Free Troll Mill by Katherine Langrish Page A

rusty chain. They squeaked and swung. There was a bird’s nest in one of the pans. Alarmed by the noise, Peer tried to steady them; they bobbed and ducked and seesawed into stillness.
    He let out a cautious breath, turning around. It didn’t look as if anyone had been here. Loki nosed about the spongy floor. He growled at the bedding, sniffed and sneezed.
    Peer struggled with one of the shutters, forcing it open, brushing away a tangle of cobwebs and dead bluebottles. A narrow column of daylight slanted in and lay in a pale stripe across the ghostly hearth and the filthy floor. Dusting his hands together, Peer lifted the lid of one of the remaining grain bins. It was a third full of some sort of gray, mealy substance. Whatever it had once been, it didn’t look edible anymore. He lowered the lid and craned his neck to see up onto the floor of the grinding loft, where the millstonesrested. It looked dark and creepy up there, and he fought a wish to get out into the open air.
    I’d better look
, he thought. He couldn’t see why anyone should have been up there—yet the mill had been working.
I’ll nip up the ladder and see.
    He climbed the rough ladder, leaving Loki sitting below. The big grain hopper loomed over him, hanging from the rafters on ropes. It was made of blackish oak, blending with the darkness, and he misjudged his distance and walked into it.
    “Ouch!” Peer clutched his ringing forehead. The hopper was so heavy, it didn’t even move. Muttering curses, he crouched down to inspect the millstones. A tiny gable window, half blocked with an old flour sack, provided a glimmer of dim bluish daylight, but not really enough to see by. He ran his hands over the upper millstone and then around the edges, covering his fingers with gritty dust. He sniffed. They smelled of stone and a sort of acrid, dryish powder: nothing like the warm yeasty smell of freshly ground grain. He stood and gave one of the hoists anexperimental tug. The rope ran easily over the squeaking pulley.
    “I don’t know what to make of it, Loki. Everything works, but I’m sure nobody’s been grinding corn. The place is a mess. It’s a pity somebody doesn’t fix it. We could all do with a proper mill again….”
    And the idea came to him. He stood, his head high up under the rafters, staring down at the room below.
    Why not me?
    Uncle Baldur had been fiercely proud of his mill. He and Grim might have lived like pigs, but they’d certainly kept the machinery in good order. Peer vaulted down from the loft, not bothering with the ladder. Clearing aside a stack of old crates and some moldy baskets, he exposed a small door that led to the cramped space directly under the millstones. He dropped onto his knees to open it. A crude wooden swivel kept it shut. He paused.
    Uncle Grim, opening this door, forcing him through into the blackness beyond. Himself screaming, panting for breath, bursting his way out, and begging, pleading, not to be thrown back in again….
    His mouth hardened. Deliberately he turned the catch, dragged the door open, and stuck his head in. Sour, cold air blew past him like an escaping ghost. Even in daylight it was very dark in there, and full of the noise of the stream. He could dimly see the great axle of the water wheel piercing the wall on the right, and the toothed edges of the pit wheel, and the lantern gear that drove the millstones.
    Peer got up slowly, dirty patches on his knees. He wasn’t ready to crawl in. Not without a light. He supposed that if you wanted to check the machinery, there must be a shutter that would let daylight in, but he didn’t feel like looking for it. It would be too easy for—for somebody to shut the door and trap him.
    All the same, “It’s my mill, Loki!” he said aloud. Loki whined unhappily, but Peer felt irresistible excitement welling up. “It
is
my mill! It belonged to my uncles—and I’m the only one left. I can get it working again. I can be independent.”
    His words sank