Chapter 20. Brumvack Learns the Consequences of Jobs Half Done
Brumvack lay in an exhausted pile on the shore of Dark Water. His limbs were splayed in every direction. He felt weak in the knees, fluttery in the belly, and empty in the head.
But he was satisfied.
The rock, nowhere near as round as it had first appeared, had been nothing but trouble as he had attempted to plug up the hole at the bottom of the lake. Difficult to maneuver on land, it was doubly difficult in the water. Once it was deep in the underground lagoon, it was nearly impossible: he could barely see, his fingers were numb with cold, the lake’s bottom gave no foothold. Brumvack had no lever, and no place to stand. And no knowledge of Greek antiquity.
But he had finally parked the cutting board rock in place. Well, more or less in place. Surely, it would be enough to keep those life-sucking trolls out of his cave.
His cave! Yes, it was now his, Brumvack’s, cave. He had claimed it as his own. If the trolls wanted to pretend that Schmoozeglutton was their leader, well bully for them. He, Brumvack, would remain their actual leader, in power, and in the ancestral caves that were his by divine right. Any troll who thought differently—and evidently they all did—could stay out of that home for as long as they liked. Let them join the creatures of the land, if that’s what they wanted.
Brumvack sighed in exhaustion and contentment. He could see little from his resting place other than the dimly fluorescent ceiling above him, and even that was beginning to swim a little as his heartbeat slowed and his breathing returned to something like normal after his exertions with the rock. He closed his eyes, and meditated upon how nice it would be to finally be alone. To have nothing to see but rocks and stalactites. To have nothing to hear but the gentle lapping of Dark Water upon the shore, as he was hearing now. Well, gentle lapping plus a small splashing sound off in the distance. What could that be? Brumvack didn’t know, but he readily dismissed it. It was just a little splish splash of a noise. Surely, with the constant clamor that life amongst trolls held, he just wasn’t used to the small noises that constantly echoed through this underground world. He raised his arms and legs in a satisfying stretch, sighed again, and collapsed into an even more contented posture.
And, for a few moments or many, he slept.
It was a single drip of water upon the bridge of his nose that woke him. “Whazzat?” he mumbled sleepily, squinching his eyes and furrowing his forehead. There were places in the lower reaches of the caves where occasionally water dripped through the rocky ceiling, but he was unaware of any leaks here on the beach of Dark Water. He rubbed at his nose with his beefy hand, then settled further into the gravelly shore for another siesta. Just as he exhaled another long sigh, another drop of water fell, this time on his bull-like neck.
Brumvack pursed his lips, and ventured open his left eye to have a look around.
Schmatzenbladder stood directly over him, peering down with a heavy scowl. Brumvack started, opening both eyes now, and emitted a bit of a panicked “Waahh!” sound. Then he said, “How…(burp)…how did you get in?”
Now, Brumvack is a smart troll, but even smart trolls occasionally say something before thinking it through completely. Had he had time to formulate the perfect response, it wouldn’t have been “How did you get in,” that question implying as it did his own guilt in blocking the door. But it was too late. The question was already out.
“AHA!” boomed the troll above him. Now, Schmatzenbladder was something of a thick-headed troll, but even a thick-headed troll is capable of occasional leaps of deductive logic. “So you DID lock Schmatzenbladder out!”
“I…er…I…” responded Brumvack. Ordinarily quick with an excuse, Brumvack couldn’t formulate a thought, much less a sentence communicating that thought. The sight of Schmatzenbladder had left him struck dumb. Each “I…” and “…er…” made him look all the more guilty, he knew, but he was helpless to stop himself. His own failure at deflecting his guilt left him even more bamboozled. He strengthened his resolve, he concentrated his thoughts, he coordinated his brain and his tongue. He started again. “I…er…I….”
“You one no good troll!” boomed Schmatzenbladder. He gripped Brumvack by his bicep, and lifted him to a standing position. He went to the trouble of standing him up only so that he would be able to push him down again. He did so, with a forceful two-handed shove that landed Brumvack on his tailbone. “Oof!” cried the deposed leader, and “Ouch!” He crab walked backwards, away from his short but stout nemesis. In the back of his mind, a voice suggested itself: “Now doesn’t this just figure.”
All through Brumvack’s life, he had been able to talk his way out of his problems. Brumvack was a good fighter next to the average biped, but he wasn’t good enough to take on any of the Rabid Band. Now, caught half asleep and fully tongue-tied, he found himself in dire straits. He wouldn’t, he knew, be able to deflect Schmatzenbladder’s anger physically: there were no clubs at hand, and he was in no position to get in a good toss with a rock. If he was going to survive, he’d have to talk his way out of his predicament. “Look here!” he said. “You can’t…um…I…er….”
“YOU ONE NO GOOD TROLL!” Schmatzenbladder boomed, even more loudly than before. “No good! No good!” His mouth, stretched to its widest, could still only barely contain the words. His body bent nearly double with the effort. When words proved themselves insufficient to his anger, he kicked at Brumvack’s receding form. “NO GOOD!” he repeated as his foot connected with Brumvack’s shin.
Brumvack let loose with a yowl of pain. “Look!” he shouted. “I didn’t mean….”
But Schmatzenbladder would have none of it. “Schmatzenbladder not listening!” he said. “Schmatzenbladder listen to Brumvack quite enough! Schmatzenbladder listen to Brumvack never again!” He kicked at the retreating form one more time, then stood, trying to form words that just wouldn’t come. He had been saving up things to say to Brumvack for a few centuries now, but none of them would resolve into coherence. Such are our lost opportunities.
Finally, with eyes wide, Schmatzenbladder screamed out his frustration and rage. The frustration he had felt with the nasty dog-creatures, the fear he had felt as he had tried to enter the cave against a nearly immoveable rock, the anger he felt as he confronted Brumvack with his villainy, all poured forth. It wasn’t a coherent comment, but it served. It was a single long syllable that rang out and echoed through the caverns of the cave: “Ooooooooohhhhhhh!” As he excreted the syllable, his eyes widened even more.
Finally, having said everything he wanted to say, he glared at Brumvack with finality, uttered a “Hmmph!” and turned on his heel. He strode back into Dark Water, plunged to its depths, and was gone.
Brumvack, who had been seeing the final scenes of his life playing out before his very eyes, collapsed against the rocky beach. He had never been so relieved to see the backside of a troll as he was to see Schmatzenbladder’s. He knew, however, that the relief would have to be a momentary one. If he was going to survive the day, he’d better get busy. Plugging up the hole had been a bit of a game before: a satisfying pastime to avenge himself against his cave mates. Now, however, plugging up the hole was imperative. If he didn’t plug it up, and soon…and permanently…the trolls would return to avenge him back. The adrenaline from Schmatzenbladder’s attack was still coursing through his veins, but Schmatzenbladder’s attack would be nothing compared to an attack undertaken by a dozen of the nastiest trolls in the business. There were no trolls, Brumvack knew, like the Rabid Band, and he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of their anger.
He needed to get the hold plugged up, and he needed to do it now. He needed to find a large, round rock. No compromises this time. No almost big enough rock would do. No almost round enough rock would do. This time, he was playing for keeps.