Free Troll Fell by Katherine Langrish

Grim told me,”he invented quickly. “He said, um, if I wasn’t a good boyand worked hard, you’d give me to the Gaffer.” And cometo think of it, it sounded exactly the sort of thing UncleGrim would say.
    Uncle Baldur clearly believed it. He mutteredsomething under his breath about Grim being achattering fool, and then grabbed Peer, dragged him offhis feet and pushed his thick bearded lips up to Peer’s ear.
    â€œThe Gaffer,” he whispered, “is the King of TrollFell, see? And he lives up there under the crags, not faraway. And naughty little boys, why, he likes to tear themin pieces! So watch your step, laddie.”
    Peer rubbed slime from his ear, wondering if this wastrue. But he had no time to think about it. Uncle Baldurled him in and climbed the creaking ladder to the loftwhere the millstones were. Peer followed, overhung byhis uncle’s bulky bottom, and found himself standing ona dark, dusty platform, badly lit by one draughty littlelouvred window high in the apex of the roof. Right infront of him in the middle of the floor sat the twomillstones, one above the other, cartwheel-sized slabs ofgritstone rimmed with iron.
    â€œPower!” Baldur wheezed, slapping the uppermillstone. “See how heavy that is? But finely balanced.What drives it? Water power. Ah, but who controls thewater? Me, the miller!
    â€œThe stream obeys me, boy. I control it with mysluicegates. And when I let it flow, it has no choice butto turn my waterwheel and drive my millstones.
    â€œIt all comes down to power. The power of the water,the power of the stones, all harnessed by my machinery.
    â€œAnd it makes me the most powerful man in thevalley. Without this, believe it or not, I’d be just anotherfarmer, like the rest of them. Like Grim.” He shook hishead as though this were indeed hard to believe, andgave the millstone another affectionate pat.
    â€œNow then!” he went on, straightening up. “Seethat?” Peer looked up, banging his head on the corner ofa big wooden box with sloping sides that hung from therafters, suspended over the millstones on four thickropes. “The hopper,” his uncle grunted. “You fill it withbarley, which runs out through this hole in the bottom,see – and trickles along this little tray we call the shoe.That shakes it down through this hole in the uppermillstone. Which is called the runnerstone. Because it’sthe one that turns. Understand?”
    To his own surprise, Peer did. Hoping to please hisuncle, he tried to show an interest in spite of his emptystomach, aching head and wobbly legs. “Does everyonebring their corn here?” he asked. Perhaps Hilde had beenexaggerating. Probably the mill was doing quite wellafter all.
    But Uncle Baldur’s black eyebrows drew together in ascowl. “They soon will,” he growled, “now thatblackguard Ralf Eiriksson has gone. Spreading tales aboutmy flour…Telling everyone I put chalk in it – or dirt…”He shook his fist. “I’ll make this the best mill in the valley.I’ll put in another wheel – another pair of stones! They’llcome to me from miles away! But first—” He stopped, asif he had been going to say something he didn’t wantPeer to hear. “But first,” he said in a different tone ofvoice, “get that hopper filled, boy, I haven’t got all night!”
    To lift the sack high enough to pour the barley intothe hopper was quite beyond Peer. With a bad-temperedgrunt, Uncle Baldur did it. His muscles bunched as hehefted the sack in his thick arms and let the glossy grainpour effortlessly into the hopper. Then he took Peeroutside to open the sluice and start the wheel.
    It was getting late. The sun had set, and it was cold bythe stream. Peer looked anxiously about for Loki as hefollowed his uncle up to the mill dam. The water lookedmore sinister than ever as evening fell. A little breezeshivered the surface