Punga was weary. He spent the entire night guiding Odin away from the oil trolls’ sacred lake of horses. Although just a simple insect, he was persistent and would do all he could to help his friend. As the gray dawn spread across the sky, it was time for Punga to rest. He crawled into Odin’s beard and anchored himself in its tangled hair. In the distance, the lonely song of a loon chimed across the bog’s lake and lulled Punga into unsettled sleep.
Throughout the night, Odin trotted on at his steadfast pace, not missing a beat. Now, with Punga asleep, he was on his own. He forced himself to continue in spite of exhaustion. With horrifying images of peat bog mummies whirling through his mind, Odin soon forgot Punga’s warnings and moved carelessly through the unfamiliar land.
Odin’s big feet rapidly hitting the wet ground jarred the little cricket out of his warm nest. Now wide awake and disturbed by his friend’s erratic behavior, Punga perched himself on Odin’s head, but it was too late; he was trotting straight into a lush cluster of nettles. The leaves, covered with hair-like fuzz, sweat a gooey liquid that stings flesh. As Odin plunged straight into the nettle patch, it wrapped itself around his legs and left a yellowish secretion of sticky resin that stung and burned his skin.
There was only one remedy to stop the pain—thick, cold mud. Losing all caution and again forgetting Punga’s words of wisdom, Odin rushed into the willowy sedges that circled a sandy pool of water. The nettles’ sting dominated his thoughts as he scooped up handfuls of cold mud and smeared it on his legs to cool and soothe the pain.
From his vantage point, Punga could see that they were in a swampy and dangerous area containing pools of water and sand. He screamed in the biggest voice he could summon, warning his friend.
However, Odin’s focus was entirely on the stinging of the nettles and he did not hear the pleading of his friend. Once his legs were covered with mud and the pain subsided, he discovered that nettles grew in every direction. He had to get out of this patch of herbs armed with stinging hairs. He could see a sandy path that was clear and leading away from the nettles.
Thus, ignoring his friend’s shouted warnings, Odin raced down the sandy path, unaware of what lay ahead. But from his perch atop Odin’s head, Punga could see he was trotting blindly toward a bowl of water masked with sedges and water lilies. In an instant, the ground liquefied under Odin’s feet, sucking him down into a pit of quicksand. Panic spread throughout his body, rendering him so weak he could not fight the terrifying fluid. Brown ooze bubbled up, first encircling his waist and then creeping under his armpits. The liquid sand felt like heavy cement pushing against his lungs as if to squeeze him to death. Odin’s arms flailed to keep his mouth and nose above the suffocating mass of sand and water. Fear gripping his throat squeezed it shut so he could barely breathe. The more he wrestled with the watery sludge, the faster he sank. Quicksand, like a vacuum, was pulling him under.
Punga, who was still hanging on to Odin’s curly hair, witnessed the sand metamorphose into a watery, brown demon trying to devour them both. The living quagmire was moving and rippling while Odin flailed his arms, beating against its massive body. Pulsations throbbed within the watery morass. Each throb pulled Odin deeper into its waiting belly.
Fighting to keep his head above the quagmire, Odin saw silhouetted against the blue sky a great gray owl perched in a tall spruce. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard a calm female voice instructing him, “Stop! Stop struggling!” He pulled himself together, concentrating on the voice that was commanding, but calm. Gaining self-control he listened to what the voice was saying. “Stop struggling! Relax and float on your back!”
Although still certain he was going to drown in the watery sand, Odin let his body relax. He slowly lay back and made sweeping swimming motions with his arms and legs. In moments, he reached the pond’s edge and climbed on his hands and knees out of the treacherous mire. Weak with fright, Odin raised himself up and stood on quivering legs. Reluctantly giving up the troll’s body, the brown demon gurgled and belched bubbles of resentment.
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With Punga now safe in his beard, Odin turned to face the spruce tree, but the owl was gone. In its place was a green mist. The mist hovered briefly and then, carried away by a soft wind, left a fleeting scent of jasmine lingering over the sand and water. His battle with the brown demon left Odin grateful for solid ground, but totally exhausted. He collapsed on a nearby blanket of peat moss and fell into a deep sleep.
Punga, shaken by their narrow escape, scolded himself. He must be ever more vigilant in trying to keep his friend out of danger.
Odin slept the entire day. Nightmares of pulsating quicksand sucking his body under kept him in a state of turmoil. Female mummies wrapped in wolf fur floated in and out of a fitful sleep.
Twilight’s chilled droplets of fog falling on his face startled him awake. His only thought was to escape from the bog’s cunning snares. If only he could keep moving, he might outrun the ghouls that seemed to be chasing him. He jumped up and, with Punga tucked in his beard, began trotting.
When the dark of night swallowed the day, hunger pains wracked his body. The idea of staying hungry as an animal had lost all appeal. His need for food chased away his usual fear of the night.
Odin went to work making a fire in a suitable spot. The small tinderbox he kept in his leather poach was dry and held charred torchwood, a fungus that grew on tree trunks. He used his flint on the torchwood to do what trolls have done for thousands of years—he made a fire to cook with and keep him warm through the damp night. But most of all the fire was to keep unfriendly creatures away. Just the process of putting this primitive camp together lightened Odin’s spirits. Attracted to the light of the fire, a lunar moth fluttered along with its eight-inch wingspan. The white moth darted and danced in the night’s moist air, hypnotized by the light of Odin’s fire.
A loud chorus of quarrelsome bullfrogs drifted throughout the forest. Splendid frogs, as old as sixteen years, assembled around the pond’s muddy waters to dominate and scold the younger ones. Their throats swelled with uncouth croaking as they spent their time waiting for their evening meal of small snakes, worms, and insects. The bullfrog’s song, a low rumbling like that of a tight string on a bass fiddle, and their constant bickering amongst themselves dominated the sounds of the night. The self-reliant frogs, constantly on guard, kept watch for the trickster raccoon that often made a meal of lazy frogs. Odin believed the frogs were reincarnated trolls and never caught one for his dinner.
Once his fire was blazing brightly, Odin scouted about the area for food. Amid the bog’s wet, leafy plants, he discovered one of his favorite delicacies—a few slimy slugs. Joyfully, he collected them for his dinner. He picked a slender strong stick and slid the slugs’ long, green bodies onto the stick. He then roasted them over the roaring fire. The pudgy slugs splattered grease and caused the fire to sizzle and spark.
Meanwhile, Punga prowled about to find his dinner. He carefully avoided the area where Odin found the slow-moving slugs. These soft gastropods crawl on wet nights and would consider Punga an enjoyable meal. He was glad his friend was having a fair number of them for his meal.
While scouting for food, Punga discovered a crabapple tree and alerted his friend. Odin picked the little apples, cutting up small bites for Punga’s tiny mouth. The sweet juices also satisfied Odin and, late into the night, he slipped into dreamless sleep.
Punga, up all night, listened closely to the night sounds. He heard the mournful cry of the whippoorwill and the shrill screams of hungry animals fighting over their prey. Nectar-seeking bats flew over his head gathering pollen on their snouts, all the while pollinating orchids. Whiskered bats zoomed through the air, capturing insects in flight. With full bellies, they would return to their cave and sleep upside down until another nightfall. Orchids emitted scents that seduced moths fluttering in the night sky. The moth’s twelve-inch long beak-like proboscis gathered the orchid’s sugary nectar while fertilizing the temptress’s flowers. Trees harbored spiders that wove their magic into webs. The clever spiders silently spun their ingenious architectural masterpieces to the ground hoping to ensnare unsuspecting critters such as Jerusalem crickets. Punga would make a perfect morsel for such a spider or the insect-eating bat. He must be careful in his search for food and not end up a tasty meal for some other creature of the night.
Suddenly, the deafening din of the frogs was hushed. All of the night’s music ceased. In the stillness, Punga could hear his tiny heart beating.
Warm wind, veiled in green, merged with the fog. Punga saw within its mist the banshee wrapped in her cloak. With a gentle breeze her sheltering hood slipped, revealing just a hint of her white face and the fire in her emerald eyes.
Just as quietly as she appeared, she was gone. Once again, the bog rang with night sounds as the frogs broke the silence with their chorus of songs and mutual disagreement. Punga worried that her appearance was a warning of more danger ahead.