Bog

by Karen Krossing

  He missed the moon and the darkness. The flutter of bat wings, the muffled hoot of an owl, even the earthy scent of wood spirits. The daytime world was harsh and intense, with no friendly winking stars. Only the constant sun, its dry hot light forever pressing down, crushing him with brilliance, reminding him that he was a sunwalker. Not like Small. Poor Small.

  Small had done what Bog couldn’t do. He’d stopped the Troll Hunter. Bog owed him everything.

  The sun climbed to the peak of the sky. Birds and daytime animals called out. Bog jumped at each noise, afraid the humans had found them.

  When Hannie sobbed in her sleep, Bog rocked her, letting her tears soak his fur. They were both cursed with hate-filled parents. He understood why Hannie wanted to escape her father.

  Bog was endlessly on guard, exhausted yet fighting sleep, drifting in a haze of relentless tension.

  Hannie’s pale skin turned an angry pink, as if the sun’s rays were burning her. He shifted her to a shady nest of leaves and adjusted his rucksack as her pillow. Then he put down roots right next to Small and his mother, easing the cramps from his arms.

  Small remained a rigid statue across his mother, his long nose almost touching the ground, his mouth open as if to growl. Bog would have hauled Small free of her, but he was too heavy to lift alone. Bog checked his mother’s bindings were still tight.

  After the sun peaked, his mother’s gravelly moan made him instantly alert. Her grey hair was fanned out on the rocky ground. Her nose was thin but longer than most human noses he’d seen. Her skin was leathery, brown, and wrinkled, with dark circles under her eyes. Up close, the three welts on her cheek looked like an old battle wound.

  He twitched his tail back and forth, ready to pounce if she tried any tricks.

  She twisted her wrists in their bindings. “Patrick,” she groaned.

  He stiffened. “I’m not Patrick.”

  “Is Hannie safe?” She lifted her head off the ground, wincing.

  “Of course she is.” He was surprised his mother cared. “She’s always been safe with me,” he said, which wasn’t exactly true. But his anger at Hannie when he’d first met her seemed as ancient as the rocks he was standing on.

  “Where is she?”

  “Asleep under the maple.” He waved vaguely in Hannie’s direction, wondering why he was having a conversation with his mother when it was the last thing he wanted. “Now be quiet.” He growled, as his mother strained against her bindings. “And don’t try to damage Small, or you’ll regret it.” The stony tufts of fur on Small’s tail seemed especially vulnerable. Bog wondered if she could shift Small sideways, jarring his tail.

  Bog’s mother lowered her head with a grimace. “I’d be tempted to snap off an earlobe if I could reach one.” She stretched her bound hands as far as they could go, and Bog lunged closer, snarling. “But I won’t hurt him, if you’ll talk to me.”

  “I won’t crush you into oblivion,” he hissed, “if you shut your mouth.”

  “If you were going to do that…” she said, gritting her teeth as if a spasm had hit, “…you’d have done it long ago, Patrick.”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “I can’t help it. That’s who you are to me. Jeddal and I could never agree on your name—or anything else.”

  Bog glared, watching her for any sign of movement toward Small.

  “After all these years, you came looking for me.” Her eyes were thorns, pointed at him. “Did Jeddal’s lies finally ring false?”

  “I came looking for the Troll Hunter.” His fingers clenched as he remembered the stoning of Jeddal, and suddenly he needed his mother to know the hurt she’d caused. “Because humans, trained by the Troll Hunter, came hunting my family.” Blood pounded in his ears. “Because they turned my father to stone. Because they would have hunted down the rest of us, even the youngsters, if I hadn’t stopped them.”

  “So Jeddal is stone.” A grin spread across her face.

  Bog snarled.

  Her grin faded. “You can’t blame me for Jeddal’s stoning. He started this fight when he told me you were dead.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Bog’s cheeks got hot. “So what if he lied to you? Is that enough reason to kill a hundred trolls? Or more? How many families have you destroyed?”

  “You don’t understand. I only went to town to get supplies.” Her hands balled into fists. “We were out of bacon. It was your favourite.” She spoke in ragged bursts. “Jeddal was supposed to be watching you. He was supposed to take care of you. But when I arrived home, he told me you’d been killed by a pack of rogue forest trolls.” Tears filled her eyes. “He even showed me a mangled body that looked like yours.”

  Bog refused to be moved by her words.

  “We fought for hours until Jeddal ran into the forest, tail between his legs.” She spit out his name. “I cried for you.” Her face reddened. “I arranged for your funeral. And I vowed to avenge your death. No other humans would suffer at the hands of trolls.

  “At first, I dreamed about killing the rogue trolls and Jeddal, but I couldn’t find them.” She sighed. “Then I just destroyed any troll I came across. Eventually, I took up hunting mountain trolls since they were rumoured to eat humans. All these years of hunting, and now I find out that you were alive the whole time? This fight with Jeddal is all his fault.”

  “Jeddal was trying to protect me—his family—from you.” Bog leaned closer, scowling. “Since you killed to destroy families, I guess he did the right thing.” He leaned back, wishing for the moon to rise. How much longer must he listen to her?

  She studied him in silence. Bog squirmed under her gaze.

  “If you came to get revenge on the Troll Hunter,” she finally said, “what are you waiting for? I’m trapped and helpless.”

  “Shut up.” Bog ground out the words.

  “You’d better do it soon. What do you think I’ll do if you let me up? Give up my wicked ways and stop hunting dangerous trolls like Jeddal?” Her tone was taunting.

  “He’s not dangerous. And you’ll stop,” he replied, voice rising, “if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Maybe I would stop hunting some trolls…” She paused.

  Bog snorted.

  “…if you’d promise to stay with me.”

  “What?” This had to be a trick.

  “Don’t go back to the forest.” Her voice softened. “Stay with me, where you belong.”

  “You can’t be serious. Why would you want to spend time with a troll?” He sneered. “We’re only good for hunting.”

  “You’re different.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “I know you’ve taken good care of Hannie—you actually seem to like her.”

  “Leave Hannie out of this.”

  “I can convince the other humans that you’re not an enemy. First of all you’re half human—”

  “Half troll,” Bog said.

  “—and Hannie seems to like you, which will help. You also uncovered an illegal logging camp.”

  Bog shook his head, not sure what she was saying. “I destroyed a logging camp.”

  “Those loggers were clear-cutting the forest. You brought attention to them so that the police would know to shut them down.”

  Bog shrugged.

  “And your fight with Hannie’s father led to an investigation. The police began asking about Hannie, and her teacher and neighbours told them their suspicions about her father. Because of you, James Vincent will be charged with assault and even locked up.”

  “Locked up where?” Bog asked, suddenly curious. Maybe humans did protect their young. If his mother was telling the truth, these police seemed fair and honourable.

  Leaves rustled and a twig snapped. Bog glanced around, on high alert. Had they been discovered?

  But it was only Hannie. She was sitting up, one hand clasped over her mouth, her pale hair tangled with leaves.

  She scuttled over, gripping her troll doll by one foot. “Is it tru
e? About my dad?”

  Bog held out an arm. “Keep away from her, Hannie.”

  “Yes, it’s true,” his mother said. “And there’s more.”

  “Don’t talk to her,” he told Hannie.

  “The police located your aunt, Hannie.” A smile crept onto his mother’s face. “Your mother’s sister.”

  Hannie gasped. Her cheeks flushed. “Really?”

  Bog’s stomach lurched. He wrapped one arm around Hannie and pulled her closer.

  “Really,” his mother said to Hannie.

  “You mean Aunt Rachel, who made chocolate chip cookies and took me camping?” Hannie bounced on her toes.

  Bog’s mother nodded. “You can live with her when I bring you back.” To Bog, she added, “If you stay with me, maybe you can see Hannie again.”

  “You’re going to stay with…your mom?” Hannie’s eyebrows lifted.

  “No, I’m not.” Bog jumped to his feet. “Now stand back.” He swept Hannie several paces away. “She can’t be trusted.”

  “I’m not lying.” His mother raised her head, her neck muscles straining. “Your aunt’s last name is Tremblay,” she said to Hannie. “They found her in Winnipeg. Apparently your father refused to let her visit you anymore.”

  Hannie leaned into Bog’s arm, straining toward his mother. “Where is she now?”

  “She’s in Strongarm, waiting for you.”

  “Stop lying to Hannie,” Bog said. “It’s cruel, even for you.”

  Hannie swiveled in his arm. Her eyes were large and watery. “What if it’s true, Bog?” She clutched her troll doll. “What if I can live with my aunt?”

  He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it. Could his mother be telling the truth? How could he be sure?

  “Shush.” His mother frowned. She tilted her head, listening. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

  Human voices. Southwest of them, maybe a hundred paces away. How had he missed them?

  The humans were downwind. Coming closer. His eyes darted around the clearing, landing on Small, Hannie, his rucksack under the maple.

  “Stay low,” his mother ordered. “Don’t move.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Bog said.

  But she was right. Running away wouldn’t protect Small. And shape-shimmering only worked on objects. Bog pulled Hannie into a crouch and covered her pink rucksack. They sat as motionless as Small. His mother made no move to call out to the humans or signal them. Could she be trusted?

  Bog strained to hear what the humans were saying.

  “…can’t understand why the Troll Hunter wants to…always running off…” a male voice said.

  “I don’t know, Larry. Who can figure her out?” another male replied.

  Slowly, miraculously, the two humans walked farther away. Bog heard one loud bang, which made him flinch, and another. A car roared to life. Then the car moved off.

  They stayed crouched for several moments.

  Bog tried to stop shaking. Hannie huddled against his chest.

  “You have to believe me, Bog.” His mother finally broke the silence. “I would never hurt you.”

  “Why did you call me Bog?” He whispered.

  His mother shrugged. “I suppose it’s your name now.”

  He stared at her, unblinking.

  “Now untie me so we can lift this megalith off me…” she said, a wave of agony crossing her face, “…and then get Hannie back to her aunt. I’ll even help you revive your friend here, although I can’t promise the same for Jeddal.”

  “But I don’t have the Nose Stone—”

  “Yes, you do. That’s why you don’t want me to damage him.” She nodded toward Small. “You’re a poor liar. Nothing like your father. I don’t know what I ever saw in him.”

  Bog shot a protective look at his rucksack, lying under the maple. “I don’t need your help.” He was tired of the constant jabs at Jeddal.

  “Oh, please, Bog? Please?” Hannie pleaded. “I’d like to see my aunt.”

  A quick look at Hornel reminded Bog what his mother was capable of.

  “If the humans find me like this, they’ll go after you. It’d be much better if I were standing, if I can. My leg may be broken…” she said, her forehead furrowing, “…but it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “I know,” Bog said, remembering Kasha’s story of how Jeddal and Martinique first met.

  His mother raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t forgive you for stoning trolls,” he paused, “but it’d be easier to revive Small without you underneath.”

  His mother nodded. A smile tugged at one side of her mouth. “We could use a thick branch as a lever to lift him.”

  “As long as Small isn’t damaged.” Bog cut the twine around her wrists with his fingernail, hoping he wasn’t making a deadly mistake.

  18

  Moonrise

  The sun in the western sky finally brought some relief. The treetops blocked the sun, and Bog bathed in the shadows that fell across them.

  Small was propped upright against a boulder now, after a tense hoisting with Hannie trying to help and Bog’s mother directing the placement of the branch he used as a lever. He’d circled Small repeatedly, searching for a crack or a chip. Nothing. He could only hope that Ymir’s life-giving powers would flow through the Nose Stone and revive his friend.

  The air grew cooler as the shadows lengthened. The shade comforted Bog’s stinging eyes, although with his mother still around, it couldn’t soothe the tight knot in his gut.

  Bog’s mother was wrapping a strip of cloth ripped from her sleeve around her left ankle. The ankle was probably sprained, but that was her only injury. She was almost as tough as a troll, which made him anxious and disturbingly proud at the same time.

  Hannie sat cross-legged beside Small, stroking the stony tufts of fur on his foot and gazing into the distance with a dreamy look on her sunburned face. Her troll doll lay abandoned beside her.

  Bog paced the clearing, pausing to check on Small every now and then. The moon would rise just after sunset—he’d spent all day calculating it—but waiting for moonrise was torturous.

  When Hannie’s stomach announced that it was breakfast time, Bog stopped pacing, realizing that they’d skipped dinner.

  “You must be hungry,” he said, even though he was too tense to eat.

  “A bit.” Hannie nodded absentmindedly. “Do you think my aunt remembers me?”

  “Who could forget you?” He raised his nose, sniffing for nearby prey. A grouse pecked the ground north of them, but he didn’t want to leave Small and Hannie alone with his mother.

  “We have a few leftover deer mice.” He slung his rucksack off his shoulder and rummaged inside it.

  “Again?” Hannie made a face. “My aunt used to make me macaroni and cheese.”

  Bog raised his eyebrows and pulled out a jug of lake water. Maybe Hannie would be better off with this Rachel Tremblay—if she was worthy.

  Hannie gulped the water. Her stomach groaned again.

  “Why don’t you pick some berries?” He pointed to the raspberry bushes that crowded the eastern side of the clearing. It wasn’t troll fare, but he’d seen Hannie eating them before, when she thought he and Small weren’t watching.

  “Would it be okay, Bog?” Hannie’s face brightened. “Trolls sometimes eat raspberries, don’t they?”

  “When they’re desperate.” He looked away so she couldn’t tell he was lying.

  “I like raspberries.” She scooted over to the bushes.

  Bog sipped from the jug, happy to see her smiling. As he swallowed, he realized how dry his throat was. Maybe he should eat, too. He’d need his strength.

  He munched a roasted deer mouse, saving two for Hannie in case she changed her mind. As he watched his mother fashion a waist-high branch into a walking stick, his stomach felt no calmer.

  Hannie returned with a handful of berries, her lips dyed red. “Try some, Bog. They’re so sweet.”

  He wr
inkled his nose. “You eat them.”

  Hannie’s face fell, and he was tempted to eat the berries to please her. But before he could react, she zipped over to his mother, her hand extended.

  “Do you want some, Missus…uh…”

  “Call me Martinique.” His mother’s voice was raspy.

  “Hannie, I told you to stay away from her,” Bog said, but his mother was already dipping into Hannie’s palmful of berries.

  Bog sighed.

  “Okay, Martinique.” Hannie smiled. “Bog has some deer mice, if you want. They kind of taste bad, but you might like them.”

  “No. Thanks.” His mother shook her head. “I don’t think he wants to share.”

  “Of course he does.” Hannie yanked his mother up by the arm.

  “Wait.” She picked up her walking stick and struggled to her feet. With Hannie pulling, she hobbled nearer.

  Bog packed the deer mice and the jug into his rucksack, scowling. “They’re for Hannie—for later.” He shouldered his rucksack and positioned himself between Small and his mother.

  “Martinique is hungry, too, Bog,” Hannie said.

  “She can wait.” He glowered.

  Hannie looked from Bog to his mother. “But—”

  “I’m fine.” His mother stared him down.

  “Okay.” Hannie shared the rest of her berries with his mother. Bog watched his mother’s jaw working as she ground the berries into mush.

  When the berries were gone, Hannie said, “Martinique, when can I see my aunt?”

  Bog’s mother shot him a look, which he ignored. “When we get to Strongarm,” she said.

  Bog exhaled nosily and watched the shadows lengthen.

  The forest grew dark and silent around the statues. The sight of Small and Hornel as stone was still a shock—Hornel with his severed fingers leaning against his feet.

  When night descended, Bog dug in his rucksack for the Nose Stone. He wanted to be in position before the moon peeked over the treetops. He checked on his mother, who was leaning against a tree trunk about fifteen paces away.