Troll Bridge

by Jane Yolen

  “You cannot leave Trollholm without permission,” he told her, the words buzzing inside her head.

  “What do you mean, ‘permission’? There’s a path.” She pointed. “It must lead to somewhere.”

  “It leads to nowhere, human child. Look more closely. You must open yourself to—”

  “To the world of the impossible,” she interrupted, but nevertheless she leaned forward and stared at the path and the trees beyond. She saw now what she hadn’t noticed before. The path was flat, as if badly drawn, and the trees it ran between were equally flat, unmoving, not fully realized. The whole was like a painting on canvas. Like the backdrop in a play or an opera. She’d been in the orchestra for enough stage performances to recognize them. They fooled the eye if the audience gave itself over to the sets. “But how…?” She knew before the fox told her. Magic.

  Turning, she glared down at him, knowing what to say. “Then give me permission to go.”

  He laughed that sharp barking laugh again, but this time she heard the pain underneath. “It is not mine to give, child.”

  Not his to give. That was when she understood. He needed her as much as she needed him. He was a prisoner here, too.

  “Then first we get the princesses,” she told him. “And then we get the permission.”

  “No!” He shook his head and his silky red coat trembled with the movement. “First we get the fiddle. Once we have that, we can get the princesses, and then…”

  She didn’t believe him. How could she? Balance a fiddle against lives and lives win, every time. Though if it had been a Stradivarius or a Guarneri … she knew some violinists who would make the same choice as the fox.

  He smiled, showing his teeth. “We have time yet to rescue your friends.”

  Moira bent over and glared at him, hands on her hips, trying to intimidate him with her size. Alpha female. It worked with her dog. “It may not seem such a big deal to a fox,” she said, “one who can have lots and lots of litters.” The way she said litters made it sound like garbage on the ground instead of baby foxes. “But human girls are used to dating someone before making up their own minds about the boys, even before they get married. So—”

  He cut her short. “Trolls do not date. And they only marry on Frigga’s Day,” he said. “Today is Woden’s Day.”

  “Who is Frigga and why does she have a day?”

  The fox bristled with impatience. “What do they teach human children these days about the gods?” Showing his teeth, he snarled, but the voice in Moira’s head was clear. “Have you not heard about the old gods? Frigga was Woden’s wife. Woden’s Day is what you call Wednesday. Thor’s Day, Thursday. Frigga’s Day, Friday.”

  “Oh.” Moira nodded slowly. They’d studied that in fifth grade. So, since she’d driven to the bridge after her regular Tuesday rehearsal and had slept overnight in the cave, this would be Wednesday, Woden’s Day by Foss’ reckoning, which meant they had till Friday. His counting made sense if you believed in talking foxes and trolls. It made sense if you didn’t have parents back in Minneapolis and St. Paul calling out the National Guard to look for them.

  “We need to go now, human child.” His words were gentle in her head but she could feel the steel beneath. She recognized it at once, having spent most of her life dealing with musicians, divas, and maestros—all massive egos who always wanted their own way. What was a fox—even a magic fox—compared to them?

  She sat down and crossed her legs. “First I need some information.”

  Foss growled again. “Now.”

  Moira shook her head. “Before we go anywhere, you need to tell me more about trolls.”

  “There is nothing more to know. Now move.” He began to trot away from her.

  She refused to go after him. “All I know,” she called out, “is that they have multiple wives and one child each and there’s this pact and…” She bit her lower lip.

  “And they crave fresh meat,” he reminded her, his voice in her head cool and commanding.

  Fine, she thought and petulantly whistled a middle C—but a full quarter-tone flat. To her trained ear, and, she hoped, to Foss’s as well, it sounded horrific. Chew on that, Master Musician.

  The fox flinched as if struck. Turning his back on her, he spoke abruptly. “Trolls are big, mean, and stupid. More you need not know.”

  Well, that’s something, Moira thought. Then she stood and followed the fox. “At least tell me why it’s safer in daylight.”

  “They sleep,” he said.

  * * *

  KEEPING THEIR BACKS TO THE stone cliffs, they walked quickly, quietly. Close up, the stones looked real enough, but from farther away, they too seemed like a flat, painted backdrop. The sky was an impossible blue and the sun a circle of bright orange with rays like a child’s drawing.

  Moira tried to memorize the direction in which they were going, in case she had to make a swift retreat. No sooner had she thought this, then the sun was hidden behind a thick bank of improbably fluffy gray clouds, so she couldn’t tell north from south, east from west. Nor could she figure out what time of day it was. Her watch had stopped, maybe from the fall off the troll’s back or maybe watches just didn’t work in Trollholm. But since there were no branching paths, she supposed it would be easy enough to find her way back to the safety of the fox’s cave.…

  “My den,” he corrected her.

  “Get out of my head!”

  He shrugged again, the fur rippling down from his shoulders all the way to his tail. Then he trotted ahead about a hundred feet before suddenly stopping at a wide turn in the path.

  “There,” he said when Moira caught up with him.

  Ahead, in an enormous clearing, she saw three similar cottages, each with a high, slanted, thatched roof and gray stone walls. The clearing with the houses seemed as much a stage set as the rest of Trollholm.

  “Aenmarr’s steading,” Foss said. “A house for each wife and son.”

  “How do you know which is which?” From where they stood, the houses looked alike.

  “From the runes on the door, human child. The great alphabet,” Foss told her. “Each letter a meaning, each meaning full of magic. The human alphabet is a puny thing beside the Futhark Runes.” He trotted forward, seemingly unafraid. Crossing the clearing, he went up to the first cottage and stood by the huge wooden door. “Come,” he called to her.

  Moira was suddenly terrified. “No way. There are trolls here.”

  “It is daylight. They sleep,” he reminded her.

  “So you say.”

  “So I know.” He waited by the door, none too patiently, either, cocking his head to one side and tapping his front paw on the ground repeatedly.

  You might as well go, she said to herself. Can’t wait here till dark and the trolls wake. She raced across the clearing toward the cottage on the left, which became more and more real the nearer she got.

  When she reached the fox and glanced up at the huge wooden door, she saw that in the middle was a carved letter that looked like a D, though what should have been the rounded part was shaped more like a triangle.

  “The rune is Thurisaz,” Foss said. “It means giant force of destruction, the masculine sign. This is Aenmarr’s first house where his oldest wife, Selvi, lives.” It was the most actual information he’d given her yet.

  Selvi’s house. With a D for destruction and danger and doom, Moira thought. I can remember that.

  “We go in,” Foss said. “Perhaps my fiddle is here.”

  “Perhaps?”

  “Aenmarr moves the fiddle around, one cottage to another, one wall to another. He seems to think that if the fiddle is where it is happy, it will play for him. He does not understand it takes a musician to make the music.”

  “Ah.” Moira nodded. “Stupid.”

  “Indeed,” Foss said. “Very stupid. Now open the door, human child.” He looked at her sideways, his black marble eyes gleaming.

  “Just like that?” The door was two stories high and
the handle was well above her head. Even if she took a running leap, she wouldn’t reach it. There was nothing around to stand on, either, so she glared down at the fox. “Who’s being stupid now?”

  The fox did not return her stare and Moira wondered if she’d just failed some sort of test.

  “Maybe there’s an open window,” she said. “Or a cat door.” Though she’d hate to meet a troll’s cat. It would be the size of a tiger.

  “Trolls do not like cats,” Foss said. He shuddered. Evidently he didn’t like them, either.

  “I’m checking around back anyway,” she told him. “There’s no way I can open that door by myself.”

  “Do what must be done, human child.”

  Nodding, she left him at the front door. When she rounded the side of the cottage, she saw a window, slightly open from the bottom. It was definitely too high for her to reach, but there was a lovely carved trellis on the side of the house, close by the window. Clearly the troll’s wife Selvi had tried her hand at gardening, but all the flowers were dying, with gray, moldy buds hanging like dead men on a gibbet. Stunted brown vines, no more than thin pieces of string, had struggled to get a hold on the lower rungs of the trellis and had never made it. It all looked a bit sketchy, though, and Moira wondered if it would hold her weight. Yet when she got closer, the trellis seemed sturdy enough. Like the rest of Trollholm, it fooled the eye.

  Hand and foot, and another handhold. “I’m going up the trellis and in that open window.”

  “Well, for the gods’ sake, be quiet about it,” Foss said. “Trolls sleep. But they sleep lightly.”

  “Now you tell me,” she said, already halfway to her goal.

  5

  Moira

  Luckily, Moira had no trouble going up. Though coming down carrying a fiddle, might be more of a problem.

  “Worry about one thing at a time,” urged Foss. But of course he could say that, seeing that he wasn’t the one breaking into the troll’s house.

  About ten handholds up, Moira was finally parallel to the window. From a troll’s point of view, it was hardly cracked open at all, just enough to let in some air. But it was open enough for Moira to slip in.

  Balancing carefully on the sill, she stared down to a floor that seemed miles below. Luckily there was a heavy red curtain almost entirely obscuring the window. She grabbed hold, as she had the troll’s shirt, and hand over hand let herself down.

  Slip-slap! Her feet hit the floor and she held her breath, terrified that she’d been heard. Trolls sleep lightly, Foss had said. She had no idea how lightly that meant.

  A sudden belch and roar came from a back room. On a table near her a pottery vase filled with dead flowers began to shake. Moira began to shake as well. Another roar rose and fell like an angry wave on a distant shore.

  For a moment she was afraid to move, then she broke into silent giggles. The trolls were snoring.

  Slowly, she let her breath out and looked around, getting her bearings. The cottage was pretty sparsely furnished, with three chairs, a wooden table, and some hideous skulls of several unidentifiable large animals on the wall, their horns and antlers sticking out in improbable directions. An enormous fireplace with a dark cauldron—big as a hot tub and suspended on an iron arm—took up most of another wall. Along the third wall stood the table with the vase, and next to it a very large wooden box, its top upraised. On the other side of the table was a doorway. The fourth wall had only the window, through which she entered the house, and its dark curtains.

  The room smelled like a butcher’s shop—musky and meaty. Moira shuddered. She’d been a vegetarian for years. But it wasn’t that thick smell that bothered her. It was the fact that there was no fiddle in the room.

  Foss, she thought, what do I do now?

  Unusual for him, he was silent. But she guessed she knew what he’d say: Check the other rooms.

  Tiptoeing across the floor, she went through a door next to the table. A smaller door on the right led into the larder. A glittering array of knives hung upon the wall, along with some sort of ax and a large fork with three sharp tines.

  Shuddering, Moira backed out. She didn’t need to see anything more in that room. Turning, she saw that ahead of her was a larger door, slightly ajar. The belching and snoring had begun again and it hit her like a train coming through a tunnel. Beside the door was a smaller table on which stood a washbasin and a pitcher.

  Three beds in graduated sizes stood in the room, and under the covers three snoring trolls. Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear. She almost giggled hysterically at the thought.

  Get hold of yourself, she warned. The larder and its awful implements were not very far from her mind.

  She glanced at the walls of the bedroom. No fiddle.

  Backing away quickly, she returned to the living room and, as a last thought, checked the large wooden box near the table. In it were four of the Dairy Princesses, lying side by side. Their chests moved steadily up and down and if they weren’t dead, they certainly seemed dead asleep.

  “Susie…” Moira whispered urgently. “Caitlinn…”

  Nothing.

  Moira leaned over and shook Susie’s shoulder hard. “Wake up! We have to get out of here.”

  They slept on.

  A loud noise erupted behind her, like footsteps. Her heart hammered in her chest. She looked around wildly for somewhere to hide.

  Now heedless of the sound, she ran to the heavy curtains and slipped behind them, her back to the wall. She heard a deep yawn, water trickling into a bowl.

  Oh, yuck, she thought, someone is going to the bathroom. Only she hadn’t seen any bathroom. Just the washbasin. And the pitcher.

  Then she heard the footsteps retreating back—she hoped—into the bedroom. Heard a loud yawn. Heard the creak of bedsprings.

  She waited a minute, two minutes, five minutes. Then she crept hand over hand up the drapes, which was much harder to do than going down. Reaching the windowsill, she crawled onto it. The air hit her like a fist. She climbed down the trellis, trembling so hard she was afraid she was going to fall.

  “Well?” asked Foss. “Any fiddle?”

  He’s impossible, she thought, not caring that he could hear her.

  “No fiddle,” she said aloud. “But I saw the girls. Are they … are they under some sort of spell?”

  He ignored her and trotted away toward the second house. “Fiddle first,” he said, which was, as usual, no answer at all.

  She had no choice but to follow.

  * * *

  THE SECOND HOUSE HAD A strange looking P on the door, the rounded part—like the D on the first house—more of a triangle.

  “Wunjo,” the fox said, gazing up at the rune. “It means joy and comfort and pleasure and prosperity. A second wife means a lot to a troll on his own. Aenmarr was very pleased with Trigvi, his next wife, when he made that rune.”

  Suddenly Moira felt cold. “Are there more male trolls than Aenmarr?”

  “Only his sons,” Foss said. “Open the door.”

  This door was as big and as heavy as the other door. Moira ignored Foss and went around the side. Obviously second wife Trigvi was not at all interested in flowers, dead or alive. There was an open window but no trellis.

  Moira’s heart sank like a boat hitting an iceberg.

  “What is an iceberg?” asked Foss, trotting behind her.

  “Something cold and unmovable,” she told him. “Like your heart.”

  He gave a little yip of a laugh. “Go around the back then.”

  Around the back was a smaller door with a dung heap by its side. It smelled worse than anything Moira had ever come upon—musky, acrid, foul. She turned and said to Foss, “Roll in that, and we’re done.”

  He drew himself up on his hind legs. “I am not a dog.” Then, because the pose was too uncomfortable for long, he dropped down again onto all fours.

  Skirting the dump, and refusing to look in it in case she spotted any bones, Moira tried the smaller door. The hand
le was only slightly above her head. To her relief, she found she could jump up and pull it down. Then by pushing hard against the door with her shoulder, she managed to crack it open a sliver. It was enough, though the door made an awful groan.

  Moira stood very still by the open door for a long while, waiting, worrying. She strained to hear, but there was no sound of movement inside. No snores, either.

  “Go on … go on!” Foss said in her head. “See if the fiddle is here.”

  To shut him up, she went in.

  The door led into the larder, this one more elaborate than the first. Knives hung on the wall, but on an ironwork lattice. An ax lay on the table atop a suspicious dark stain.

  As she tiptoed past the table, the door suddenly groaned again and closed with a loud snick.

  Moira froze, scarcely breathing. From the bedroom, she could now hear light snoring that indicated the trolls—Trigvi and her son—were still sleeping. But how soundly?

  Going as quickly and quietly as she could, Moira headed into the living room. Another big box sat beside the fireplace. Inside it, Helena and Kimberleigh lay side by side, with Shawneen and Ali next to them, their long princess dresses carefully smoothed down.

  “Psssst,” Moira tried to wake them, knowing they wouldn’t—couldn’t—answer. She poked Helena’s arm, Kimberleigh’s brow. They were as unmoving as the girls in the first box.

  Only then did she turn and look at the rest of the room. It was only a little less sparsely furnished than Selvi’s house. There was a rag rug on the floor, the colors an unimpressive black and blue. A cloth over the wooden dining table was embroidered with wobbly stitches that looked as if a five-year-old had done it. Where Selvi was a failed gardener, Trigvi seemed to be a wannabe artist.

  Above the table, on the wall, was the fiddle. Moira was impressed despite herself. Strange, interlocking patterns were drawn all over the body. Four gleaming strings stretched over the mother-of-pearl inlaid neck, though there were eight tuning pegs. But Moira knew that four more strings ran under the neck; she’d seen a fiddle much like this one when she’d played a series of duets two years earlier with Norwegian violinist Arvid Reiersen for a local festival. His instrument had not been quite as beautiful, and boasted a carved head of a maiden as a headstock. Foss’, of course, had a fox’s head. Its sharp ears pointed toward the fingerboard and black and blue ribbons twined the scroll. The ribbons were so long, they hung down all the way to the floor.