Troll Bridge Page 10

  “So what can we do?” Jakob asked.

  The fox’s answer was immediate. “Kill Aenmarr.”

  “All right!” Erik shouted, but Jakob shook his head vigorously.

  “No. No killing.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Jakob?” Erik asked. “That monster’s killed Galen.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Jakob said, looking down at his hands. “You’ve never killed anyone.”

  “And I suppose you have?” Erik’s said sarcastically.

  Jakob bit his lower lip.

  “Who?”

  “Oddi…” Jakob whispered.

  Erik looked questioningly at Moira who shrugged her shoulders. He appealed to the fox.

  “One of Aenmarr’s sons,” Foss said. “The youngest.”

  “Wow, little brother.” Erik made a fist. “All right!” He cocked his head to one side. “How…?”

  “Well, not exactly with my own hands. But it’s my fault he died. I saw it. And he didn’t deserve…” His eyes were suddenly full of tears.

  “And Galen did deserve it?”

  “Or Mr. Sjogren?” asked Moira.

  “Who?” Both boys spoke as one, their voices eerily similar.

  “The photographer.”

  “No, no, no,” Jakob said, holding up his hands. “None of them deserved to die. But I don’t want more deaths. It doesn’t solve anything. There must be some other way.” He looked at the fox. “Can’t we make another pact?”

  “I doubt Aenmarr is in the mood to negotiate,” Foss said. “Besides, he does not want to eat these princesses. He wants them to marry his sons.”

  “We have to try something,” Jakob said.

  “After what he’s done to Galen?” Erik was furious.

  Moira looked at Jakob curiously, waiting for his answer.

  Yowling once in amusement, Foss said, “All right, Little Doom, I have been trapped here for centuries without managing to find a way to escape. I am willing to try someone else’s idea. As long as my freedom is part of your new Compact, I will assist you. Though I see little hope of your success.”

  “Thank you.” Jakob smiled at the fox, though it was more a grimace than a grin.

  “But if your negotiation fails, we must kill Aenmarr. Kill all of them.” The fox’s voice in their heads was insistent.

  “Yeah,” breathed Erik. “All of them. Women and children first, if we have to.”

  Moira raised her hand again. “How do we kill a troll, anyway?”

  Foss chuckled mirthlessly. “Not easily. They are big, as you have seen. And more muscle than meat. But they can be beguiled by music, kept at bay by fire, turned to stone by the sun.”

  Jakob silently mouthed the words music, fire, sun over and over, like a mantra, like the beginning of a song.

  “But let us drown that kit when we get to it,” Foss said. “First, Little Doom is going to talk us out of here.” He settled his head on his forepaws, ears twitching back and forth. “Come, child of man, tell us your plan. Then we will sleep a touch till full daylight can set your plan in motion.”

  Erik and Moira both looked at Jakob expectantly.

  Jakob thought: A plan? What makes him think I have a plan? I don’t even have an idea. An inkling. A …

  Just then a tiny spark of an idea flared to life in his mind. Not much of an idea actually. And it probably won’t work anyway, But he had to get them all out of Trollholm without killing anyone else. Or at least he had to try.

  4 · Return of Doom

  Doom, Doom, Doom

  Come back.

  In my wee room

  I’ll hack and whack.

  I’ll cleft your skull,

  And split your skin,

  From crotch to jowl,

  From toes to chin.

  And then I’ll make

  A tasty stew,

  And in I’ll take

  The rest of you.

  Doom, Doom, Doom,

  Doom, Doom, Doom.

  —Words and music by Jakob and Erik Griffson, from Troll Bridge

  Radio WMSP: 10:00 A.M.

  “So, Jim, is there any more news on the missing kids, the Princesses and those princes of pop music, The Griffson Brothers?”

  “No, Katie, the police are absolutely at a dead end. No one saw anything. The girls’ cars were undisturbed, but the boys’ car was destroyed, as if it had been taken up and thrown over the bridge, but the bridge was not touched at all.”

  “That’s the bridge where the butter heads are usually left?”

  “Yes, Katie, but as you know, not this year.”

  “Because of the new mayor.”

  “Yes.”

  “And has anyone questioned him, Jim?”

  “Glad you asked, Katie. I’ve just come from a press conference with him. After it was over, I asked him some specific questions.”

  “Can we hear any of it, Jim?”

  “Yah, you betcha, Katie.”

 

  “Mr. McGuigan, Jim Johnson of Radio WMSP, hoping to ask you a few questions.”

  “Make it three and I’ll do what I can to answer them.”

  “Do you think there’s any connection between the missing kids and the butter heads?”

  “Don’t be silly, Johnson. Why on earth do you think there’s a connection?”

  “Well, because it’s the same bridge—”

  “Ask me your second question. I hope it’s better than the first.”

  “Do you know the history of the butter heads, sir?”

  “Yes, of course. What kind of mayor would I be if I didn’t know? It has to do with old, outmoded superstitions, something any modern American would be embarrassed to cling to. And those heads melting on the bridge were powerfully toxic to the river that, as you know, empties over one of the loveliest waterfalls in the state and into the best damned fishing lake in the Midwest. We folks of Vanderby are proud of that lake. I am a strong environmentalist, as you know. Minnesota is the land of ten thousand lakes and if we do not keep our water pure, we are no better than those superstitious ancestors of ours who believed in monster bogeymen and pacts with the devil and dumped their household waste into the runoff.”

  “Then, sir, for my third question: What do you think happened to the girls and the Griffsons. And to Mr. Sjogren?”

  “Haven’t you heard about terrorism, man?”

  “In Vanderby?”

 

  “Do you believe his terrorist theory, John?”

  “No more than he believes in bogeymen, Katie.”

  “Thanks, Jim—and now here’s Bob with sports.”

  17

  Jakob

  Jakob was dreaming a song that began: “Music, fire, fire and sun, one life is ended, one life begun—” when he woke abruptly.

  “Ouch!” he cried. “Stop that!” Foss was nipping at his sore ankle.

  “Up, child of man,” ordered the fox.

  Jakob groaned.

  “Up if you want to set your plan in motion before nightfall.”

  Jakob sat up and rubbed his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the cave floor and go back to sleep. He’d barely finished sharing his plan—if you could dignify it with that name—before falling swiftly into an exhausted slumber. The last thing he remembered was Foss huddled in a corner with Erik, presumably deep in telepathic conversation.

  No time for resting, he told himself. Foss was right. They had preparations to make. Fires to set up. Trolls to fool. Compacts to swear to.

  He shook Erik by the arm.

  “Get off,” Erik grumbled sleepily. Then he mumbled, “We late for a gig?”

  “Biggest gig of our lives,” Jakob told him.

  For a moment Erik looked befuddled. Then—glancing around the cave—he pushed himself up on one elbow. “Right, little bro. I remember. Trolls, monsters, cannibals. Let’s get moving on this plan of yours.” He rolled his shoulders, and put a hand to his bruised face. “Wow, am I sore.”

 
; Jakob refused to compare aches and pains. Instead he crawled to the back of the cave to wake up the girl.

  * * *

  “YOU SURE THIS IS GOING to work, Foss?” Jakob was standing at the wood’s edge, staring across the meadow. They’d been gathering fuel for the bonfire. “Sure we’ll be safe?”

  “No,” the fox replied. “Nothing is safe around trolls. But trolls fear fire. If you build your ring of flames high enough, then you should be safe enough inside.” His toothy grin wasn’t reassuring.

  “We should be?” asked Jakob. “Where are you going to be, Mr. Faithful Fox?”

  The fox snarled. “This is your plan, Little Doom. And foxes don’t do fire any more than trolls. I’ll be waiting and watching from here.”

  “Well, that’s just…” Jakob began, his voice rising and breaking. Moira and Erik stared at him expectantly. Jakob took a big breath and started again. “Actually, Foss, you’re right. It is my plan.”

  The fox tipped his head to one side, waiting.

  “And there’s no reason you guys should risk your lives for it.” Erik’s eyes narrowed. Moira’s face was unreadable. “I mean it. Help me get the fire circle set up, and then I’ll take it from there.”

  Foss said nothing, but Erik peered over his armload of dry sticks. “I don’t want to lose another brother.”

  Jakob smiled wanly. “Trust me, I don’t want you to lose another one, either. But if I mess up and die, someone will need to kill the trolls and rescue the girls.”

  Head to one side, Erik said slowly, “Kill the trolls and rescue the girls. There’s a song there somewhere.”

  “And we’ll write it when this is over,” Jakob promised.

  Erik eyed Jakob for another moment. Then, after a brief glance at Foss, he nodded. “All right.”

  Jakob looked at Moira.

  “No,” she stated flatly, and went on gathering firewood.

  “Um … no?” Jakob said.

  “That’s right, no.” Arms now full of wood, Moira marched into the small clearing by the cottages, Jakob and his brother following close behind. She dropped her load onto the steadily-increasing circle of tinder. Pushing a stray lock of hair from her face, she pointed back at Foss with a stiff forefinger. “He’s a coward,” she said. She jabbed her finger at Erik. “And you’re a fool.”

  “‘A fool’?” Erik laughed. “No one under the age of eighty says that.”

  “Anyone who reads more than a comic book or three does.” Then she glared at Jakob. “And you … well…” She took a deep breath. “Well, boys are stupid.” She sniffed, and her lips made a thin line. “How do you think you’ll manage the fires on your own while you’re bargaining with Aenmarr? How will you keep the music going? You’ll need someone to help tend the fire and the song, keep them going all night long. Or you’ll get yourself eaten. See—stupid!” She turned and stomped back into the forest for another armload of wood.

  Open-mouthed, Jakob and Erik watched her march away, Erik recovered first. Winking at his brother, he said, “She’s feisty. I like that.”

  Inexplicably, Jakob found himself blushing. “Let’s get the circle finished,” he said, changing the subject. “Night’s coming.”

  * * *

  LONG SHADOWS, AS FLAT AS black paint, stretched over the circular pile of wood and kindling and were heading toward the cottages, when Foss signaled that it was time.

  “See the rune on that door?” he said, lifting his snout toward the rightmost troll house.

  Jakob could just make out the door in the fading light. In the middle was a carved letter that looked like a P, the top shaped more like a triangle.

  “That rune is Wunjo,” Foss told him. “It means joy and comfort and pleasure and prosperity.”

  “It’ll mean destruction by the time we’re through,” muttered Jakob.

  The fox departed without another word, and Erik glanced after him before jogging over to Jakob and crushing him in a tight hug.

  “You sure this will work?” he whispered. “Because…”

  Jakob tilted his head back to look up at his older brother. “Because what?” Erik just shook his head, and Jakob patted him on the back. “I taught Galen; I can teach anybody.”

  Erik frowned. “All right, but if anything goes wrong…”

  “Nothing will go wrong.”

  Shaking his head, Erik said. “No, that’s not what I mean. It’s just…” He struggled for words, which was unlike him.

  “Just what?” Jakob asked.

  Erik pushed Jakob away. “Never mind. Just be careful.” He offered up one more tidbit over his shoulder before leaving. “Remember that we’re all trying to get out of here as best we can.”

  “Um … okay.” Puzzled, Jakob watched his brother sprint off. Wonder what that was about? But he didn’t wonder for long, because Moira was coming, blazing torches in each hand, and the sun was setting behind the painted forest in a muted display of purples and pinks. Soon all they’d have for light would be the fire.

  From inside the nearby cottage, came the rumblings of awakening trolls.

  “Fe-fi-fo-fum,” Jakob intoned.

  Moira giggled. “That’s giants,” she corrected, putting the torches to the wood.

  “And I’m no Jack…” Jakob began, but the rest was buried in the crackle of the fire.

  18

  Moira

  As the fire rose higher, so sank the sun. The moment it dropped down behind the mountains, the front door of Trigvi’s cottage was flung open.

  “Jakob,” Moira whispered.

  “I see it.” He grabbed her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. Then, raising his voice, he began to sing. Except for the first three notes that broke—more with fear, she thought than anything else—he had the most on-key voice she’d heard in a long while. It had a purity and cleanliness that made her catch her breath.

  Doom, Doom, Doom

  I’m back.

  My fiery room

  Goes crackle and crack.

  I’ll tell you true

  And I’ll not lie,

  I’ll give to you

  A chance to fly.

  And then we’ll make

  Another pact

  Or else I’ll take

  Your living back.

  Doom, Doom, Doom,

  Doom, Doom, Doom.

  A troll boy, a smaller version of Aenmarr, peeked out of the door, his greenish hair spiky and his lower jaw jutting out. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Papa, Papa,” he cried, “look—there be fire and Doom.”

  From within Aenmarr’s voice boomed, “You best not be joking with me, my son, Buri. I be just risen and have not eaten yet.”

  Jakob sang the song again, and Moira joined in, singing a lovely, soaring descant. It gave her courage and heart and hope.

  Suddenly Aenmarr appeared in the doorway, towering over his son. His face was thunderous. However, when he realized there was a song coming from within the fire, his face softened slowly. The ugly features, the rough angles took on a kind of innocent longing. “Who…” he said, his voice almost purring, “who be making singing here?”

  Jakob signaled Moira to keep on singing, then called out, “We do, Aenmarr. Come closer and we will sing it for you.”

  The troll clomped a stride from his house, then froze. The fire kept him at bay. And as it climbed higher, the flames licking at the tops of the woodpile, Aenmarr stood, mesmerized.

  Still, he’s too close for comfort, Moira thought. She could see the bile green of his skin, the long sharp fangs. He had a large green wart the size and color of an unripe apple beside his bulbous nose. She skipped a beat in the song out of fear.

  Aenmarr growled and flung out his arms.

  “Keep on singing,” Jacob cried to Moira. “Sing anything you can think of.”

  Moira segued into “Ave Maria,” then the “Star Spangled Banner,” and then in a moment of unexplained whimsy, into a nursery song her mother had taught her, about “a troll, fol-de-rol,” before coming back
to Jakob’s “Doom” song.

  As she sang, Jakob called out again to the troll, only this time instead of bidding him come closer, he said, “Aenmarr of Trollholm, I am the human Jakob Griffson of Minneapolis here to remake the Compact with you. Will you listen or will I become once more Aenmarr’s Doom? For as you have eaten my brother, so I have eaten your son.”

  Moira gasped, surprised by what he said. She hadn’t been expecting it. She stuttered in her song.

  But this time Aenmarr didn’t notice her mistake. Instead he asked, “Jakob Doom, how be you eating my son?”

  “With relish did I eat Oddi, son of Aenmarr, as you ate Galen Griffson.”

  The troll stepped a foot closer. “Human, you be lying.”

  Jakob set a few more pieces of wood on the flames while Moira raised her voice and started on three new songs, “Ode to Joy,” “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring,” and oddly “Did You Ever See a Lassie?”

  The new music stopped the troll. He cocked his massive head and stood listening.

  “If I lie,” Jakob called out, “where is your son, Oddi, now, Aenmarr of Trollholm? Has his mother seen him lately?”

  “Go this way and that…” Moira sang. “Go this way and that way. Did you ever see a lassie…”

  Aenmarr turned back and spoke to the troll boy by his side. “Be running to Mama Botvi’s house, Buri, and ask her where her son be sleeping.”

  “But Papa, I be wanting to see the circle of fire. I be wanting to listen to the…”

  There was a sharp crack of skin on skin as Aenmarr swatted the troll boy, and then off Buri ran, howling like a hundred hungry gulls squabbling over a scrap of fish.

  In little more than three minutes—and three choruses of “This Land Is Your Land” because Moira didn’t know the verses—the troll boy was back.

  “Papa, Papa,” he bawled. “Mama Botvi be saying that Oddi be not home before daylight.”

  “What say you now, Aenmarr of Trollholm?” called out Jakob. “Shall we talk about that new Compact?” He found some more tree limbs and threw them on the top of the burning wall of fire.