West of the Moon Read Online Free PDF

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.
    â€œNo!” 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.”
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œUp 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.
    â€œAaah!” A long sigh from overhead set his hair on end. There came a sound of lapping or slurping. Peer listened, fascinated.
    â€œNo 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.
    â€œNo butter,” sulked the voice in deep displeasure. A wooden bowl dropped out of the rafters on to Peer’s head.
    â€œOw!” said Peer.
    There was a gasp and a scuffle. Next time the voice spoke it was from a far corner.
    â€œWho’s there?” it quavered.
    â€œI’m Peer Ulfsson,” said Peer. “Who are you?”
    â€œNobody,” said the voice quickly. “Nobody at all.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œDidn’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