The enchantress lost her wicked glow as gray clouds floated across her face. Pouting, she promptly disappeared. With the moon sulking somewhere in the black of night, the blazing fire under the cauldron kept the dark away as the oil trolls danced through their sacrificial rite.
Darkness settled over Odin like a heavy net, trapping him in the midst of a nightmare. He was sure the bog’s pits of foul, rotting moss bred demons, but none could be as threatening as the oil trolls. Possibly they were crouching in a thicket of trees, their crazed eyes watching him. Odin could not think of any fate worse than being tossed into a kettle of crude oil.
Punga seldom feared the dark, but he knew Odin’s nature and turned his attention to the surrounding woods and their snarled undergrowth. He assured Odin that the oil trolls were preoccupied with their initiation and harmless for the moment. The little cricket did not altogether speak the truth. He sensed a presence somewhere in the woods, but kept silent as he watched a small figure struggling to keep hidden.
No sooner did Punga speak than awkward movements behind the trunk of a spruce also caught Odin’s attention. He saw what appeared to be a small troll. In his clumsy manner, he was trying to escape from the tribe. Swift as a deer, Odin grabbed the troll by the arm and quickly dragged him back into their hiding place.
His black eyes wild with fear, he begged Odin not to harm him. The young troll was certain this huge troll with red whiskers would skin, de-bone, and make a stew out of him. He stood quivering on spindly legs waiting for the end of his short life.
As Odin struggled with the frightened troll, Manti and Punga could see his deformed legs. Clearly, this troll could not escape and was destined to drown in the cauldron of thick oil. The old witch sensed he had a gentleness about him; his eyes reflected a sad kindness and were not an evil red like those of an oil troll. It was obvious that Odin’s captive was different from the rest of the oil trolls. Manti and Punga insisted on rescuing this troll; they were well hidden and he would be safe with them.
Odin’s first response was a rare outburst of grumpiness that was uncharacteristically unkind. He was on a mission to save Laelia; this troll would just be another problem.
Dominating the night, the loud shrieking voices of crazed oil trolls seemed to be moving closer; possibly they had discovered a missing victim. Maddening squeals from the direction of the ritual sliced through the night, jolting Odin out of his selfishness. He looked into the troll’s frightened eyes and knew he could not abandon him.
Happy with Odin’s decision, Manti limped over to the trembling troll. He watched the albino witch closely as she sat down next to him; he noticed her crooked smile. Her worn but gentle hands took hold of his. She asked him why he feared the oil trolls. Was he not one of them? The youngster studied Manti’s eyes. Here was the same kindness he had seen in the eyes of the red-headed troll who could have made stew out of him. He told her the oil troll elders selected him as their next victim; he would be thrown into the cauldron of black oil to drown. Manti shivered. She asked his name and he responded with “Amal,” which means kind-hearted. He began to cry and wrapped his arms around Manti’s crooked waist; she gave him her strongest hug.
Meanwhile, Odin was thinking that the lunatic trolls must sleep some time. As soon as they dropped from exhaustion, it should be safe for them to move on, taking the lame troll with them. Possibly, the new member of their party would not make them any slower than Manti. He felt a bit ashamed about his earlier grumpiness.
Odin was wrong—oil trolls do not sleep while in the ecstasy of their frenzied dance. After waiting some time for the beating of drums to stop, he decided they needed another plan. Since his only weapons were his intelligence, his flute, and the fox dung he carried, he had better use them wisely. His first thought was of the fox dung and its magic. Odin knew he could be just as shrewd as the little bog fox. He reached into his leather pouch and pulled out some of the potent dung. Completely forgetting his fear of the dark and hiding in the trees’ shadows, he silently moved closer to the oil trolls. With all of his strength, he flung fox dung into the fire blazing under the cauldron.
The four stood back and watched the smoke from the burning fox dung mix with the wet air. Fumes from the dung, permeated with hypnotic dust, encircled the oil trolls. Odin hoped his weapon would befuddle the oil trolls long enough to give them the chance to leave this place of certain death. The effect of the fox dung’s sorcery on the oil trolls was swift. Eyes stinging from the potent smoke, they stumbled and staggered in complete confusion, all the while their yowls of profanity ricocheting through the bog.
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Odin, Punga, Manti and Amal, still hiding in the tangle of trees, were far enough from the fumes to be unaffected. Odin approached the panicked troll hiding behind Manti. He told him to keep up with the old witch as they trotted into the depths of the black bog. Amal and Manti, frantically trying not to stumble, kept up with him. The nasal snorts of confused oil trolls soon faded. Odin slowed his pace. It would be some time before the dull-minded trolls came to their senses and were certain someone had stolen one of their victims.
Cautiously, Odin plowed through the swampy undergrowth. Contrary to his concerns, the strong mountain troll found that Amal was able to move faster than Manti but still chose to stay with her. He often held her arm while the old witch steadied her crooked legs, helping Manti to move faster. When Punga’s sharp sense of hearing could no longer pick up the howls of cursing oil trolls, they stopped to rest. The friendly moon decided to keep them company. With her light shining about them, Punga climbed atop Odin’s head and could see that, for the moment, they were at a safe distance.
Anxious to move on, Odin stood up and broke into a slow trot. He followed the moon’s beams of light shining on bright red and green bayberries growing in the bog’s marshy soil. Usually careful not to offend the birth of new plants, his bare feet crushed the berries. His only thought was their escape and the rescue of his sister.
Amal and Manti did their best to keep up with Odin, but still fell behind. As they struggled along, Manti asked the little troll about the tribe he belonged to and the rites of passage that would have ended his life. When he was a baby, oil trolls had kidnapped him from his home on Mt. Grieg; they raised him as one of their slaves. His crooked legs were due to the oil-polluted water he drank while growing up. Because of his tolerance and gentle nature, the oil trolls considered him weak. This kindness was, in the minds of oil trolls, far worse then his twisted legs. The savage and stupid trolls wanted to eliminate him by letting him sink to the bottom of the cauldron. As Manti and Amal talked of his difficult life, Punga, riding high on Odin’s head and hanging on tightly, used his sharp hearing to listen to all the young troll had to say.
After some time, Manti asked Amal whether he had seen a beautiful female mountain troll. Amal told the old witch that he recalled seeing such a troll while with the tribe on a recent raid. Within a cavern, a young female with lavender eyes and curly black hair was living with a horrible bear-like troll that even the oil trolls feared. The moment Punga overheard this part of the conversation he stumbled down to Odin’s ear and whispered, “We are in luck, this young troll has seen Laelia!”
Odin stopped and stood still; he listened to the young troll describe his sister. Amal’s news that Laelia was still alive set Odin’s heart racing with happiness. Reaching for his flute, his fingers flew over the finger holes as he played a melody of babbling brooks, all the while dancing a silly jig with Punga hanging on for dear life. Manti stood back and watched. She smiled her crooked smile as she thought, with pride, trusting her intuitions and insisting they rescue this troll with the twisted legs was a good omen.
Confident with his surge of hope, Odin was also cautious. He remembered his father had often said, “Luck is being prepared for the moment.” Odin searched the sky for the kind moon, which by now was tinted a delicate green. He guessed she was capricious as she swiftly disappeared beyond the horizon, making way for the faint light of dawn. Odin watched as the gray of morning vaporized into muted greens and blues. The bog’s lush orchids radiating into hues of rosy scarlet and purple-crimson startled him. He had been so engrossed in the message conveyed by the vibrant colors of the aurora borealis that he had not realized life’s colors had returned in all their glory.
Odin was grateful they had outsmarted the oil trolls. Now he believed Amal would need to take over and guide them to Laelia, but he wondered if he could be trusted. After all, he had grown up with the tribe of oil trolls and may have adopted their devious ways. Odin decided to trust and humbly asked for his help. Thankful to be alive and free of the vicious oil trolls, Amal gladly agreed to lead them.
Fighting their way through the maze of tall swamp grasses, Odin was thankful that Amal was their guide. Punga was not so pleased. Growing among prickly ferns and grasses were giant purple orchids, their thick lips enticing then ingesting flying insects. Each time he passed an orchid it reared up and nodded in his direction, wiggling a purple tongue at him. Manti, also suspicious of this bog, moved carefully around the colonies of mushrooms. She was certain that faint cries came from the fungi when she stepped on them. Dripping moss hanging from the trees pestered Odin, their wet fingers slapping his face.
Unbothered by the bog’s deviant personality, Amal moved on. The young troll trudged through the spongy peat moss, never hesitating to help Manti as she struggled to keep up. Eventually, Amal led them out of the wetlands and into a steeply inclined gulch filled with massive boulders that splintered into sliced stones. After aggravating hours of stumbling through and stubbing their toes on the stone’s jagged edges, the relentless group of trolls and the little cricket made it to the summit.
Manti had lived in the bog all of her life. The higher elevation with less oxygen made breathing difficult for the aged witch. Her companions, except for Punga, shared her exhaustion. Flattened stones scattered underneath their tired bodies became their bed. All but Punga soon fell into deep sleep.