18

Moonrise

The sun in the western sky finally brought some relief. The treetops blocked the sun, and Bog bathed in the shadows that fell across them.

Small was propped upright against a boulder now, after a tense hoisting with Hannie trying to help and Bog’s mother directing the placement of the branch he used as a lever. He’d circled Small repeatedly, searching for a crack or a chip. Nothing. He could only hope that Ymir’s life-giving powers would flow through the Nose Stone and revive his friend.

The air grew cooler as the shadows lengthened. The shade comforted Bog’s stinging eyes, although with his mother still around, it couldn’t soothe the tight knot in his gut.

Bog’s mother was wrapping a strip of cloth ripped from her sleeve around her left ankle. The ankle was probably sprained, but that was her only injury. She was almost as tough as a troll, which made him anxious and disturbingly proud at the same time.

Hannie sat cross-legged beside Small, stroking the stony tufts of fur on his foot and gazing into the distance with a dreamy look on her sunburned face. Her troll doll lay abandoned beside her.

Bog paced the clearing, pausing to check on Small every now and then. The moon would rise just after sunset—he’d spent all day calculating it—but waiting for moonrise was torturous.

When Hannie’s stomach announced that it was breakfast time, Bog stopped pacing, realizing that they’d skipped dinner.

“You must be hungry,” he said, even though he was too tense to eat.

“A bit.” Hannie nodded absentmindedly. “Do you think my aunt remembers me?”

“Who could forget you?” He raised his nose, sniffing for nearby prey. A grouse pecked the ground north of them, but he didn’t want to leave Small and Hannie alone with his mother.

“We have a few leftover deer mice.” He slung his rucksack off his shoulder and rummaged inside it.

“Again?” Hannie made a face. “My aunt used to make me macaroni and cheese.”

Bog raised his eyebrows and pulled out a jug of lake water. Maybe Hannie would be better off with this Rachel Tremblay—if she was worthy.

Hannie gulped the water. Her stomach groaned again.

“Why don’t you pick some berries?” He pointed to the raspberry bushes that crowded the eastern side of the clearing. It wasn’t troll fare, but he’d seen Hannie eating them before, when she thought he and Small weren’t watching.

“Would it be okay, Bog?” Hannie’s face brightened. “Trolls sometimes eat raspberries, don’t they?”

“When they’re desperate.” He looked away so she couldn’t tell he was lying.

“I like raspberries.” She scooted over to the bushes.

Bog sipped from the jug, happy to see her smiling. As he swallowed, he realized how dry his throat was. Maybe he should eat, too. He’d need his strength.

He munched a roasted deer mouse, saving two for Hannie in case she changed her mind. As he watched his mother fashion a waist-high branch into a walking stick, his stomach felt no calmer.

Hannie returned with a handful of berries, her lips dyed red. “Try some, Bog. They’re so sweet.”

He wrinkled his nose. “You eat them.”

Hannie’s face fell, and he was tempted to eat the berries to please her. But before he could react, she zipped over to his mother, her hand extended.

“Do you want some, Missus…uh…”

“Call me Martinique.” His mother’s voice was raspy.

“Hannie, I told you to stay away from her,” Bog said, but his mother was already dipping into Hannie’s palmful of berries.

Bog sighed.

“Okay, Martinique.” Hannie smiled. “Bog has some deer mice, if you want. They kind of taste bad, but you might like them.”

“No. Thanks.” His mother shook her head. “I don’t think he wants to share.”

“Of course he does.” Hannie yanked his mother up by the arm.

“Wait.” She picked up her walking stick and struggled to her feet. With Hannie pulling, she hobbled nearer.

Bog packed the deer mice and the jug into his rucksack, scowling. “They’re for Hannie—for later.” He shouldered his rucksack and positioned himself between Small and his mother.

“Martinique is hungry, too, Bog,” Hannie said.

“She can wait.” He glowered.

Hannie looked from Bog to his mother. “But—”

“I’m fine.” His mother stared him down.

“Okay.” Hannie shared the rest of her berries with his mother. Bog watched his mother’s jaw working as she ground the berries into mush.

When the berries were gone, Hannie said, “Martinique, when can I see my aunt?”

Bog’s mother shot him a look, which he ignored. “When we get to Strongarm,” she said.

Bog exhaled nosily and watched the shadows lengthen.

The forest grew dark and silent around the statues. The sight of Small and Hornel as stone was still a shock—Hornel with his severed fingers leaning against his feet.

When night descended, Bog dug in his rucksack for the Nose Stone. He wanted to be in position before the moon peeked over the treetops. He checked on his mother, who was leaning against a tree trunk about fifteen paces away.

“Don’t come any closer.” A rumbling growl built in his chest and throat.

“If that’s what you want.” His mother brushed her scraggly grey hair away from her face.

He wondered if she was really on his side—as if she’d help him rescue Jeddal. He retrieved the Nose Stone and unwrapped it, letting the cloth drop at his feet.

Hannie appeared beside him. “What do we do?” she asked.

“Small’s father said to place the Nose Stone on the head of a stone troll while the moon is rising in the sky.” Bog admired Small’s determined expression, his prodigious nose.

Hannie looked up, her eyebrows bunched. “But there’s no moon tonight.”

“It’ll rise soon.”

Frantsum said a stone troll had to be whole for the Nose Stone to work. But what if he was wrong? Maybe the Nose Stone could revive any troll who’d been turned to stone, chipped or not. Maybe it could revive none.

Bog gripped the Nose Stone in two hands with the jagged side down and the curved side up. As he caressed the speckled surface, a tingle started in his fingertips and travelled through to his toes—a stirring of life within the rock.

He was infused with hope. Ymir had to make it work. For Small and for Jeddal.

Bog approached Small, with Hannie at his heels. He climbed the boulder that was propping Small upright and then placed the Nose Stone on Small’s head with the flat side down so it wouldn’t roll off. Although it looked like a crooked hat perched on Small’s stony tufts of fur, Bog was awed by the sight.

“Please, Ymir. Bring him back.” He held his breath for a moment before he climbed back down to stand between his mother and Small.

The moon glowed just below the eastern treetops.

Hannie slipped her hand in Bog’s. “When will it happen? Is it working?”

He shrugged. “I guess we wait.” He glanced at his mother, who gazed steadily back. Then he scooped Hannie into his arms.

They watched Small in silence. Bog willed him to change, to melt back into flesh and bone, to wiggle a finger. Something. Anything.

He wondered if Small would be happy to see him. How would Small feel about having a half-human as a friend?

The moon crawled above the trees, slower than ever. It was waning, just less than full with a blue-white radiance—Ymir’s partly closed eye, gazing down on them.

When Hannie squirmed, they sat down to wait while Bog’s mother rested against the tree trunk.

The eyes of a passing skunk flashed amber in the moonlight. Bog caught a whiff of a far-off deer. Forest life thrived around them, yet Small remained stone.

Bog’s mother approached.

He jumped up to face her. “What do you want?”

She shrugged. “How long are you going to wait?”

“As long as it takes.”

She studied a metal disk strapped to her wrist. “It’s been almost an hour. If something was going to happen—”

“It’ll happen.” Bog clenched his jaw.

“It might not—” His mother reached for his shoulder.

He pulled away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Bog, I’m just—”

A crack sounded behind him.

“No,” he moaned, sure that Small’s fragile tail had broken off.

More cracks.

He spun around, bracing for the horror—just as Small’s statue exploded.

Dust and rock fragments flew everywhere. Pebbles pelted them and rained down on the clearing.

“Small!” Bog shielded his face. His blood thumped faster than a woodpecker’s beat.

Hannie shrieked. “He’s falling to pieces!”

Bog blinked and wiped dust from his eyes. “It’s your fault.” He narrowed his eyes at his mother.

Then he heard a noise coming from the cloud of dust.

Coughing?

“Small?” Bog gripped Hannie’s shoulder to steady himself. Jeddal could be next.

A furry arm, coated in fine brown dust, reached out from the cloud, grabbed Bog by the neck, and ripped him away from Hannie.

“Stay back, if you want him to live.” Small squeezed Bog’s throat, making his eyes bulge.