The Troll with No Bridge

I’m a troll. I’m supposed to tell riddles and eat people. That’s what a troll does. He sits under his bridge and waits for passersby. When such folk cross over the bridge, the troll is there on the other side. Waiting.

“Answer my riddles three,” says he, “and I shan’t devour thee.” I apologize for the archaic language and insufferable rhyming, I truly do. Some “poetically gifted” troll decided centuries ago that it sounded a whole lot more menacing than, “Answer my three tricky questions, or I’ll eat you.”

Why three riddles, you ask? The rationale there is that three riddles are foolproof. One, a person should be able to answer. Two, a clever person quite possibly might answer. But three? No chance. But I digress.

Usually what follows is that the troll tells his riddles and then proceeds to eat the poor unfortunate traveler—regardless of whether or not they were able to answer the riddles—which, again, leads a sensible person to wonder why trolls even bother with asking riddles in the first place. The troll then hunkers down beneath his bridge and waits for his next meal. And so it goes, until the troll grows too old and fat to move out from under his bridge, and so dies—or, some brave, wandering knight comes along and vanquishes him. Thus ends the troll.

Doesn’t sound too pleasant, either way, does it? You’d think trolls would have picked up on that by now, but we haven’t. Trolls simply keep telling their riddles and eating people. As I said, that’s what we’re supposed to do.

But I’ll let you in on a little shameful secret. When my parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins—trolls have large families, did you know—discovered it, I was ostracized from my family and scornfully cast out from the troll community. They’re ashamed of my very existence.

I have my own bridge that I live under, as all trolls do. But I don’t like telling riddles. In fact, I don’t even tell them at all. And I certainly don’t eat people. That’s the source of their shame and my banishment.

I discovered long ago that a plant-based diet is just as adequate for a troll’s dietary needs as eating people. It’s probably even better—for numerous reasons, chief among them being that I don’t have to eat people.

I actually like people—I’d prefer them to other trolls, in fact. With trolls, the conversation usually revolves around one of two topics. Can you guess what? I’ll give you a hint—such conversation is about the two things we’re supposed to do as trolls. As you can imagine, that sort of talk bores me greatly—not only because I have no interest in those things, but also because such conversation is incredibly repetitive. Mercifully, no self-respecting troll will have anything to do with me—much less have a conversation with me.

However, people—people have such wonderful conversations. I hear fragments of them as they pass over my bridge. People talk of stories, music, and art—and the wide world they live in. It’s fascinating. I’d wish I could join them in their conversations, or better yet, their travels.

But I know—I know what all trolls grow up knowing. People hate trolls—with good reason—and will kill them on sight. And so, as much as I’d like to join in on their conversations and travels, I much preferred staying alive. I remained hidden beneath my bridge, keeping to myself. I was all alone, for years and years. Sounds miserable, right?

That brings us to a day last summer. A day that changed everything.

It was a day like any other day, really. I was resting under my bridge, keeping out of sight, when all of a sudden, a soft voice interrupted my dreams, waking me.

“Excuse me?”

I opened my eyes slowly, thinking at first that the voice came from upon my bridge, from someone passing over it, calling out to another. Imagine my surprise when I found myself face-to-face with a human child. She stared right at me.

Dirt covered her face, and her once-golden hair was snarled. Her clothes were no more than rags, really. She wore no shoes upon her feet, and she was thin. Her eyes, though—her eyes were a vivid green.

I was too startled to move—startled both at her appearance and the fact that this child was standing next to me underneath my bridge.

“Excuse me?” the girl asked again and took a step closer to me. She didn’t appear frightened in the least. “Do you live down here?”

I simply nodded mutely. Trolls look a lot like people, if you didn’t know—not at all how we’re portrayed in the stories. However, there is a noticeable difference, and it’s a big one—it gives us away instantly. We have sharp, pointed teeth—very sharp, in fact. They have to be, considering most trolls’ diets.

The girl looked around under my bridge with an appraising eye. It’s actually quite nice under my bridge, I’ll have you know. I’ve worked hard to make it my home. Most trolls simply don’t care—they’ll leave bones picked clean scattered on the ground, and fragments of shredded clothing strewn about. Weeds will grow wild—trolls use them to hide behind—and the trolls sleep on the cold, hard ground, waiting for their next meal.

And me? I’ve planted flowers and removed the weeds. I’ve got a garden where I grow my food, and I draw my fresh water from the nearby river. At night, I sleep under blankets I traded for vegetables with an old merchant with poor eyesight. It isn’t much, but it’s more pleasant than how most trolls live.

The young girl turned back to me with a smile that lit up her whole face. That surprised me. No one had ever smiled at me, for one thing, and for another, I didn’t understand how this child could find a reason to smile at anything.

“It’s beautiful down here. You have a lovely home,” she complimented me.

I nodded again, inclining my head in what I hoped was a gracious manner, and got up from the ground. I moved over to sit away from her on a nearby rock. The young girl turned away from me again, observing the cool water running its course under my bridge.

While her back was to me, I quickly asked, “Where do you live?” My voice was hoarse—I hadn’t spoken much to anyone but myself in quite some time.

The girl shrugged. “Oh, here and there,” she answered over her shoulder. “Sometimes I’ll sleep in town squares or a kind farmer’s barn on cold nights.” She was silent for a moment and then added softly, “I don’t really have a home.”

I was at a loss for what to say to her. But before I could speak, she turned back with a bright, heartbreaking smile on her face.

“But that’s okay—really, it is,” she told me assuredly. “When you don’t have a home, wherever you are is your home.” She bent down and stared at a caterpillar inching its way determinedly across the ground; a look of wonder on her face.

I still didn’t know what to say. Ever since I was old enough to live by myself, this bridge had been my home. The idea of not having a home was completely foreign to me. This human child confused me. How could she be so happy? I asked her as much, and she laughed pleasantly.

“I wasn’t aware I needed a reason to be happy, Mr. Troll.”

I froze, her words sending warning coursing through me. “You—you know what I am?” I asked warily.

The young girl paused and then nodded slowly.

“How?” I asked.

Perhaps my voice was harsher than I intended. But she looked unfazed. Again, she twirled away, turning her back on me, and danced over to look at the caterpillar again. It still inched its way across the ground resolutely.

“I heard about you in the village I was in last night,” the young girl spoke up. “The one that’s on the other side of your bridge. They said you’ve lived down here for many years and never tried to eat any of them even once.”

She turned and looked back at me curiously. “I thought trolls were supposed to tell riddles and eat people who try crossing their bridges.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The people in the village knew about me? Why hadn’t they tried to kill me?

“Most trolls do just that,” I found myself answering her numbly.

“But not you?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Not me, no.”

The young girl laughed, delighted. “That’s what the villagers all said. That’s why they leave you alone, you know.” She shook her head still smiling. “I came because I wanted to see if they were telling the truth.” She hesitated, and some of the smile left her face. “And… I felt sad for you—that you live down here all alone.”

Her unexpected kindness left me at a loss for words. She felt sad for me? I was uncomfortable with her sadness, and I still wanted to know why she could be so happy. So, I changed the topic and asked her again.

She rocked back and forth on her heels as she thought about my question. Finally, she said, “I am alive and I am free. There—two wonderful reasons, don’t you think so, Mr. Troll?”

The last part of her answer nagged at me for some reason. I then noticed that by her thin wrists and above her bare feet by her ankles were patch-like bands of whitened scar tissue—almost as if she had worn chains for many years. She didn’t look much older than twelve.

She saw me staring and smiled faintly. Though, there was a hint of sorrow in her eyes as well. She drew closer to me and said in a soft voice, “Sometimes, even if you once had a home, you find that it’s not really your home at all—even though it should be.”

She stared down at her wrists for a moment and then covered them with her ragged sleeves. She spoke so softly that I almost didn’t hear what she said next. “Instead, you find that it’s actually a cage.”

I felt a cold rage build deep inside of me as I realized what the young girl was implying. I understood then, that the world was full of monsters. Not just trolls like me—oh no. Some of them also hid behind normal faces.

The young girl saw some hint of my rage and surprised me yet again. She reached out and put her hand lightly on my forearm. “It’s alright,” she said gently. “I escaped a long time ago, you see. I’ve been free ever since.” She smiled; a fierce light burned in her eyes. “And I’ll never be caged again.”

She studied me a little more closely; her head was tilted to the side with a frown on her face. “And what about you?” she asked quietly. “How long will you remain in this cage?”

I didn’t know what she meant.

Seeing my confusion, the young girl gestured at our surroundings. “It really is beautiful down here,” she said again. “But you should see what’s up above your bridge.”

A smile lit up her face, and she clasped her hands around mine. “Oh, you really should, Mr. Troll. It’s simply wonderful out in the great, wide world!”

I was too stunned to react. Leave my bridge? I had wanted to do that for so long now, hadn’t I? I wanted to go out and explore the wide world with all my heart, and yet, I hid. For years and years, I hid under my bridge.

I told myself it was because of the people and what they might do to me. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? No, I hid under my bridge because I was scared. Too scared to leave my past behind. It had become my cage, and I hadn’t even realized it until now.

I felt the young girl’s hand on mine again, faint yet reassuring. I looked into her eyes and she smiled at me. Empathy was in her gaze. And I understood then, that even though the world was full of monsters, there were also kind and warmhearted souls living in it as well.

“Here’s the thing about cages, Mr. Troll,” she said softly. “They’re scary and they’re comfortable. That’s even scarier. But once you escape from one, you know how to recognize when someone else is trapped in one. Even better, you know how to help them get out.”

“How?” I whispered.

The young girl stepped back away from me, toward the sunlight streaming down from under my bridge. She beckoned to me.

“Come on,” she said with a smile. “I’ll show you.”

I hesitated for but a moment, looking around at the bridge that had been my whole world for so many years. Then, I turned back to the young girl. “Lead the way,” I told her.

I left my bridge behind that day. I was finally free. All thanks to a young girl who got out of her cage and showed me how to escape mine. And I’ve never looked back.

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