Troll Bridge (17 page)

He needn't have worried about the last bit; a quick glance into the larder showed the troll women completely engrossed in their task of molding raw meat into the shape of a large fox.

And besides, he never reached the door.

Something heavy hit him in the back and tumbled him over. He dropped the girl with a
thud,
and rolled, trying to protect his guitar from smashing to bits. His neck and back flared in agony as he pushed himself upright to see what had knocked him over.

It was Erik. He was obviously hurt, with blood and dirt caking his face. The bruise under his eye was now deep purple with streaks of yellow. But he was alive!

“Erik!” Jakob cried. “How did you get away?”

Erik cranked open his eyes and looked at Jakob blearily. “I didn't,” he croaked, before slumping to the floor.

Jakob looked up. And up. And up. Aenmarr filled the doorway, a short tree trunk in one hand, the stub of an arrow still sticking out of his right shoulder.

“Why be all my wives in the larder,” Aenmarr rumbled, “when all the meat be in the main hall?” Then roaring with laughter, he stepped inside the house, slamming the great door shut behind him.

5 · Doom, Gloom, and After

The goose flies past the setting sun,

Plums roasting in her breast,

Sleeping Beauty lays her head down,

A hundred years to rest.

And fee-fi-fo the giant fums,

And to my dark Prince Charming comes

A-ride, ride, riding.

Into my night of darkness

My own Prince Charming comes.

The witch is popped into the oven,

Rising into cake,

The swan queen glides her downy form,

To the enchanted lake.

And rum-pum-pum the drummer drums,

As into darkness my prince comes

A-ride, ride, riding.

Into my night of darkness

My own Prince Charming comes.

It's half past twelve and once again

The shoe of glass is gone,

And magic is as magic was,

And vanished with the dawn.

For Pooh has hummed his final hum,

The giant finished off his fums,

They've drawn their final breath,

For into darkness my prince comes

A-ride, ride, riding.

For into darkness my prince comes,

On his bony horse called Death.

 

—Words and music by Jakob and Erik Griffson, featuring Moira Darr on lead vocals, from
Troll Bridge

 

 

 

Radio WMSP: 10:00
A.M.

“So, Jim, here it is Friday morning, or as our ancestors used to say, ‘Frigga's Day.'”

“Your ancestors, Katie. My ancestors are English. We say ‘TGIF.'”

“[Laughs.] But to be real serious now, Jim, do you have any news for us on the Vanderby story about the missing Dairy Princesses. And The Griffson Brothers?”

“Why yes, Katie, there's another strange occurrence to report. A huge fire
—
or at least a lot of smoke
—
spiraled up above the forest on the other side of the little stone bridge where the teenagers were known to have disappeared. The local fire department
—
all volunteers, dontcha know
—
tramped through those woods looking for the source of the fire, hoping it might be from a campfire started by the kids. But they found nothing. Not a fire, not an ember, nothing.”

“Curiouser and curiouser, Jim, as Harry Potter would say.”

“I think that's
Alice in Wonderland,
Katie.”

“You may be right, Jim. I don't read fantasy books. Just give me the facts, ma'am. That's
Dragnet,
by the way. What did the fire chief have to say?”

“He said…”

“It's a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, Jim.”

“That sounds like a quote, too.”

“It's Churchill, Katie. The chief is a history professor in Duluth. But I have more.”

“More from the chief?”

“No, Katie, from the oldest resident of Vanderby, the official gold cane holder.”

“And who is that, Jim?”

“His name is Olaf Gunnerson and he spoke to me this morning, right before going to his hundred-and-fifth birthday party in the nursing home.”

“I am Olaf Gunnerson and I am a hundred and five today. And I want to say that those missing kids are probably in Trollholm. With the trolls. My mother used to say that whenever anyone disappeared around here. You know, run off or something.”

“So between the mayor's terrorists and Mr. Gunnerson's trolls we have…”

“No real news, Katie.”

“Thanks, Jim, and now we'll get Bob to give us the sports.”

“Hi, Katie, Bob here, we could sure use some tree-tall trolls to help the Timberwolves, who just dropped their fifth straight game in a row.”

22

Jacob

Strung up once more, Jakob listened to Moira squabbling with his brothers as they all swung head-down in the larder.

“Ow.”

“Quit banging into me.”

“I'm not doing it on purpose.”

“My head hurts.”

“Shut up!”

“Why? Are they going to eat us for being too loud?”

“They're going to eat us anyway.”

Jakob couldn't even tell who was talking anymore. Their voices all sounded the same, a dull background buzz to accompany the final few hours of his short life.

What a waste,
he thought.
Going through all that just to end back here, hung from hooks like four slabs of ham.

They'd tried to fight Aenmarr. Jakob had thought Moira particularly brave, flailing and biting and scratching at the big troll's leathery green skin. But he'd just laughed and scooped them up like recalcitrant children. Within seconds they'd been trussed securely and hung upside down over the blood-stained table that had so recently held a meat statue of a giant fox.

The fox!

Jakob found his voice again. “Hey.” The others went on arguing. “Hey!”

Moira was the first to stop. “What is it, Jakob?”

Jakob wriggled around until he could see her. Her face was an alarming red. “We have to contact the fox.”

“Foss? Think he can get us out of here?” Moira's shoulders strained as she tried to free her hands. Jakob knew the rope wouldn't budge. He'd tried already. Aenmarr tied a mean knot.

“I don't know what Foss can do,” he answered. “Or even what he would do. But he's our only hope now.”

Moira nodded, an odd gesture upside down. Then she winced. “My head hurts.”

“Never mind that,” Erik said with a groan. “Let's all concentrate. Send the little red guy a message.”

“What do you mean?” Galen asked.

“Foss,” Erik said. “Call him.”

“Sorry, left my cell phone in the car.”

Suddenly Jakob realized that Galen really didn't know what they meant. He'd never met Foss. He might not even be musician enough to hear the fox's words in his mind. They'd have to work without him.

“All right.” Jakob watched as Moira and Eric squeezed their eyes shut, then did the same. He concentrated hard, picturing his thoughts leaping out of his body and shooting through the air to the fox's cave, or wherever he was at the moment. Pictured the fox turning and sniffing the air, pricking up his ears.

“What
are
you guys doing?” Galen asked. “Shouldn't we be trying to get loose? I'll try Mama Trigvi…”

But they ignored him.

Foss,
Jakob thought at him.
Oh great, Fossegrim. We who have assisted you in the return of your fiddle, we who have been soldiers in your fight against Aenmarr, we need your help now. Without assistance, all is lost. I know you are a clever creature. Think of something, please. Get us out of here!

Jakob opened his eyes. Saw the others slowly opening theirs. Sending one last
Please!
out into the ether, he asked, “Anyone get through?”

“Blank as a troll's brain,” Erik said, shrugging, which was hard to do with the ropes pulled so tight.

“I don't know,” Moira said. “It almost felt as if he were listening, but I can't be sure.” She shook her head. It didn't look quite as odd upside down as nodding had. “I didn't hear anything back from him, though.”

They all glanced at Galen. “I don't have a clue to what you're talking about. I was just praying.”

“What now?” Erik asked.

Jakob didn't answer, because just then the larder door crashed open and Aenmarr strode in.

“I be deciding to kill you first, Little Doom,” he said. “What you be saying to that?”

Jakob's heart leapt into his throat, and he was suddenly sweating. Actually, he couldn't think of anything to say.

Striding to the wall, Aenmarr very deliberately plucked a giant cleaver from the pegs. He tested its edge with his thumb. “Do you be having any last requests?”

“Well, actually I…” Jakob began.

Aenmarr interrupted him, roaring, “Well, too bad!” while whipping the cleaver back for an overhand stroke that Jakob knew would easily split him in two.

Moira screamed. Galen, too.

Jakob squeezed his eyes shut, not daring to watch the final blow come down. He thought he heard Erik breathe, “I'm sorry,” but his heart was pounding too loud for him to hear clearly. Gritting his teeth, he waited for the sharp pain of the cleaver's edge.

It never came.

Jakob opened one eye to see Selvi holding Aenmarr's wrist.

“What,” Aenmarr said to her very slowly. “Be. You. Doing?”

“I … uh…” she stammered. Finally she blurted out: “They be musicians!” She took a deep breath, never letting go of her husband's wrist. “Doom be teaching my son the guitar.” She smiled up at her husband, and Aenmarr's ugly green face softened. “
Our
son.”

“Our son? A musician?” he breathed, pointing at Jakob. “He be saying that?”

Selvi nodded. “He be…”

Jakob assumed she would have kept speaking, but all the air was suddenly forced out of her lungs by Aenmarr's boulder-sized fist hitting her in the midsection. She crumpled to the ground.

“Foolish old woman,” he said. “You be daring to oppose my will? In my own house?” He winked at Jakob. “Women, eh?” Then he hefted his cleaver again. “Now, where be we?”

Jakob didn't even have time to squeeze his eyes shut before Trigvi leapt into the room, throwing herself in front of him.

“No, Aenmarr! We be having a chance for our sons to—” That was as far as she got before she, too, took a shot from Aenmarr and fell over.

The troll boys scampered in next crying, “Daddy, Daddy, no!”

Aenmarr slapped them into silence till they cowered next to their mothers.

Jakob heard low sobs coming from behind him. Moira was crying.

“You … monster,” she gasped.

Aenmarr turned, glared at her. Then he smiled an ear-to-pointed-ear grin that showed off his long, sharp teeth. “Exactly, little princess.”

Trigvi and Selvi stirred on the floor, and Moira called out to them. “How can you let him treat you that way? How can you let him treat your children that way?”

Neither of the wives on the floor answered, but Botvi suddenly filled the doorway.

“Because he be protecting us,” she said quietly.

Moira snorted. “Protecting you from what?”

“From him.” Botvi pointed at Jakob. “Aenmarr be telling me now. Killer of my son!” A single swamp-green tear rolled down her cheek. “Killer of my Oddi.”

Jakob nodded, tears of his own suddenly filling his eyes as he remembered Oddi's death. “I didn't mean to.”

Trigvi and Selvi got shakily to their feet. They turned hurt eyes at him. Hurt and angry.

“How did you be not meaning to?” Botvi accused.

“I … I…” Jakob said.

“Enough!” bellowed Aenmarr, raising the cleaver again.

Jakob yelled back, “I tricked Oddi, yes. So it was my fault he died.” Jakob wished he could point an accusatory finger at Aenmarr, but his hands were tied behind his back. “But it was your husband who killed him.”

“That be nonsense,” said Aenmarr. “I be killing no one since that young prince for the stew the night before last, Botvi.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Erik muttered.

Botvi stared straight ahead. “The last night we be seeing Oddi.”

“Did you notice,” Jakob said, “that the prince you killed looked a lot like me, Aenmarr?”

“You all look alike: sweet meat wrapped in pale flesh,” Aenmarr said.

“Oddi and I traded places. He cast a spell to disguise himself and then leapt up on the hook. That wasn't me you cut into pieces for stew.” Jakob wriggled, trying to fix Aenmarr with a hard stare. He kept spinning away and had to call over his shoulder, “It was your own son you killed. Chopped, stewed, and ate.”

“No…” Aenmarr looked at Jakob then back at Botvi. “No. You be telling lies.”

Botvi peered at Jakob, her green eyes nearly popping out. “He do be looking like that dinner, husband.” She turned to Selvi and Trigvi who were pushing themselves to their feet. “I be thinking Little Doom tells the truth.”

“It be nothing,” Aenmarr said and almost casually slapped Botvi. She flew back into the wall, shaking the cottage timbers as she hit. “All princes be looking the same.” He pointed the cleaver at Jakob. “My son be killed by this pitiful creature. And now, if you hags be done screeching, he be dying by my hand.”