Troll Bridge

by Jane Yolen

  He stood motionless.

  There’s the buzzing of insects. The sigh of the wind. And rushing water? Yes, rushing water, but a long way away.

  Cocking his head to one side, he tried to listen harder. His brothers’ lives depended on it. And, like eyes adjusted to the dark, after a few moments it was if Jakob’s ears adjusted to the silence. He heard not just the pick-buzz of insects, but the dozens of different songs and calls they made. The wind didn’t just sigh, it thrummed and whistled and whirred, rustling through the leaves of nearby trees and the thatch of the roof.

  There! A barely audible sound, off to his right, that wasn’t insects or wind or water. A metallic swish, not natural. But something he’d heard before. Jakob opened his eyes and began moving even as he tried to place the sound. For some reason, it made him think of Thanksgiving.

  Thanksgiving, he thought. Why Thanksgiving?

  Jakob suddenly pictured his father in the kitchen, a turkey set out on a carving platter next to him. In his hands, a big knife and a metal stick for …

  For sharpening the knife!

  Hands held out in front of him, Jakob burst into a sprint despite the darkness. He knew what that sound meant. It was doom. Aenmarr the Troll was in the larder of his second wife’s house and he was sharpening his knives.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God!” Jakob prayed, whether silently or out loud he couldn’t tell. He suddenly knew it had to be less than moments before one of his brothers would be dead.

  If he wasn’t already.

  3 · Music to Their Ears

  Long pig, sweet meat,

  Strong swig, fleet treat,

  I don’t want to be hung up.

  For dinner.

  Short tale, long death,

  Quart ale, wrong breath,

  I don’t want to be hung up.

  For dinner.

  Give me a choice of meat or soy,

  Give me a choice of girl or boy,

  Give me a choice or give me chance,

  A great big meal or a real romance.

  Slow boil, quick take,

  Low oil, thick steak,

  I don’t want to be hung up.

  For dinner.

  Hot ice, cold drink,

  Caught twice, old stink,

  I don’t want to be hung up.

  Over dinner.

  —Words and music by Jakob and Erik Griffson, from Troll Bridge

  Radio WMSP: 10:00 A.M.

  “And now, here’s Jim Johnson with our continuing coverage of the ‘Disappearing Dairy Darlings.’ Jim?”

  “Thanks, Katie. After three days, police have still come up empty in their search for the whereabouts of this year’s twelve Dairy Princesses. There just seems to be no evidence whatsoever. It’s as if the twelve young ladies have fallen off the face of the earth, leaving behind only the butter sculptures of their heads back at the State Fair grounds refrigerators.”

  “How are their parents holding up, Jim?”

  “They’ve offered rewards of fifty thousand dollars for each girl. And…”

  “Hold on, Jim—we are being interrupted by Brian Gustafson and a news bulletin.”

  “Thanks, Katie. Brian Gustafson here, live from Vanderby. Local police have just fished a car out of the Vanderby River, a car believed to belong to the popular singing group, The Griffson Brothers. A black sedan with vanity plates reading, ‘LUV U.’”

  “Like their hit song?”

  “Exactly, Katie. Apparently, the car lost control on the Trollholm Bridge shortly after sundown, crashing onto the rocks you see behind me.”

  “This is radio, Brian.”

  “Right. Well, the rocks behind me are jagged granite, a gray blue in color. ‘Troll high,’ as they say in Vanderby, and just as dangerous.”

  “Brian, this is Jim Johnson. Is the car still hung up on the rocks?”

  “No, Jim, it apparently hit the rocks before sliding into the river. The Griffsons’ parents have confirmed that their three boys had taken the car for a drive. Police have brought back the divers and tracking dogs, but no bodies have been found so far.”

  “Vanderby? The Trollholm Bridge? Is there any connection between this accident and the disappearance of the Dairy Princesses, Brian?”

  “No one is commenting on that, Jim. Yet. But it’s the second big-name disappearance this week, and the coincidences are starting to pile up. All we know for certain is that our thoughts and prayers are with the parents of the Griffsons as well as the Dairy Princesses this morning, and we hope that they’re all found safe and sound before too long.”

  “And the Sjogren family—the photographer, don’t forget. We send our best to them, too. But it doesn’t look good, does it, Brian?”

  “No, Katie, it doesn’t. The police are puzzled and there have been no ransom notes. And that’s all I have. This is Brian Gustafson, reporting live from Vanderby, Minnesota.”

  “Thanks, Brian. [Sighs.] This is so weird, Jim.”

  “You betcha.”

  “My daughter loves the Griffson Brothers. She has posters of them on the wall. Especially that Galen. What a cutie.”

  “My daughters, too. I’m stunned, Katie.”

  “Oh my gosh, Jim, we’ll have to ask the Spinning Sisters to play the Griffsons’ music tonight. And we’ll all be saying prayers for their safe return.”

  11

  Moira

  Moira had no idea how long she’d lain in the box, trying to match her breathing to the slow rhythm of the other girls. She’d heard Aenmarr enter the cottage, kiss his wife loudly, exclaim something about princesses, then leave again with just as much noise.

  And then she heard a scuffling and a yawning that sounded like a pride of lions rising from sleep.

  And now she could hear the troll mother, Trigvi, puttering around the cottage.

  Stupidly, Moira thought, Puttering trolls make a lot of noise. There were the footsteps like timpani, the cymbal sound of pots clanging, and …

  Oh, God, no!

  Trigvi had begun a tuneless humming as she prepared to cook. She sang in no particular key. The random notes sent shivers up and down Moira’s spine.

  This is worse than pop music, Moira moaned silently, suppressing an overwhelming need to shudder. She reminded herself that if she succumbed to her urge to leap from the box shouting, “Shut up! Shut up! For the love of all things musical, please stop that awful humming!” well, then, that would be the end of her. But, oh Lord, it’s torture. The problem was that no one without perfect pitch could understand how awful it felt.

  Then she heard something else.

  “Hey! Get me down from here!” It was a boy’s voice.

  Sounds like he’s about my age, Moira thought. And it’s sounds like he’s shouting from … Moira couldn’t help herself. She gulped hard. The larder.

  The troll woman’s humming stopped.

  Thank you, God, Moira prayed.

  Trigvi called in a voice deep and loud enough to shake the cottage walls, “Buri, be a good boy. Be shutting dinner up. Your father be home soon.”

  Basso cantante, Moira thought.

  “Yes, Mother,” came the reply, as low as Trigvi’s but more youthful in timbre.

  Moira heard footsteps. A door creaking open.

  “What are you?” cried the boy. Then there was a thud and the boy spoke no more.

  Moira stifled a gasp.

  “Thank you,” Trigvi told her son. “I be hating it when dinner speaks.” Then she began humming again.

  No, no, no, no, Moira kept repeating to herself. They just killed that poor boy. And now they’re going to eat him! Not to leave herself out of the horror she added, And then I’m going to end up married to the one who’s doing the eating.

  Not even Trigvi’s humming annoyed her now. Moira was in a panic. It was worse than when she’d been clinging to Aenmarr’s back. At least then, she’d been doing something.

  Moira had never had stage fright, but she’d talked to musicians who’d had it bad, and
she tried to remember what they did to fight it. Stay calm. Concentrate on breathing. Think of something else. Go to your “happy place,” somewhere you feel safe.

  Gritting her teeth, Moira lay still in the box, clenched her fists and forced herself to remember the most difficult passages of the new Berlin piece, imagining the fingering she’d have to use. She tried to think of her mother, her father, her friends at school and in the orchestra. She pictured herself in serene, calming places: Lake of the Isles, Minnehaha Falls, Carlson Peak.

  Nothing worked. She began to tremble uncontrollably. Sweat formed on her palms, her forehead, pooled under her arms.

  Any minute they’re going to smell me in here.

  That thought did little to calm her.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God, she thought, not even a prayer, but a plea. She couldn’t breathe, the sweat, the trembling … But just before she reached the breaking point, a familiar voice popped into her head.

  “Child of man and woman. Did you miss me?”

  Foss had returned.

  Where have you been? Moira thought at him furiously, suddenly able to breathe again. The trembling eased.

  “I have recruited help,” Foss answered. “Though they know it not.” There was a pause. Then, “Are you ready to move?”

  Very. Though she wasn’t sure if any of her limbs would actually work.

  “Good. I will…”

  But before she discovered what the fox was going to do, a sharp yip sounded from outside the cottage, like a dog—or a fox—in great pain.

  Foss? She sat up.

  There was no reply.

  Foss? Foss!

  Then, she heard—like an unholy combination of a speeding locomotive and summer thunder—a peal of roaring laughter.

  Aenmarr, she thought, lying back down in the box. Why is he so happy?

  A door boomed open and Moira heard Aenmarr speak for the first time. Basso profundo. “Trigvi! Second wife! It is time for my second supper.”

  Foss? Answer me! But he was silent.

  He said he’d recruited help. But he also said the help didn’t know they’d been recruited.

  Doomed, she thought. Doomed to become a troll bride.

  * * *

  LIKE MANY A PRISONER, MOIRA discovered that it’s hard to maintain a state of constant terror. Eventually captivity is boring. Moira’s ears became her eyes, and as she lay in the box, she listened carefully to the trolls.

  She could hear them getting ready for their meal. And as long as she didn’t think about what they were making for dinner, it was astonishing how normal it all began to sound.

  Trigvi popped out to the garden. The door slammed after her.

  Buri banged a bowl with a stick in no discernible meter, while asking his father a never-ending stream of questions. “Papa, why be the sun turning us to stone? Papa, who be the princesses? Papa, what be Buri eating? Papa, where be Mama Trigvi going?”

  Aenmarr sighed and burped and—from the sound of it—scratched portions of his anatomy that Moira didn’t dare guess at.

  Oddly, it made her miss her own home.

  Trigvi returned with vegetables, calling out “Tatoes and carrows! Soooo good, my lovelies.”

  Buri was set the task of chopping them. “Choppy-whoppies, my good boy,” Trigvi told him in her deep voice. He started his chopping task with great glee, which thankfully took all his concentration, forcing him to stop his incessant question-asking. Moira heard a whoosh as a fire was lit, then the steady crackling of flames.

  With a great wheezing sigh, Aenmarr said, “I be getting ups and going to the larder to sharpen my knives. Tell me when the pot be boiling in the fireplace, wife.”

  Moira heard him stomp off into the larder, and soon the telltale swish-swash of a knife being run across a whetstone came to her. She remembered the huge knives that hung on the larder wall in his first wife’s house, on their ironwork lattice, and the ax on the table, atop a suspicious dark stain. She thought about the boy who’d cried out and had been swatted into silence.

  Too frightened now even to tremble, she lay still, a single tear squeezing past her closed eyelids. She couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  12

  Jakob

  Running flat out in the darkness toward the sound of a blade being honed, knowing he had only seconds until one of his brothers was murdered, Jakob nearly knocked himself silly against the stone of a cottage wall.

  “Oof.” The breath went out of him as he fell to the ground. Too late, too late, he wailed in his head.

  Swish-swash, the knife-sharpening went on.

  Maybe not too late. He gulped, stood. I hope.

  Suddenly, he heard a new sound behind him, like the high-pitched whine of an injured animal. Peering into the darkness, he made out a shape moving in his direction. He tried to give no hint that he was there. Closer, closer it came, until he could see that it was the fox, crawling painfully toward him, its two hind legs dragging.

  Can’t get distracted by that fox, Jacob thought. Have to get in and rescue my brother.

  Pushing himself to his feet, Jakob eyed the wall that had knocked him down. It was huge. Then he turned to the fox and whispered, “Sorry, fella. Don’t have time to help.”

  The fox growled.

  “Draw Aenmarr away.” The words popped into Jakob’s head unbidden.

  Jakob blinked. “I…”

  “Draw Aenmarr away.”

  Jakob shook his head—hard this time—and moved back from the wall, giving the fox a wide berth.

  Despite its injured legs, the fox leapt up and bit him on the ankle, hard enough to break the skin.

  “Ow!” Jakob yipped and tried to jump away, but the fox kept hold of his pants leg, tumbling him to the ground.

  “Child of man,” came the voice in Jakob’s head again. “Your brother has little time. You must draw Aenmarr away.” Then the fox let go of his pants. Staring eye to eye with Jakob, the fox nodded.

  This is getting crazier and crazier, Jakob thought. “Ummm … why?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

  “Because, human child, other help is at hand.”

  A small sliver of hope piercing his heart, Jakob asked: “What help?”

  “Draw Aenmarr away.”

  “Okay. Okay,” Jakob said, letting out a long breath.

  “Go.”

  Jakob stood, stared for a second at the wall. Then he took a few quiet steps to his left, found a corner, and peeked around what seemed to be the front of the cottage. A bit of light leaked around the edges of a door, illuminating its size. The door went up and up and up, too big for him to open.

  And what do I do once I get it open anyway? he thought. Say, “Hi, trolls, dinner is here”?

  “Go!” the fox commanded again. “Your brother needs a hero.”

  I’m no hero. Trailing his hand against the rough stone of the cottage wall, he marched toward the front door.

  The oak door towered above him and Jakob noted an angular-looking P carved into the middle. P for petrifying, he thought. P for powerful. “Here goes.” Reaching up, he made a fist and knocked on the door as hard as he could. P for pounding.

  Swish … The sound of blade-sharpening suddenly stopped.

  A young troll voice inside called out, “Papa, who be pounding on the door so early?”

  Aenmarr’s dreadful voice answered, “Perhaps your younger brother, Oddi. He be missing his meal, so busy playing silly buggers.”

  “Should I be letting him in, Papa?”

  “Let him stew, Buri.”

  Unfortunate choice of words, Jakob thought, remembering what had happened to poor Oddi. He pounded on the door again.

  “Aenmarr!” he called out huskily. It came out a lot squeakier than he’d hoped. “Come out and meet your … er … doom!”

  From inside came thunderous grumbling, then earth-shaking footsteps as Aenmarr bellowed: “Fools! And damned fools besides. I be thinking I be done with fighting knights and heroes. Besides, swords b
e giving me indigestion. It be why I agreed to the Compact.”

  The door was flung open and Aenmarr’s grotesque head glared out. He belched and said, “Who be daring to disturb my dinner?”

  Jakob froze like a prairie dog beneath a circling hawk. But Aenmarr gazed right over him squinting into the darkness. “Fiddle-foddle,” he roared. “More silly buggers.” Then he slammed the door shut in Jakob’s face.

  Jakob stood open-mouthed before the enormous door, unable to believe his luck. After a long moment, he turned and said to the darkness, “What now?”

  “Draw Aenmarr away.”

  Jakob sighed, turned back, and hammered on the door once more. “Aenmarr! Your … um … doom still awaits you.” He took a deep breath and added, “Show yourself, you big hairy ape.”

  “Hairy ape?” the fox’s voice in his head asked. “Aenmarr will not know what a hairy ape is.”

  Jakob shrugged and ran back to the middle of the clearing.

  When Aenmarr didn’t come out immediately, the fox said, “Try again.”

  Jakob started toward the house when the door swung open and Aenmarr stood there, filling the doorway. This time he looked straight at Jakob.

  “You be a small one,” Aenmarr said. “For a prince.” He smiled. It was not a reassuring smile. He turned his head to hiss something over his shoulder. Jakob couldn’t make out what he said.

  I have to get him out of the house somehow. “Come, Aenmarr!” Jakob yelled. “Your…”

  “Yes, yes, my doom be awaiting me and all that fol-de-rol.” Aenmarr waved his massive hand dismissively. “Let us be talking a bit first, young prince.”

  Jakob couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The troll wanted to discuss things? With his dinner? He wondered if Aenmarr recognized him. Or did all dinners look alike?