plaque that told which professional player had once worn the headgear. There were also shelves full of gloves from the ultra-modern to the ancient and decaying leather gauntlets that players had worn a century or more ago. Brendan looked around the room and saw that it was a hockey shrine, a museum to the sport. Rows of hockey sticks ranging from gnarled wooden clubs to plywood laminate to aluminum to one-piece composite leaned in cleverly designed wall racks. The rafters and roof beams were hung with hundreds of hockey jerseys. Most of them were from the Toronto Maple Leafs 57 but there were other teams as well.
Looking up into the curved recesses of the ceiling, Brendan could see more odds and ends of hockey history dangling from the rafters: shoulder pads, elbow pads, hockey pants, more sticks and helmets from every era of the sport. He gasped when he looked into one stone alcove and saw a squat silver cup lit from above by a single spotlight. The cup was so shiny it was clear it had been lovingly polished. Brendan looked more closely, and his eyes bugged out as he read some of the inscriptions on the base.
“Is that what I think it is?” he breathed.
“Yo. The original Stanley’s Cup.” Borje beamed. Then his huge face became slightly sheepish. “The one they have is a replica. I couldn’t resist! They never announced that the original whent missing.” He winked and grinned. “But she ain’t missing, nah? She’s right here!” 58
Brendan traced his fingers over the engraved lines on the trophy. “This is unbelievable,” Brendan said in awe. If his father had seen this collection he would have wet himself, wept for joy, and then died. His father was a huge hockey fan and played on a team called the Jokers, made up of comedians and artists who played charity games in Toronto. Brendan sometimes joined them. The awe in seeing such a collection pushed aside his terror for a moment. “Where did you get all this amazing stuff?”
“You like my hockey memorabiliums?” The heavy voice took on a childlike quality. “Many years, I’ve been collecting.”
Brendan moved closer to peer at a white helmet with a scrawled signature and the number 21 on the side. “Borje Salming?” 59
“Yo! My favouritest of players. A good Swhede, like me. I am Borje, too. Same name!” He giggled like a child. “I, Borje, left Swheden many years ago. Centuries in the fact. I come aboard a ship whith Lucky Leif himself.”
“Leif Eriksson?” Brendan whispered. “The Viking?” 60
“That’s the one! I were in the crew.” Borje thumped his chest with one massive fist. “They leave Borje behind. Hey, think I, bad luck! Not me, Leif bad luck. I stay. Whander here and there. End up here. Toronto built up around me.”
Brendan turned to look at Borje and was amazed that he wasn’t afraid of the hulking creature. Borje stood close to eight feet tall, with massive shoulders and arms that hung at his sides like thick tree branches. His head was as big as a large pumpkin and sprouted with greasy blond hair. He was wearing a blue and white woollen hockey jersey (one he’d made himself by the look of it) with a lopsided white maple leaf on the front.
“Uh… this is really cool and everything, but I really need to find Kim. You know Kim?” With some difficulty, Brendan decided he had to return to his current situation.
“Of course.” Borje smiled and slapped his chest. “Ki-Mata good friend of Borje!”
“Yeah, nice,” Brendan said. “Well, she said I have to get to the Swan so maybe I should be going.”
“You can’t go.” Borje frowned, his brows beetling together over his bulbous nose. “There are Dwharfs about in these tunnels.”
“Dwarfs?”
Borje shook his shaggy head. “Bad persons. Scavengers and whaylayers of folk. When they move in, there go the neighbourhood. They travel in gangs in the under tunnels and prey on the wheak. I stops them when I can.”
“Which leads to my next question,” Brendan said, trying to be delicate. “What exactly… are you?”
Borje laughed like a boulder falling down a well. “Oh. I am Borje and I am a Troll.” 61
“A Troll? A Troll. Of course you’re a Troll. Why not?” Brendan felt he was about to lose his mind. “Okay. Last question: where are we?”
“This is my home. I live here. Under the Air Canada Centre, home of beloved Maple Leafs!” He placed a vast blue hand over his heart and cast his eyes upward in adoration. “So handy! I have easy access to new souvenirs for collection. Borje loves the beautiful frozen game!”
Brendan’s stomach suddenly rumbled, and Borje’s smile vanished. “But Borje is bad host. Enough talking for now. You must be hungry.”
Borje reached over and scooped Brendan up in one shovel-like hand. In three strides, Borje crossed the stone floor and deposited Brendan in one of the large wooden chairs at the table. With one arm he swept the pucks onto the floor. As he did so, Brendan managed to catch a glimpse of the signatures on the pucks of many famous players. The Troll picked the remote off the small table and pointed it at the TV. A hockey game suddenly filled the vast screen.
“Borje PVR’d it last night. She’s gonna be a good one.” He pulled aside a tapestry to reveal a tidy kitchen with a stove and fridge. “Borje make you some food!” The Troll snapped his huge fingers. The sound was like a gunshot. “Borje make nachos! Ha!” With an ear-splitting clap of his massive hands he disappeared into the kitchen and let the tapestry fall to cover the door.
Brendan sat in the giant chair. It was the first time he hadn’t been running, screaming, and being chased in what seemed like a very long time. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t working. He couldn’t tell what time it was.
“Crap! I’ve got to call home. Mum’ll be freaking out.” He hauled his knapsack off his back. Although one of the straps had broken, he hadn’t managed to lose it along the way. He fished around in the bag and found his cellphone. He flipped open the screen and his heart fell. He looked at the small screen and saw something he’d never seen before. Usually, if the phone was getting no reception, the normal home screen would show but there would be no bars in the corner. Now, however, his phone didn’t even show the home screen, just a miniature blizzard of electronic snow.
As he held the phone, it began to burn his hand with a prickling heat that grew in intensity. In seconds, he was forced to drop the handset. He clutched his hand in pain, red welts standing out where the phone had touched his fingers and palm. Then he remembered what Kim had said.
“Metal and plastic don’t mix well with us.”
Brendan refused to accept it. He reached for the phone on the floor and grabbed it. He instantly cried out and dropped the phone again. As he watched, stunned, sparks fountained from the cell and the entire handset melted into a puddle of plastic slag. He looked at the blob that had been his cellphone.
Part of his mind was asking, “Is that covered under my insurance plan?” while another was asking, “Where can I find another phone?”
He scanned the room but didn’t see anything resembling a phone. He wasn’t surprised. “Why would a Troll need to phone anyway?” He hopped down from the chair and went to the door. He was almost afraid to touch it after the phone incident, but he had to get out of there. Borje didn’t seem threatening but… he was a Troll! That couldn’t be good! Trolls hid under bridges and ate people. He didn’t want to push his luck. Brendan couldn’t even remember the route he’d come by. He’d read in a book once that if you kept turning left, you would eventually escape a labyrinth. This was the closest to a labyrinth he’d ever encountered so hopefully that logic would work.
He tentatively pushed on the door. There was no handle. He’d thought the door was made of metal but he realized now that it wasn’t. It was warm to the touch and had a glassy texture like nothing he’d ever felt before. The door didn’t yield to a gentle shove. He pushed harder. Nothing.
He almost jumped out of his skin when the Troll called from the kitchen, “Do you like anchovies?”
Anchovies? On nachos? “Yeah. Love them!” He pushed with all his might on the door but it wouldn’t budge. He backed up and prepared to throw himself against the door when he was interrupted by a loud banging on it.
“Open up!” Kim’s voice was muffled but still recognizable. “Come on, Borje! Open up!”
Borje came bustling out of the kitchen holding a vast platter of nachos and wearing an apron that read HAIL TO THE CHEF with a version of the U.S. presidential seal that pictured the American eagle holding a spatula and a wooden spoon. “Coming!” He slammed the platter down on the table, sending a few stray tortilla chips scattering on the tabletop. Wiping his vast hands on the apron, he hurried to the door. Brendan stood back as he pulled the
