by Jon Etter
When she awoke the next morning, Anthony presented her with a brown leather backpack that nicely coordinated with her brown skin and her tan silk tunic—the bright colors most sprites dyed their clothes didn’t fit her more modest tastes. “Here,” he said as he dragged it to her. “It’s a bit big, but that might help you fit it around your wings. I filled it with nuts and berries for your journey to wherever you may be going. And there’s also a notebook, pen, and ink in there. Maybe you can make a note about Anthony o’ the Wisps and anything else you find that’s not in your book.”
“Thanks,” Shade said as she inspected the backpack. “Where did you get it, and what’s this reddish-brown stain?”
Anthony’s glowing skin, already quite pale, grew even paler. “Let’s just say that what your book said about Will o’ the Wisps answers both of those questions and not go into any gruesome details, shall we?”
“Let’s,” Shade agreed as she put Radishbottom’s book into the bag and fitted it around her wings, trying to touch the stains as little as possible. Once she had it on, she extended her wings and gave them a couple short flaps.
Shade walked briskly behind Anthony as he led her to the forest’s edge. Anthony stopped and landed on a sizable stump and pointed through the trees. “I can’t say for certain since I’ve never left the forest, but I believe there’s a town in that direction. I’ve also heard rumors of a vicious troll who preys on travelers somewhere hereabouts. Even if there isn’t one, do be careful. I’ve heard things are more dangerous out there since the last war.”
Shade had heard similar things here and there from the rare travelers passing through Pleasant Hollow over the years. Apparently the war her mother had fought in, the latest between the Seelie Court (the good fairies who had ruled for centuries) and the Sluagh Horde (the evil fairies who had tried to overthrow them for just as long), had ended in an uneasy truce brokered after the deaths of the rulers of both sides. The new Seelie king, Julius, and the new ruler of the Sluagh, Queen Modthryth, had agreed to an ill-defined joint dominion over Elfame, the realm of the fairies, with the result being that people were so unclear as to what laws were in effect where that, essentially, there were no laws or clear authority in most places. Aside from Shade and her father, the sprites of Pleasant Hollow, being mostly isolated from the rest of the world, had little interest in who won the war and what laws might exist outside the village.
“I’ll be as safe as I can,” she assured Anthony. Shade was about to leave when she looked back at the little man. She stopped, bit her lip, and glanced out past the trees then back at Anthony. Since her father’s death, she had preferred to be alone, but the little wisp had been so kind. Plus, truth be told, she was nervous about leaving the Merry Forest for the first time. “Want to come along?” she asked anxiously.
Anthony smiled, and his multifaceted eyes glinted up at her then gazed out at the wide-open, grassy plains just past the forest. His smile vanished, and he began wringing his hands. “Um, I’d love to, but . . . I can’t . . .”
“Oh, right!” Shade said. “Radishbottom says that wisps are magically bound to the forests and bogs they’re born in. You can’t leave, can you?”
“Uh, that’s not exactly . . .” Anthony scratched his head and cleared his throat. “Actually, we’re not magically bound or anything. We’re just . . . terrified of open spaces. Terrified.”
“Really? Have you—”
“Terrified!”
In the unlikely event that you’ve ever seen a fly cry, you’ll know that when they do all the little mirrored squares that make up their eyes steam up until beads of water form and run down in streaks, just like the mirror in your bathroom when you are forced (and I agree with you, most unfairly) to take a long, hot bath after a good play. That’s exactly what happened with Anthony. Shade felt horrible as tears ran down his eyes to sizzle on the skin of his cheeks—for the glowing makes them rather hot, you understand. “Oh, I . . . I’m sorry,” Shade muttered, not being used to apologizing for the things she did and said. “I didn’t mean . . . I just . . . I liked spending time with you and thought maybe . . .”
“You did?” Anthony asked, fishing a handkerchief out of a pocket and polishing his eyes. “That’s very nice. I wish I could but . . .”
“No, I understand. Thank you so much for everything,” Shade said and began to walk away from the woods where she had spent her entire life.
Now, when I mentioned grassy plains before, you probably pictured something like the lawn in your yard, which is usually kept well trimmed by your parents or, when it gets too hot for them, by either you or your older brother (who really shouldn’t use that kind of language while he does it). That’s not what wild grasses look like, however. Yes, some grow low, but many of them grow tall and lush and weedy, which is exactly what Shade laboriously pushed and tromped through, using language that would make even your brother blush as she did so.
In time, she was so hot and sweaty and frustrated that she was almost tempted to take to the air and fly. But she didn’t. Memories of being called “fat acorn with wings” and other insulting names kept her grounded, so she pressed on miserably through the plains as the winds picked up and the skies darkened.
Eventually Shade found herself on the edge of a wide river whose waters rushed past. Thirsty from her journey, Shade made her way down the rocky banks to the water’s edge and drank from her cupped hands, getting quite wet in the mist from the waters crashing against stone. Pushing back the dripping black ringlets of hair that hung down her forehead, Shade gazed to the far shore. With those winds blowing, she knew she wouldn’t be able to fly across, so she walked along the riverbank, hoping to find a place where the river would be narrow enough to fly across.
In time, however, she spied a bridge—an oak one with stone foundations at both ends and sturdy supports anchored deep in the riverbed. Shade quickened her pace, eager to cross. But when she made it to the bridge, she found the end of it blocked by a long length of chain in the middle of which hung a wooden sign that stated in lovely red calligraphy:
Troll Bridge
Cross at your own peril.
What’s more, just to the side of the bridge was a large wooden chair with a red and white striped umbrella open above it. Propped against the chair was another sign painted in the same delicate hand as the other:
Troll is currently on break.
Please menace yourself in the meantime.
Sincerely,
The Management
Being such an exceptionally well-read little sprite, Shade was quite knowledgeable about trolls, as I’m sure you are as well. For example, she, like you, was well aware that trolls stand between six and eight feet tall and have wild manes of coarse black hair running from the tops of their foreheads all the way down to their tail-bones, pointy wolfish ears, rough green-gray skin, little piggy eyes, long boar-like tusks jutting up from their lower jaws, and arms so long that their sharp-taloned hands often drag along the ground as they walk. What’s more, Shade knew, as I’m sure you do, that bridge trolls are the wiliest variety of troll, so she naturally thought the sign on the chair had the makings of a trap.
Just a little way down a dirt path that led to the bridge stood what to Shade was an immense, palatial home, but what we, not being little sprites who have never left their forest home, would consider a modest stone cottage, surrounded by well-tended garden beds filled with red, orange, and yellow snapdragons. Anyone who lives this close to a troll bridge, Shade concluded, must know how to handle the beast. Maybe she can tell me how to trick it into letting me across or, better yet, how to defeat it once and for all and thus save the lives of other innocent travelers, just like in The Chivalrous Tales of Sir Percy Dovetonsils or Ripping Yarns and Tales of Dashing-Do!
And so Shade hurried to the cottage door and was about to knock when she thought, Wait! If the owner lives this close to the troll bridge, maybe she’s in league with the monster. Deciding to proceed with
caution, Shade tiptoed around to the back and flitted up high enough to peek in windows. In the front of the cottage she spied a cozy living room filled with elegant chairs and a couch arranged around a fireplace whose mantel was covered with little knickknacks. Next was a small-to-us-large-to-her bedroom appointed with a quilt-covered bed, lace-doily-covered nightstands, and an ornate wooden armoire.
Given the finery that she saw, Shade was almost convinced that it belonged to either some exiled human noble or perhaps an elf-lord deposed from the Seelie Court (like Sir Elbederth the Blameless in Abalath’s Songs of Seelie and Sluagh) until she came to the back and looked through the window into a tidy little kitchen. Seated at a table covered with a spotless white linen table cloth, sipping with raised pinky from an elegant china teacup, was a troll. And he was looking right at her.
Now at this point, good Reader, I would love to give you a nice gruesome description of a classic troll and share with you the horrible, bloody rage he flew into as he attacked our plucky little heroine, but, alas, I must again disappoint you. While it is true that the troll had appropriately green-gray skin and tusks, aside from that he didn’t look terribly intimidating at all, what with his neatly coiffed hair pulled back into a mauve-ribboned ponytail, pince-nez spectacles perched on his pointy nose, and the purple velvet jacket and ivory waistcoat he wore over his frilly white shirt. Even the talons of his fingers were filed down and perfectly manicured. What’s more, all he did upon seeing Shade was spit out his tea in surprise, sigh, stand up (revealing his tight, knee-length ivory pants, white stockings, and black, gold-buckled shoes), and come to the window. As he opened it, Shade took several steps back, having read about the length and snatching abilities of trolls’ arms.
“Did you sneak across that bridge?” the troll asked wearily.
“No.” Shade answered, leery of a trap.
“Well, thank goodness for that,” the troll sighed. “See that you don’t or I’ll . . . do something quite nasty to you. With my claws and teeth and such. I am a bridge troll, you know.” The troll looked thoughtful for a moment, nodded, muttered to himself, “Yes, I believe that will do,” and shut the window.
Shade scratched her head. She knew that she had just been threatened, but she didn’t feel threatened. Deciding to test things, she walked over to the bridge, removed the chain, and crossed to the other side, where she found three black goats grazing in the field beyond. Noting with some interest that they were quite large for goats and that all three had puffball tails and extra-long ears, Shade walked back across the bridge and tapped on the kitchen window.
The troll put down his teacup and opened the window. “Yes?” he asked, frowning.
Shade pointed over her shoulder. “Did you know that I just crossed your bridge? Twice?”
The troll shook his head. “Well, don’t make it a third time then. I swear, yesterday it was that insufferable brownie and his pixie friend, and now you. It’s getting so that a gentletroll of refinement can’t sit down to afternoon tea without—”
“What if I do make it a third time?” Shade asked, crossing her arms. “What then?”
“I believe I previously established that it would be something quite nasty.”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“Now see here, my good sprite,” the troll objected, pointing a long, bony, well-manicured finger at her. “If I say I’ll do something nasty—”
“Then you’re lying,” Shade interrupted. “Those nails aren’t sharp enough to cut butter, plus anything nasty you could do would soil those lovely clothes you’re wearing. If it weren’t for you being a troll, I’d say that you’re a better fit for a garden party in Jayne Owlslyn’s Pride and Pixies than for guarding a bridge.”
The troll’s eyes grew wide and he put a hand to his chest. “You’ve read Pride and Pixies?”
“Several times.”
The troll grinned. “And you think that I— Well, let’s not be so uncivilized as to talk Owlslyn through a window! Come around to the front and join me for tea, if you please.”
The troll hurried off. Shade wondered briefly whether or not it was such a good idea to sit down to tea with a troll, but then headed to the front of the cottage to accept the troll’s invitation, concluding that she, like the heroes and heroines of many of her favorite stories, would be clever enough to save herself if things took an unpleasant turn.
In which a lovely tea is interrupted
by a pack of pugnacious púcas . . .
The troll ushered Shade in with a little bow. “Welcome to the humble abode of Chauncey X. Troggswollop, Esquire, Miss . . .”
“Shade,” Shade replied as she headed toward the kitchen.
“Shade?” Chauncey asked as he followed her back. He poured tea in the smallest cup he had, which was still immense for her, since she was less than a third of his size. “I thought sprites had more . . . fanciful names than that. Full of descriptors and nature and whatnot.”
“And I thought trolls lived under bridges and in caves.”
Chauncey made a face. “Most do, but as a gentletroll of refinement, I absolutely refuse. Why, these clothes—custom-made by Tinkleton of Durrellbury—would be ruined by the muck and mire, and I’m liable to catch an ague from the damp. What’s more—Oh, dear, pardon my manners! I can’t expect you to stand for tea!”
Chauncey rushed out and returned with a stack of books of etiquette that he placed on one of the chairs. Shade climbed on top of them as Chauncey took a seat across from her and served her a slice of lemon cake.
“Isn’t living under bridges and eating travelers the whole point of being a troll?” she asked before lifting the teacup with both her hands and taking a sip.
“No, living under bridges and eating people may be common—and disgusting—practice, but neither is the point of being a bridge troll,” Chauncey said civilly, taking a sip of his own tea. “The point of being a bridge troll is to protect and preserve one’s bridge. We bridge trolls are born as soon as someone gets the idea to build a bridge somewhere. Once it’s completed, we find our way to it and defend it until either we die or the bridge is destroyed.”
Shade considered this as she nibbled at her lemon cake, which was moist and delicious. “What happens if the bridge gets destroyed?”
A dreamy look came over Chauncey’s face. “Then we’re free to leave. Travel the world. Attend garden parties and royal levees. Oh, I rather wish that dratted thing out there would burn to the ground!”
“Why not just leave?” Shade asked. “You’re clearly not happy out here.”
“If only I could . . .” Chauncey sighed. “But I’m magically bound to see to it that the bridge is defended. So I’m stuck here out in the country, with only the occasional visit from my uncle, my books of etiquette and Owlslyn, and now a lovely spot of tea with a fellow admirer of the darling Ms. Owlslyn to make life bearable.”
Feeling sorry for the troll, Shade didn’t have the heart to tell him that she didn’t much care for Pride and Pixies. “But surely such a pleasant and refined gentletroll as yourself has made friends amongst your neighbors?” she said.
“Neighbors?” Chauncey scoffed. “What neighbors?”
“I saw three púcas on the other side of the bridge. Don’t they—”
“Púcas!” Chauncey rushed to the window, sloshing tea about. “Three of them you say? Sweet Saint Figgymigg!”
Shade followed him. “What’s the problem? I’ve read about púcas. They’re harmless tricksters, right?”
“Not these púcas,” Chauncey replied grimly.
Shade looked out the window to see that the púcas had changed shape. I’m sure that you know all about púcas, being as well-versed in fairy lore as you no doubt are, so I won’t insult your intelligence by explaining that púcas are black-furred shapechangers who can take the shape of goats, rabbits, ponies, or people but not completely, thus making them look like goats with rabbit tails, ponies with bunny ears, rabbits with goat horn
s, and so forth. I will let you know, however, that in this case the three púcas had taken the shape of little men with the tails and hooves of ponies, the noses and teeth of rabbits, and the horns and beards of goats (púcas are especially bad at mimicking human form). As Shade watched, the púcas kicked at the railings, stomped on the planks of the bridge, and made rude gestures at the cottage.
“Oi! Come on out, ye great foul troll and get what’s comin’ to ye!” the largest of the púcas shouted, rolling his Rs and elongating his Os as he did so. He followed up his challenge by breaking part of a railing with a fierce kick.
“What’s gotten into them?” Shade asked. “Nothing I’ve ever read has suggested that púcas could be so—”
“Rude? Violent? Have such horrible fashion sense?” Chauncey asked as he dabbed at the sweat forming on his forehead with a lace handkerchief. “Well, my dear Miss Shade, I would wager that there are a good many things out in the world—like bookish sprites, gentletrolls, and murderous púcas—that you have never read anything about. Now if you will excuse me, I must go tend to this.”
“Wait!” Shade grabbed his arm. “You can’t go out there! They could kill you!”
Chauncey sighed. “They very likely will. According to my uncle, they’ve killed a good number of bridge trolls already, and I’m likely to be the next. But I must go defend my bridge.”
“Why? You hate the thing! You said so yourself.”
Chauncey opened the door. “Love it or hate it, it’s my bridge, and it is my duty to defend it. I’m sorry that our time together was so brief, Miss Shade. I advise you to stay in here and spare yourself the unpleasantness that is to follow. If I do not return, please feel free to take as many Owlslyn and etiquette books, lemon cakes, and cucumber sandwiches as you like.
