Bog

by Karen Krossing

  Bog shuddered and glanced at Small.

  “I’m not sure what happened,” Small tilted his head to one side, “but I bet the story is a good one.”

  “It was…not what I expected.” Bog couldn’t admit how he’d saved Hannie. “And I got nothing about the Troll Hunter’s whereabouts.”

  “Uh-huh.” Small nodded thoughtfully. “Well, we’ll find the Troll Hunter eventually, and the money will come in handy. As for Hannie, we can’t really risk taking her back right now. We could leave her here for them to find…” he said as Hannie wailed, “…but she might be useful again.” Small watched Bog. “It’s up to you.”

  “Please, Bog?” Hannie dropped to her knees, her hands clasped together. Her clothes were filthy. She stank like a human. But she’d helped more than once.

  Bog heaved to his feet. Why had he saved her? Maybe it was a flaw he’d inherited from Jeddal and Kasha. After all, they’d tolerated him. Maybe they would have saved Hannie, too.

  “We’ll have to find a stream where you can wash,” he said, finally.

  “Oh, thank you, Bog!” Hannie gushed. “I’ll never forget this. I—” She glanced at his face and abruptly stopped. “Sorry, I’ll be quiet. Really, I will.”

  11

  Troll Hunter

  They waded through a river to cover their trail. Bog made Hannie wash off the human stink and rub her skin and clothes with leaves to dull her odour. Then they travelled south toward Thunder City for the rest of the night.

  Their pace was grueling, but Small said they could reach the city’s edge in about four nights, if they kept it up. After they defeated the Troll Hunter, the Sleeping Giant would be just east—apparently they’d be able to see his silhouette from the city.

  Small led, relying on Frantsum’s stories of the terrain. Hannie rode on Small’s shoulders, ducking low-hanging branches and keeping her promise to be quiet—most of the time. Bog brought up the rear, pondering ways to crush the Troll Hunter, once they found him.

  They walked parallel to a road that Small called a highway, keeping to the trees and bushes. The highway was wider than the dirt road through Bog’s forest, and paved smooth like those in Strongarm. It was louder, too, with trucks and cars blistering by.

  Bog’s nose hurt more now that the fight was over. He couldn’t catch a scent unless he blew the snot out and breathed in deeply. A jagged wound snaked across it, helping to make up for its puny size.

  At daybreak, they found a cavern tucked into the rounded grey rocks on the edge of a glassy lake. As they settled for the day, Hannie let out a piercing howl.

  Bog held his ears. “You promised you’d stay quiet.”

  “Thunder’s gone.” Hannie hunched over her pink rucksack, wailing.

  Thunder? He glanced at the sky—cloudless with the hint of dawn above the treetops.

  “It’s her doll,” Small said. He patted her back with a heavy hand.

  Bog rolled his eyes. Her gaudy doll with the blue fur, jewel in its belly, and human clothes?

  Hannie’s tiny shoulders heaved. Tears hung from her chin and dripped onto her shirt. “I…must have…dropped her…in town.” Her blubbering broadcast their location.

  “Stop crying,” Bog said louder than he meant to.

  Hannie gulped and then began to sob quietly.

  Small sat back on his heels, frowning.

  Hannie’s whimpering tugged at Bog. He knelt down in front of her. “My grandmother says…” he paused, thinking how he shouldn’t share troll lore with Hannie, but it was better than listening to her sob. “She says that you can turn humans into trolls by rubbing them with magic ointment, stretching their arms, and howling into their ears.”

  “Really?” Hannie leaned forward.

  Small nodded. “I’ve heard that, too.”

  “She says that after a few moons, you can’t tell the humans from the trolls.”

  “Do you have the magic ointment, Bog?” Hannie’s eyes were hopeful.

  “Naw. Never have seen any. But I can show you how to yank and stretch your nose each morning before sleep. Kasha—my grandmother—does it for all the youngsters. It gives them noses to be proud of.”

  “She does?” Her eyebrows puckered.

  “Sure. Just spit on your hand, since we have no ointment.” Bog honked a slug-like gob onto his palm.

  Hannie hesitated, wrinkling her nose. Then she imitated him. “Like this?”

  “Yup.” Her attempt was pathetic. “Then rub and pull like this.” He yanked at his nose, even though it hurt, while Hannie tried to grip her ugly button nose.

  “Will this make me a troll?” Hannie sniffled between rubs.

  Bog hesitated, not wanting to lie.

  Small looked at him sideways.

  Hannie caught Small’s glance. “It won’t. It’s only a story.” Her voice was accusing.

  “Uh…” Bog shrugged, not sure how to calm her.

  Hannie’s face collapsed into another sulky mess. She tucked her knees into her chest and stared off into the western shadows with a vacant expression, silent tears streaming.

  Watching her, Bog wondered why he cared about her mood. Small hovered over Hannie, too, trying to amuse her with shape-shimmering stunts, but she wouldn’t stop crying.

  That day, they shared a den for the first time—with Small in the middle. Bog told himself that it was because the den was large and because Hannie didn’t smell so bad anymore. He planned to make her wash every night.

  At breakfast the next night, Hannie’s chin still trembled. Every so often, a stray tear found a path down her cheek. Neither Small nor Bog could cheer her up. They started the night’s walk with everyone brooding. The mournful cry of a loon echoed Hannie’s sorrow. Bog found himself wishing for her babble like the rush of a stream over rocks.

  They scooted around a town called Gull, and later, a lone house with a sleeping collie. They stopped to tangle the collie’s long fur into knots without even waking him—a prank that failed to lighten Hannie’s mood—and to hunt for leopard frogs in a nearby pond. Bog caught almost as many frogs as Small did. He hoped Ruffan was having as much luck.

  In a marsh as wide as it was long, Bog and Small left soggy footprints while Hannie rode on Small’s shoulders. Rotten trees had uprooted in the water, and Bog picked up a gnarled piece of root, thinking of the figures that Jeddal had carved for him when Bog was a youngster. The root was about the size of his hand. Bog could see the shape of a troll with a crooked nose hiding within the wood.

  While they walked, Bog whittled away at the root with his fingernail, slowly carving the soggy lump into a worthy imitation of a troll. Later, beside their cookfire, he was still at it.

  At dinner, Bog crunched his own frogs whole, hardly savouring the meager but tasty meat. He carved after dinner, too, refusing to show Small his creation when he asked. Hannie sat beside the fire, staring into the flames with mournful eyes that tugged at him. She didn’t even touch her roasted frogs.

  Bit by bit, Bog whittled a face into the root, along with crude arms and legs. He knotted hair from cedar twigs and wedged in eyes of bone. When he was done, he shoved the doll at Hannie.

  “Here.”

  Hannie glanced at the carving, her expression vacant. Then her face lightened, warming Bog from nose to tail.

  “Oh,” she whispered. “Is she for me?”

  “It comes with a story.” Bog shifted closer to the glowing embers in the firepit, telling himself the gift was to keep her useful. “So be quiet.”

  Small raised an eyebrow. Bog launched into his tale, before he could change his mind about telling it.

  “I was too old for toys when my father, Jeddal, handed me a doll he’d carved himself, much like this one.” Bog motioned toward Hannie’s doll. “We’d just returned from a hunt with fresh muskrat for dinner.”

  Hannie’s wide eyes reflected the firelight.

  “‘A doll?’ I asked him,” Bog continued. “My father nodded and said, ‘And more. Look closer.’ I examined
the thing. Like yours, it was carved from root but had snail-shell eyes and a feathered tail.”

  “Oooh. I like feathers.” Hannie edged closer.

  “Then Jeddal said, ‘A troll doll is never just a doll. It’s a talisman, a story, a guide. The body of Ymir inhabits bone and stone, wood and earth. Remember to listen, Bog. The truth can be found in even a clump of moss.’” Bog leaned back against a rock and crossed his arms.

  “What does that mean?” Hannie said.

  Bog shrugged and thought for a moment. “Maybe it means that a doll can teach you how to be a troll.”

  “Bog! Do you think so?” Hannie wrapped her arms around his neck—until she remembered her promise not to touch him and backed off.

  “Are you doubting my father?” A growl rumbled in Bog’s chest.

  “Never.” Hannie hugged her doll, smiling.

  From across the flames, Small nodded.

  Bog didn’t know who needed the story more—Hannie or himself.

  The walking was endless. Sharp rocks jabbed Bog’s feet. His legs throbbed with a dull pain that cool lake water couldn’t soothe, although his nose was less swollen and he could smell again.

  On the third night of travelling from Strongarm, Bog scented meat cooking. “Is it…hamburgers?” He didn’t quite trust his nose. Hamburgers in the forest?

  Small licked his lips. “Hamburgers would be nice.”

  “I see a light near the road,” Hannie said. She was walking, for a change.

  Small inhaled. “Humans. Maybe a restaurant?”

  “A what?” Bog wouldn’t mind hamburgers for dinner.

  “Oooh. Let’s go. Please, please, please, Small?” Hannie bounced on her toes, clutching her new doll. “I want to have a milkshake. And some French fries—I miss French fries. And some chocolate. Do you think they’ll have chocolate?”

  “Slow down.” Small patted her on the head. “If it is a restaurant,” he said to Bog, “we could try to find out more about the Troll Hunter’s den.”

  “But what about—” Hannie began.

  “Of course, we’d need to buy a few hamburgers, too.” Small grinned. “We’ve got the money.”

  Hannie cheered.

  “Is it safe?” Bog asked.

  “It should be.” Small scratched his chin. “Maybe you and Hannie could go together—ask about the Troll Hunter and order us some take-out.”

  “What is take-out?” Bog asked. “Is it better than hamburgers?”

  “I know how to order food. I can show Bog what to do.” Hannie yanked Small’s hand. “Let’s go. I’m sick of snakes and mice.”

  Bog traded a smile with Small. Some troll she was.

  From his rucksack, Small fitted Bog with a long-sleeved shirt and a rounded hat with a brim that Hannie called a baseball cap. They were better than the raincoat and hat, although not by much. Bog still had to wear the hated black rain pants that crushed his tail, but he told himself it would be worth it if they found out more about the Troll Hunter’s whereabouts. Soon, Bog and Hannie were heading toward the light of the restaurant, with Hannie chattering about how to order food and what she was going to eat first.

  The restaurant faced the highway. Two cars sat out front, silent and still. Blinding light spilled from the large windows onto scraggly bushes, forcing Bog to pull the cap down to shade his eyes. Peering through the windows, he counted one woman behind a long counter, leaning her chin on her hands, and a man eating alone at one of the many tables. The smell was stronger now—chicken, hamburgers, oil, and vegetables.

  “Tell me again how we order?” Bog pulled Hannie back. Things hadn’t gone so well the last time he’d entered a building.

  “You ask about the Troll Hunter and I’ll order. Okay, Bog? I’ll ask for two hamburgers for you and Small, and then stuff for me.”

  “Four hamburgers—each.”

  “You can eat four hamburgers? Wow.”

  “Maybe you should get six for Small, just in case.”

  “If you say so. Do you have the money?”

  Bog held out his fist with the crumpled paper money in it.

  “Good. Let’s go. I’m starving.” Hannie marched up and flung open the door.

  A bell on the door let out an ear-piercing jingle that made Bog’s head ring, too. The woman behind the counter looked up as they entered. Bog stiffened. How should he greet her? Humans didn’t pull noses.

  The woman gave him a quick glance. “What’ll you have?” she asked in the human tongue, ignoring Hannie.

  “Uh…” All human words left him. “D-d-do you know where the Troll Hunter is?” He stuttered.

  “What? Only us folk here.” She gestured vaguely.

  The man who was eating alone studied Bog and Hannie.

  “Yes, but…” Bog shifted his feet. “Do you know where the Troll Hunter’s den is?”

  The woman raised one eyebrow. “Sure, buddy. Just give me your order.”

  “Uh…” He ducked his head so his hat blocked her view of his face. “We w-want hamburgers,” he said.

  “Two hamburgers?” The woman scribbled on a pad of paper. Bog stared at the strange markings, wondering what they meant. “Do you want fries with that?”

  Fries? He was relieved when Hannie pushed in front of him, climbing onto one of the stools that lined the counter.

  “Yup. We’ll have ten hamburgers, an order of fries, and a strawberry milkshake to go…do you have any white freezies?” She spun back and forth on the stool.

  “Just ice cream.” The woman scribbled more strange markings on the pad.

  The man stared out the window.

  Bog was glad to be ignored.

  “But I wanted my friend to try a white freezie,” Hannie whined. “Do you have any chocolate?”

  “Over there.” The woman pointed to a shelf of brightly packaged food that smelled too sweet. “Is that all?”

  “Uh, yes. Except for the chocolate.”

  The woman ripped a paper off the pad and then called out, “Order.” She handed the paper to a greasy-looking man who appeared at a window to a back room.

  Bog heard the man slap the raw meat onto the heat. He smelled it cooking. His stomach grumbled. He squirmed in his clothes.

  “Let’s get some chocolate.” Hannie tugged at his shirtsleeve.

  Bog followed Hannie away from the counter. He didn’t think the woman suspected he was a troll, although he was glad the clothes hid his tail and fur.

  Near the shelf of chocolate, Bog was distracted by a glowing box mounted on the wall. It was just like the one in Hannie’s house. He squinted into the flashing light. Was that a tiny human? Inside the box? He looked real enough, but he had no smell.

  “That man is so small.” Bog nudged Hannie. “How did he get in the box?” Maybe it was magic.

  Hannie glanced up. “He’s not in the box. It’s just a picture on tv. Lots of humans watch tv. I used to like it, before I remembered that I’m a troll.” She turned back to the rows of food on the shelf. “Do you like chocolate?”

  The scent of the cooking meat made his mouth water. “I don’t know.” He watched as a new man appeared in the box.

  “…we interrupt this program with another emergency news bulletin,” the man said.

  “Well, I like chocolate and I think you should try it. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like chocolate so you have to like it,” Hannie chattered.

  “Police are continuing to track the fierce troll that attacked James Vincent and kidnapped his seven-year-old daughter, Hannie Vincent, in Strongarm three nights ago. They’re rumoured to be heading for the Sleeping Giant,” said the man in the box.

  Bog froze. The man was talking about them. He was the fierce troll.

  The man in the box continued. “Residents in the area have been warned to stay inside at night, with doors and windows locked. Any sightings should be reported to your local police station.”

  Bog glanced uneasily around the restaurant. The woman was busy with a machine on the counter, and t
he man eating alone was still ignoring them.

  “The creature matches the description of a troll who recently attacked an illegal lumber camp near Strongarm, which police have since closed down.” The scene in the box changed to show the barren hills where Bog once stood with Small.

  Bog wasn’t sure what illegal and police meant, but closed down—wait until Small heard.

  The man appeared in the box again. “Here, again, is a sketch of the troll,” he gestured at a black-and-white drawing of a troll with nicely pointed teeth and a wicked grin, “who is described as small but extremely cunning.”

  Bog stretched a little taller. The troll in the sketch had a handsomely long nose.

  “Earlier today, police called in Martinique Bottom—an expert Troll Hunter who recently settled in Thunder City—to trap this troll and rescue the girl.”

  Bog gasped. Martinique Bottom! His mother. No. It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t…hunt trolls?

  The glowing box displayed a human female. Bog stepped back. His legs trembled. His mother was surprisingly pretty, with a longish nose, three welts along one cheek, and stringy grey hair down to her shoulders.

  “Tune in at eleven for an exclusive interview with Troll Hunter Martinique Bottom, including a report of her time spent hunting the deadly western mountain troll—”

  “Bog, I said, do you like caramel?” Hannie thumped the side of his leg.

  “Your order’s ready,” said the woman behind the counter. “That’ll be seventy-nine dollars and sixty cents. You want the chocolate, too?”

  The smell of hamburgers sickened Bog. He gaped at the woman, unable to speak.

  12

  Hunted

  Bog had three hamburgers left in his paper bag. The size of the throbbing hollow in his gut. His mother was the Troll Hunter, chasing him down. How could he eat?

  The moon rippled carelessly among the lily pads dotting the pond. Bog and Small hurried over deadwood and around patches of reeds, putting some distance between them and the restaurant. Hannie was perched on Small’s shoulders, clinging to his fur as she tried to sip from a plastic cup through a tube she called a straw.