by Jon Etter
In spite of Shade’s protests, Chauncey marched out the door and over to the bridge with Shade right on his heels. As he drew near, the púcas paused in their wanton assault on the bridge. The biggest one pointed at Chauncey. “Oo la la! Jaimie, Jimmie, take a look at the great jessie we got here!”
“He’s dressed right bonnie, he is, Jock!” the middle-sized one laughed.
“Too bad he’s got a face like a skelped erse,” the smallest one bleated.
“I would rather be a ‘jessie’ with a face like a ‘skelped erse’—whatever that means—than an ill-mannered hooligan like the three of you,” Chauncey said coolly. He started to take off his velvet jacket. “Now, if you’ll just allow me a moment to remove this lovely garment—it’s a Tinkleton of Durrellbury, you know—then we can—Oof!”
Before Chauncey could finish, Jock, the biggest of the púcas, charged and butted him in the side with his horns. Chauncey staggered, the seam at the top of his coat sleeve tearing as he did so.
Chauncey took off his pince nez and looked at the tear, his eyes widening and face darkening. “How dare you, sir!” he roared and swatted Jock with the back of his hand, sending him flying.
Seeing their brother struck down, the other two leapt into action. Jimmie, the littlest, butted the back of Chauncey’s knees with his horns as Jaimie, the middle-sized one, jumped and kicked him in the chest with his hooves. Chauncey toppled, flailing, into the dirt. “My lovely clothes!” he cried as the three púcas fell upon him, pummeling him with clenched fists and hooves.
Shade was beside herself. She ran around the four brawling figures, shouting at them to stop. The púcas and troll didn’t react in the least to her cries, but what more could a little sprite do? Just as she thought all was lost, Chauncey staggered to his feet, swinging his great troll hands wildly as the three púcas hung onto him, punching and kicking and biting him all over. Seeing that Chauncey was perilously close to the edge of the riverbank, Shade dug her little feet in the dirt and sprinted at him. With a leap of her legs and a flap of her wings, she flew up and hit him in the small of the back and sent all five of them—troll, sprite, and púcas three—tumbling down the bank and into the river.
Chauncey and the púcas splashed about crying, “Oh my!” “Ach, no!” and words so dreadful that you might get your mouth washed out with soap just for thinking them. Louder than all of them, however, was Shade. “All right, you dingle-dangle dunces! Knock it off, or your lives won’t be worth a red hot donkle, you stupid thistlepricks!”
Shade knew that any one of those creatures could crush a two-foot-tall sprite without batting a púcaish or trollish eye, but she was wet and mad and didn’t care. The biggest of the púcas gave an impressed whistle. “Awfully foul geggy for a wee lass, init? Ye kiss yer mother with that mouth?”
Shade pointed her finger menacingly in the púca’s face, who twitched nervously. “You! Jack!”
“Jock.”
“Whatever! Why are you and the nitwit twins attacking Chauncey?”
“We’re not twins,” the littlest one objected. “Jaimie’s clearly bigger than—”
“Shut it!” Shade growled, pointing at Jimmie, who dutifully shut it. “Why?”
“He’s a troll!” Jock declared. “Just like the one who killed Angus, our dear seventh cousin four times removed!”
“We’ve vowed to get bloody vengeance on all the evil trolls of the world and make it safe for poor little púcas who just want to cross bridges to get to greener pastures everywhere,” Jaimie added, tearing up.
“Evil, dirty, hackit, savage trolls!” Jimmie spat. “Livin’ under bridges, snatchin’ and eatin’ poor folk!”
Shade crossed her arms. “Does Chauncey here look ‘dirty,’ ‘savage,’ or . . . whatever else you called him? Does he even look like he lives under a bridge?”
The four turned to look at Chauncey, who was daintily dabbing at mud on his waistcoat with a lace handkerchief. “This whole Tinkleton ensemble—ruined! Oh, you may as well butt me to death, you brutes!” he moaned, flinging the handkerchief into the river. “Life lived without finery is simply not worth living!”
Jock cocked an eyebrow. “All right, ye may have a point. But we still probably saved you from—”
“A delightful tea and pleasant conversation!” Shade interrupted.
Chauncey brightened a bit at that. “How very sweet of you to say, my dear!
“Ye two were havin’ tea?” Jimmie asked.
“Yes,” they answered in unison.
“And ye weren’t fixin’ to eat her?” Jaimie asked.
Chauncey made a face. “Absolutely not! Eating one’s guests—the idea! What a horrible breach of etiquette! Besides, I never eat meat. Terrible for the figure, plus . . .”
“Gives ye wind, does it?” Jimmie chuckled. Chauncey’s lips pursed as he gave a slight nod.
“Satisfied?” Shade asked, glaring at the púcas.
Jock, Jaime, and Jimmie exchanged glances, then shrugged their shoulders.
“Well, if I’m not to be murdered,” Chauncey declared. “Would all of you like a spot of tea while I change into something else before I die of shame?”
In which boxes and bags prove
surprisingly important and interesting . . .
Shade scribbled notes about púcas, gentletrolls, and Anthonys o’ the Wisp in her notebook while Chauncey changed into equally elegant new clothes and the púcas devoured the tea cakes, cookies and sandwiches. “In our defense,” Jock said as he munched his tenth cucumber sandwich, “ye are a troll.”
“And ye’ve scared a lot of folk ’round aboot,” Jaimie added.
“Exactly how I don’t ken,” Jimmie muttered, eyeing Chauncey’s velvet jacket.
Chauncey sighed. “I know. It’s tiresome, having to terrify everyone who comes by, but I must defend my bridge. The more a bridge is used, the more it falls apart.”
Shade looked up from her notebook. “Wait. So you just have to make sure the bridge lasts? You aren’t fighting to defend your territory?”
Chauncey waved his hand dismissively. “Dance a jig on it, for all I care, if you can guarantee it won’t do the dratted thing any harm. Speaking of which, you púcas have left my bridge rather the worse for wear.”
“And we’ll be happy to fix it up before we go,” Jock said.
“Well, not happy,” Jaimie corrected.
“A wee bit grumbly while we do it, to be honest with ye,” Jimmie added. “But we’ll do it.”
An idea began to form in Shade’s mind. “Are púcas good at woodworking?”
“Not in the main, but we three are,” Jaimie replied.
“Could you make something like this?” Shade asked as she sketched a box with a hinged lid with a small slot in the middle.
The púcas looked at it and nodded. “Aye, we could do that,” Jock said, stroking his little beard. “Why?”
“Well, I just remembered a story from Le Warte d’Arty about a knight who demanded all of a traveler’s money whenever one crossed his bridge—”
“Oh, heavens,” Chauncey gasped, placing a hand on his chest. “You’re not suggesting that I become a . . . a common highwayman!”
Jock frowned as well. “That might be a wee bit better than eatin’ folk, but doin’ it if they can’t pay—”
“I’ve told you, I never eat—”
“No,” Shade said firmly. “Nobody eats anyone. We put these boxes at each end of the bridge with a little sign asking for donations in exchange for use of the bridge.
“Won’t most use it without payin’?” Jaimie asked.
“I would,” Jimmie said.
“Not if they know a troll defends the bridge,” Shade answered.
“It’s true—I can be quite intimidating,” Chauncey said, lifting his pinky and daintily sipping his tea.
“And then you use the money to pay for bridge maintenance,” Shade said, crossing her arms and leaning back in her seat.
>
“A troll toll bridge!” Chauncey clapped his hands. “Oh, it is a fabulous idea!”
With tea finished, the púcas began repairing the bridge and making the toll boxes while Chauncey quizzed Shade about her favorite parts of Pride and Pixies and whether she liked Elzesplat Bunting or Mr. Doosey better (“The correct answer, my dear,” he declared, “is both!”) before preparing a lovely six-course meal for the five.
Over dinner, Shade’s situation was discussed. Chauncey, having found her delightful company, offered her the chance to live with him. When she declined (while books of etiquette and Jayne Owlslyn were better than no books at all, they were still far from satisfying), it was decided that one of the púcas would give her a ride the next day to the nearest fairy town. The other púcas would remain to continue the repairs and resent the third for taking off on a pleasant day’s ride.
At bedtime, Chauncey showed Shade to his spare bedroom. The room was smaller than all the rest, but it contained a comfy little bed (little to us, again, but enormous to Shade), a polished maple dresser, and watercolor landscapes on the walls. It would have been wonderfully cozy if the room weren’t crammed full of suitcases and steamer trunks.
“You must pardon the mess, I’m afraid,” Chauncey said as he cleared a path to the bed. “My house is rather small, and my vacations take up quite a bit of space.”
“Vacations?” Shade said, looking at all the suitcases. “I thought you said that you never get the chance to leave the bridge.”
“I don’t. My dear uncle is the traveler, but he’s nice enough to bring me his vacations when he’s done with them. Would you like to see?”
Shade shrugged. “Sure.”
Chauncey considered several trunks and bags before fwumping a large tan suitcase on the bed. “Oh, this is a lovely one!”
Chauncey snapped open the suitcase, and Shade peered in, expecting souvenirs, much like the shells or wooden figurines or tiny empty bottles that smell like juice that’s gone bad that your Aunt Gwen always brings you after one of her vacations. What Shade saw instead was a pebble beach with the sun shining cheerily in a cloudless azure sky while waves lapped gently along the shore. Shade gaped in amazement. “What— How—?”
“Lovely isn’t it? Let’s have a little walk,” Chauncey said, taking Shade by the hand and giving a little jump. Before she knew what was happening, Shade could smell salty sea air and feel the sun warming her back and water tickling her toes.
“How can you have a place in a box?” Shade asked as she bent down and picked up a shell, turning it in her hands, trying to decide if it and everything else was real.
Chauncey closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and exhaled contentedly. “When my uncle’s done with one of his vacations, he packs it up and brings it to me to enjoy since he knows I can’t go off and have one myself.”
Shade shook her head. “That makes no sense.”
Chauncey picked up a stone and skipped it across the water. “Actually, it’s exceptionally sensible. Most people take all sorts of nonsense they don’t really need when they go off on vacation and then, when it’s over, they pack it all up plus useless little knickknacks and gewgaws that they pick up as souvenirs and bring it all home. Uncle Lesley, when he’s done with a vacation, packs that up instead and brings it to me so that I can enjoy it, although I do believe he keeps the best ones for himself. Makes much more sense than bringing home a bunch of rubbish, if you ask me.” Chauncey clasped his hands behind his back and strolled along the beach, turning his face up to the sun.
“But that doesn’t . . . I mean, that’s not a real . . . Wait!” Shade called after him.
After a baffling but otherwise terribly pleasant hour by the sea, Chauncey and Shade climbed back out of the suitcase, went outside to wish the púcas a good night (Chauncey had offered them the chance to sleep in his living room, but they passed, declaring sleeping in a house to be “a bit too posh” for them), and then settled in for the night.
The next morning it was decided that Jimmie would take the form of a pony—with goat horns and a rabbit tail—and give Shade a ride to the town of Gypsum-upon-Swathmud, which was about a day’s ride away. Just before they left, Chauncey, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief, brought her her backpack
“I’ve filled your bag with goodies for the road—don’t worry though, I made sure that nothing will get on your books. And I wanted to give you a little token of my thanks, my esteem, and my undying affection.” Chauncey turned the bag to reveal that he had strapped a small, thin briefcase to its front. “It was a short but beautiful little vacation and I want you to have it. You never know when you’ll need to get away from things for a while.”
The troll wished her well and gave her a kiss on each cheek.
“Do that to me, ye great big ponce, and you’ll get a clype from me hoof,” Jimmie grumbled.
“Don’t mind him,” Jock said, putting a hand on Chauncey’s shoulder. “He’s all bum and parsley, he is.”
“Safe travels, lassie,” Jaimie called after Shade as she rode off on the back of the galloping púca-pony. She smiled with satisfaction as they sped across a bridge and past a pair of wooden boxes with slits in their tops. Above each box was a sign on which was written in large, elegant letters:
Troll Toll Bridge
Please consider leaving a generous
donation as you pass to pay for
maintenance and better guarantee
the safety and well-being of
yourself and all travelers.
Sincerely,
Chauncey X. Troggswollop, Esq.
Bridge Custodian and Gentletroll
of Refinement
In which Shade experiences
business as usual at the Crooked
Rook . . .
“Looks like yer in luck, lass,” Jimmie declared as he galloped toward Gypsum-upon-Swathmud in the light of the setting sun. He jerked his horned pony head at the carts and wagons driving into and out of the village and the scores of fairy folk milling about the stone and thatched-roof buildings there. “The goblin market’s right hoachin’ and runs all day and all night. If there’s books aboot, they’ll either be here or somebody here will know where to find ’em.”
The púca stopped just outside of the town, and Shade hopped down. “Do you really want to head back tonight?” Shade asked. She was nervous to be on her own there in that new, bustling place. “I’m sure whatever inn I stay at will have a stable for you to sleep in.”
Jimmie shook his head. “No. Never have liked towns. Too dirty and too full of eejits dumb enough to live in ’em.”
Shade said goodbye and watched Jimmie ride into the twilight before turning to face the village. Surveying the immense buildings all crowded together and watching all manner of fairy folk—rich and poor, big and small, pudgy and thin, beautiful and hideous—as they came and went and milled about, listening to the hawkers’ calls and merchants’ haggling and every sort of laugh and scream and chatter imaginable, Shade was both excited and terrified. Gypsum-upon-Swathmud was so much more . . . well, just so much more everything than Pleasant Hollow.
Resolved, Shade marched toward the town. Right on its edge, she spied a run-down inn with a cracked, graying old sign hanging askew above its door, one end noticeably higher than the other, with the words “The Crooked Rook” above a painting of a black bird wearing an eye patch. It didn’t look (or smell) like a good place to eat or sleep, but it reminded Shade of something straight from the pages of a favorite book of hers, Carolus the Stripling’s Meager Expectations, so staying there had the sort of immense romantic appeal that usually leads to incredibly terrible choices being made.
When Shade walked through the swinging doors into the Crooked Rook’s tavern, her eyes immediately began to water at the oniony, turnipy smell billowing from a large bubbling stew pot that wrestled for dominance with the stench of pipe and cigar smoke. Fairies of all sorts—goblins, hobgoblins, pixies, brown
ies, kobolds, dwarves, knockers, elves, a couple cats wearing hats and boots, and many others—sat in dim lantern light on rickety seats around battered tables or stood by the fire, drinking strong-smelling things out of scabby leather mugs. The scars that most of them sported and the foul language they used (almost immediately upon entering, Shade heard every rude word she had ever known plus seven more) made Shade uneasy, but she remembered one of Radishbottom’s travel tips: “When entering an unfamiliar tavern, always act completely at ease, and when staying at an unfamiliar inn, always haggle over the price of a room.”
Shade squared her tiny shoulders, sneered slightly in an attempt to look tough, and sauntered to the bar. On her way, she passed a large table at which sat a bunch of rough, scary-looking fairies wearing red caps. They played cards with a brownie wearing a narrow-brimmed hat and a pixie with a headful of fluffy yellow curls that, combined with his thin frame and green clothes, made him look rather like a blond dandelion ready for its seeds to blow away. A battered green top-hat was perched on top of his puffball head. Shade did a double-take when she noticed that one of the red-capped players was a human, and an especially rough-looking one with a mashed nose, ears that looked like they had been chewed up and spat onto either side of his head, and a painful-looking scar that started high on his forehead and ran all the way down to his chin, a dirty-looking patch mercifully hiding his right eye.
While she had occasionally seen most types of fairies thanks to the odd traveler passing through Pleasant Hollow, she had never actually seen a human before. Everything she read had taught her that fairy dealings with humans were rare. For one thing, their immense size (bigger than any fairy except for trolls, ogres, and giants) and ability to handle iron (which causes intense pain to fairies) made them extremely dangerous. For another, humans can only see fairies at certain times (dawn, dusk, Halloween, The Feast of St. Figgymigg, etc.) or under special conditions (charming, abduction, having a fairy spit in their eyes, being the half-nephew of a cheesemaker, etc.). Based on his looks, Shade guessed that he had been abducted as a baby and raised by evil fairies to serve as a warrior or thug. When he looked up from his cards in her direction, she quickly looked down at her bare feet and hurried to the bar and climbed onto an empty stool.
