Trollhunters

by Guillermo Del Toro

  That evening we began to win. The fragments of my life’s failures—video games left unconquered, hobbies abandoned, sports left to guys much bigger—all perfectly interlocked to supply me with everything I needed as a trollhunter. My whole miserable life, rather than being a waste, felt like it had been training for this.

  None of my fellow warriors needed to comment upon the change in me. We all felt it, none more so than the Gumm-Gumms, whose softies we pierced and whose gallbladders we harvested for burning. Our first conquest that evening was with a quartet of Wormbeards: hulking, bulbous creatures whose objectives were to whisper demoralizing insults to children while they slept so that the children would be compelled to run away from home, sad little sojourns that always ended while passing beneath a bridge.

  Wormbeards were so fat around the middle they could roll themselves at you like runaway boulders. They achieved impressive speeds that way, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget dashing down Jefferson Street with Jack, Blinky, and ARRRGH!!! at my heels, chasing a rolling gray blob as it bulldozed mailboxes and road signs and a single fire hydrant. I burst through the jetting water and threw Claireblade like a javelin. It sunk into the Wormbeard’s spine and he unballed, denting two cars with his outstretched paws. The next morning the damage would be blamed on a hit-and-run driver. Only we hunters knew the truth.

  We tried to intimidate the Wormbeards into revealing Gunmar’s location. They used their dying breaths to laugh at us. Using ARRRGH!!!’s nose and Jack’s astrolabe, we raced from bridge to bridge trying to divine the secret opening to the Gumm-Gumm lair. Every door we took led us through sewer pipes and long-forgotten caverns, but sooner or later we’d find ourselves back in a bland Saint B. suburb under assault from another troll lowlife.

  Tuesday morning came fast enough to make me want to vomit. I plodded through hallways decked out in red-and-white crepe paper and in gym class flat-out refused to climb the rope because of my sore muscles. Tub didn’t say a word in my defense while Coach Lawrence wrote me a detention slip. I carried that worthless slip of paper all the way to play rehearsal, where I was unintelligible with exhaustion. Mrs. Leach had no choice but to call in Steve, and I was sure Claire preferred him anyway. With a mixture of relief and remorse I sunk into an auditorium chair, sedated by the knowledge that my skills were the kind that had to stay hidden. Just a few hours more and I’d prove it.

  The Yarbloods were the smallest trolls in the known universe. Complained about in everything from Sumerian pictographs to Egyptian hieroglyphs, these legendary nuisances were no larger than mosquitos and fed upon children who played outside too late. The Yarbloods attached themselves to hair like lice and burrowed into a child’s skull to cause illness. We followed Jack’s astrolabe to their latest hunting ground: a local orphanage.

  Jack slathered a sour-smelling slime upon the upper lip of any kid we found within the grips of a fever. This slime made the kids need to defecate; we hid in the hallway while the first boy stumbled to the bathroom. Afterward we ran in and Jack commanded me to reach down into the toilet. I did it without question until my arm was submerged in toilet water up to my shoulder. I felt it, some kind of clog, and wrestled with it for a minute before yanking out a lump of white, mice-sized trolls clinging to one another with claws and teeth. The Yarbloods had grown quite a bit before they’d been pooped out.

  Unpleasant to catch for sure, but pretty easy to kill.

  Sergeant Gulager crawled by in his cruiser as we were leaving. By the dashboard light I could make out his drawn face as he drained the latest in what was probably a long line of cups of coffee. After seeing ARRRGH!!! with his own eyes in the junkyard, no doubt he was questioning his sanity, and yet he had a community to protect. So he was up every night, just like me, doing what he thought was right. I thought about him as we trollhunters spent the next few hours burning gallbladders behind a vacant warehouse.

  Wednesday came as it always did, though I’d have been hard-pressed to tell you the day of the week if you’d asked. The only way I was keeping track of time was by the rising number of missing students in each class. Though I ignored Pinkton’s math, I made calculations of my own, adding up the vacant desks. It was no different at play rehearsal. Where was our Mercutio? Our Friar John?

  Then, in a crash, it was night. Meet the Zunnn—their dingy drawstring bags told you all you needed to know. They were out to nab kids for Gunmar, plain and simple. The Zunnn fought as a team, rushing at us with arms locked like rugby players and wearing matching jumpsuits dyed with red and green stripes and helmets constructed from the skulls of larger trolls. It was rather intimidating, truth be told, but their bash-and-smash technique was no equal to four well-wielded swords, a few dozen whipping tendrils, and a member of the ARRRGH!!! family fortified by a three-course meal of cats. Even as they were losing, the Zunnn belted out their minor-key fight song. To counter I began shouting bits of Shakespeare coming to me from out of nowhere.

  “Take the measure of your unmade grave, fiend!”

  Off went a pouch of softies.

  “Alack, there lies more peril in mine eye than twenty of thine swords!”

  Off went a pair of hands.

  “O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright!”

  Off went a head, still wearing its helmet.

  Never had a trollhunter slayed with such style. Even my companions were stunned. Soon the squad of Zunnn was no more and we spent the rest of the night on another fruitless search for the Gumm-Gumms. More than once we had to hide to avoid the zealous eyes of Sergeant Gulager. He was everywhere, all of the time, and I was duly impressed. He wanted to help, that was obvious. But even heroes had their limits. This fight was not for him.

  When we got home, I didn’t think much of the light and sound coming from the TV. I packed Jack’s lunch, as I did each morning before grabbing a couple of hours of sleep, but when I found him he was glued to the television. At first I couldn’t make sense of the wobbly, low-resolution footage, but then I recognized trolls, and not just any trolls.

  The footage stabilized and I saw Blinky and ARRRGH!!!, standing in what looked like a kitchen, their faces smeared with peanut butter. The next thing I heard was human voices. My voice. Tub’s voice. I went lightheaded and gripped for something to keep me standing. Nothing was there and I staggered, far enough to see the cables leading from the TV to a teddy bear—the nanny cam that I had forgotten about.

  Dad sat on the sofa, watching it in a stupor that suggested he’d been watching for hours.

  Jack didn’t need to say a word: he’d forgotten to apply the schmoof. The packed lunch fell from my hand with a paper-bag crinkle. The noise broke through Dad’s trance, and with aching slowness he reached for the teddy bear. The grainy footage blinked off and was replaced by early-show video of a sunken-eyed Sergeant Gulager refusing to confirm that more than four kids had disappeared.

  “Individuals cannot be considered missing until they have been gone for twenty-four hours,” he said.

  “In light of these disappearances,” asked the reporter, “should the Festival of the Fallen Leaves be canceled for the first time in San Bernardino history?”

  “Of course not,” Gulager said without emotion. “There is no reason for panic.”

  Dad modulated his breathing before turning our way.

  “We must band together as a community,” Gulager said from the TV.

  Dad stood. The sofa springs creaked. He was much taller than Jack.

  “We must show unity in the face of strife,” Gulager insisted.

  Dad took a single step. His eyes swam with tears of confusion.

  Beside me, Jack was nailed to the floor.

  “Jack?” Dad whispered. “Is it really you?”

  “Jimbo,” Jack said.

  There was a pause, filled with the babble of a commercial break.

  “I’m sorry,” both brothers said together.

  Dad reached out to Jack, but his hand floated upward of its own accord. His eyes followed
his hand, and his neck began to roll backward. Then, with the first lancets of morning light poking through the chinks of the steel shutters and jabbing the counter on which was propped a framed milk carton photo of the brother lost forty-five years earlier, my dad, Jim Sturges Sr., originator of the Band-Aid method of glasses repair and uncredited inventor of the Excalibur Calculator Pocket, fainted.

  Eighty-eight percent. Pinkton had drilled the number into me for weeks. The math test was the next day, and that was the grade I needed. But all I could do was apply the merciless percentage to other events in my life:

  Eighty-eight percent chance that I would not be playing Romeo.

  Eighty-eight percent chance that Tub would never speak to me again.

  Eighty-eight percent chance that Gunmar the Black would return.

  Eighty-eight percent chance that I would die upon the field of troll battle.

  Eighty-eight percent chance that Dad had lost what was left of his mind.

  I’d left Dad and Jack in the living room. Dad’s unconscious body had been transported to the sofa before I threw myself in the shower for a quick rinse. By the time I emerged with a fresh set of clothes, Dad was awake but hunched on the edge of the sofa, facing away from Jack and whispering to himself that he was being tricked, someone was trying to trick him. Jack, looking young and innocent in my baggy hand-me-downs, gave me a distraught look. Would Dad call Sergeant Gulager? Principal Cole? Would he find some way to prevent me from trollhunting just a single day’s time before the Killaheed’s completion?

  Jack wanted me to blow off school and help him with this brother situation—it was well outside of his comfort zone of hunting and killing. But I found the reunion of long-lost siblings too intense, too personal. At least at school I could lose myself in the Steve-Smacking clamor of kids with nothing on their minds beyond the game the next night. I grabbed my backpack and didn’t look back until I’d caught the bus.

  With Pinkton’s 88 percent ringing in my ears, I made a pit stop at my locker for my math book. I found myself longing to trash-compact myself, just so I could take advantage of the privacy for a nap. It was while I weighed the pros and cons of this plan that I heard a cruel laughter down the hall. It wasn’t enough to convince me to move. Even the smacking of a basketball failed to incite my interest. What did it were the snatches of words in that cool, finely articulated voice.

  “Ten dollars is the new price,” I heard. “Inflation.”

  Just down the hall, Tub’s head was wrenched beneath the arm of Steve Jorgensen-Warner. It was a reprise of the scene in the Trophy Cave, but with the fun added bonus of a fare increase that Tub would never be able to satisfy with his grandma’s pitiful allowance. I was heading toward them before I knew what I was doing, pushing aside rubberneckers. I wasn’t the same guy that I had been a week before, not even close.

  With both hands I shoved Steve in the chest. Until that moment I’d never realized the extent of his muscle density: he didn’t budge an inch. But the action garnered the desired effect. He pitched Tub to the side to regard this newer, more interesting victim. A cymbal clash announced Tub’s head-on collision with a locker, but I kept my eyes trained on the enemy and his bouncing ball.

  SMACK, SMACK!

  “Jim, thanks for reminding me,” Steve said. “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d be willing to participate in our daily toll. It’s a great program with lots of keen benefits.”

  “Lay off Tub.”

  SMACK, SMACK!

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Why don’t we start right away?”

  “Lay off everyone. Everyone’s sick of your crap.”

  SMACK, SMACK!

  “Are they? I hadn’t noticed. Seemed to me it was the opposite.”

  “They’re just scared of you. I’m not.”

  SMACK, SMACK!

  “Scared? Why should anyone be scared? I’m the guy who’s going to score the winning touchdown tomorrow. I’m the guy who’s going to do a quick costume change and perform some play in the middle of the field. All night it’s going to be me up there on the jumbotron. I don’t do it for personal glory, Jim. I do it for the school! People appreciate that. They’re only too happy to give a few bucks here and there for the cause.”

  SMACK, SMACK!

  “That’s my role,” I growled.

  “You did look cute in your skirt and tights, I’ll give you that. Tough break. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to give your Juliet a big, wet kiss from the both of us.”

  “Why are you so interested in Claire all of a sudden?”

  “Why?” Steve repeated. “Why not?”

  He laughed. In comparison, I realized that my voice had become wheedling. The dull weight that had heavied my fists seconds before was gone. Weakness snowballed. Onlookers were chuckling and it hurt like it used to. I hung my head and turned to find my books where I’d tossed them aside. My only successes came in the dark of night; I should have known better than to try to take on Steve in the light of day.

  “You’re a dobber, Mr. Jorgensen-Warner.”

  All heads, including mine, turned toward an accented voice that sounded considerably less adorable when it was crackling with fury. Claire had dodged through the crowd and stood there in her familiar grays and greens, her beret tipped at a wartime angle. The only things pink about her this time were her cheeks, inflamed with rage.

  Steve’s laugh was uncertain.

  “I’m a what?”

  Claire came within striking range.

  “I’d soon as kiss a chanty wrassler like you as I’d shag a goat in a rot outhouse.”

  “Shag a…?”

  “You try and give me a nookie badge and you’ll find yourself with a keeker, you daft muppet. Jim is twice your Romeo. Say otherwise and I’ll play fisty cuffs with your hooter and kick you in your baw bag.”

  “You’ll play what…? With my hooter…?”

  “Look at you, you’re right gliffed, ya bas. What, you think I’m a quine? More like a radge! I’ll dance the slosh on your napper and do a number on both your wallies and your walloper. Then you’ll be crying to your ma, you will.”

  “Wallies? Walloper?”

  Pent-up slang from her homeland, long boxed up, came pouring out in a stream as incredible as it was indecipherable. You could intuit some meaning—kicking him in assorted sensitive areas seemed to be the basic gist—but mostly it was violent emotion delivered by a girl whose easygoing attitude had always been her most notable trait.

  She was right up in Steve’s face when she lashed out with a foot and kicked the basketball all the way down the hall. His eyes went wide and his right hand formed into a fist. We all saw it. Claire pointed at it—her bravado knew no bounds!—and laughed as if it were a child’s pinwheel.

  “Aw, yer maw cares, you shite-tongued zoomer! Best remember my way with the sword before you go waving your puny knuckle pouch.”

  Chiding laughter, so fickle in high school hallways, now tottered in Steve’s direction. He’d never been the target of ridicule and was baffled. He looked at each chuckling face as if it were a personal betrayal. His handsomeness separated into ugly pieces of panic: beady eyes narrowed to stony glints, sharp teeth bared in a defensive sneer, and his thick body compacted as if bracing for a tackle. Then he made the wisest choice he could. He sucked down his anger and turned tail. He might rule again, but that day was lost. He took off after his basketball and looked pretty childish while doing it.

  The rubberneckers dispersed, repeating snippets of Claire’s tirade guaranteed to be incorporated into local vernacular. I let out a giant held breath and turned to help up Tub. There was a dent in the closest locker, but he was gone. I was disappointed, though I couldn’t blame a guy for wanting to flee a monster. I was familiar with the instinct.

  Claire, though, was there, and when the bell rang she wasn’t startled. She gave me a level consideration.

  “Mr. Sturges,” she said.

  “Ms. Fontaine?” I tried.

  She nodded sagel
y as if judging my response adequate.

  “You seem a bit different, Mr. Sturges.”

  “So do you,” I said.

  “Oh, that?” She rolled her eyes. “You should hear me when I bump my knee.”

  “I’ll never bump your knee. That’s a promise.”

  “I heard Ms. Pinkton today. About your troubles. About the eighty—”

  “Eighty-eight percent,” I finished. “Yeah.”

  “I’m not half-bad at numbers, Mr. Sturges.”

  “I know. It’s very impressive.”

  She rolled her eyes again.

  “I mean, I can help you, you scaffy skenker.”

  “No, please.” I held up a hand. “None of those words. I can’t take it.”

  Her smile was glorious and her laugh as loud as ever.

  “Let’s meet tonight. Eighty-eight is nothing. I can get you to ninety.”

  “You…you want me to come over?”

  Her smile faltered.

  “I’m sorry. You misunderstood. You can’t come over.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Uh. Well. Great. Thanks?”

  “Relax, Mr. Sturges. It’s not you. My house just isn’t a good place to visit. In general. But I could come over to your place. I’ve told Mum that tonight is the final rehearsal, and I know she can convince Da that it’s going to be a late one. You and I can walk together after the final run-through, set up at your house, and get right to the numbers. I know a few tricks that’ll kablooey your brain.”

  “I’m—” The concept of turning down any offer from Claire Fontaine was a difficult one. But the truth was the truth: I needed sleep, even if it was just two or three hours, because when the sun went down, the final hunt was on. We had only one night to find the Gumm-Gumms before the Killaheed reached its completion. I sighed and continued. “I’m not coming to rehearsal.”