Troll Bridge (13 page)

“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, human 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.”

“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.”