Troll
I’ve always wanted to see the sun.
“Did you find me anything?” I asked Doran as entered the circle of firelight. Doran was not your everyday companion. He was under four feet tall, slender, and could slap a glamour on faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.
Today, he removed one slowly, almost like opening a curtain. A beautiful painting of a sunrise emerged.
“Oh, that’s the best by far,” I said, taking it gingerly, being careful not to hurt him with my much-larger hands. It showed the sun peeking out from behind a cloud, gilding it and all the others in the sky with incredible shadings of red and gold. “How can you tell if it’s a sunrise or a sunset?”
His smile was tinged with compassion. “You can’t, not just by looking at a painting. But they’re both worth seeing.”
I propped it up against a rock in front of my cave where I could fill my eyes with the beautiful thing and went back to turning the spitted venison. It wouldn’t do to burn the meal.
“I’m going to look at it this morning when I go to bed,” I decided. Trolls couldn’t bear the light of day, but it would be at least a little like being there.
“I scouted up a few caves for you,” Doran offered. “Ones where you can see the sky as it brightens. That’s the best part anyway.”
What a friend. “Can we go in the morning?”
He got up and bowed. “For you, Grof, maker of so many fine meals, I could do no less.”
I smiled as I turned the spit. Something to look forward to.
After supper Doran led me to a cave that seemed…average. Nothing wrong with it, but not as big as mine.
When I voiced this, he said, “Ah, but we’re not coming for the accommodations. We’re here for the view.”
At least the cave delved far enough into the hillside that I could go to sleep without worrying about a stray sunbeam catching me. I had no desire to become a stone statue.
The sunrise that morning was incredible. The delicate shadings, the way the clouds changed color even as I looked at them, the promise that this would be a day worth living.
That night, before I even caught another deer, I moved all my things to the new cave. I left Doran a note.
“I see you decided the view was worth it,” he said later as he tossed a rabbit down near the new spit.
I loved my new place. I became a connoisseur of sunrises, learning their nuances. Doran and I started a game where we’d grade them, and then we added predicting how they’d come out.
“I figure this one will be a seven-and-a-half,” I said, settling myself back against the cave wall to watch. There were a few clouds, the thin stretchy kind, not as spectacular as the big, puffy ones. It was still worth seeing, though; they all were. I had to clamp down on the recurring impulse to go stand out in it.
“I’ll have to miss seeing them with you for a few weeks,” Doran said. “But I’ll be back later.”
I spared him a quick nod. I didn’t talk much once the sunrise started.
I missed Doran for suppers, but not during sunrise. I wished there was a way to make it last forever. I became a person who lived for those few moments every morning, those perfect minutes at daybreak. I looked at my painting often, but it wasn’t the same. Hiding in a cave to watch wasn’t enough anymore. I wanted to be out in it, to live in the heart of the sunrise, even if for only a few minutes.
I sat outside my cave in the predawn light one morning and surveyed the coming day with a practiced eye. It was going to be beautiful. It was going to be the kind of sunrise people talked about for years. And I couldn’t bear to watch it cowering in a cave.
I stood in the open and faced the day. The first hint of rosy gold hit the clouds and I smiled. I was finally going to do it.
Seeing it light up the whole sky, stretching away to forever, was better than I could have ever imagined. It was so wide, so open and beautiful. And I was here, a part of it.
I barely felt the first kiss of sun hit my body. I made sure my eyes were fixed on the sky; I wanted to watch for as long as I could. And in those moments, I breathed the sunrise, felt its warmth on my body, and sent my spirit upward to meet it.
Doran stopped short at the sight of the stone troll on the hillside. His eyes filled with tears as he walked over to give the stony hand a farewell pat. “I hope it was worth it, my friend.”
Beware
He strode into the village, robed and hooded, staff in hand. No one could see his face, but they could all hear his voice. “Beware!” It rang out clear and strong, oddly incongruous with his tattered robe and slumped shoulders.
A farmer approached him and asked, “Beware what? Is someone coming? Do we need to move to safety?”
But the hooded figure simply said, “Beware,” again, and the man stepped back, shaking his head.
“Lost his mind, poor thing,” said one woman to her friend as they waited at the bakery.
The friend clucked. “Such a pity it is when that happens. I once knew a man like that. Took that way when his wife went.” She stepped up to the counter and said, “I’ll take three loaves, please.”
One boy, bolder or more eager than the others, ran up behind the hooded man and let fly with a dirt clod. It hit the man’s back squarely, and the half-dozen boys with him laughed.
“Good one, Elric,” said one, and soon the figure was pelted with dirty missiles, to the counterpoint of the boys’ laughter.
“Beware,” the figure said and repeated it in a rising crescendo of urgency as the boys continued to throw.
“Stop that!” The baker barked out the order, confident in his ability to make it stick. “You lot run along, or you’ll wish you had.” He clenched his fists.
There were no takers; the boys cleared off. The baker shook his head. “Those boys will come to a bad end if they keep that up.” He called to his daughter. “Why don’t you offer the man a roll, Alise? He could probably use a bite.”
She scurried out of the shop and held up a roll to the figure. “Would you like this? My Da wants you to have one.”
The face turned in her direction, but she could only see his mouth. “Beware,” he said again, but it was gentle. He reached out a travel-worn hand and took a roll.
The girl ran back to her father.
Dogs ran through town, barking, but shied away when they got close to the stranger. Horses swished their tales and shifted as he passed. At the end of town, weary, the hooded figure sat. He pulled the roll out of his ragged sleeve and regarded it.
So did the man behind him, who put a knife to the back of the figure’s robe. “I’ll take that. And anything else you’ve got.” The thief drew a ragged breath, his eyes checking for watchers, but nobody would care too much if the crazy vagabond was robbed.
“Beware,” the hooded man said. He made no move to give the knife-wielder his roll.
“You’ve said that already. I’m telling you, hand it over.” His knife broke through the robe, and blood spread across the vagabond’s shoulder.
The figure turned and his hood fell back. His eyes blazed, and the thief fell, twisting and writhing, until he stilled. The hooded figure regarded him, perhaps with regret.
“Beware.”
Dragon Hoard and Other Tales of Faerie Page 2
