Troll Blood
Katherine Langrish
For all my family
Many thanks to:Phil Scott for telling me about the Viking Ship Museum,
the staff of the Viking Ship Museum, Roskilde, Denmark,who showed me how to sail a reconstructed Viking-age ship,
Diane Chisholm of the Mi’kmaq Resource Centre,University of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia,who patiently answered my many enquiries,
Dr Ruth Holmes Whitehead, who kindly read the manuscriptand made many invaluable suggestions concerning Mi’kmaq lore.
As always, any remaining mistakes are my own responsibility.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 3 “Be careful what you wish for”
CHAPTER 4 The Nis Amuses Itself
CHAPTER 14 Disturbances and Tall Tales
CHAPTER 15 A Walk on the Beach
CHAPTER 18 “A Son like Harald.”
CHAPTER 19 Down the Dark River
CHAPTER 20 Thorolf the Seafarer
CHAPTER 22 The Fight in the House
The Mist Persons are busy, crouching on wave-splashed rocks out in the gulf, blowing chilly whiteness over the sea. Their breath rolls like a tide over the beach and the boggy meadowlands near the river mouth, and flows far up the valley, spreading into the dark woods on either side.
A birch-bark canoe comes whirling down river through the wet fog. Kneeling in the prow, Kwimu braces himself against the cross-piece. He lifts a long pole like a lance, ready to fend off rocks. Each bend, each stretch of rapids comes as a surprise. Even the banks are hard to see.
The canoe bucks. Kwimu feels the river hump its back like an animal. The canoe shoots over the hump and goes arrowing into a narrow gorge, where tall cliffs squeeze the water into a mad downhill dash. Spray splashes in, and Fox, curled against his knees, shakes an irritated head. Fox hates getting wet.
A rock! Kwimu jabs the pole, swaying to keep his balance as the canoe swerves lightly away. It hurtles down a sleek slope and goes shivering and bouncing into roaring white water at the bottom. Again and again Kwimu flicks out the pole, striking here and there, turning the canoe between the rocks. Sometimes a whirlpool catches them, trying to hold them back and pull them down, but Kwimu’s father Sinumkw, kneeling behind him, gives a mighty thrust with his paddle and sends them shooting on.
A bend in the river. More rocks. Kwimu throws back his wet hair, every muscle tense. They dart down, twining into the curve, hugging the base of the cliff where the water is deeper and smoother. It’s cold here; the wet, grainy stone drips, and the mist writhes in weird shapes. There’s a splash and an echo, and it’s not just the paddle. The canoe tilts, veers. Fox springs up, snarling, showing his white teeth and black gums, and for a heartbeat Kwimu sees a thin muddy hand clutch at the prow. A head plastered with wet hair rises from the water. It winks at him with an expression of sullen glee, and ducks under.
Cold with shock, Kwimu flings a wild glance back at his father. But Sinumkw simply shouts, “Look what you’re doing!” And they’re snatched into the next stretch of rapids.
They