Horns & Wrinkles (17 page)

A tail split his pants.

"That's more like it," Bodacious Deepthink said, happy at last.

She didn't flinch under the added weight but barked to Double-knot, "Get the wagon!"

This time Jim Dandy's father obeyed, although not before saying, "Just remember one thing, son: these crickets are the worst kind of liars. Every last one of them."

With that, he opened the cage door, scooped out the three decrepit crickets, and placed one on the shoulder of each river troll. Jim Dandy got his last.

"W-why don't you come with us," Jim Dandy sputtered.

"Don't think it's not tempting," Double-knot whispered, "but I've made my choices. And who knows? I might do something good here yet." Picking up the wagon handle, he started toward the cave, calling over his shoulder, "You boys better get moving. Bo's been known to change her mind."

About then I heard one last blubbering wail from just inside the cave.

"Take her, not me!"

Duke remained tucked over Bodacious Deepthink's stony shoulder, still pointing a hoof at me.

Duke's cries dwindled until the cave swallowed them completely. For a bit longer I heard the creaking wagon that Double-knot was pulling. After that, the glow from Bodacious Deepthink's lantern swayed back and forth until suddenly winking out. From inside the earth came a pop and crinkle as the cave door began to slide down. Just as morning's sunlight first nicked the treetops, the cave's mouth was gone. Solid rock faced us again.

"We did it," Stump whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

For once only Jim Dandy had nothing to say. He stood there staring at where his father had been. The cricket perched on his shoulder said, "Take your time. I'm sure she won't be back."

"You know what that means," Biz squeaked, trying to shove his way past the others.

"What about Duke?" I called out, still tied to the pole and lying on the ground.

But they weren't in any mood for listening, only running, although my voice did slow Biz enough to bend over and slip his crown-ring off my finger.

"Mine," he squeaked before dashing after the others.

So much for a troll's pledge.

"Where's the fire?" Biz's cricket cried out, which made the river trolls sprint all the faster.

"What about me?" I shouted.

That only spurred them all the more. Moving on all fours with their tails between their legs, they plowed through thickets, clawed over each other to gain the lead, never looked back.

"Hey!" I screamed.

The words echoed around the clearing. There was only one set of ears available to hear them, and that set belonged to me. By then the three river trolls were nothing but snapping branches and squeals farther down the valley.

I tried standing, fell. I tried chewing through the leather straps binding me, gagged. Whatever type of beast the leather was cut from, it burned in my mouth. Every other second I glanced toward the rock wall, praying it stayed closed. My only other option seemed to be crying. I'd just started making a puddle when someone came crashing back into the clearing.

Blundering to my rescue was Stump. The look of terror that twisted his snout said he'd come back against his better judgment. At least the cricket riding his shoulder had the decency to urge him forward by singing out, "You're a hero, a hero, a hero."

"Shut up, you," Stump hissed.

At first I thought he was warning me, but when the cricket wouldn't quit with the hero stuff, Stump grabbed him, stuffed him into a vest pocket of his bicycling togs, and zipped the pocket shut. From another pocket he whipped out a knife made from horn and began cutting my straps.

"Liars," he muttered.

"Who?" I said, so relieved at being rescued that I didn't have enough sense to keep my mouth closed and let him concentrate on freeing me.

"Cave crickets," he said. "Legend has it that one of them promised to lead Bo to the moon, and when it didn't happen, she dropped a curse on them, turned them all into liars. Come on."

By then he'd sliced through the leather strips and was pulling me to my feet. He started back down the valley without seeing if I followed. What else would I be doing?

Once the circulation to my hands and feet returned, I soon caught up with Stump. A few hundred yards later we both met up with Jim Dandy and Biz, who were leaning against trees, trying to catch their wind. As soon as we reached them, they sprinted off again, leaving us behind. Between gasps, I told Stump, "Thanks."

"Your shouting," he said, pausing to suck down a breath, "reminded me of Duckwad."

The pounding of our footsteps slowly woke the valley. Across the way a farm dog yipped, and high above a flock of geese honked. Over and over the crickets lied about being bold and brave and ten feet tall. Since they didn't sing in unison, it sounded as though a dozen of them were traveling with us.

Biz led the way, charging ahead as if chased by hellhounds, a trail of snapped branches and flattened bushes in his wake. We didn't brake until back to the sandbar, where we heard a ukulele being played. That brought everyone to a screeching halt right at the lip of the mineshaft we'd been hurrying toward. Inside the mine the strumming continued.

Circling, the trolls sniffed and muttered and whimpered as the crickets fell silent. I put my nose to work too but whiffed only river muck.

Along with the ukulele came snatches of singing. High and sweet, the voice had the river trolls covering their ears and on the verge of bolting, but before they could take off the music stopped. Everyone played statue. The carpet covering the mineshaft got poked up and out peeked a pair of shiny eyes that made the crickets shift uneasily on the trolls' shoulders.

"About time," a peevish voice said from the mine.

Never had a reprimand been more welcome—at least by me. The voice belonged to the old lady.

"You?" Biz squeaked.

"And look what I found," she quipped, holding up a blue ukulele. Her moment of triumph didn't last long as she noticed someone was missing from our group and crossly said, "Where's the one with the horn?"

That had the trolls shuffling.

"Bo got him," I told her.

"That wasn't our fault," Jim Dandy protested.

"Oh, I'm sure," the old lady scolded as she climbed out of the mine.

"You've got to understand," Jim Dandy pleaded. "We had our three stars until these humans let one go. What choice did that leave us?"

The old lady sized up Jim Dandy as if he were a blister. He fiddled with his neck scarf and squirmed accordingly.

"I'm glad you brought up choices," the old lady said at last, "because you've got two things that need doing, and I'm going to let you choose which goes first. Ears working?"

"Yes, ma'am," the trolls mumbled.

Pointing the ukulele at them, the old lady ditched all her sweetness, replacing it with fire and ice.

"Choice one—you visit some people you recently turned to stone and change them back."

"We were headed that way," Jim Dandy sang out.

The old lady cut him off. "Save it. Choice two—you pay Bo another visit and rescue the kid with the horn."

"What about our fathers?" Biz squeaked-whined.

"They'll keep."

"Tackle Bo," the crickets counseled.

Hearing that advice settled it. They quickly agreed on ignoring the cricket's lies, for nobody was eager to parade back up the valley we'd just trampled down. Lining up behind the old lady, the trolls shuffled toward the river like prisoners in chains. The old lady and I were the only ones stepping lively. At the water's edge, Jim Dandy bypassed the old lady's rowboat, heading for his dugout canoe, but the old lady put a stop to that by announcing:

"You'll all be riding with me, Jim Dandy Eel-tongue, where I can keep an eye on you. And if there's any funny business, I'll turn you all into books. Thick ones with no pictures and tiny print."

Fast as they jumped aboard her boat, they must have been as terrified of reading as they were of counting. The old lady lagged behind as if they'd forgotten something.

"So where's the stone feather you used?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"Duke's house," Biz squeaked.

"It better be," she threatened, wading to the back of her boat without bothering to lift her skirt. "Here, put these on."

Pulling three floppy straw hats from a wooden chest, she held them out to the trolls.

"What's that?" Stump shied away from the hat brim facing him. It was covered with roses and bluebells that smelled freshly picked and made his snout twitch as if peppered.

"Disguises," the old lady answered. "I don't want any fisher-men spotting you. Might slow us down."

Gulping a deep breath, Stump accepted the hat and tried tugging it on. Jim Dandy and Biz followed suit. They were all trembling so hard they missed their heads by a mile.

"Claire," the old lady said, climbing aboard and waving for me to follow, "would you mind giving them a hand? I've got to arrange a ride for us in Blue Wing."

Digging a scrap of paper out of her apron pocket, the old lady got busy scribbling. Tugging off a wet sneaker, she stuffed her note inside it and flung the shoe into the river. A muskrat nabbed the shoe at once, diving out of sight.

By then I'd started tugging straw hats onto the trolls. Tying the strings under their scaly chins was the trickiest part. Every time I tried, they pulled away as if I were planning to strangle them. Whenever I leaned closer, the crickets riding their shoulders would whisper, "She's not a blue-wing fairy."

"Oh, yes she is," Stump said miserably.

She may not have had lacy wings or been small enough to hide under a teacup, but the old lady handled the boat as easily as a fairy steering a leaf. Even without a motor, sail, or paddle, we flew down the river. To change the boat's direction, she simply pointed where she wanted to go. When she wanted the boat to slow down or speed up, she twisted a silver ring on her left hand as if it was a throttle. The trolls kept an awfully close eye on that silver ring, turning jumpy whenever she touched it.

"Ah, are you really a blue-wing?" I stuttered.

"Your great-great-great-grandfather once asked me the same question," she said, amused.

"Are we talking about Huntington Bridgewater?" I asked in the name of accuracy.

"We are."

"What'd you tell him?" I didn't even bother to bring up how she could be old enough to have known him.

"That it sounded to me like he'd been talking to river trolls."

She blocked more questions by picking up her ukulele and serenading the river trolls, who plugged their ears and held their breath beneath the flowery hats. They looked like three plums about to explode.

And so the ride downriver went. Fishermen in high-powered boats skipped past us, tipping their hats to all the old ladies they thought they saw in our boat. Barges going upriver rocked us with their wake.

We pulled into a landing above Blue Wing, where a well-polished white van awaited us. The door of the van said in gold letters: