West of the Moon Read Free

want to get home.”
    â€œLiar! Thief!” Uncle Baldur swayed, shaking his fist. “You watch out. If the trolls don’t get you, I will! You’ll steal no more. That’s finished. If the Gaffer —”
    A blinding whip of lightning cracked across the sky, accompanied by a heart-stopping jolt of thunder. The rain came down twice as hard. Uncle Baldur threw himself back on his seat and shook the reins. The oxen plodded forwards. The rider trotted past without another word and struck off along an even rougher track that led off to the right.
    Peer clung to the side of the cart.
    Well, that’s it , he said to himself. Uncle Baldur is mad. Completely crazy .
    Sick with cold, he tried to picture his father’s bright, kind eyes – his thin shoulders hunched from bending over chisel and plane. What would he say now, if only he knew?
    He’d say, ‘Keep your heart up!’ After all, I’ve got another uncle at the mill. Maybe he’ll take after my side of the family. Maybe – just maybe – he’ll be a little like Father. There can only be one Uncle Baldur…
    The cart rattled down the last slope and trundled over a shaky wooden bridge. “Gee!” howled Uncle Baldur, his voice almost lost in the roar of the water hurtling beneath. On the other side of the bridge, Peer saw the mill, crouching dismally on the bank with dripping thatch and sly little black windows. Wild trees pressed around it, tossing despairing arms in the wind. Uncle Baldur drove the cart into a pinched little yard. Ahead was a line of mean-looking sheds, and on the other side lurked a dark barn with a gaping entrance like an open mouth.
    The weary oxen splashed to a halt. A wolf-like baying broke out from some unseen dog. Uncle Baldur dropped the reins and stretched his arms till the joints cracked.
    â€œHome!” he proclaimed, jumping down. He strode across to the door of the mill and kicked it open. Frail firelight leaked out. “Grim!” he called triumphantly. “I’m back. And I’ve got him!” The door banged shut. Peer sat out in the rain, shivering with hope and fear.
    â€œGrim,” he muttered. “Uncle Grim will be different, I know he will. There can’t be another Uncle Baldur.”
    The latch lifted with a noisy click. A new, deep voice said loudly, “Let’s take a look at him, then!”
    The mill door swung slowly open. Out strode the burly shape of Uncle Baldur. At his heels trod someone else – someone unbelievably familiar. Flabbergasted, Peer squinted through the rain. It couldn’t be true! But it was, and there was nothing left to hope for. He shook his head in horrified despair.

Chapter 2
The Departure of Ralf
    I N 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.
    â€œMa? 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.
    â€œAt last!” said Gudrun, smiling. And Hilde ran out into the wild, wet night.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œYou’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