by Jane Yolen
The sound of the water put him in mind of a new song. He began humming it to himself, his fingers idly forming the chords to back the melody.
I wish I had my guitar, he thought. This is a real good one. Could call it “Walking River” or something. An opening line sprang into his head. “I’m not gonna die on the river…”
Suddenly, he realized that this was the first time he’d thought of music since being captured by Aenmarr. I wonder if it’s this place, or that before I had enough to think about, just trying to stay alive.
He didn’t ponder long, but let the new melody take him. Matching his steps to the beat, he hummed the tune, hearing the guitar accompaniment in his head. Soon, the timbre of the river changed, flowing faster or deeper or maybe both, Jakob wasn’t sure, but he let the melody follow. He imagined a big upright bass leading the guitar into double time and smiled. Whistling, he heard the river start to roar.
“Drums!” he cued his imaginary band, and percussion crashed in his head. It was a full band now, screaming out a strange bluegrass-metal-Celtic tune unlike anything he and his brothers had ever recorded. He was so obsessed with the new song that he didn’t recognize what the river’s new roar meant.
The ground fell away beneath his feet, and Jakob teetered on the edge of a precipice.
“Holy guacamole!”
A huge open space loomed before him. Windmilling his arms, Jakob tried to regain his balance. He couldn’t actually see where the space ended, but he sensed that the ground was a long way down. After a terrifying second or three, he found his equilibrium and threw himself backward, jarring his butt painfully on the rocks.
“Waterfall!”
Now the river’s roar made sense, only he’d been too caught up in his music to figure it out. Getting onto his knees, he crawled forward carefully, feeling his way with his hands as much as his eyes, till he found the edge. Then he peered over.
Misty, half-formed cliffs to the left, cliffs to the right, and the river plummeting down into the darkness. He couldn’t see any bottom. It was as if the world ended here.
And so will I, Jakob thought miserably.
He didn’t dare backtrack too far. He’d end up at one of Aenmarr’s houses and in the stew pot. And he couldn’t go any farther this way. No wonder Aenmarr wasn’t worried about me getting too far. Jakob wanted to scream in frustration.
He didn’t, because just then, he heard voices over the roar of the falls. Scooting forward just a touch, he peered into the darkness and his eyes adjusted to the gloom.
There!
Somewhere below him, there was a path. Jakob could tell this, because he could just make out some figures moving next to the cliff walls.
The trolls! he thought desperately. They tricked me again. Made me think they were leaving, then doubled around in front of me. Though he couldn’t think how they could have done that unless Trollholm was built on some kind of circle or plate, which didn’t make any sense at all.
He started to scrabble backward, to hide, for there was light now, rising swiftly in front of the figures. Daylight coming up with the force of an oncoming storm. Then he froze in a panic, because when he’d moved, he’d sent a shower of small stones down the cliff face, pattering right behind the figures below. As he watched in horror, they turned and looked up.
And saw him.
15
Moira
The boy went out the back door and hesitated. Moira shoved him with two fingers.
“Left,” she whispered.
He turned, went as far as the wall’s end, hesitated again and glanced back at her. Still bound up in the rope, he looked incredibly vulnerable.
Moira hauled the larder door closed, or as closed as she could without being able to reach the handle. Then she moved past the boy and peered cautiously around the corner. A small bundle of fur lay against the far end of the wall, near the next corner, like a discarded rag.
“Foss?” she hissed.
“Be silent, human child. The trolls come home.”
“Which way?” she asked in her head.
“Front door.”
“Ah!” She grabbed the boy by the shoulder, propelling him forward.
“Who are you talking to?” he asked. “I hear a kind of buzz, but…”
She clapped a hand over his mouth, all the while thinking: So he can sort of hear Foss. Then she realized what this meant. This place is lousy with musicians.
“As long as they are not lousy musicians,” Foss said in their heads. If a fox can be said to chuckle, he chuckled. “This one is just passable. He will get used to me.”
Quickly, they made their way to him.
“Lying down on the job?” Moira asked sharply. Then she realized that his hind feet were splayed out behind him in an unnatural position. “That doesn’t look very good.” She knelt down.
“You may touch me this time, child of man and woman, but remember—I am no pet.”
She nodded, then stood and spun the boy around. Taking the sword-like knife, she made quick work of the rope that bound him. When she was done, and the rope in pieces at his feet, he shook his hands vigorously to get the circulation back. His face showed nothing of what must have been a horrible case of pins-and-needles. Moira was impressed, but didn’t say so.
“You carry this,” she said, handing him the knife. “I’ll take the fox.” She bent down again and gathered Foss up in her arms. Just then she heard the front door of the troll’s house slam shut.
“My fiddle,” Foss said sharply.
“Never mind the stupid fiddle.”
“Without the fiddle, we cannot rescue the eleven princesses.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Trust me.”
“Hey!” said the boy suddenly. “I hear a voice in my head!”
“Shhh!” Moira and Foss said together. Then Moira bent down and grabbed up the fiddle with her right hand, careful not to jar the wounded fox. “It’s the fox,” she whispered.
“Really? No.” He was careful to whisper back. Glancing quickly down at the fox in her arms, he looked up again, quizzically. “Really?”
Moira shrugged and said quietly, “Why would I make such a thing up?” Then to Foss, “Which way?”
“The path to the right. It leads below the waterfall and back to my cave. We will be safe there, child of man … and woman.”
Just then Moira heard bellowing in the house, and guessed the trolls weren’t happy about their loss of dinner. She asked no more questions but raced away down the right-hand path, the boy following quickly.
“Hurry, hurry,” she whispered over her shoulder to the boy, who carried the knife on his left shoulder like a sword. Stupid boy, she thought. Show off.
He caught up to her, shifted the sword to his right shoulder, and held his hand out for the fiddle.
Wordlessly, she gave it to him.
He grinned at her. Even with the one closed eye and the bruise along the side of his face, he was good-looking.
And knows it, she thought. The last thing she wanted to do was get a crush on a musician. Especially one who was likely to be a troll dinner before the night was out.
The fox continued to give them instructions, though his sendings were laced with grunts of pain. “Here!” he said. “Turn here.”
They turned.
“Watch out for the tree branch across the path.”
The boy ducked under it, and Moira followed, thinking, A troll could step right over that.
Foss continued his instructions to them as they walked along, reminding Moira of her driving teacher. “Watch out—slippery place.” And, “Deep hole.” And, “Take care. The path goes down sharply and is full of loose pebbles.”
They were careful, but not quite careful enough, slipping and sliding at the top of the path, scattering pebbles as they went. Moira was terrified that the trolls would hear them.
Chuckling, Foss said, “Do not worry. We are safe for today, human children.”
They had gotten to
the bottom of the path, which ran by a great roaring waterfall. Moira assumed Foss meant that, with such a noise, the sound of a few pebbles would alert no one. Not even trolls.
“Look—the sun rises,” Foss said. “No troll goes out in the sun.”
In fact, the sun rose before them as a bright orange disc with such quickness and brilliance, it looked like a bad stage production. Moira was temporarily blinded and heard rather than saw, the pattering of stones around her.
Moira knew it couldn’t be the boy. He was ahead of her, not behind. She was carrying the fox. Fear leapt like a fire in her throat.
“Trolls!” she cried aloud, turning and trying to see up to where the stones were falling from the top of the waterfall. But her eyes were still blasted by the sun.
“Cannot be,” said Foss.
“Look!” Moira said, for now she could see again, and she pointed.
Someone knelt at the top of the falls, the sun lighting his horrified face, his long blond hair.
In front of her the boy laughed. “Jakob! Jakob!” he cried out, heedless of any noise. “You’re alive.” And then his laughter turned to sobs that were loud enough to alert any trolls still out in the neighborhood.
* * *
IT TOOK THE BOY JAKOB no more than a minute or two to scramble down the cliff, though at the last he fell into the water and stood up, dripping but triumphant. Wading through the river, he made it to the shore.
“Erik!” he cried. “Oh God, I thought you were stew for sure.”
Erik put down both fiddle and knife and raced over to him, hauling him onto the riverbank, where they hugged.
“Look at your face!” Jakob said.
“Look at your clothes,” Erik answered.
Moira stared at them both. They had different color hair, but their eyes were the same: widely set apart, and a surprising light blue. Their noses were both small and covered with freckles. And the way they twined their arms around one another, spoke of more than friendship.
“Brothers?” she asked Foss, looking down into his dark, shining eyes.
“It seems so, human child.”
* * *
WITH FOSS CRADLED IN HER arms, Moira led the way back to the cave. Erik carried the fiddle and Jakob the knife. Moira showed them how to crawl in and when to stand. Then she set the fox down on a bed of dried grass. Turning to the boys, she said to the new boy, “So you are Jakob.” To the one she’d rescued, “and you Erik.” There’d been no time for introductions before.
They nodded.
“My name is Moira Darr. And this,” she pointed at the fox, “is Foss.”
“I am the Fossegrim,” he corrected her.
“Whatever.”
“I’ve met him,” Jakob said.
“We’re the Griffson Brothers,” Erik said. “Well, two thirds anyway.” He seemed to be waiting for something, some kind of recognition.
Moira smiled noncommittally. “Okay, Erik and Jakob Griffson,” she said, “I have eleven friends in there who need rescuing, or else tomorrow they become trolls’ brides.”
Jakob took a deep breath. “Our brother Galen is in the larder of Aenmarr’s first wife’s house. I think he trumps the brides.”
“Eleven are more important than one,” Moira said.
“But only the one is going to be killed and eaten,” Jakob replied.
Erik held up his hands as if weighing something and added, “Marriage, stew, marriage, stew.”
“Have you taken a good look at those trolls?” Moira said with an exaggerated shiver. But she knew Jakob was right. Death was more worrisome than marriage, no matter how gruesome the groom.
“Be silent human children,” the fox told them from his bed of grass. “You argue like trolls. We must count the boy Galen lost. Aenmarr is a stupid beast, driven only by hunger.”
“No!” said Jakob and Erik as one.
“We won’t give him up like that,” Erik added. “Just on your say so.” Then he burst into tears that he scrubbed away angrily with a dirty sleeve.
But the fox was relentless. “Why do you think Aenmarr abandoned his chase? Why did he not return to it?” Foss snapped his jaws loudly, as if chewing.
“Shut up!” Erik roared. He leapt at Foss, fists clenched and teeth bared, looking for the moment more animal than the fox.
Jakob caught him, holding him back.
“He’s right,” Jakob hissed in Erik’s ear. “Galen’s gone. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Wise child,” Foss said. “Now, listen, else all is lost. All.”
They shut up. And listened.
16
Jakob
Jakob tried to put Galen out of his mind by listening to what Foss was telling them, but he was having a hard time of it. He kept picturing Oddi’s severed head, only this time it was Galen’s, his handsome face gazing blankly back. Then Jakob realized suddenly that the fox was staring at him expectantly. The others, too.
“What?”
“I asked,” the fox repeated, “if you were listening at all.”
Jakob nodded.
“Then what have I been telling you?” Foss sounded just like Jakob’s father on a bad day.
“Um…” Jakob struggled to remember. Foss had said something about new lands and old gods, dragon boats and ocean voyages. It all seemed kind of remote to what they were dealing with at the moment—death, cannibalism, and forced marriages. He gulped and guessed. “The Vikings? Something about the Vikings?”
Foss yipped. “Something about the Vikings!”
Jakob hadn’t realized telepathic thoughts could sound so sarcastic.
“Human child, I am speaking of the birth of Aenmarr. The origin of our enemy! Know your foe and you know how to defeat him.”
“Okay, okay,” Jakob said. “I’m listening.” Though he had to wonder about the wisdom of that since Foss, who professed to know all about Aenmarr, hadn’t yet managed to defeat him.
The fox didn’t respond to the thought, but simply repeated, “As I was saying, when the first dragon boats crossed the northern ocean and grounded on this new land, they did not come alone. They brought with them their dreams and their nightmares, their old gods and monsters.”
“Monsters?” Jakob interrupted, just to show Foss that he was, indeed, listening.
Foss nodded and continued, “Aenmarr is one of those monsters, an ancient troll who sprang to life in the minds of men far from their homeland. His was a familiar terror, almost comforting in that familiarity; something to explain to the newcomers the mysterious slaughtering of livestock, the often bizarre disappearances of their wives and children.”
Erik looked puzzled. “But what help is this to us?”
Moira raised her hand, as if she were in class. “He already told us that—to know our enemy. The better question is to ask how come he has all this knowledge.”
Show off, Jakob thought.
“The girl is right. Understanding your enemy is halfway to defeating him.” Foss shrugged his front shoulders, then winced in pain. “And I have this knowledge, human children,” Foss said, “because it is my origin as well.”
“You came over on a dragon boat?” Erik asked.
“In a manner of speaking.”
This time Jakob couldn’t keep silent, but leaned toward the fox and spoke softly. “Were you a god or a monster?”
Foss grinned sharp teeth at him. “A little of both.”
Jakob thought grimly, And why don’t I find that comforting?
The fox licked his lips before continuing. “Now, Aenmarr hunted the settlers, as he had in the old country. And they fought back, just as they always had. But this was a new land, wilder, untamed. There were new enemies whose knowledge of the land was unsurpassed. Neither settlers nor troll could afford to continue with their old enmities and hope to survive.”
“I suppose the new enemies were the Native Americans,” Moira said. “But who did Aenmarr fight with?”
“The natives had their own gods, h
uman child,” replied Foss. “And their own monsters: Unktehi and the Thunderbird, manitous and animal spirits. They resented Aenmarr’s intrusion. He battled them constantly.”
“So they made a deal?” Moira asked. “Aenmarr and the settlers?”
“Precisely.” The fox grinned again, his teeth white and sharp, and nodded his head.
Why didn’t I think of that? Jakob thought, this time grudgingly admiring her quickness.
“Wait a minute,” Erik said, “what kind of a deal?”
Jakob and Moira looked at one another, eyes wide, then answered him together, “Dairy Princesses!”
“Close,” the fox told them, his tone one that a proud teacher uses with his best students. “Instead of wasting their energies fighting each other, they forged a compact. Each year, the settlers would deliver twelve maidens for Aenmarr to consume.”
“What?” Erik rose to his knees.
Foss blinked at the interruption, licked his lips, then resumed as if Erik hadn’t spoken or moved “In return, he left the settlers alone the rest of the year. Everybody seemed happy with the arrangement.”
“Everybody except the girls,” corrected Moira. Then with rising indignation, she added, “Are none of you bothered by this? That’s … that’s—”
“Shocking?” Foss said.
Moira shook her head, then found the word she was looking for. “Reprehensible.”
“Human child,” the fox said, his tone soft but his eyes still glittering, “those were barbarous times, and both parties were struggling for their lives. Besides, the tradition of live maidens did not last long.”
“It didn’t?” Moira’s voice was full of relief.
Foss started to explain, but Jakob spoke first. “The butter heads.”
Foss looked pleased.
“You said trolls are hungry creatures,” Jakob said. “Give them something that looks just like the maidens they were promised.…”
“And that tastes just as good,” Erik added. “Aenmarr probably never knew the difference.”
“Or perhaps, he just did not care,” Foss said. He gave his right paw a quick lick. “It matters not now. For neither maidens nor butter were delivered this year, and the Compact has been broken. Aenmarr has collected what was promised.”