went to get the presents!”
Peer tried to dash for it, but Uncle Baldur caught his arm. “What shall we do with him, Grim? We don’t want to take him along with us.”
“Lock him up. Shut him up in the privy,” Grim growled. “There’s no window, and we can block up the door.”
Peer struggled, but the two big men dragged him down the path to the mill. Uncle Baldur hauled open the privy door and thrust him inside. “You’ll not die of cold,” he joked. “Where there’s dirt there’s warmth.” He shoved the door shut and Peer heard logs being piled against it. With a last effort he beat his fists on the rough planks, screaming, “Let me out! Where are you going?”
“To pay a little visit to Ralf ’s farm, of course,” came Baldur’s muffled voice. They clumped away, leaving Peer to gasp for his breath in the cold and stinking darkness.