Troll Bridge (14 page)

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.

Her voice starting to roughen, Moira segued into the English version of Humperdink's “Hansel and Gretel” that she'd recently played in a children's concert with the orchestra.

Insane with fury, Aenmarr bellowed and stumbled back into his house. He emerged again brandishing a very large knife, the size of a spear. Moira squeaked as he heaved it at the ring of fire. Luckily it stuck in one of the logs and did not dislodge it.

“Sing louder!” Jakob hissed, then called out again, “Aenmarr of Trollholm, do not anger me, do not call down Doom again.”

“Doom, Doom, Doom,” sang Moira, remembering half the words of the verses and making up the rest.

“Papa…” cried Buri as his mother pulled him into the safety of her house.

Aenmarr threw several more knives, a pot, and three bowls at the ring of fire. One of the bowls managed to sail over the logs and into the center. Still singing, Moira picked it up and wore it as an oversized hat and sang the first verse and chorus of “In My Easter Bonnet.”

“Where do you get these songs?” Jakob asked her, awe and amusement warring on his face. Aenmarr was still fuming and strode back into the house for a few more pots giving Jakob more time to add on to the burning wood.

She sang back, “Just trying to keep the music going.” Which was no answer. But then she hadn't a clue. She just sang whatever popped into her head, grateful for each and every song.

At last, as Aenmarr's three wives gathered behind him, their voices squabbling, urging him to do something, Jakob called out, “I will not ask again, Aenmarr of Trollholm. I will gather the Dairy Princesses once the sun rises again. They will greet their sister here, the Dairy Queen.”

Moira snorted.

“Sing!”
he hissed at her.

She winked, then sang:

Doom, Doom, Doom

I'm back.

My fiery room

Goes crackle and crack.

The Dairy Queen,

Who wears the crown,

Can be real mean

And wear you down,

So make a deal

Another pact

Or you will feel

Your sons hijacked.

Doom, Doom, Doom,

Doom, Doom, Doom.

“Impressive,” Jakob conceded. “You can write songs for the Griffsons any time you wish.”

“Oh. Are you and your brothers in a band?”

Speechless, Jakob stared at her as if she were crazy.

Moira shrugged and launched with gusto into the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Her voice was getting hoarse but at least she could still hit the notes. And of course she was right on pitch.

Aenmarr grimaced and held out his hands, either in thrall or in pain, it was hard to tell.

“Tell me what Compact you be wishing, human Doom,” cried Aenmarr in submission.

“You turn over the princesses to me and I will teach you to play the guitar,” Jakob said.

Aenmarr's hands raked his green-black hair. He roared, “What be a … guitar?”

“The fiddle that hangs on the wall of Oddi's house,” Jakob said. “Bring it here and I shall show you what I know and what I can teach.”

Aenmarr clumped back to the near house. “Buri, be going to Botvi's house and bringing me the fiddle that hangs on the wall. Mind, if you be breaking it, I be breaking your head and boiling its contents into soup.” There was another
thwack
ing sound, a cry from the boy, and the sound of pounding feet fading away.

“Keep singing,” Jakob urged Moira.

She needed no urging, starting immediately on “You Are My Sunshine,” going from there to three old British songs: “Western Wind,” “Hares on the Mountain,” and “The Great Selchie of Sule Skerry.” She thought she'd have to start on nursery rhymes next, then go back to the beginning if she could only remember what the beginning had consisted of. But she worried repeats might annoy Aenmarr instead of enchanting him. For once she didn't need to tell herself to shut up.

By the time she had come to the last verse of the selchie song—luckily Scottish ballads have more verses than sense—the troll boy, Buri, was back with the guitar and handed it to his father.

That was when Moira's heart sank. Aenmarr couldn't come close enough to the wall of flames to lift the guitar over. And Jakob didn't dare go out of the circle to get it.

Stalemate,
she thought.
And just when things seemed to be going
so
well
.

She started to cry, which made singing difficult. And to make matters worse, the bottom part of the circle behind them burned through and everything above it crashed to the ground.

19

Jakob

Jakob ducked as sparks from the collapsing circle showered him. Grabbing Moira, he dragged her toward the center of the ring. She was still singing. Something about a Susie Clellan being burned in Dundee.

Very topical.
He hoped Susie made it. Even more, he hoped they did.