Horns and Wrinkles
Joseph Helgerson
* * *
* * *
illustrations by Nicoletta Ceccoli
houghton mifflin company boston
Thanks to my fellow sandbar campers: Maggie, Jake, Helen Kay,
Darlene, Pip, Bill, Rich, Pooch, and Lady. And thanks to
Kate O'Sullivan for help along the way.
Text copyright © 2006 by Joseph Helgerson
Illustrations copyright © 2006 by Nicoletta Ceccoli
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to
Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com
The text of this book is set in 11-point Dante.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Helgerson, Joseph.
Horns and wrinkles / by Joseph Helgerson ; illustrations by Nicoletta Ceccoli.
p. cm.
Summary: Along a magic-saturated stretch of the Mississippi River near Blue Wing, Minnesota,
twelve-year-old Claire and her bullying cousin Duke are drawn into an adventure involving Bodacious
Deepthink the Great Rock Troll, a helpful fairy and a group of trolls searching for their fathers.
HC ISBN-13: 978-0-618-61679-4
PA ISBN-13: 978-0-618-98178-6
[1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Trolls—Fiction. 3. Bullies—Fiction. 4. Mississippi River—Fiction.]
I. Ceccoli, Nicoletta, ill. II. Title.
PZ7.H37408Hor 2006 [Fic]—dc22 2005025448
Book design by Maryellen Hanley
Printed in the United States of America
QUM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
* * *
for
MAGGIE
JAKE
&
HELEN KAY
* * *
CLAIRE'S FAMILY
FRAN, LILLIE, & TESSA sisters
ADAM & LINDA parents
DUKE cousin
PHYLLIS & NORM aunt & uncle (Duke's parents)
GRANDPA B grandfather
HUNTINGTON & NETTIE great-great-great-grandparents
FLOYD great-great-great-granduncle (Huntington's brother)
TROLL CLANS
EEL-TONGUE Jim Dandy
Double-knot (Jim Dandy's father)
Two-cents (Jim Dandy's mother)
MOSSBOTTOM Biz "Squeak"
FISHFLY Stump
Duckwad
SLICE-TOE Tar-and-feathers (Biz's great-aunt)
CROWLEG Muck(Biz's wife)
Weed (Biz's wife)
Scale(Biz's wife)
DEEPTHINK Bodacious
LEECHLICKER Fancy (Jim Dandy's wife)
GARTOOTH Wishy (Stump's wife)
One
Falling
My cousin Duke's troubles on the river started the day he dangled me off the wagon wheel bridge. It's an old stone bridge, abandoned now, except for bullies and the occasional river troll in need of a hideout.
"Take it back?" Duke shouted, holding me by the ankles.
He was shaking me so hard that my lucky penny slipped out of my pocket and plopped into the river. You can take that as a sign if you want to, but it was Duke's luck, not mine, that went bad.
"Not in a million years," I told him.
The river I was hanging over was the Mississippi, which was flooding, all muddy and solid-looking as a freight train, about twenty feet below my ponytail. It was early May. None of the trees had turned green yet, but you could smell it coming fast.
I'd been out in my front yard that Saturday morning, exercising my friend Lottie, a box turtle who had wintered in my closet. Enter Duke, who'd scooped Lottie up, claiming she'd make some troll a nice snack.
Since I wasn't big enough to stop him, I pleaded with him all the way to the river, where he tossed her in. For good measure, he tried to push me in too. That was a mistake. He forgot how hard I can hold on to things—like his wrist. We landed side by side, flat on our faces in water that had been frozen ice but a short while back. Our yowls scared birds off trees.
By the time I'd struggled back to shore, floodwaters had carried Lottie away.
If I were braver, I'd have jumped in after her, but our stretch of river is a queer old chunk of water. Though nobody likes to talk about it much, the river around here is under a spell of some kind. Crippled people have been known to drive cross-country and plop down in it for a cure. And besides, I couldn't very well go after Lottie while Duke was dragging me up the bridge.
As soon as he dangled me over the edge, I saw a crutch go bobbing by beneath me, headed for New Orleans, along with all sorts of other incredible fare: a crow perched atop a dollhouse, a muskrat holding an orange tennis shoe in its mouth, a log with a dozen turtles along its spine. Maybe Lottie would hook up with them. I hoped so. With the river suffering spring fever, everything was on the move.
"You better know how to swim," Duke shouted.
It was one of his shouting days. Most were. Looking skyward, I could see up his nostrils, which seemed huge and dark as caverns.
"You know I can't," I said.
"Time you learned."
"I'll be the judge of that," I informed him, knowing better than to sound the least bit fluttery, even though I was a goner if he let go. You don't want to sound afraid of a bully, especially if he's a relative.
Duke was tall for an eleven-year-old—at least a head taller than I was even though I was a year older—and sort of pillowy soft. (Don't ever mention the pillows to him, though.) He was a fiery redhead and wore his hair short as fur, which is what it felt like if you sneaked a rub. Better not. Freckles? Lots. They were off-limits too. He was proud of his temper like peacocks are of their tails. His snub nose twitched every few seconds in case anything was cooking nearby, for if there was, he planned on being there first. He wore a black jacket with lots of zipper pockets that were full of treats and stuff confiscated from small fry.
At the moment we were disagreeing about my baseball cap, which he'd snatched while dragging me up the bridge. He was wearing it but claiming he wasn't. I can't even think why he'd want to wear a cap with a girl's name on it, except to start an argument.
"Say your prayers, Claire!" Duke shouted.
But before he could think of how to threaten me next, a sweet old voice called up to us from below.
"Excuse me," the old voice said, "have you seen a muskrat go by?"
Floating below us was a tall old lady in a red rowboat with yellow seats. She wore a blue flowery dress, a red checkered apron, and one orange tennis shoe, a high-top. Her other foot was bare. Her hands and apron had a dusting of white flour, and I caught a whiff of homemade bread.
"Beat it, you old bat!" yelled Duke.
"His name is Prince Leopold," the old lady said, unperturbed, "and he was carrying one of my sneakers."
"Can't you see I'm busy?" Duke shouted.
"I think he went that way." I pointed where the muskrat had been headed.
"You stay out of this," Duke warned me.
"Is that a girl you're holding?" the old lady politely asked. She held her hands above her eyes to shield against sun glare off the water.
"It's a warthog," Duke shouted.
"It doesn't look like a warthog." The old lady tilted her head sideways for a better view. "I'd say it looks like a girl."
"Are you calling me a liar?"
The old lady thought that over. Reaching into an apron pocket, she pulled out a pinch of what looked like flour and blew it toward us. The flour glittered in the sun and dusted my face. I'm afraid I giggled.
"Sounds like a girl," the old lady judged.
That scorched Duke's cheeks and started a rumble shimmying up his throat. The last time I'd seen him this mad was when he'd salt-and-peppered a grasshopper but couldn't make me eat it. Leaning over the edge of the bridge to aim me better, he shouted, "You asked for it!"
His grip tightened around my ankles as he positioned me for a direct hit. The old woman shook her head sadly at his efforts and called out, "You're sort of a wimp, aren't you, son?"
Squinting one eye, Duke lined me up perfectly with the rowboat and broadcast with a great deal of satisfaction, "Bombs away!"
A half-minute later nothing had happened. Between Duke's sweaty palms and my dripping socks, I began to worry that I might slip out of his grasp before he could drop me.
"I'm waiting," the old lady called out.
For ever after, Duke always claimed he might never have let go if she hadn't driven him to it.
You might think it wouldn't take long to fall twenty feet, but believe me, it can take up most of a day. My eyes were open all the way too. The wind fluttered my ponytail and tickled my one crooked tooth. I tried righting myself so that I wouldn't hit headfirst, but I rolled too far and did a full somersault. Everything seemed stuck in turtle time.
Up on the bridge, Duke's eyes were large as tennis balls.
Down below, the old lady had positioned a plump cushion on the seat where I was headed. She sat with her hands folded on her lap, as if waiting for someone invited to tea. Beside the boat, a muskrat head popped out of the water, holding an orange tennis shoe in its mouth. One look at me falling out of the sky made him dive elsewhere.
Now that I was closer to the old lady, I could see that reading glasses hung around her neck on a gold chain. Wisps of white hair poofed out around a straw hat. Her face was friendly as a daisy's.
I had time to take all that in, and still I wasn't done falling. In the name of science, I decided to try an experiment and counted to ten, real slow.
After that there wasn't much doubt, but I counted to ten again, even slower, just to make sure. That made it official: something rivery was happening. At the moment, I was drifting downward with all the speed of dandelion fluff. Tucking my feet under me, I alighted on the boat cushion like a perfect lady.
"Hello," the old lady greeted. "I'm so glad you could join me."
She smiled as though we were old friends.
"Pleased to meet you," I said. "Did you do that?"
I was gesturing toward the bridge above us, the one I'd just been dropped from.
"Do what?" she asked.
A commotion from atop the bridge cut off my answer.
"My nose! My nose!"
Glancing up, I saw Duke dancing around, holding his face as if he'd just been punched on the snout. As far as I could tell, he was all alone on the bridge.
Two
One Horn
Duke staggered around atop the bridge, wailing and boo-hooing as if a man-eating lion had jumped him, not that I've ever heard of lions around here. Good thing the wagon wheel bridge was so old, it had been closed to traffic, or a car would have creamed him for sure. Glancing away from my cousin, I found that the old lady had put on reading glasses and was gazing into my eyes as if I were a crystal ball.
"Do you see something?" I asked.
"River, mostly," she said, kind of distracted-like. "Some crickets."
"Is that good?" I crossed my eyes for a look myself.
"Hard to say."
The old lady gazed harder, leaning so far forward that it felt as though she might fall right inside me.
"There, there." She patted my arm kindly. "Everyone around here has a little of the river in them. And crickets aren't anything to worry about, you know. Unless they're white, of course. Then you'd have to keep an eye on them. But that boy up there, the one who mistook you for a warthog, now he's another matter. He requires a bit of worrying, I'd say. I can't put my finger on it, but there's something not quite straight about that one."
Just then Duke cut loose with a whoop ten times worse than when I'd thought a lion had him. Looking up, I saw that now he was being dangled over the edge of the bridge. I did a double take, thinking maybe some river trolls had nabbed him. Of course I'd never seen a river troll, only heard of them, so I couldn't be sure that I'd recognize one right away. But after a bit I could see that the pair holding Duke were only boys, about high school size. The way they were cackling, you could tell that hanging my cousin off the bridge was going to be the high point of their day.
"You big baby," one of them said, sneering.
The one talking had small mean eyes and curly blond hair that poked out like thistles. His partner had large mean eyes and straight blond hair that sat on his head like a shingle. They had split Duke's legs between them, one apiece, and were shaking him up and down while grinning like crocodiles. They'd unzipped his jacket pockets, so a steady stream of trinkets was raining on the river.
"Please, please, please," Duke blubbered.
"Whose bridge is this?" the curly blond demanded.
"Yours," Duke wailed. "Yours!"
"So who said you could use it?" the straight-haired blond asked.
"No one," Duke whimpered.
"And another thing," the curly blond went on, "we're the only ones who hang kids off this bridge."
"It won't happen again," Duke promised. "Never. I swear."
"I don't trust him," the curly blond said.
"Look at the way he's covering his face," the straight-haired blond agreed.
"Something's happened to my nose," Duke whined.
"Like what?"
"A bee sting," Duke said. "I think."
"Is he sassing us?" the straight-haired blond wanted to know.
"I'm not," Duke promised.
"Move your hands, then."
"We're not asking again either."
Duke lifted his hands away.
Even from down below I could tell that something bad had happened to my cousin's face. Something had squeezed his nose and darkened it and made it look like a coat hook.
"Ugh," grunted the curly blond, "I can't stand to hold him."
"I'd hate to meet that bee." The straight-haired blond snickered.
"Don't drop me," Duke begged. "I'll do whatever you want. Anything at all. I'll ... I'll ... I'll be your complete and ever-lasting toad."
"You're too ugly to be a toad."
"Way too ugly."
"But I can't swim-m-m-m-m-m."
They dropped him, then leaned over to see if he'd been lying about not being able to swim. Their pink mouths gaped like two baby crows who have just pushed a brother out of the nest.
A stone couldn't have fallen any straighter than Duke did. Headfirst all the way. There wasn't any dandelion fluff to his two-and-a-half-second fall. After splashdown, he disappeared under the old brown waters without a gurgle. At the most there were a few bubbles and a tiny whirlpool no bigger than a dinner plate. Up on the bridge, the two bullies gave each other a high five, sailed the cap Duke had been wearing—my cap—over the river, and took off. Unlike Duke, the cap landed in the rowboat, right at my feet. The old lady dusted its brim and handed it to me, saying, "Yours, I believe."
Three
One Genuine Act of Kindness
When Duke finally surfaced, I discovered I'd been holding my breath right along with him. We both sucked down huge lungfuls of air, though Duke gulped considerably louder. Right away he started beating the river with what seemed like six arms and legs. The brown water turned a frothy white, but he couldn't persuade it to let him stay on top.
"Better than I expected," the old lady said, impressed. "There may be some hope for him after all. Don't get me wrong. I'm not promising anything big, but he didn't give up without a fight. That usually counts for something."
Rolling up her right sleeve, the old lady leaned over the side of the rowboat and plunged her arm into the water. After a moment she hauled a waterlogged Duke out of the river by his belt, draping him over the side of the boat.
&n
bsp; He coughed, gagged, and retched up enough river water to float a toy boat inside the rowboat. But he was alive. Mostly.
"That'll teach them," Duke coughed.
"Your cousin's a dilly," the old lady commented.
"Quiet, you," Duke threatened.
He lifted his head enough for me to see that his nose had grown a couple of inches. Its color and shape didn't look quite right either. It was darker, more pointed.
"For the record," I told Duke, "she just saved your life."
"Don't give me that," he snapped.
He snatched at my cap but his hand never got above his shoulder. Without warning, his nose shot out another inch, making him yelp and grab for it instead. From up close I could see that his nose didn't look like a coat hook at all. It looked like a horn, a baby rhinoceros horn, all gray-black and rough and curved upward.
"This is all your fault," he swore through his fingers.
By then the boat had drifted up against the riverbank, so Duke slogged ashore. Water ran out of his pockets. River weed clung to his cuffs. The current was so swift near shore that he had to lean forward to make any headway. When almost out of the water, he slipped on the muddy bottom, falling flat on his face. That made him bellow.
"You'll pay for this!" he cried as he crawled off through the brush. Coughing and sputtering, he added, "If it's the last thing I ever do, I'll get you. Don't think I won't. You'll..."
When we couldn't see him anymore and could hear him only occasionally, I asked the old lady, "Did you do that to his nose?"
"Wasn't me." She sounded envious of whoever had. "Most likely it was rock trolls. They've got a potion they sprinkle on the river around this time of the month, when the moon's almost new and the nights are blackest. All thorns and mold, the potion is. They're awfully proud of it."
Well, Duke had been in the river, so that part fit. But I'd fallen in too and didn't have anything growing on my nose, at least not that I could feel.
"Don't worry." The old lady chuckled as I patted my nose. "The potion only works on bullies."
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