3

The First Step

The next night, Bog stood with his back to the cave, his feet aimed south. Everyone had gathered to see him off. On his left, Kasha contemplated the forest, her mouth set in a stony grimace. On his right, Ruffan gripped Bog’s hand, his whole body shivering. Mica and Gem were wrestling with each other beside Kasha’s feet.

The cool, damp smell of the cave wafted from behind, along with the lingering scent of the broth and grubs they’d slurped for breakfast. Bog released Ruffan’s hand, preparing to take the first step that would lead him away from home. Away from Kasha and the youngsters. Away from the places that brought back painful memories of Jeddal.

His feet wouldn’t budge, although he knew he had to hurry. Every moment he hesitated meant that another troll hunter would be trained, and another family would suffer. But he had to make peace with Kasha first.

“Kasha, listen,” Bog began, hoping she’d bless his leaving. “I’ve been a useless hunter anyway. And Ruffan’s a good mouser and snaker. He needs to get out of the cave.”

“Oh, yes.” Ruffan leapt to Kasha’s side. “Could I hunt, please? I caught a grouse once.”

“Go, if you must, Bog,” she rumbled low in her throat, ignoring Ruffan. “Just don’t expect me to like it.”

A pain shot through Bog’s upper body, as if a slash of sunlight had cut across his flesh. Kasha didn’t understand. He wasn’t abandoning his family; he was proving he was worthy of them.

The sun had just set behind the trees, leaving a red-orange scar fading in the western sky. The eastern sky was clouding over. Only a patch of stars flashed like fireflies between the swaying branches.

A muddy footprint marked the stone before his feet. As large as Kasha’s stewpot, the footprint must be one of Jeddal’s. Soon the rain would wash it clear and fall like tears over the stone statue of Jeddal.

Bog resettled his rucksack on his shoulder and cast another glance at Kasha. When he saw the hard edge to her mouth, he pulled his feet free of the roots that bound them.

“I’ll be off now.” Bog nodded to Ruffan. “Hunt well.”

“You, too.” Ruffan wiped a hand across his watery eyes.

Mica and Gem became strangely motionless. Gem had a beefy arm wrapped around Mica’s neck and Mica had a hold of Gem’s ear—a solemn pause in their fight, in his honour.

“I’ve one bit of magic for you.” Kasha stepped forward. She shoved Jeddal’s flint stone into his rucksack to join his jug of mousemeat stew and jug of broth.

It was magic, of a sort. Like carrying Jeddal with him. “Thanks.” He tugged Kasha’s nose affectionately.

“We’ll be heading farther north,” she said, “to the lakeside cave where we camped two summers ago. If it’s occupied, we’ll be nearby. Do you remember the way?”

He nodded, wishing they didn’t need to flee.

“Be cunning, Bog.” A cloud of flies whirled above her head. She yanked his nose to say goodbye.

“I will.” He rubbed noses with the youngsters and then clumped over the rippled stone and into the bush. Behind him, Mica and Gem grunted as they resumed their wrestling match.

“Come home to us.” Bog heard Kasha’s whisper even with the growing distance between them.

He didn’t look back.

The forest coated the land like a rumpled blanket over the bones of an old troll. Bog travelled by scent through the darkest undergrowth and then tromped over the rocky ground of the clearing toward Jeddal.

A half-formed snarl remained trapped on Jeddal’s lips. His motionless eyes unnerved Bog. He touched Jeddal’s stone nose. It was cold. Unyielding.

Bog’s fingernails dug into his palms. His eyes brimmed with tears.

“Goodbye, Father.” He rubbed his eyes to clear them and silently vowed to make Jeddal proud. Then he inhaled deeply, alert for the humans’ scent trail.

He picked it up near the south edge of the clearing. It was fading, but still strong enough to point the way. After a final glance at Jeddal, Bog plunged into the forest, following the foul humans who’d lured Jeddal into the sun.

Their trail meandered between rocky mounds and then ran parallel to a narrow stream. When it circled the crumple of wood that was his great-grandfather Mithanen, Bog had no time for a visit. When Mithanen had been alive, the old troll had bounced Bog so hard on his knee that he’d launched Bog into the air, shrieking and laughing. Unlike Mithanen, Jeddal wouldn’t have the honour of old age, with moss sprouting from his fleshy ears. He wouldn’t shrink and warp until the night he became so ancient that he’d walk into the forest to twist into a sculpture of boughs, limbs, and twigs. Jeddal had been turned to rock before his life was even half over.

Bog ploughed into less familiar territory. He lost the trail once, but picked it up again after circling the area twice. When he detected the mouldy odour of a couple of wood spirits, he gave them a wide berth to avoid the lure of their siren-like call. You only hear a wood spirit’s call once, Jeddal had said. Too many trolls had been turned to forest rot—fuel for the wood spirit’s trees.

In the distance, a wood owl hooted. Frogs called from the nearby pond. The scents of chipmunks mapped their recent trails. Bog smelled no trolls nearby, which suited him fine. He’d rather sleep in a hole during a hurricane than stumble into another cave troll’s home for a violent welcome. Even worse than cave trolls, he’d heard that western mountain trolls grew larger and meaner. And northern trolls, who could have up to twelve heads, were tough enough to survive shortened nights in the summer.

The scent trail continued south into human territory. It probably ended at Strongarm—the closest town. He vaguely knew the way, although he’d never been.

Jeddal had, of course, with Martinique Bottom.

Bile rose in his throat. Oh, Ymir, how had Jeddal tolerated a human? How had he tolerated Bog? It was a mockery. Jeddal turned to stone by humans while his own son was half human.

Bog’s hands became fists. He wanted to smash the biggest boulder he could find into a mountainside. He wanted to rip the tallest tree out of the ground and hurl it across the ocean. He wanted to—

He stopped, his feet on the edge of a dirt road made by humans. The stench of oil filled his nostrils. He wanted to retch. Was he so stunned that he forgot to pay attention to where he was going? Could he not smell oil before he stepped on it?

Bog stood, transfixed. Maybe he was as dumb as a human. And as weak as one.

He sniffed around for the humans’ trail.

Gone.

He flicked his tail back and forth. Maybe they’d travelled away in one of their metal machines.

Bog scowled, scanning both ways down the road. He heard no machines. Just the buzz of insects and the scurry of rodents. His quest couldn’t end here—at the side of a humans’ road through a trolls’ forest. He paced parallel to the road, clenching his jaw.

A trap. He would set a trap for the fool humans. Just like Jeddal would have done. Maybe it would deceive those troll hunters the next time they ventured by. He glanced at the still-dark sky; he had time before he needed to find a cave or a hole in the ground.

Bog tossed a raccoon-sized rock onto the middle of the road. He smacked it, saying fnorb, the word “rock” backward in troll talk. His hand tingled with the magic. The rock shimmered. The surface of it rippled like water and then the rock gradually faded—invisible, until a human’s machine smacked into it. It was a simple shape-shimmer trick, but it would make trouble for the humans.

He continued along the road travelling south—he wasn’t sure where else to go. Maybe he could find Thunder City, where the Troll Hunter’s den was rumoured to be.

When he could, he ripped out the signs covered in the human’s squiggly markings and left them on the road. He shape-shimmered more rocks. He stomped potholes into the road. Jeddal would have been pleased, but Bog wished he could do more.

Where the road tunnelled through a rocky hill, Bog dragged a bear-sized boulder in front of the tunnel entrance. He was about to shape-shimmer the boulder when he heard a voice, coming from the tunnel.

“Hello, friend.” It spoke in a troll dialect, but with a twangy accent. The tunnel took the voice and bounced it off the walls, making it boom.

Bog tensed as the biggest forest troll he’d ever seen emerged from the tunnel. The troll looked like an enormous shaggy bear, even bigger than Jeddal.

“I’m Small.” The troll stopped in front of the boulder, each thigh as thick as Bog’s waist. He smelled like fresh leaves, and his nose was admirably long. “Who are you?”

“You’re hardly small.” Bog’s mouth was dry, his palms sweaty.

The troll grinned. He didn’t seem threatening.

Then Bog heard the faint hum of a human’s machine echoing through the tunnel. Two bright lights behind the troll threw his massive shadow over Bog and the boulder. A cold sweat broke over his body.

“Watch out!” Bog growled. He didn’t know if a metal machine could flatten this huge troll, but he didn’t want to find out.

The troll spun around to face the machine, losing his balance. As he fell, he whacked his head against the boulder and then slid to the ground.

The machine roared into the tunnel. The troll was out cold. Bog grabbed him under his furry armpits and heaved as hard as he could.

The troll didn’t budge.

“Come on.” Bog’s shoulders tightened. His blood raced.

A boxy machine—it had to be a truck—bore down on them, roaring and screaming, lights blinding. Bog tugged with all his strength, dragging the troll onto the loose gravel of the road’s edge just as the stinking truck shot out of the tunnel. As it approached, it suddenly jerked to one side and swerved around the boulder, slowing briefly before it zoomed out of sight.

Bog shook his fist after the truck, coughing and cursing in a cloud of dust and foul-smelling smoke.