Horns & Wrinkles (6 page)

"We may not be rich," Mom interrupted, "but we can certainly afford more than a dollar."

"No need to," the sheriff assured her. "A dollar's a fortune to a troll, though it's got be silver, not paper. That old coin shop downtown keeps some silver ones on hand for emergencies like this."

"All right." Dad nodded. "Is there anything else we have to know?"

"Well, there is one other thing." The sheriff surveyed us all. "Common sense, really, but I mention it in case some of you haven't heard. If you do meet up with some river trolls, whatever you do, don't mention their fathers."

Nods all around to that. Everyone knew that bringing up a troll's father was about the worst possible thing you could do.

"Has anyone ever turned a spell back?" Mom asked, real quiet-like.

"I won't lie to you," the sheriff told her. "Reversals are a rare thing. But I've heard on good authority that it has been done a time or two. Now I suggest we seal off this house and get rolling while the trail's still warm."

We couldn't shut the back door with nails, cinder blocks, or duct tape. The nails popped, the blocks tumbled, the tape split—and the door flew open. In the end we hung one of Uncle Norm's Beware of Dog signs on the door handle to keep gawkers away.

"Have to do," the sheriff said. "I want to get you over to the wagon wheel bridge before midnight."

The "you" the sheriff was referring to was me. I was to show him right where everything happened. On the way there, the sheriff swung by the coin shop he had mentioned, which had a light on despite the hour. The shop had a green door with frosty glass on the upper half and painted gold letters that read:

COINS, GEMS, RUNESTONES,
RIDDLES & OTHER IMPONDERABLES
WING REPAIR ON OCCASION

The sheriff was in and out in barely a minute, handing over three silver dollars to my dad, who'd come along for the ride.

"Hang on to these," the sheriff ordered. "There's one for each troll, but don't go handing them over until they've done what you're paying them for."

Dad nodded that he understood. From there, it was on to the wagon wheel bridge.

According to the dash clock, we got to the bridge by eleven. There weren't any old ladies in rowboats to be seen, though we did spot a Day-Glo orange sneaker go floating by. I snagged it with a branch. Without bothering to ask what I was up to, the sheriff handed me a pocket-size notebook along with a pen, then shined his flashlight over my shoulder so that I could see what I was writing. I printed out a note that politely asked for help in finding Duke. Tearing out the sheet, I stuffed it into the shoe and tossed it back into the river. Nothing happened, though. The old lady never showed up.

We did hear some strange echoes—popping bubbles, squishy footsteps—from under the bridge. A Duke-ish kind of snicker found us, but when I said his name, no answer.

"Louder," the sheriff whispered.

"Duke," I sang out, "your mom and dad have been turned to stone. Grandpa B too."

A splash.

"And that doctor who tried to help you?" I called out. "He got it too."

Ripples.

"And one of my deputies," the sheriff added. "Which brings in the law."

A glugging, laughing sound, which drew the sheriff's flashlight beam, but we didn't see a thing. He turned the light off, waited a few seconds, and snapped it back on, hoping to surprise someone, but he didn't. We kept it up for close to a half hour without any luck.

"Tomorrow's going to be a long one," the sheriff said as he drove us home. "Better get some rest."

Mom said the same thing as she tucked me into bed. Of course, everyone was too wound up to fall asleep right away, and I could hear my sisters tossing and turning past midnight. Dad had Saturday night off from the bakery, but he didn't plan on getting any rest at all before beginning the search. He changed out of his PJs, grabbed a flashlight, and dashed back to the river just as a storm started edging toward town. Distant thunder rattled the windows, and you could smell rain coming, lots of it.

A sleepless hour passed before I heard the sound at my window. At first I thought the
scritch-scritch-scritch
was the wind making a branch scratch the glass, or at least that's what I was hoping. But the pitiful
me-eow
that followed wouldn't have fooled a toy cat. When I pulled up my window shade, there he was, sitting in the catalpa tree right next the house—Duke.

My cousin's horn was two or three times bigger than before, and more rhinocerosy than ever. The rest of him looked the same, though, if you skipped over a black eye and mud-caked clothes.

"Where have you been?" I whispered through the screen.

"Hanging around with some cool guys."

"They got names?"

"Yup. One apiece."

"So what do you want?" I took a deep breath. Duke can drive you crazy when he thinks he knows something you don't.

"A favor," Duke said. "This whole business is your fault, you know."

"In your mind." I laughed. "Besides, what could you possibly need help with?"

"Mining."

"That's not exactly my specialty," I pointed out, but he had me hooked.

He knew it too. The only mining around here isn't done by people, and it isn't open to the public. Sometimes late at night you can sort of hear, maybe feel, a thud from deep in the earth. Rock trolls, everyone says. Up to their tricks, although nobody knows what those tricks might be. Here and there you might meet someone who claimed to have caught a glimpse of a river troll. But rock trolls? Nobody. What exactly Duke was up to, I had no idea, but I could see teeth beneath his horn, which probably meant he was grinning.

"You'll get on-the-job training," he pledged.

"That one of your famous promises?"

"You bet."

All right, so maybe I should have been calling out to Mom instead of trading smart talk, but the thing is, even though Duke looks pillowy, he can be fast as a weasel when he needs to be. If I'd sounded the alarm, he'd have dropped off the branch and vanished in a snap. So I played along, hoping to buy some time and maybe find a way to help Grandpa B, Aunt Phyllis, Uncle Norm, and the others—including Duke. If you asked why it mattered if Duke ever came home at all, I guess I'd have to say because every kid deserves a home—even him.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Help us buy some mining supplies." I was about to tell him I was broke, but he boasted, "We've got the money."

"So why do you need me?"

"None of us can come into town. At least not when any stores are open."

"I can see why you can't," I stated. "What about your friends?"

"They don't go into towns."

I couldn't squeeze anything more out of him, and the drop or two I'd gotten sounded like more lie than truth. But it was enough. One of my biggest faults is that I can't resist an adventure, and Duke knew it. After throwing on some clothes, I popped the screen on my window and crawled into the catalpa tree.

We quickstepped through town, cutting across backyards and down alleys. If there was a streetlight, we shied away from it. We were barked at plenty but for once Duke held off on barking back. The late hour and growing storm kept everybody inside, and we reached the river without setting off any alarms.

We stopped at a clump of river birch, where a dugout canoe was tied up. The boat looked more log than ship, with a roughly chopped-out inside and a couple of stick paddles laid across it.

"It's perfectly safe," Duke said, his tone daring me to squawk.

"You first," I countered.

The storm was breathing down our necks by then, and to my surprise Duke did an un-Duke-like thing. He climbed aboard without arguing or calling me a wimp or threatening to dunk me. Wherever we were headed, he wanted to get there before the storm broke.

He was lying about the boat, of course. A block of ice wouldn't have been any tippier, or as fast. It skimmed across the water like a flat stone sent skipping. Cracked clamshells covered its floor, and the stink of dead fish rose from beneath the shells. A sticky goo had been smeared on the seats.

We pushed off, pointing toward the sloughs north of town, on the Minnesota side of the river. Thunder rumbled up and down the valley now, sounding like a stampede headed our way. I still couldn't see any lightning bolts, though at times they lit up sections of the sky a pink that was pretty as taffy but worrisome too. Once the storm hit we'd have to get off the water or take a chance on being barbecued.

Somehow the night found a way to get darker. Early on I saw a flashlight working along the riverbank and almost called out, "Dad," but Duke cut away from it before I had a chance. After that, the zigzags he took veered far from roads and cars and houses and anything with lights. We snaked through a maze of waterways where the trees hung low and lilies choked the path.

Finally, a bonfire appeared, all green and sparky, and it occurred to me that maybe Duke actually knew where he was headed.

There was singing. Squeaky brakes had it all over that singing. Shapes were dancing, or maybe stumbling.

We were almost to the bonfire when the first thunderbolt nailed the valley. My ears rang like gongs, and for a second everything looked bright as two high noons smushed together. During that blinding flash, the dancers' shadows dwarfed everything. Even the fire snapped and jumped as if trying to scramble away from them. It couldn't, though. And the shadows weren't anywhere near as dreadful as the dancers themselves.

"Trolls?" I gasped.

Even though I'd been expecting something of the sort, the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention anyway.

"River trolls," Duke corrected, terribly proud of himself.

Whatever they were, they looked awfully glad to see us.

We squeezed introductions in before the storm hit. They were called Stump, Biz, and Jim Dandy. Duke beamed as if they were the grandest names in the world.