A Troll Mother’s Sacrifice
A Minta Story

Trolls do not like water. Possibly, water is what we like the least of all possible things not to like. Yes, we liked, even loved water once, but that was long ago in a land far, far away. These northern waters do not like trolls, they eat trolls. They are to be feared and to be stayed out of.

Our fear (and dislike) of water has over time grown into an epidemic, inheritable, I suspect; at least taught and instilled.

There are times we have to wade across a river or two, especially in the spring when snow runoff boosts the self-confidence of these wet nuisances and they do their best to splash if not drown you.

Besides, you have never seen a sorrier sight than a wet troll, especially one rising out of a lake (which he obviously fell into or was pushed into by some evil prankster or other) or up from a too-deep a river to cross dry-footed.

For one: once dry, our fur almost doubles in volume (or our apparent volume—lots of air); by comparison, a thoroughly wet troll looks like a large, inelegant stick figure dipped in bristly mud. Not a pretty (nor flattering) sight.

For two: as I said, the northern waters—lakes, tarns and the like—do not like us. In fact, they hate us, and if you fall into a lake, or—especially—a deep tarn, it will try to snare you and kill you. While the long-ago southern, and friendly waters, were fine for children to play in and for us older trolls to swim in, up here (close to the Arctic Circle) children are strictly forbidden to enter water of any kind.

Yes, we liked water once, but no more.

Should a spring river be too deep to cross—and by too deep we normally mean up to our ankles or knees at worst; besides, you can never trust it to stay at that level once we’re in it, it will try to drown us—we can wait for as long as it takes (days, even weeks if we’re not in a hurry, and we rarely are) for the water level at the ford to recede to the point of a dry, or dryish, crossing. It is only if we absolutely, for some reason, have to reach the other side that we will voluntarily (if indeed you can call such a necessary crossing voluntary) set a foot in water, whatever the depth.

Water, then, these days, pretty much tops our hate list. Wolves, our only real natural enemy should perhaps be on this list, too, but we don’t hate them. That’s not the word. We fear them and we kill them when we can—for they in turn fear us and kill us, when they can. With wolves, it’s not a matter of hate, it is more a matter of survival—both ways.

But water? Oh, sheer hate. Hate with a generous helping of fear. I almost added respect as well, but we don’t respect water, you don’t respect villains.

This winter’s afternoon I was keeping an eye on my Odin-given charge, that little human boy Ulf who for the most part gave me little or no trouble.

I had parked my resting body near a warm fire deep in the mountain—roving in spirit (we’re good at that, we trolls) only to fulfill my promise and duty (or else, Odin had added just as he left).

Ulf lived just outside a small town called Hudiksvall about halfway down the country from our mountain, and seeing him puttering about in their barn, I decided that all was well and that I could return to my warm, cozy spot by the fire. That’s when the big barn door swung open and he suddenly stepped out, hockey skates donned (blades covered with rubber walkers), hockey stick and puck in hands. He put the puck in his jacket pocket, then grabbed the snow shovel leaning against the front stairs and set out for the small stream at the bottom of a long western-facing, now snow-covered field. I recognized solo hockey time. He’d done this before. Innocuous. The only real danger is that you might lose the puck in the snow if you’re not careful.

My boy Ulf is not so very careful and sometimes spends more time looking for snow-lost pucks than playing his one-on-self game.

So, no big worries here; still, I trailed (I guess you could sailed) along just to make sure he would be fine. I’d return to my mountain once he had had his hockey fill and had returned home as well.

About as uninterested as you can get, I watched his dribbling and passing to himself and his scoring countless goals against non-existent opposition. He was winning by great numbers by the looks of it.

Then, as usual, he lost the puck in the snow and spent what felt like an hour looking for it. He did find it though, kudos for persistence.

New faceoff on center ice.

And then it happened. The ice mid-stream, worn thinner by the current below, gave way, opened up, swallowed. The body, at first, simply vanished into the dark water.

My immediate and greatest fear was that the current, which must have been strong to wear the ice that thin in this freezing weather, would grab him and wash him farther down under the ice, with no possible way for him to either breathe or clamber his way back up to safety.

Then he bopped up again, and I could breathe again—if spirits indeed breathe. Head and shoulders above water now, and arms and hands on the ice. I can see he’s testing for a stand-upon-able bottom with his feet but there is none to be found. He flails around a little with his arms looking for purchase but there is none of that to be found either. He cannot heave himself out of the water.

He is too far away from the house to be heard, and he knows this and does not even cry for help. But he knows, I can tell with my whole being, he knows that he cannot stay in the water long. Every second more water is absorbed by his clothes and every such second he grows heavier and colder. I have seen this once before, in much colder weather than this mind you, but the man lasted about ten minutes before the greedy water and the ice-cold weather conspired to kill. And kill they did. He sank not to be seen again until spring—a much whiter and more fish-eaten version of what I saw go down.

I had no obligation toward that man, and I was in no position to act anyway, but here was my human boy, my young Ulf, and I certainly had my Odin-give obligation here to keep him safe. Still, though, I was in no position to act. Spirits don’t lift water-logged boys out of holes in ice. No hands, no purchase, not possible.

Impossible.

Unless.

Like most civilized races, we have deities that we honor and worship.

There is Odin, of course, the creator and troll-protector poet we all love and revere and at times even pray to (though trolls don’t often pray).

Then there are the lesser ones. This pantheon consists of dead wise trolls that have chosen not to move on to better lands (or into a new troll body) but to stay spirit and enjoy deity-life for a while. These old beings are quite magical and are what any human would call wizards, and very, very good ones at that. And expensive.

By that I mean, if you ask one of these spirit-only trolls to do you a favor—and they can grant just about any favor that is not of the end-of-the-world variety—they will drive a very hard bargain. The vain ones might ask for a million prayers along with elaborate sacrifices—and by a million, well, let’s say they are excellent accountants and they keep track.

One old wizard, who was contemplating a return to troll life asked for a son or daughter to be made available to him. That meant driving the actual son or daughter out of that young body and back into troll bardo, perhaps not to return again, a much larger sacrifice than you might think.

If the favor asked of the wizard is not urgent, bickering sessions might last a season or two. If the favor is urgent, however, the supplicant usually agrees to any price asked.

Ulf was tiring, I could tell.

I called on the wizards and one answered immediately.

“Please,” I said. “Please save this boy.”

“And why should I do such a thing?” the old rascal said.

“He is my charge,” I said. “I’ve made a promise.”

“Promise to whom?” he said.

“To Odin,” I answered.

“You’re in a pickle then,” he said.

“Can you?” I asked.

“Of course,” he answered. “Of course, I can do that.”

“How much?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think I want to get my feet wet,” he said.

“You have no feet,” I pointed out. Urgently.

“Oh, but you do,” he said.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how to shift your body from mountain to here, don’t you?”

“Well, yes. If it came to that.”

“Wouldn’t now call for coming to that?”

“What good would it do? I can’t lift him out of there. Since I weight a lot more than he does, I’ll go through the ice myself and what good would that do?”

“Shift it here and I’ll help you.”

“I will.” And I did shift my body from the warm mountain to the very cold afternoon where my boy was not so far away from drowning.

“All right then. Let me tell you how to save the boy.”

“You’re not going to save him?”

“No, you are going to save him.”

“How do I do that?” I asked the wizard.

“I will place your body beneath the boy and supply you with foot purchase so you can push him up and out of the water.”

Before I could check my knee-jerk answer, it had flown the coop, “Never in your life,” it said.

“I thought not,” he said. “Pity on the boy, though.”

“How much?” I asked.

“Not much. I only want to see a thoroughly wet and cold troll. That’ll be my payment.”

This time I did get hold of that reflex answer before it swung from my lips. “That’s the cost?”

“A thoroughly cold and wet troll, yes, that’s the price. A sight for sore eyes, that would be.”

Ulf was really tiring. He had stopped trying to find purchase or a grip with his hands. There was a sense of surrender about him. A conceding that his time, even at this young age, was up.

“You really are a rascal,” I said. “But I guess, as prices go, that would have to be a bargain. I accept.”

“Very well,” he said. And the next thing I knew I was standing on the floor of the stream—which the wizard had solidified to give me purchase, earth to push from—looking up at the young boy’s feet, no longer moving about at all. I tested this magical floor to make sure it would not give way, it would not. Then I found a good hold on each foot (avoiding the sharp blades) and pushed. He was heavier than I had expected, or perhaps I should have expected, what with water-logged clothes now. But we are nothing if not a strong race, and with two more heaves I had him out of the water and onto the ice, where I soon followed—the old rascal helped—to roll him to the safety of shore. I was out of his spectrum at this point (in case there were others around) and I think he was too cold and concerned and ready to die to realize what was going on. After a while, though, he stirred, clambered to his feet, then fell down, then clambered to his feet again, then set out for the house, leaving stick and puck and shovel and rubber walkers behind.

Cold but safe.

Me, I returned to our mountain, thoroughly wet and incredibly cold. The freezing air had me look like an icicle tree and I could hear laughter, both from some of the trolls and from the old wizards who had gathered to watch this spectacle and thought this was the greatest entertainment of a season.

“What happened?” was the question aimed at me from many directions. I refused to answer.

“Enjoyed a swim?” someone asked.

“Enjoy a fist?” I answered.

“Look at Minta,” said a child. “Look, look. She’s an ice tree.”

Other children scrambled to see, but none got too close to me. Even an icicle tree, no matter how startling, can frown and look menacing to a child.

There was the fire and I threw myself down beside it and began to melt.

Then I addressed my wizard, who, all things considered, had helped me save my boy for virtually free. “Thank you,” I said. “From the bottom of my heart. Thank you.”

“Welcome,” he said. Snickering a little, but not hurtfully. Yes, he had enjoyed the ice-troll spectacle to be sure, but he had enjoyed saving the boy even more, that was clear to me. Not such a rascal, after all.

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