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    To Boil a Manchild
    To Boil a Manchild
    To Boil a Manchild
    Ebook109 pages1 hour

    To Boil a Manchild

    By Ulf Wolf

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    About this ebook

    I am Kurr. 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, when I sit to think on this I see that what is seen as odd is often seen through odd-seeing eyes and that is what I tell myself, that I am not so odd perhaps as the mountain thinks I am, and this I sometimes tell my father and sometimes tell his father and sometimes tell his father too who is over four thousand seasons old for we are an enduring race in more ways than one.

    My father's name is Krull. His father's name is Barr. His father's name is Hirka and he is the wisest troll alive.

    I say this to them not to argue with my elders but to be true to what I see and how I understand things but they do not understand me or they disagree with me or maybe don't even listen to me and instead look at me as if I wish to argue with my elders which is not such a good thing to do, and so they say nothing to me in return.

    They think me odd, I think.

    Mother agrees with the mountain and certainly thinks me odd. Trolls marry at five hundred seasons, she says, or sooner and prods me with her walking 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 smarting and all this so fast I have no time to think of an answer before she looks more hurt than I do 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—she is very quick though with that walking stick or that broom, I think. Especially for her age.

    But on one thing I agree with her for I too believe she has a son no one wants for the shefolk of the mountain all think me odd as well and few will even talk to me. Fewer still (I can count them on my left thumb) have asked to dance with me at feast and none has ever held my hand. Most shefolk look at me as if I belong with the wolves.

    But that does not worry me so much. What worries me is that the mountain laughs at Mother behind her back for having such an odd son who no one wants. That is one thing I worry about and sit to think on often. That Mother is unhappy and that I am the reason.

    Father, he does not care, leave the boy be 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 Krull 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 then almost always adds, had caught four manchilds at your age and she prods me again with her walking 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 not very hard. And, I add to myself, but would not tell her even if I had the time, of the four manchilds Krull 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 as caughts. Also, I think to myself but wouldn't say that either, Father likes the hunt and I have no thirst for that.

    But now I must catch a manchild. I and a shefolk called Hulgur. We were the ones who chose the blue fetching stones.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUlf Wolf
    Release dateNov 5, 2016
    ISBN9781370977130
    To Boil a Manchild
    Author

    Ulf Wolf

    Ulf is a Swedish name that once meant Wolf. So, yes, Wolf Wolf, that's me. I was born Ulf Ronnquist one snowy night in late October, in one of those northern Swedish towns that are little more than a clearing in the forest. Fast forward through twenty Swedish years, ten or so English ones, and another twenty-four in the US and you'll find me in front of an immigrations officer conducting the final citizenship interview, at the end of which he asks me, "What name would you like on your passport?" And here I recall what a friend had told me, that you can pick just about any name you want at this point, and I heard me say "Ulf Wolf." That's how it happened. Scout's honor. Of course, I had been using Ulf Wolf as a pen name for some time before this interview, but I hadn't really planned to adopt that as my official U.S. name. But I did. I have written stories all my life. Initially in Swedish, but for the last twenty or so years in English. To date I have written six novels, four novellas and two scores of stories; along with many songs and poems. My writing focus these days is on life's important questions (in my view): Who are we? What are we doing here? And how do we break out of this prison?

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      Book preview

      To Boil a Manchild - Ulf Wolf

      To Boil a Manchild

      A Fairy Tale

      Ulf Wolf

      Smashwords Edition

      October 2019

      Copyright

      To Boil a Manchild

      Copyright 2019 by Wolfstuff

      http://wolfstuff.com

      All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      Smashwords License Notes

      This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      ::

      Contents

      To Boil a Manchild

      Contribution

      About the Author

      I am Kurr. 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, when I sit to think on this I see that what is seen as odd is often seen through odd-seeing eyes and that is what I tell myself, that I am not so odd perhaps as the mountain thinks I am, and this I sometimes tell my father and sometimes tell his father and sometimes tell his father too who is over four thousand seasons old for we are an enduring race in more ways than one.

      My father’s name is Krull. His father’s name is Barr. His father’s name is Hirka and he is the wisest troll alive.

      I say this to them not to argue with my elders but to be true to what I see and how I understand things but they do not understand me or they disagree with me or maybe don’t even listen to me and instead look at me as if I wish to argue with my elders which is not such a good thing to do, and so they say nothing to me in return.

      They think me odd, I think.

      Mother agrees with the mountain and certainly thinks me odd. Trolls marry at five hundred seasons, she says, or sooner and prods me with her walking 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 smarting and all this so fast I have no time to think of an answer before she looks more hurt than I do 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—she is very quick though with that walking stick or that broom, I think. Especially for her age.

      But on one thing I agree with her for I too believe she has a son no one wants for the shefolk of the mountain all think me odd as well and few will even talk to me. Fewer still (I can count them on my left thumb) have asked to dance with me at feast and none has ever held my hand. Most shefolk look at me as if I belong with the wolves.

      But that does not worry me so much. What worries me is that the mountain laughs at Mother behind her back for having such an odd son who no one wants. That is one thing I worry about and sit to think on often. That Mother is unhappy and that I am the reason.

      Father, he does not care, leave the boy be 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 Krull 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 then almost always adds, had caught four manchilds at your age and she prods me again with her walking 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 not very hard. And, I add to myself, but would not tell her even if I had the time, of the four manchilds Krull 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 as caughts. Also, I think to myself but wouldn’t say that either, Father likes the hunt and I have no thirst for that.

      I think perhaps this is my own private oddness. I should have the thirst, for it is a troll thirst, but I cannot find it anywhere no matter how hard I look for it or where I look or for how long.

      But now I must catch a manchild. I and a shefolk called Hulgur. We were the ones who chose the blue fetching stones.

      Oden is angry with us. And Hirka who is the wisest among us and who never has to shout to be heard even though he whispers mostly has decided that we must once again catch a manchild and boil it as an offering to Oden to please him and make him favor us again.

      I do not understand Oden. I have thought on him often. If we are his first people, as I have been told all my life and which I believe to be so, why does he drive us farther into the mountain and deeper into the earth? Why does he give more and more of the forest to manfolk like he took our grasses and lakes many seasons ago and gave them to manfolk? Why did he give them roads and iron rail and engines to fly on them like the fastest deer?

      Hirka says it is Oden’s way to make us stronger. I know Hirka is wise but I am not sure he is right.

      I have asked Oden to answer this question for over two hundred seasons now but if Oden chooses not to answer he does not answer, that is what the wisest among us say. For sure Oden chooses not to answer me, for he never talks back.

      The only good thing I can see about the wide roads and iron rail is they drove away not only us but the wolves too.

      Yes, all things considered (and reconsidered often) Oden must be angry with us. And so, at Hirka’s whispered wish, my father called a meeting of the whole mountain.

      The great hall was lit with many torches and not a troll was missing. They stood in murmuring groups by clan or family except for the children who didn’t care about such yet and sat mixed along the walls, wide-eyed and silent for a change. Each of us were to choose one stone from the many in the skin held open by Barr. One by one my father called our names and we heard it and walked up to Barr and stuck our hand within the skin and rattled the stones and tried to sense the color blue with our fingers, some to choose it and some, like me, to avoid it. But trolls do not see color through touch so many were disappointed to find their stone red or green or gray or black or white or many-colored like flint, and I was disappointed to find mine blue. Hulgur seemed pleased to find that the stone she chose was blue, but she also seemed disappointed that I found the other. She thinks me odd.

      Now she and I must find and bring a manchild back to the mountain to boil for Oden or he will stay angry with us and drive us to the center of the earth where there is nothing but darkness and no fire will ever burn.

      You Kurr and you Hulgur chose the fetching stones, my father said from his high seat. Leave the mountain for the lower country and bring us a manchild before next new moon. We will boil it at first sliver.

      Not yet the eldest, but past being chief, Barr squatted between the two tall chairs, my father’s to his right, and Hirka’s to his left, holding between his pointed knees the skin now closed and all stones returned to it. He has hair like gray rivers. He has black and angry eyes. He said nothing. It is not his place to speak and you can tell that he is not much fond of holding his tongue.

      Hirka sat very big and silent and was now expected to say something. The hall was long noiseless to give him time to think. He did not speak and did not speak and in the end lifted his hand

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