Bog Page 3

  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.

  4

  Small

  Small rubbed the back of his head. “I don’t get how you did it, Bog, but I’m sure glad you saved me.”

  “And I don’t get how you recovered so quickly.” Bog stood awkwardly at the edge of the road, unsure of how to deal with this unusually friendly troll.

  “It takes a lot to bring me down.” Small shrugged. “Although I could use a rest after that blow. Come on.”

  He tromped several paces into the dense forest of spruce and sank onto an old log. After a moment, Bog followed. Fragrant needles cushioned his feet, and resin-scented branches brushed his arms.

  “I’m surprised you could even lift me. You’re undersized for a cave troll,” Small said as Bog sat next to him. “No fur on your face either. Why, you could even pass for a human.” He guffawed, walloping Bog hard on the shoulder.

  Bog’s tail curled. Small’s words pricked like a knife at a wound. If only Small knew. Then he wouldn’t be so friendly.

  “You’d make a perfect human.” Small flicked his long bushy tail toward Bog’s shorter one. “We could dress you in a pair of trousers, a shirt, and some boots, tuck in your tail, and send you off to town to pick up the mail.” Small laughed, snorting in the long, tawny fur that grew around his mouth and everywhere else—so different from Bog’s bristled grey fur.

  “What is mail?” Bog asked, silently vowing that he’d never play-act as a human.

  Small’s furry eyebrows rose. “Don’t you know? Humans write notes to one another. They consider it valuable stuff. If you take their mail, they give you food to get it back.”

  “How do you know so much about humans?” Bog frowned. Could Small somehow sense that he had human blood?

  “I live in a forest-troll settlement near Strongarm, so we tangle with them all the time. Humans are a stupid lot. You can get away with anything.”

  “Near Strongarm? I’m heading south—toward Thunder City.”

  “That right? Why don’t you stay with us on your way through? It’s the least I can do since you saved me from that truck.” Small cleared the fur from his eyes.

  “Really?” Would the other forest trolls be as huge as Small? As friendly? Maybe Bog could learn from them—about humans and how to conquer them. Maybe they’d know more about the Troll Hunter.

  “Sure thing. Anything I can do for you, Bog, just let me know. I owe you a gnark—a life debt,” Small said solemnly. “And I’ll repay the favour, if I can.”

  For the first time in many nights, Bog managed to smile.

  “Well, there’s one thing you could do…” Bog began.

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you know about the Troll Hunter?”

  Small frowned. “We’ve heard plenty about him, and it’s all bad. You’re not going after him—a little troll like you?”

  Bog shrugged, not wanting to admit his plan. “I hear he’s set up a den near Thunder City, so I should be prepared.”

  “Well, I can tell you what I know, and we can hear the latest news back in my settlement. But first, I’ve got a job to do tomorrow night.” Small nodded toward the northeast. “You could help me with it, and then we could head south together. Do you want to rid the world of a logging camp?”

  Bog had never seen a logging camp, but Jeddal had told him how loggers destroyed the forests, tree by tree.

  “I guess.” He could scare some humans away from the forest, and his family, while he learned about the Troll Hunter.

  Small grinned. “Great. I’ve got a hollow tree nearby that I snug up in sometimes. It should fit two if we carve out the earth. And, I happen to make a flavoursome travellers’ stew. I’ve got all the ingredients here.” He hefted his rucksack, which was twice the size of Bog’s.

  Bog’s stomach gurgled at the mention of food.

  “Sounds like your stomach is interested,” Small said.

  “Thanks.” Bog sniffed in the direction of Small’s rucksack, taking in the delicious scent of meat—hare probably. He thought of the weak mousemeat stew he’d brought. He could share it with Small, if he wanted any.

  They began walking northeast. Bog hurried to keep pace with Small, who took one step for every two of his. The darkness was a cool comfort, although soon a faint blush would lighten the eastern sky.

  “Now,” Bog began, “tell me about the Troll Hunter.”

  Over the next day and night, Bog heard stories about the Troll Hunter—about how this fanatical human had recently arrived from the western lands, where he’d been waging war on the fierce mountain trolls; how he’d built a campaign against nearby trolls by training other humans to destroy them; and how he’d been tracked to Thunder City in the south, although no troll had gotten close enough to be sure it was him without
coming to harm.

  With every moment, Bog became more determined to stop him.

  Bog learned more about humans, too. How they hoarded boxes of meat in huge buildings called stores. How they valued rectangular paper called money as much as they did gold. How they used machines for everything from travelling to cooking to talking to one another across vast distances. And how their logging camp was fouling Small’s settlement.

  “The logging camp sends sludge down the river, killing the fish. Pa said to me, ‘I’ve got a small job for you.’ You see, I’m the biggest, so when they’ve got a huge job they call it a small job. Get it?” Small chuckled. “I always get sent to the logging camp.”

  “You do this often?”

  “Once in a while, usually in the spring. I knock it down, and they build it up again. This time, I want to figure out a way to make them leave for good.” Small quickened his pace. “Come on, I’ll show you where the forest ends. That’s a sight you won’t believe.”

  The trees grew as thick as ever, with tall straight trunks that stretched for the sky. Bog had seen how humans made a space among the trees to build a cabin. Would the forest end in a clearing at the logging camp?

  They travelled northeast, away from Strongarm, crossing a narrow dirt road that stank of gas. The forest closed around them again, the branches so tight they had to walk single file. From behind Small, Bog caught the whiff of oil up ahead, and a breeze from an open space. The scent of humans was strong—that sour, fatty odour that wafted off them, so like the stench of their garbage.

  Then Small stepped into a mud-covered clearing lit by a starry sky. Bog gaped at the sight. Vast tracts of mucky hills, the trees ripped from the earth, only stumps left and scattered twigs. Hill after hill of harsh wasteland, as far as he could see. Bog clenched his jaw.

  “Not a good place to travel,” Small sighed so hard his shoulders shuddered. “No cover. But I wanted you to see this.”

  They trudged silently along the edge of the forest. Bog kept snatching glances at the barren hills. No trees, just a few scrubby bushes with roots latching feebly onto earth and rock. Stumps everywhere. Broken branches. Limbs snapped in two. He could understand taking a few trees to build, or eat, or whatever they did with them. But why so many at once? How would the forest grow again? Where would the trolls live? The animals?

  The river, when he came to it, was thick sludge, littered with leaves and debris. A putrid smell of mould and death wafted from it. Bog turned away, nose stinging.

  “When they take the trees,” Small began, “the muck gets washed into the river. Leaves and branches, too. And sawdust, bark, garbage. All of it gets swept down to us. Suffocates the fish.”

  Bog’s head spun from the stench.

  Across the river, the forest was blissfully untouched.

  “We’ll cross here,” Small said. “Travel upriver in the shadows.”

  Bog hated to put even a toe in the water, but he followed Small’s lead. The river-bottom was oozing, soft, and fleshy. The chill water came up to Bog’s chest and stink invaded his fur. Back on land, he tried to shake off the sludge, but a thin coating clung. He shivered in the light breeze.

  From the lush south bank, they tramped upriver. The loggers’ destruction continued on the opposite bank, like a naked bleeding sore. They walked until their fur dried. The destruction ended as abruptly as it had begun. Soon, the stench cleared.

  Upriver, the water shimmered in the starlight, free from sludge. The river was smooth, dotted with the reflections of the stars. Two bats whizzed past, shady hunters zooming low over the water for mosquitoes.

  They crossed back to the north side of the river. Bog dunked and scrubbed his fur to clear the lingering stench and then rolled in sweet-smelling leaves.

  “The camp’s not far,” Small whispered. He shook to dry himself.

  They smelled the camp before they saw it—more reek of human sweat. From the bushes, they saw a low wooden building lit by a single bulb over the door and eight rough canvas tents. Two men with bare chests lounged outside one of the tents. Their flesh was smooth, almost hairless. No wonder they usually covered it with cloth. They were smoking cigarettes, Small explained, and drinking from metal cans. Felled trees and sawdust surrounded the camp.

  “It’s bigger than before.” Small grunted. “Every time, it’s a bit worse.”

  “We’ve got to close them down.” Bog wanted to lunge at those humans, but that wouldn’t stop them from bringing more loggers. Shape-shimmer tricks wouldn’t be enough either. Nor would smashing down the building. What would Jeddal have done?

  With Bog’s belly complaining and legs aching, he couldn’t come up with an answer. “We should kill them all,” he muttered. “Every last one of them.”

  Small shook his head. “That’s what humans would do.”

  Bog flinched.

  “But it wouldn’t work,” Small continued. “It never ends.” He sighed. “I’ve got a hole nearby—if it hasn’t been flattened. We can work out a plan there.”

  Back in the forest, Bog started a fire with Jeddal’s flint stone. He tried to think of a way to stop the loggers, but he couldn’t wipe the fields of destruction from his mind. Tree carcasses everywhere. Humans were vile beasts. How could he be one of them? He almost felt responsible. As if he’d been fool enough to cut down the trees himself. He grimaced. He had to put a stop to it, somehow.

  They devoured another of Small’s fine stews and brooded by the fire. Bog stared at the flames, rubbing the flint stone between his thumb and finger. Jeddal had preferred to trick humans, not kill them. Was that because he hadn’t wanted Bog to injure his own kind?

  When Small began to yawn, they squished into a tight hole. Small fell asleep as the birds began chirping, but Bog squirmed, trying not to disturb him. His eyelids were heavy, but his mind raced. Could he do nothing to stop these humans? He reached into his rucksack and fumbled for Jeddal’s stone. If only it could spark an idea.

  Just as Bog was drifting into sleep, he heard a sorrowful moan in the distance. It was a song of longing. A sweet lament given with waning breath. It tugged at him, making him want to follow it, to live within it for eternity. Soon, others took up the cry, until the rocks echoed their call.

  Bog couldn’t resist. He dropped Jeddal’s stone and squeezed past Small, who had rolled onto his side with a furry arm draped over his ear. As Bog emerged from the den, a wood spirit drifted between nearby bushes and branches, a translucent blur among the shadowy trees. Bog inhaled her enchanting scent of musty wood. As her song trembled from her throat, a craving for the pulp of forest rot strengthened within him. If only he could roll in it, bury himself in it forever. He didn’t care that the sun was about to rise.

  She glided away, following the distant calls of her sisters. Bog stumbled after her, colliding with a pine tree, knocking his head against a branch.

  What was he doing? He glanced around. Wood spirits?

  He should wake Small. They needed to flee…or hide…

  As the wood spirits wandered farther away, their hold on Bog lessened. They were weakened by the loss of their trees. Otherwise, he’d never have broken free of their deadly cries.

  Yet, if Bog could talk to them, work with them…maybe the wood spirits could haunt the logging camp. As long as Bog and Small could resist them. Bog remembered that Jeddal used to put pine gum in his ears to block their call.

  The song of the wood spirits faded in the distance. Bog crawled back into the den and curled into a ball, the damp earth cool against his cheek. Beside him, Small’s snores shook crumbs of soil from the roof of their hole. Bog’s fingers found Jeddal’s flint stone. He smiled in the darkness. Tomorrow night, he’d talk to the wood spirits.

  5

  Wood Spirits

  Halfway to sunrise, shadows clustered under the trees. Faint stars brightened the gaps between branches. The mouldy scent of wood spirits drifted toward the thicket north of the logging camp, where Bog and Small crouched, waiting.

&nb
sp; “I guess you’ve got to be crafty because you’re so tiny, Bog,” Small said for the third time, “but do you figure we can trust them?”

  Bog ignored the insult, even though it irked him. “They said they would help.” If the wood spirits cooperated, it could be glorious. He could get rid of the loggers and scare away any other humans from the forests.

  Earlier that night, Bog had approached a wood spirit who called herself Sateen. Even though the wood spirits had tormented the humans each time they returned to the area, it hadn’t been enough. The roar of the machines blocked their siren-like call, and the wood spirits didn’t have the strength to leave the forest and enter the clearing where the loggers made their camp. But now, with any luck, wood spirits and trolls would banish these humans together.

  Darkness enveloped the logging camp, with only one brilliant light burning above the door to the building. They could hear loud snores from the tents, and a few mutterings. Bog inhaled the scents of the forest—the dung of white-tailed deer, dry dust of rock, wet earth, birch, and cedar—letting the odours churn and blend into a powerful fragrance.

  When he noticed Sateen wafting in the distance, he rose, muscles tensed. He didn’t risk a glance at Small, although he could sense him standing, too, the fur on his forearm brushing Bog’s.

  Sateen was translucent with twiggy limbs and brown bark-like skin. Her face and long hair were pale green and glowing softly. She and the other wood spirits glided through and around the tree trunks, sighing laments. When one collapsed, unable to float any farther, two others carried her off, moaning.

  The effect of their song strengthened as they neared. Bog shuddered, reaching for his rucksack. He’d never seen a wood spirit turn a troll to rot, and he had no intention of experiencing it. He rummaged in his rucksack until he found the ball of pine gum that he’d wrapped in a leaf. As the scent of pine and rot mingled, he divided the sticky ball in half.

  Small was leaning toward the wood spirits with an expression of deep desire on his face. Bog smacked him hard in the chest, until Small blinked and jerked back.