Troll Bridge (9 page)

Isn't this a pretty pickle,
he thought, then in a hysterical afterthought he wondered if trolls ate pickles with their meals.

But the teeth disappeared. Or rather the creature that owned the teeth closed its mouth. Shook its dog-sized head.
Dog?
he thought before noticing it had a longer, pointier nose than a dog. And as he stared at it, the animal very clearly shook its head at him.

It's a fox,
he thought. Then,
No, it's
the
fox
.
The one from the bridge. The one that got us into this mess to begin with!
At that, his hysteria rose again, like a vampire from a coffin, because he just remembered that
mess
was a soldier's word for
dinner.

The fox bared its teeth again, but for some reason, Jakob was sure that this time it was more of a grin than a threat. Then with a short bark, the fox dashed past him.

Sic 'er!
Jakob thought as the fox headed toward Botvi.

“Bah!” she cried almost immediately, throwing something in his direction. “Away with you, ill-omened creature. I be thinking you be Oddi.”

The fox ran off yipping, and Jakob stayed frozen on his belly, praying the he was somehow hidden from sight. Evidently Botvi was only as smart as a troll, and she turned and walked back the way she'd come, her bass drum footsteps quickly fading. “I be wasting my time chasing after foxes,” he heard her say, “when my dear son be lost.”

Jakob suddenly thought about his own mother and what she'd say when the smashed car was found.
If
it was found.
Nothing,
he reminded himself,
can be counted on if there are trolls in the world.
He would have cried—for his own mother, for his father, for his brothers … but he didn't have time. He only allowed himself a deep sigh of relief and a whisper. “Thanks, fox.” He heard an answering yip.

“Now,” he said under his breath, “how do I find my brothers?”

10

Jakob

Jakob took a chance and stood up. He could see nothing. The dark in this place was deeper than anything he'd ever experienced. No moon or stars overhead, which was odd, as the sky seemed cloudless.

He turned around slowly.

No light shining through troll house windows or open doors.

Nothing.
Nothing but the deep dark and … He banged the flat of his hand dramatically against his forehead.
Of course!

“No light through windows,” he whispered to himself, “because if they forget to close the shutters and morning comes, the sunlight could accidentally turn them to stone.” But that realization got him nowhere fast. And fast was what was needed if his brothers were to be rescued. Aenmarr could now be at his second wife's house, in the larder, taking Erik or Galen off the hook and using one of the big knives to—

He felt a heavy stone in his chest.

Stop it!
he scolded himself,
or you'll bring on a real panic attack
,
a can't-move-blinding-throw-up-no-breath attack.
He forced himself to breathe slowly until he was calm again.
You aren't a troll, and you have a brain.
He just had to use it.

Turning in a slow circle once more, staring into the blackness, he thought:
What good is a brain, if you've nothing to feed it with?

He almost shouted out, “I can't see anything!” but caught himself before making any noise. He certainly didn't want Botvi to hear him and come back.

That's it!
Jakob thought.
Hearing.
He closed his eyes—not that he could see anything anyway—and shut out everything so he could concentrate on sound alone, letting his ears do their work. After all, he could tune a guitar to open C without an electric tuner. He could guide multitudes of backup singers through three- and four-part harmonies. He could hear missed notes in string sections that even the top producers in L.A. didn't notice.
Listen!
he told himself.
What do you hear?

He stood motionless.

There's the buzzing of insects. The sigh of the wind. And rushing water? Yes, rushing water, but a long way away.

Cocking his head to one side, he tried to listen harder. His brothers' lives depended on it. And, like eyes adjusted to the dark, after a few moments it was if Jakob's ears adjusted to the silence. He heard not just the pick-buzz of insects, but the dozens of different songs and calls they made. The wind didn't just sigh, it thrummed and whistled and whirred, rustling through the leaves of nearby trees and the thatch of the roof.

There!
A barely audible sound, off to his right, that wasn't insects or wind or water. A metallic swish, not natural. But something he'd heard before. Jakob opened his eyes and began moving even as he tried to place the sound. For some reason, it made him think of Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving,
he thought.
Why Thanksgiving?

Jakob suddenly pictured his father in the kitchen, a turkey set out on a carving platter next to him. In his hands, a big knife and a metal stick for …

For sharpening the knife!

Hands held out in front of him, Jakob burst into a sprint despite the darkness. He knew what that sound meant. It was doom. Aenmarr the Troll was in the larder of his second wife's house and he was sharpening his knives.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” Jakob prayed, whether silently or out loud he couldn't tell. He suddenly knew it had to be less than moments before one of his brothers would be dead.

If he wasn't already.

3 · Music to Their Ears

Long pig, sweet meat,

Strong swig, fleet treat,

I don't want to be hung up.

For dinner.

Short tale, long death,

Quart ale, wrong breath,

I don't want to be hung up.

For dinner.

Give me a choice of meat or soy,

Give me a choice of girl or boy,

Give me a choice or give me chance,

A great big meal or a real romance.

Slow boil, quick take,

Low oil, thick steak,

I don't want to be hung up.

For dinner.

 

Hot ice, cold drink,

Caught twice, old stink,

I don't want to be hung up.

Over dinner.

 

—Words and music by Jakob and Erik Griffson, from
Troll Bridge

 

 

 

Radio WMSP: 10:00
A.M.

“And now, here's Jim Johnson with our continuing coverage of the ‘Disappearing Dairy Darlings.' Jim?”

“Thanks, Katie. After three days, police have still come up empty in their search for the whereabouts of this year's twelve Dairy Princesses. There just seems to be no evidence whatsoever. It's as if the twelve young ladies have fallen off the face of the earth, leaving behind only the butter sculptures of their heads back at the State Fair grounds refrigerators.”

“How are their parents holding up, Jim?”

“They've offered rewards of fifty thousand dollars for each girl. And…”

“Hold on, Jim
—
we are being interrupted by Brian Gustafson and a news bulletin.”

“Thanks, Katie. Brian Gustafson here, live from Vanderby. Local police have just fished a car out of the Vanderby River, a car believed to belong to the popular singing group, The Griffson Brothers. A black sedan with vanity plates reading, ‘
LUV U.
'”

“Like their hit song?”

“Exactly, Katie. Apparently, the car lost control on the Trollholm Bridge shortly after sundown, crashing onto the rocks you see behind me.”

“This is radio, Brian.”

“Right. Well, the rocks behind me are jagged granite, a gray blue in color. ‘Troll high,' as they say in Vanderby, and just as dangerous.”

“Brian, this is Jim Johnson. Is the car still hung up on the rocks?”

“No, Jim, it apparently hit the rocks before sliding into the river. The Griffsons' parents have confirmed that their three boys had taken the car for a drive. Police have brought back the divers and tracking dogs, but no bodies have been found so far.”

“Vanderby? The Trollholm Bridge? Is there any connection between this accident and the disappearance of the Dairy Princesses, Brian?”

“No one is commenting on that, Jim. Yet. But it's the second big-name disappearance this week, and the coincidences are starting to pile up. All we know for certain is that our thoughts and prayers are with the parents of the Griffsons as well as the Dairy Princesses this morning, and we hope that they're all found safe and sound before too long.”

“And the Sjogren family
—
the photographer, don't forget. We send our best to them, too. But it doesn't look good, does it, Brian?”

“No, Katie, it doesn't. The police are puzzled and there have been no ransom notes. And that's all I have. This is Brian Gustafson, reporting live from Vanderby, Minnesota.”

“Thanks, Brian. [Sighs.] This is so weird, Jim.”

“You betcha.”

“My daughter loves the Griffson Brothers. She has posters of them on the wall. Especially that Galen. What a cutie.”

“My daughters, too. I'm stunned, Katie.”

“Oh my gosh, Jim, we'll have to ask the Spinning Sisters to play the Griffsons' music tonight. And we'll all be saying prayers for their safe return.”

11

Moira

Moira had no idea how long she'd lain in the box, trying to match her breathing to the slow rhythm of the other girls. She'd heard Aenmarr enter the cottage, kiss his wife loudly, exclaim something about princesses, then leave again with just as much noise.

And then she heard a scuffling and a yawning that sounded like a pride of lions rising from sleep.

And now she could hear the troll mother, Trigvi, puttering around the cottage.

Stupidly, Moira thought,
Puttering trolls make a lot of noise.
There were the footsteps like timpani, the cymbal sound of pots clanging, and …

Oh, God, no!

Trigvi had begun a tuneless humming as she prepared to cook. She sang in no particular key. The random notes sent shivers up and down Moira's spine.

This is worse than pop music,
Moira moaned silently, suppressing an overwhelming need to shudder. She reminded herself that if she succumbed to her urge to leap from the box shouting, “Shut up! Shut up! For the love of all things musical, please stop that awful humming!” well, then, that would be the end of her.
But, oh Lord, it's torture.
The problem was that no one without perfect pitch could understand how awful it felt.

Then she heard something else.

“Hey! Get me down from here!” It was a boy's voice.

Sounds like he's about my age,
Moira thought.
And it's sounds like he's shouting from …
Moira couldn't help herself. She gulped hard.
The larder.

The troll woman's humming stopped.

Thank you, God,
Moira prayed.

Trigvi called in a voice deep and loud enough to shake the cottage walls, “Buri, be a good boy. Be shutting dinner up. Your father be home soon.”

Basso cantante,
Moira thought.

“Yes, Mother,” came the reply, as low as Trigvi's but more youthful in timbre.

Moira heard footsteps. A door creaking open.

“What are you?” cried the boy. Then there was a thud and the boy spoke no more.

Moira stifled a gasp.

“Thank you,” Trigvi told her son. “I be hating it when dinner speaks.” Then she began humming again.

No, no, no, no,
Moira kept repeating to herself.
They just killed that poor boy. And now they're going to eat him!
Not to leave herself out of the horror she added,
And then I'm going to end up married to the one who's doing the eating.

Not even Trigvi's humming annoyed her now. Moira was in a panic. It was worse than when she'd been clinging to Aenmarr's back. At least then, she'd been
doing
something.

Moira had never had stage fright, but she'd talked to musicians who'd had it bad, and she tried to remember what they did to fight it.
Stay calm. Concentrate on breathing. Think of something else. Go to your “happy place,” somewhere you feel safe.

Gritting her teeth, Moira lay still in the box, clenched her fists and forced herself to remember the most difficult passages of the new Berlin piece, imagining the fingering she'd have to use. She tried to think of her mother, her father, her friends at school and in the orchestra. She pictured herself in serene, calming places: Lake of the Isles, Minnehaha Falls, Carlson Peak.

Nothing worked. She began to tremble uncontrollably. Sweat formed on her palms, her forehead, pooled under her arms.

Any minute they're going to smell me in here.

That thought did little to calm her.

Oh God, oh God, oh God,
she thought, not even a prayer, but a plea. She couldn't breathe, the sweat, the trembling … But just before she reached the breaking point, a familiar voice popped into her head.

“Child of man and woman. Did you miss me?”

Foss had returned.

Where have you been?
Moira thought at him furiously, suddenly able to breathe again. The trembling eased.

“I have recruited help,” Foss answered. “Though they know it not.” There was a pause. Then, “Are you ready to move?”