Darkest Water
A Minta Story

My Troll Mother Minta does not like water, which is putting it mildly.

Of course, like all living creatures on this earth, she needs to drink the stuff to sustain life, but those waters are small, carriable, and not deep.

What Minta does not like is larger, deeper waters, say lakes, tarns, rivers, oceans. Those waters she does not even like to talk about, much less visit, or heaven forbid, swim in.

I’ve asked her a few times, what gives with you and water, and neither time has she even deigned to admit she heard the question. I’ve learned to give the subject a wide berth.

Still, I’m curious. Most denizens of our little planet harbor a healthy respect for larger, deeper waters, but we do not go to troll extremes. It’s a mystery—was a mystery, for I nailed her down once and had her tell me, really, what on earth gives?

I was sauntering through a southern beech forest one morning when she appeared (as she’s wont to do) out of nowhere to suddenly walk by my side, adjusted to my height (Minta can be as tall—within reason—or as short—within similar reason—as she wants to be when she appears like this). It was late April, the day was brilliant, birdsong everywhere; soft, mild winds susurrusing (new verb) in the light green canopy.

“How’s my favorite human?” she asks, apropos pretty much nothing.

“Well, glad to see you to.”

“A little far away from home?”

“Just visiting.”

“Visiting?”

“Her name is Lisa.”

“You haven’t mentioned her.”

“I haven’t?”

“No.” Well she should know, her memory is something to keep children behaving with, she forgets nothing, ever.

“She’s a lovely girl from up your parts of the country.”

“Lapland?”

“Indeed.”

“An introduction, sometime, perhaps?”

I shake my head. “Hm, no, probably not.”

She’s about to protest when we come upon a small pond, about twenty meters across. Dark water though, dead dark, surprisingly dark. Two large swans glide about; well, at least they appear large but that might have more to do with the size of the pond than the size of the swans. Curious, I wanted to take a closer look to determine which, but as I walk towards it Minta grabs my arm and steers me to the left, way left, to walk very clear of this water.

“Minta!”

She doesn’t answer, just pulls and walks.

I stop. I retrieve my arm—which takes some doing. “Minta!” again. “What is it with you and water?”

She shakes her head.

“No, really, what is it?” I stop and refuse to move, daring her to force me, which I know she will not do.

She shakes her head again.

“This is silly,” I say. “Why won’t you tell me?”

She looks at me, a long, steady look as if measuring something. Am I up for this, or is she up for this? One or the other or both. Then she nods, walks over to a large beech and sits down and leans against it. She invites me to sit down beside her with a sweeping hand gesture.

I can tell a Minta story is coming. She is looking up at the sun-spangled canopy, draws a long breath, more like a sigh, and begins to speak.

:

The waters up here are different from the southern lakes and seas. Hungrier. Troll hungrier. Before arriving here, before our trek to escape the giants, trolls loved water, I guess at heart we still do, but not these waters. We used to swim in the cool lakes, to revel in the salty sea, cooling down from the hot sun and heavy air that usually filled our southern days.

This was long ago. Long ago.

I don’t know what we ever did to the northern waters, but we soon came to find out, they hate us.

:

I was about to point out that water is not sentient, lakes and tarns and ponds do not emote one way or another. What did she mean? But one look at her face, which was now gazing inward with concentration, in thrall to the past, advised me to shut up.

:

Once we arrived—many years ago, as I said—and settled in our first large mountain cave, safely far apart from both humans and giants, two young trolls, not much more than children, went looking for suitable lakes or tarns for the occasional dip and swim.

They never returned.

Several search parties spent days and nights and more days and nights without finding a trace. No one knew what could have happened. Were there giants here too? If so, they had never been heard or spoken of. Wolves then? We are mortal enemies after all, trolls and wolves, but had the two young trolls been killed by them there would have been dead bodies. Wolves like to announce their troll killing to the world and will leave the killed trolls as trophies for all to see, killed but never eaten since wolves deem troll meat the foulest of foods and will only eat a slain troll as a very, very last resort, just one small step up from starvation.

Not wolves then.

We entire tribe grieved with the dead children’s parents and we had to put their death or disappearance down to mystery. Until.

Until Bronsil, a good tracker, returned one day from one of his outings with a small scrap of clothing. It had belonged to one of the children.

Where did he find it? we all wondered.

By a small tarn not too far north from here. The scrap had nestled into the mossy shore and he suspected that it had torn and floated up from the deep of the tarn.

They drowned then, we assumed.

Not my child, said one parent, she was an excellent swimmer.

Not my child, said a second parent, he could outswim a grown troll and often did.

What then, we wondered.

All we could do was shake our heads and silently curse Odin under our breaths—you curse him aloud at your peril.

Though no one spoke this aloud, a subtle fear of these northern waters found some footing, and no children, forbidden by their parents, set out again to find some cooling waters.

Adolescent trolls, however, being adolescent—always a far cry from children, at least in their own opinion—found in this situation something to prove, some bravery to be demonstrated, some competition to be entered, even if surreptitiously. No water is going to scare them.

Especially not Ventur or Laxen, two tall males flirting with adulthood. They were not afraid of lakes and tarns and were going to prove it, first to the rest of the young males and then to the adults. Surely the two children had been unfortunate, some accident, something.

Tarns are nothing to be afraid of.

So late one evening, sun still up but now resting on the horizon (about as far as she was going to sink that summer night), Ventur and Laxen and a dozen or so other young ones—all looking up to these two somewhat older, always braver sort of heroes. They had drawn lots, Ventur and Laxen, to see who was going in first, Laxen won (or lost, depending on how you look at it). He was going first.

Approaching the same tarn where the children had drowned, Laxen and Ventur exchanged glances, uncertainty, perhaps even worry in both pairs of eyes. The dark water did not look welcoming. Perhaps even threatening, but that, of course, was just a trick of the light (or lack of it) or of the mind, right? Something real trolls just laugh at, right?

Reaching the edge of the water, Laxen turned to Ventur, “I’ll dive in, then swim to the center of the tarn and swim back.”

“And I’ll do the same,” said Ventur, “if you make it back alive.” The joke perhaps not the most appropriate under the circumstances but they both smiled if for no other reason than for the benefit of their gathered fans.

Laxen removed his coat and breeches and stepped back for a running start. “Here goes,” he said and, indeed went.

A short runup saw him arc quite gracefully into the dark water and then vanish for some time. And then for a little more time, until, almost halfway to the center, her surfaced and laughed and his excellent joke. He waved toward the shore and then swam the rest of the distance to mid-tarn. Here he turned and waved again.

Some later said that they then heard him say, “Nothing to it.” Others then said that he added, looking down into the water, “Hey, what’s…?” and then he vanished.

Ventur and the rest of them waited for this new joke to run its course and for Laxen to show up halfway back to shore if not all the way back, for he was an excellent under-water swimmer. And waited.

And waited.

Then they began looking at each other and now asking Ventur if Laxen was all right, how long could he stay under, did Ventur know?

Ventur didn’t know but was the first to realize that something was wrong, Laxen could not stay down this long. At that, for they were not only fierce competitors but also the best of friends, Ventur shed his cloak and breeches and dove in after his friend.

That was the last anyone ever saw of Ventur, or Laxen.

:

Minta drew a deep sight. Looked over at me as if to gauge my reaction. Did I follow?

I followed, very closely. I nodded to indicate this and this seemed to satisfy her.

She drew new breath and continued.

:

After the returning adolescent squad had told the tale and then suffered both admonitions and punishment fueled by both fear and outrage the law was laid down, there was to be no swimming in northern waters. None.

Still, the question remained among the elders: what had actually happened to the children and now to the two young trolls. How come they all drowned? Ventur and Laxen near enough fully grown and both excellent swimmers. Vanished. And another, perhaps more important question: should they let matters rest at this or should they try to find out what had really happened to the four trolls?

After much debate it was decided that they would not, could not let matters rest, but would endeavor to discover the reason behind these tragedies.

It fell upon Krull and Kurr, two brothers in their prime known for both strength and wits. They would device a way to find out what had happened, without—needless to say—drowning themselves. That last was stressed over and over again for obvious reasons.

This is what they decided to do.

Assuming that Laxen’s last words (as heard and reported by some and then verified more than once by both Krull and Kurr) were indeed, “Hey, what’s…?” while looking down into the water, they also assumed that something or someone had seized Laxen and pulled him down, and also that the same something or someone had then also seized and drowned Ventur. The trick was to now expose that killer of trolls and if possible kill it right back.

Perhaps it was only this tarn, went hope, and perhaps, if it could be killed, the northern waters would again be safe for trolls.

Krull and Kurr reasoned that this something was obviously strong enough to pull down and drown a swimming troll, but that it might not be strong enough to pull down a troll attached to several well-sealed and inflated waterbags, each impossible to pull very far below the surface—if at all—or for very long even by a strong troll. If they could tie four well-inflated water bags to one of them (to be determined by lot) their reasoning (which the elders could find not fault with) was that there was no way that the hidden, suspected puller would have the strength, especially from mid-water, with neither foothold nor purchase, to pull a troll down.

The more they examined this, the more angles they viewed it from, the more convinced they grew that, yes, this would actually work.

They would also build a light but sturdy raft and paddle to the middle of the tarn and from there one of them (still to be determined by lot), armed with a sharp knife, would enter the water, while the other, likewise armed, would stay on the raft and dive in to assist would it, Odin forbit, come to that.

They presented their final plan to the elders who after some debate back and forth (mostly for appearances sake) agreed and approved.

Three elders, it was decided, would come with Krull and Kurr to observe.

Two weeks later, fall was now approaching, days shorter, evenings darker, the well-sealed and inflated—and well-tested—waterbags were ready along with the raft.

Five trolls set out to the forbidden tarn, where Krull and Kurr had already secured their raft. Krull and Kurr carried two waterbags each, all almost hard to the touch from the imprisoned (and none too happy) air inside.

In the end, Kurr had pulled the longest straw (the way you lose a troll lot) and was now securing the four waterbags to his chest.

Firmly. Securely.

With the blessings of the elders, both of them scrambled onto the raft and slowly paddled out to the middle of the tarn. At a signal—a wave—from the shore, Kurr slipped into the cool and dark where he floated quite high in the water from the waterbags.

Then nothing.

Then nothing.

Then, “Krull. My ankle. Like a rope, tight. Pulling.” But the waterbags kept him afloat.

“There’s another rope,” said Kurr.

“Can you cut it?” asked Krull.

Which is where they realized that there was no way Kurr could reach the ropes twining around his ankles and now, a third, around his leg. The water bags kept his shoulders above the surface and the legs and ankles were too far down to reach.

“No, I can’t,” said Kurr. Krull, seeing the problem, swore.

“There’s another,” said Kurr. Screamed Kurr. Who now, along with Krull noticed that the pull was strong enough to drag even the bags halfway below the surface.

“Another. And hard.” And the bags sank below.

At this Krull had only one choice: to dive in, with his knife and cut Kurr free from the ropes, and this none too soon, for now Kurr vanished below the surface.

Krull took a very deep breath, and knife in hand he dove.

The water was dark and murky. Initially, Krull had some trouble seeing Kurr and any ropes. But then, as his vision adjusted and his eyes grew used to the water, the horrific truth appeared very clearly.

Kurr, slowly being pulled down was being dragged by a copse of fat tendrils, ten maybe twenty, all twining around his legs and now some around his waist. Krull swam down to Kurr’s ankles and began slicing with his knife which he prayed was sharp enough to sever these ropes, these tendrils, this, what was it? This evil grass.

The first slice severed two or three strands, the second three or more. Yes, sharp enough. He sliced again, and with that a few more and Kurr and the water bags rushed to the surface leaving a confused, and very angry copse of hungry tendrils behind. A sixth sense told Krull that it was only a matter of moments before they discovered him and seized him instead, so with all his might he swam for the surface, found the raft and clambered onboard, from where he now grabbed Kurr and pulled him aboard as well.

Neither said anything for many breaths, resupplying air to starving lungs.

“What was that?” Kurr said finally.

“Water grass of some sort,” said Krull. “Sentient water grass. Strong, and very, very long. They must have risen from the bottom of this water. They must be fastened somehow or they could not pull so hard.”

“Tarns are supposed to be bottomless,” said Kurr.

“If so,” said Krull, “these grasses are infinitely long.” Krull grabbed the paddle and steered them to shore.

The three elders helped them ashore from the raft but did not ask any questions. Krull and Kurr would tell them all they needed to know soon enough.

And they did.

And we have not swum in these waters since.

:

“Does that answer your question?” she said, not liking me for having put her through this telling.

I nodded. “Yes. Yes, it does.” Then I said, “Perhaps it was just that one tarn?”

“No,” she shook her head. “We have since heard from other trolls, neighboring tribes, who have had children and fully grown trolls as well drown the same way. We shared with them what we, Krull and Kurr, had found and they nodded all the way through our explanation. Though they had not put their suspicions to similar test, this is what they did assume. The northern lakes are hungry for trolls, they said. They are not safe for trolls.

“Did they say why?”

“They didn’t offer and I didn’t ask.”

“Something they did to the lakes, or tarns ages past?” I said.

She shrugged, “Possibly, yes. Probably.”

Neither of us spoke for a while. The light was almost dazzling, the birds all sounded very happy that spring was knocking on the door.

“They obviously don’t mind humans,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I, after quite a lot of tarn swimming in my days.”

“I guess,” she said.

::