Silent as the flight of an owl and with Punga hiding in his whiskers, Odin moved away from the mass of tangled roots that festered along the river’s edge. If it took only one oil troll to swallow an opossum, a gang could easily swallow Odin and Punga, piece by piece. As he trotted away from the muddy banks, he could think of no worse fate then his teeth hanging from the ears of a female oil troll.
Following his instincts, Odin entered an open passageway that meandered into rows of trees adorned with lacy leaves. Sprouting from the trees’ shapely trunks were smooth branches, hanging low like graceful brown arms. Wrapped in their gowns of green lace and fluttering their delicate leaves, they were flirting with a playful breeze, enchanted with its song. But now here came this troll.
Punga sensed that Odin was slowing his pace and saw that he could not take his eyes off the trees’ swaying limbs. Worrying that their slender arms would reach out and pull Odin into an embrace, he whispered to his friend to keep his eyes down so as not to encourage them.
Almost too late, Punga pulled on Odin’s beard and brought him back to the moment. Looming dangerously ahead lay a grove of stunted black spruce, woven so tightly together that they formed a dark tunnel. The branches were armed with long, prickly needles. Lying in the trees’ shadows was a dead troll whose skin was white, as if drained of blood. Nearby, a clump of skin and fur with a long tail attached was missing its head and entrails; there was no sign of blood. Punga feared something in the bog had a thirst for Odin’s blood. Moist air circling under the spruce’s scaly limbs spawned an evil presence. This was the black water bog, a monstrous hole waiting to inhale and suck them into absolute darkness.
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Odin summoned his courage and trotted onward through the bog’s bizarre plants, dodging the drooping branches of sharp black needles. The bog was silent except for the sound of his own breath heavy in his ear. Stopping to listen, certain he heard whispers surrounding him, his eyes searched the dark shadows. Something slithered on a limb above his head, then rattled near his face. It slipped down and he felt its warmth as it quickly coiled around his neck. Suddenly it let go and scurried down his back. When Odin jerked his head around, it was there and then it was not there. Panic crept into his chest; strength left his legs. He feared the bog was a sly beast, possibly more intelligent then he. Taking control of his fear, his thoughts turned to his sister instead of himself.
Why did Laelia insist, against his wishes, on going into the bog? Like a spider that spins spells into a web to entice its victims, the bog’s secrets kept her under its influence. To venture into this land of sinister moods and peculiar plants without fear, she was truly brave. Precocious, she was always on a quest for knowledge, whereas he was content to stay on his mountain. She may have more of that stuff called courage then he. Did she have a bog witch’s disposition to seek out its mysterious plants? Odin realized he never spent enough time getting to know his sister.
Drifting across the sky, one of planet Ode’s two moons rose above the horizon. Unfortunately, this was the wicked moon. Impulsive, she gave only brief promises of light, then slipped away to hide her stingy red glow behind the clouds. Odin was sorry to see this troublesome moon instead of the ivory-bodied moon, whose golden light in times of trouble was a kindly presence. He worried that the red moon was a bad omen.