West of the Moon. Katherine Langrish
you brute. We all know that poor Ulf never had anything to do with you!”
“Is this my uncle?” Peer whispered. He looked up at Uncle Baldur. It was like looking up at a dark cliff. First came a powerful chest, then a thick neck, gleaming like naked rock. There was a black beard like a rook’s nest, and a face of stony slabs with bristling black eyebrows for ledges. At the top came tangled bushes of dark hair.
Against Peer’s legs Loki pulsed, growling. Any moment now, he would bite. Uncle Baldur knew it too. He looked down, and Peer read the death penalty in his face.
“Loki, quiet!” he cried in sharp fear. The little dog subsided. Uncle Baldur released Peer’s arm and inspected him. “What’s that?”
“He’s my dog, Loki.” Peer rubbed his bruised arm.
“Call that a dog?” Uncle Baldur grinned. “My dog could have ’im for breakfast!”
Brand put a protective arm around Peer’s shoulder. “You don’t need to take the boy away. We’re looking after him.”
“You are, are you? And who are you?”
“He’s the master shipbuilder of Hammerhaven, that’s who!” Ingrid snapped. “Peer’s father was his best carpenter!”
“Best of a bad lot, hey?” sneered Uncle Baldur. “Could he make a barrel that didn’t leak?”
Brand glared. “Ulf did a wonderful job on the new ship. Never put a finger wrong.”
“No? But he sliced himself with a chisel and died when it turned bad,” scoffed Uncle Baldur. “Some carpenter!”
With a bang, a piece of wood exploded in the heart of the pyre. Peer leaped forwards. “Don’t talk about my father like that! You want to know what he could do? Look there! That’s what he could do!” He pointed seawards. Uncle Baldur rocked back, off balance. High over the crowd, the fierce head and snaky neck of a dragon emerged from the darkness. The firelight glinted on its red scales and open jaws, and its goggle eyes glared threateningly at Uncle Baldur. The neck curved down swanlike and became the swooping lines of a ship, chocked upright on the beach. Behind it, ranks of dark waves rushed up the shingle.
Uncle Baldur recovered, though sweat glistened on his face. He forced a laugh. “A dragonship! A pretty toy,” he jeered, and a mutter of anger ran through the crowd. He seized Peer’s arm again. “Come along. I’m a busy man. I’ve a mill to run and no time to waste.”
“You’ll not drag the boy away from his father’s funeral?” Brand exclaimed. “Why, it’s not even over!”
And the villagers surged around, crying, “Shame!”
“Show some respect!” said Brand hotly.
Uncle Baldur grunted. Summing up the crowd with his sharp black eyes, he said at last, “Very well. I’ll stay a day or two. There’s stuff to sell, I suppose.” Jerking his head at Brand he demanded, “Has he paid your dad’s last wages – eh?”
“Of c-course he has,” Peer stammered in fury. “He’s been very k-kind – he’s arranged everything.”
“Nothing owing?” Uncle Baldur scowled. “I’ll look into that. Nobody cheats me.”
Behind him, Ulf ’s funeral pyre collapsed into a pile of glowing ash and sighed out a last stream of sparks which sped away for ever.
Eager as a pig digging for truffles, Uncle Baldur set about selling off Peer’s home. Benches, pots, blankets, Ulf ’s cherished mallets and bright chisels – he squeezed the last penny out of each deal.
Brand dared to complain. Uncle Baldur stared at him coldly and jingled the silver and copper in his pocket. “It’s mine,” he said. “Ulf owed me money.”
“That’s not true!” cried Peer.
“How would you know?” jeered his uncle. “And what’s that ring on your finger? Silver, eh? Boys don’t wear rings. Give it here.”
“No! It was my father’s!” Peer backed away, fists clenched. Uncle Baldur grabbed him, prised his fingers open and wrenched the ring off.
“Silver,” he nodded. It was too tight to fit over his own hairy knuckles, so he stuffed it in his pocket.
Fat comfortable Ingrid took Peer in and tried to mother him. “Cheer up, my pet!” She pushed a honey cake into his hand. Peer dropped it, and it disappeared into the eager jaws of Loki, lurking under the table.
“Ingrid,” he asked in desperation, “how can that fat beast be my uncle?”
Ingrid’s plump face creased into worried folds. “Oh Peer, it’s a sad story. Your father was just a boy when his own father died. His mother married the miller at Trollsvik, the other side of Troll Fell. Poor soul, she lived to regret it. The old miller was a cruel hard man. He used his fists on both of them.”
Peer flinched. “He never told me. What happened?”
“Your father ran away and never saw his mother again. But she had two more boys, and this Baldur is one of them. He’s your father’s own half-brother, though as far as I know, they never met.” Ingrid lifted her wooden bread bowl from the hearth and poured a yeasty froth into the warm flour. “But that was all long ago. I know your Uncle Baldur is very rough-spoken, and not a bit like your father, but blood is thicker than water. Surely he’ll look after you, you poor boy!”
Peer was silent. He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t I stay here with you?”
“Oh my dearie!” Ingrid cried. “We’ve thought of it. But we can’t. He’s your uncle. He’s got a right to you, and we haven’t.”
“No,” said Peer bitterly. “Of course not.”
Ingrid tried to put an arm around his shoulders. “Give your uncles a chance,” she pleaded. “Don’t you think your father would want you to try?”
“Maybe…” Peer shut his eyes on a sudden glimpse of his father, turning over a piece of oak and saying as he often did, “You’ve got to make the best of the wood you’re given, Peer. And that’s true of life, too!” He could almost smell the sweet sawdust clinging to his father’s clothes.
Loki sprang to his feet barking. The door opened and Uncle Baldur thrust his head and shoulders in. “Boy!” he squealed. “Are those chickens in the yard yours? Catch them and put them in the cart. We’re leaving. Run!”
A fine row blew up indoors as his uncle accused Ingrid of trying to steal the chickens. Peer fled outside and began stalking a fat speckled hen. Loki joined in. He dashed at the hens, which scattered, cackling. “Bad dog!” cried Peer, but Loki had lost his head and was hurtling around the yard with a mouthful of brown tail feathers.
Uncle Baldur burst out of the house. He bent down, heaved up the heavy stone doorstop and hurled it at Loki. There were two shrieks, one from Peer and the other from Loki who lay down suddenly and licked his flank, whimpering.
“You could have killed him!” Peer yelled. His uncle turned on him. “If he ever chases my chickens again, I will. Now catch them and tie them up with this.” He threw Peer a hank of twine. “Be quick!”
As Peer captured the last of the hens, Uncle Baldur tied a string around Loki’s neck. “Fasten ’im to the tail of the cart. He can run behind.”
“Can’t he ride?” Peer asked. “He’s limping...” But his voice died under Uncle Baldur’s unwinking stare, and miserably he did as he was told. Then he clambered into the cart himself.
Ingrid came out to see him off, mopping first her hands and then her eyes on her apron. “Poor lamb,” she wailed. “And Brand’s down at the shipyard and can’t even say goodbye. Whatever will he say when he hears?”
The cart creaked as Uncle Baldur climbed aboard. He took a new