Kurr is a troll, and is considered young at seven hundred seasons—that would be approximately 175 years old for you humans.
Kurr is not wed, he has caught no manchilds, and the mountain thinks him odd, to say the least. But now that Odin seems to favor man rather than trolls, he and Hulgur (a young she-troll) are sent to catch a manchild for boiling: the only way the mountain knows to appease Odin and regain his favor.
This is Kurr’s story.
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I am young at seven hundred seasons.
I am not yet wed, I have caught no manchilds, and the mountain thinks me odd.
But as with many things if you sit to think on them, odd is seen through odd eyes mostly and that is what I tell myself, that I am not so odd perhaps which I sometimes tell my father and sometimes tell his father and sometimes tell his father too who is over four thousand seasons for we are an old race in more ways than one. I tell them this not to argue but to be true to what I see, but they usually do not understand or agree and instead look at me as if I wish to argue and say nothing to me. They too think me odd, I think.
Mother agrees with the mountain and certainly thinks me odd. Trolls marry at five hundred, she says, or sooner and prods me with her stick so hard it hurts or bats me with something near at hand a pan a ladle maybe or a broom so hard it hurts and then leaves me with my ribs or head still hurting and so fast I have no time to think of an answer and she too looks hurt as she stomps out and away from me to have such a son that no one wants, ashamed she sometimes tells me that the whole mountain thinks me odd.
I too believe she has a son no one wants for the shefolk of the mountain think me odd as well and few will talk to me. Fewer still have asked to dance with me at feast and none has ever held my hand. Most look at me as if I would be better off with the wolves.
But that does not worry me much. I worry that the mountain laughs at Mother behind her back for having such an odd son no one wants. That is what I worry about and sit to think on often. That Mother is unhappy. Father does not care, leave the boy alone he says he will marry soon enough but then he is not shefolk and no one will laugh behind his back unless he wishes himself married to the earth for father is our chief.
I have caught no manchilds. That is odd for seven hundred seasons says Mother. By now any son of mine she says should have caught at least two, maybe three. Your father, she almost always adds, had caught four at your age and she prods me again with her stick or something else close at hand, a broom or a ladle, so it hurts.
Father, I think but never have time to finish thinking and then say before she stomps out again, reached my age before the roads grew wide and before the rail arrived when catching manchilds was easy. And, I add to myself, but would not tell her even if I had the time, of the four manchilds he caught I hear two died of fright when they first saw him and should not count as caughts for they must be alive when we boil them to count. Also, I think to myself and wouldn’t say either, Father likes the hunt and I have not that thirst.
I think this is my own private oddness. I should have the thirst, it is a troll thirst, but I cannot find it no matter how hard I look or how long.
But now I must catch a manchild. I and a shefolk called Hulgur. We chose the blue stones.