Bog

by Karen Krossing

  “You never mentioned the hidden entrance before.” Small flipped the hamburgers onto a platter, one by one.

  “Didn’t I?” Frantsum scratched his chin. “The talk is that the hidden entrance looks like a stone with three mouths, and the middle mouth leads to the mine. But no one can find it. Maybe it’s overgrown. Maybe it collapsed. Maybe it never existed.”

  “Hamburgers for everyone.” Small placed the platter piled high with disks of meat on the table and then smacked Bog hard on the shoulder. “So what is our quest—Troll Hunter or Nose Stone?”

  The scent of the hamburgers choked Bog. He would rather save Jeddal, yet was it possible?

  A mythical stone underneath a lake. It was too ridiculous to hope for. Yet Ymir’s nose had to be somewhere.

  Bog’s hands were shaking and his stomach was too tangled to eat. Small watched him, waiting. Frantsum hobbled over to the table, his eyes fixed on the meat.

  Bog pushed back from the table, unsure what to do. If he didn’t try to rescue Jeddal, he’d regret it forever. But what if the Nose Stone was just a story? The longer the Troll Hunter was alive, the more trolls would suffer. He’d already delayed his quest by taking down a logging camp and feasting with forest trolls.

  “We need to stop the Troll Hunter first,” Bog said to Small’s questioning face. “Then we can find the Nose Stone.” If it existed.

  Small let out a whoop. “We’re hunting us a Troll Hunter.” He smacked his fist on the table, rattling the platter.

  Frantsum frowned. “May Ymir guide you well.” He sank his few remaining teeth into a hamburger.

  8

  The Human

  Inside Frantsum’s lair, Bog checked his rucksack one more time and then tightened the drawstring to close it. When he hoisted it, the string cut into his shoulder. Although he appreciated Small’s packets of dried fish and the jug of broth, he was determined never to wear the human clothes Small had made him pack, even as a disguise.

  Bog had spent most of the previous night with Small and Frantsum, planning their route to Thunder City and brainstorming how to trick the Troll Hunter once they found him. Although Small and Frantsum had plotted ways to trap the Troll Hunter, Bog had silently vowed to destroy him. Now, he resettled the bulging rucksack on his shoulder and turned to Small, impatient to set off.

  “Ready to go?” He’d enjoy Small’s company and make good use of his strength.

  Small lifted his own rucksack, which was twice as large as Bog’s. “I wouldn’t miss it.” His eyes shone in the firelight.

  Bog emerged from Frantsum’s lair with Small behind him as the last rays of sunlight faded from view. He raised his eyebrows at the collection of forest trolls, headed by Frantsum, that had gathered in the thick shadows under the trees. The young troll who had called out during Bog’s story, the plump troll who’d talked about the Troll Hunter, and most of the others—had they all come to see them off?

  “May Ymir bless your journey,” called out the plump troll.

  “The Troll Hunter’s in for trouble,” yelled another.

  Then a cheer rose from the crowd, warming Bog to the tip of his tail. He’d never had such a send-off.

  “Be careful around humans,” Frantsum warned as the noise died down. His tight mouth reminded Bog of his farewell with Kasha.

  “I’m always safe.” Small whacked his father—not too hard—on the shoulder.

  They said their goodbyes, bumping noses with Frantsum and yanking each forest troll’s nose. How friendly these trolls had become; maybe Bog had more in common with them than he’d thought. Finally, Bog and Small made their way through the settlement, among the hunters preparing for the night and youngsters wrestling in the dirt.

  Near the edge of the settlement, Small stopped before the old female troll who’d coddled the human girl. The troll was hunched over, weeping. Bog was grateful that the girl was nowhere in sight.

  “Where is she, Diama?” Small demanded.

  Diama looked up. Her eyes were rheumy, and her nose red.

  “What’s going on?” Bog asked Small. He hoped the girl had already been traded away. But Diama raised a skinny finger to point at the entrance to a burrow.

  The girl emerged, watery-eyed and sallow, dragging a gaudy pink rucksack. In the moonlight, her hair shone ghostly white, her skin was pallid, and her eyes were grey. She wore clothes and shoes, although her legs and arms were bare. Worst of all, her scent stung Bog’s nose, making his eyes water.

  “She can’t be coming…” Bog shook his head.

  “We’re trading for her in Strongarm,” Small said. “It’s on the way, more or less.”

  Bog scowled, willing it not to be true.

  Small settled a heavy hand on Bog’s shoulder. “She’s like a walking sack of information and supplies, although we may not get as much for her this time, since it’s our second trade with this girl.”

  “But can’t someone else—” Bog began.

  “Think about it, Bog. What if we could use her to find out exactly where the Troll Hunter’s den is?”

  Bog fumed silently. Small was right.

  Diama and the girl clutched each other, yanking noses and blubbering farewells. It sickened Bog—hearing the girl speak troll language and seeing her embrace a troll. Didn’t Small realize she was dangerous?

  “Don’t take Hannie from me.” The old troll whimpered.

  “Please,” Hannie begged Small, still clinging to Diama. “Let me stay.”

  “Come on.” Small jerked the girl away and tossed her onto his shoulder. “You’ve stayed too long.”

  Diama wailed. The girl struggled uselessly.

  Bog couldn’t watch. He turned to the forest, not even waiting for Small to point the way.

  Bog worked his way through balsam fir and white pine, always keeping ahead of Small and the girl. She polluted the air by talking non-stop in troll talk with a few human words woven in when she got stuck. First, she begged to return to the troll settlement, next she sobbed, and then she begged some more. When she finally gave up, she lay draped over Small’s shoulder, flopping along on her stomach with each step he took. How could Small bear to touch her?

  “Keep to the left up there,” Small called. “We’ll skirt the lake and save ourselves some time.”

  It was a two-night walk to Strongarm, and Bog was dreading every moment. All because of Hannie—he didn’t want to know her name or even speak to her, but she kept yakking, abusing the troll language.

  “Have you ever seen a giant?” she asked Small.

  “No. None left, that I know of, unless they’re farther north or in the western mountains.” Small didn’t seem to mind her endless questions.

  “Do all trolls dream?”

  “Yeah. I dreamed about a crow that could talk last night.”

  “What do you do with your silver?” Hannie swatted the mosquitoes that buzzed around her.

  “Count it.”

  “Why?”

  “To see how much there is.”

  “How long do trolls live?”

  “Oh, about twice as long as humans.”

  Bog’s tail twitched. Why did Small answer? And why was she so keen to learn about trolls?

  “What happens to trolls when they die?” Hannie asked.

  Not that.

  Bog surged ahead, away from her voice, away from the answer that Small would give. But the memory of Jeddal’s stoning had already resurfaced, and he couldn’t outrun it.

  But you’re going to do something about it, Bog told himself. After you destroy the Troll Hunter, you’ll find the Nose Stone, if it’s real, and make its magic work.

  Then Jeddal would explain everything—why he mated with a human, and why he never told Bog about it.

  Bog trudged along, keeping far enough from Hannie that he could almost forget about her. He watched the position of the stars when he could glimpse them through the trees, checking that he was still travelling southwest. The forest was muted by shadow, and Bog sensed his way th
rough the darkness, nostrils flaring. A hare had crossed this way—the scent was fading. And it had rained there yesterday.

  Then the forest opened into a rare clearing, dominated by a rocky crest. As he found his footing among the loose rocks, he contemplated the moon, high above the ridge. Ymir’s eye, many called it, watching over trolls. The moon was white with grey patches and just over half full. It gazed down, its bluish light revealing the shrubs, mosses, and lichen that embraced the rough and tumbled rock. The ridge had been a mountain once, vast and towering. Although climbing it made Bog’s breath quicken, it was just a small swelling of its ancient glory.

  Bog sat on a north-facing ledge near the weather-beaten summit with his tail out behind. He pulled out a jug of broth and a hunk of dried fish. Small and Hannie would catch up, but his stomach was gurgling and his legs had begun to ache. Bog wondered how far he’d walked since he’d left Kasha, and how many more steps until he’d return home.

  He bit into the fish, his stomach anticipating it with a growl. The forest lay like a furry pelt, dark and accepting, until Small and Hannie emerged with Hannie still talking. He forced himself to chew and swallow, even though her scent made him nauseated.

  The girl was walking now—an elf beside Small, her ears sticking out through her long pale hair. Her bright-pink rucksack hung off one shoulder.

  “Even though sight is a troll’s weakest sense,” Small said as they climbed the rocks side by side, “it’s still better than a human’s feeble eyesight.”

  “I knew that.” In one hand, she clutched a gaudy doll.

  “Stop telling her about us.” Bog frowned. “She could use it to trick us.”

  Hannie held up the doll. “Look at my troll doll. Her name’s Thunder.”

  She held a disgusting plastic toy. Garish blue fur sprouted from its head, and a jewel in its belly button peeked out from between its human clothes. How dare she mock trolls with that doll?

  “She won’t remember much.” Small gave Bog a friendly punch. “Humans aren’t so smart. And we might learn something useful from her.”

  “Troll ways are none of her concern.” Bog scowled.

  “I knew nothing about trolls until they took me.” Hannie’s grey eyes widened. “I was scared at first, but it was better than home. So after they sent me home, I sneaked back. It was hard, and I got lost a lot. But I’ll do it again. I belong with trolls.”

  “No, you don’t.” Bog silently counted the nights until he’d be free of her.

  “You made it back to the settlement by yourself?” Small shook his head, an amazed expression on his face.

  “All by myself.” Hannie beamed. “Until Diama found me. She carried me then.” Her hair fell away from her face when she lifted her head to Small. “Diama’s nice, not like my dad. She reminds me of my Aunt Rachel who moved far away,” she babbled on. “Now I only have my dad since my mom died when I was little.” Her face was pale in the moonlight, emphasizing the dark shadows around her eyes. “Dad’s always telling me I’m no good. He didn’t even look for me when I was gone. He said Aunt Rachel left because of how no-good I am, but I don’t believe him. I think she left because she was a troll. That’s why my dad hates me—because I’m a troll, too.”

  “No!” Bog leapt up. He’d heard enough. He started shoving his belongings into his rucksack.

  “You have no tail.” Small pointed out. “Or fur.”

  Bog gaped at Small. “How can you even discuss this with her?”

  “But I can hear real well.” Hannie pleaded like she needed them to believe her. “And smell good, too.”

  Bog dug his fingernails into his palms. “You are not a troll!” His bellow silenced the crickets.

  “Bog, calm down.” Small stepped between them.

  Hannie peeked around Small. Her eyes were watery again. “Why don’t you like me?” Her chin quivered. “I like you. I want to be just like you when I’m big. Strong. Brave. Not afraid of anything.”

  “You…you…” Bog’s legs trembled. She was a pathetic human. But he was hardly better.

  Bog turned from Small and the girl.

  “You’ll never be like me,” he said. But he wasn’t so sure.

  Bog shouldered his rucksack and set off toward Strongarm.

  9

  A Foreign World

  Bog had walked farther into human territory than ever before. He could smell the difference already.

  The evening breeze carried the stench of gasoline mixed with smoke that burned his nostrils. Putrid pools of water choked out plant life near the railway track. A husk of a car reeked of rust in a forest glen.

  Human sounds invaded, too. The distant buzz of machines cutting down trees, speeding along roads, thundering across the sky. The rumble of a train, and the painful whistle blast.

  Bog walked until his feet throbbed and then he walked even more, always assaulted by the scents and sounds of humans, especially Hannie.

  Small seemed to understand how Bog felt about Hannie, although they never talked about her. Sometimes, Bog trudged behind them to avoid her constant nattering. Or he linked up with them after he’d soothed his ears with the fury of a waterfall or the rush of winds through creaking branches. During the day, he slept apart, shivering alone because he couldn’t bear her scent up close.

  After two whole nights, Bog found himself ahead of Hannie and Small, alone in a cluster of slender birches, glaring up at a yellow plastic bag caught high among the branches. The wind had torn the bag into strips. Twigs poked holes through it. Yet somehow, it endured.

  Bog growled deep in his throat. How dare the bag lodge in this birch like some sickly flag claiming territory for humans?

  He shook the tree, but the bag stuck fast. He tried to climb to pull it down, but the thin branches bent under his weight. He shook a fist at it. The bag fluttered in the breeze. Lit up from behind by the moon’s rays, it gleamed like a false sun.

  “It’s a Haliday’s bag,” Hannie announced, suddenly at his elbow.

  “What?” Bog jumped. How had she sneaked up on him?

  “From the grocery store beside the gas station.” Hannie glanced at Bog and then added, “It’s a place to get food and stuff.”

  “Where?” asked Small from behind her, sniffing the air. Their supplies were low after two nights of walking, and Small had cut back on his gigantic portions. “I don’t smell a grocery store.”

  “There’s no grocery store, just a bag from one.” Hannie laughed.

  Small chuckled, too.

  “Let’s just find a place for the day.” Bog turned from the bag and their laughter.

  They stopped outside Strongarm just before sunrise. Small slipped away to survey the town from the forest’s edge. Bog found a deep crevice under a rock overhang where they could shelter. He didn’t have time to hunt before sunrise, but he hadn’t hunted successfully since Jeddal had been turned to stone. Small returned with a bag from a garbage bin—another place to get human food—and they sorted through the rubbish. Bog couldn’t believe the meat these humans threw away. Didn’t they think about tomorrow’s breakfast?

  Once Hannie fell asleep against the rock, clutching her offensive troll doll, Small began to whisper plans.

  “I want you to take the girl back to her father—see what you can trade for her.”

  “Me? But I thought—”

  “It’s simple—just disguise yourself as a human so you can get into town without a pack of troll hunters noticing. You can pass as a human more easily, Bog.” Small settled his bulk into an earthy hollow near Hannie. “You’re shorter. No fur on your face. And your nose is almost human-sized.”

  Bog flinched. “What are you saying?”

  “That I’m too big to pass for a human. I’ve tried it before, but they get suspicious.”

  “I can’t masquerade as a human.” Bog found a sleeping spot near the overhang’s edge, as far away from Hannie as he could get. “It’s too…” Close to the truth.

  “Of course you can. I can’t
wait to see you walking their streets without any fool human noticing.” Small chuckled. “After you find the girl’s father, you just make demands in exchange for her safe return. You can ask about the location of the Troll Hunter’s den, or for food…” he suggested, licking his lips, “…or gold, jewels, money. Get as much as you can for her, and then get out. I’ll stay in the shadows, in case of trouble.”

  “Can’t we just storm in and crush any humans who—”

  “And end up with hundreds of them hunting us? No. This is the best way.”

  “I suppose.” Bog glanced at Hannie, who was sleeping peacefully. “I can’t wait to get rid of her.”

  “What do you have against her?”

  “What do you mean? She’s human.”

  “I know, but any human is good for something—”

  “Even the Troll Hunter?” Bog growled. “Is he good for something?”

  Small’s eyes lingered on Bog’s clenched fists and then searched his face. “The Troll Hunter is a menace.” He nodded slowly. His furry brow wrinkled.

  Bog forced his hands to relax, trying not to act like a revenge-filled human. He pretended to stretch and yawn. “We’ll stop the Troll Hunter. Then we’ll go to the Sleeping Giant, find that Nose Stone, and rescue Jeddal.”

  The day was too muggy to sleep. By evening, it was still humid.

  “The sun is almost down,” Hannie announced. She was shadow-slipping, as if the sun’s rays might harm her.

  Small draped a yellow plastic coat over Bog’s shoulders. “This should work.”

  The coat trapped Bog’s sweat. “I can’t wear this…thing.” He threw off the coat, disgusted by the scent of the last human who’d worn it.

  “It’s called a raincoat. And it’s a great disguise.” Small grinned, plopping a matching hat with a floppy brim onto Bog’s head and then handing him a pair of black rain pants.

  Bog pulled the hat off and threw it to the ground. “Tuck in my tail? Play-act being a human? I’ve changed my mind. I can’t do this.”