Deep laugh lines that once wrinkled Odin’s weathered face were now grim. The banshee’s message left him with a sense of hopelessness; his world of vivid greens and reds faded into gray. Punga, sitting on Odin’s shoulder, felt the rage building and ready to explode in his friend’s body. Clenching his teeth and shouting curses across the mountaintops, Odin ranted at how life was unfair.
His father named him Odin, meaning “bringer of victory.” But he was young, untested in battle, and his life had been simple except for the death of his parents. However, Punga knew he was a courageous mountain troll. Not one to give in, the wise little cricket climbed up Odin’s beard trying to reach his pointed ear. It was not until he had a firm grip that Odin noticed the pinch and realized his friend was there. Over and over Punga was shouting, “We can’t let this happen.”
Punga told Odin he had a plan and was amazed that his words of confidence had such an effect on his friend as, in reality, he had no plan whatsoever. By now, Odin had calmed down and listened to what Punga had to say. Encouraged, he began, with Punga’s help, busily preparing for their journey into the wilderness of the bog, the domain of Zote and the evil oil trolls.
Their first worry on such a dangerous mission was self-protection. Odin’s father defended himself from the oil trolls with the atlatl stick, a launching device for throwing spears. Unlike his father, Odin never learned to use an atlatl and spear. Instead, he selected two of the strangest weapons to take with him in search of his sister—a flute and a small pouch filled with fox dung.
Odin’s mother had carved his flute from lapis lazuli, an azure-blue stone. Well known among the trolls, this stone was a noted cure for melancholy and a protection from evil.
Clever with his flute, Odin made it magical as he mimicked the sounds of nature. On sunny days, he imitated the ripples in the river that hummed soothing cradlesongs. When storm clouds shadowed and rained over Mt. Grieg, he listened and mocked the rivers as they screamed and babbled their tunes. On silent starless nights, Odin escaped into his music as he was afraid of the dark.
The second weapon Odin chose was even stranger than the flute. He carried fox dung in a leather pouch that hung from a cord around his neck. The old bog witch, Manti, who lived in the black water swamps, had revealed to Odin’s mother the secret power of fox dung. His mother passed it on to him. Throughout his life, the clever fox had earned Odin’s respect as a trickster who was smarter then his enemy. The dung would give Odin the courage and cunning of a fox. But he also knew that fox dung could befuddle any troll who did not consider the clever fox worthy of admiration.
At first, Punga did not approve of Odin’s choice of weapons, but soon came to realize he would be a formidable warrior, even without the atlatl’s power. Odin’s father was a strapping, full-muscled troll, but his son had grown a full head taller with broader shoulders, powerful arms and legs, and a massive tail. Now, in these troubled times, Odin was his own troll and did not choose the usual course of mountain troll warriors. Punga knew his friend armed himself with intelligence and tolerance for others; these would be his most powerful weapons.
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Aside from the flute and fox dung, Odin was determined to travel light; the less he carried the quicker his movements. He refused to eat prior to departure. He kept his stomach empty so that, like a hungry animal, he was alert. When thirsty, he would stop to drink water seeping out of cliff rocks. When hungry, he would live off the bog’s bounty.
Odin took out his flute and held it for a moment in his calloused hands, his fingers pressing energy into the pores of the blue stone. He put the flute to his lips and, in his sadness, remembered Laelia’s favorite melody. The tender music spoke of sunbeams drifting through the forest treetops. Punga crawled up to Odin’s shoulder, reminding his friend in his biggest voice that the day was getting on and the dark of night would soon be upon them. They must move on. Odin set aside the flute and abandoned his moment of self-pity. Hoisting up his pack, he plunged down the mountain.
Odin was soon some distance from his home on Mt. Grieg. Above his mountain, an orange ball hung high in the morning sky; its rays shimmered on Odin’s hair radiating a copper hue. Punga, a nocturnal cricket irritated by the sun’s brightness, crawled down and snuggled in Odin’s beard to sleep.
As he looked down from his mountain, a sea of fog, swollen and throbbing with life, hovered over the bogs. In the distance, shrill cries rolled up from the swampy waters below. Odin shivered. Threatened by the dense fog and the secrets hidden in its vapors, he hesitated. The fledgling troll was about to spread his wings and enter an unknown land.
Bravely, he pulled his shoulders back and plunged farther down the mountainside toward the fog’s abyss.
As Odin scurried down his mountain, stumbling and dodging the boulders in his path, he wondered about the shadow that was always with him. From the time he was a young troll, he believed his silent shadow kept secrets. He feared that one day soon, this dark image of himself would turn and face him, whispering that Laelia was dead. This thought unsettled him; he picked up the pace as he headed down into the realm of the black water bog.
Soon the mountain’s steep slope emptied into a ravine of tall white spruce and tangled grasses that slowed his pace. Ahead, he saw a grove of dwarfed black spruce bordering the bottom of Mt. Grieg. Winds now moaned eerily across the trees and the spirits of darkness seemed to be hiding in every bush. Anxious, he was well aware they were entering the bog. Recalling his father’s tales, Odin imagined swamps full of oil trolls with clawed feet, giant frogs with whiskers and bat wings, bog lizards that wore horns on their heads and spat blood at their enemies.
He stood in the dense thicket of spruce trees, their black-needled branches blocking out the blue sky. Odin turned to have one last look at his mountain; pangs of panic stabbed at his stomach. He could no longer see the majestic peaks of Mt. Grieg.