The Margyssey (Chapter 1)
A Matter of Trolls and Their Intellect (Or Lack Thereof)
It was a dark and stormy night,1 rain tumbling down in buckets and sloughs as two forms gained presence amongst the wistful mist of the clouds. Marg, who was most certainly a lady (though one may not tell if her name was Margaret or Marguerite), strode along with her dashing companion, Wilburo (but the “o” is silent), dripping and huddled together with the cold whilliping around their necks. The two siblings were inexplicably lost deep in the forest, with no prospects (yet) of returning home safely. How they had come to be in their current predicament is a story for another time. They set out to try their luck at finding their lost home.
Soon, as morning dawned upon the drenched leaves, the pair came across a gushing river in the gloomy woods, the rain having raised its sheets to crawl from its bed and lick the heels of the bank. Spanning the vast rushing waters lay a solemn stone bridge, no more than a couple of horse’s breadth in body. Marg and Wilbur(o)2 stood at the edge of the river, contemplating their options. Should they cross in hopes of discovering civilization on the opposing side? Should they turn back? Never did they consider the danger involved in crossing the bridge itself.
Hi ho! Hi ho! Hi ho!
Oh, from whence do ye go?
For those that wander
Wilt drag and ponder
Their feet till they freeze in the snow!
A voice suddenly blared from beneath the sturdy foundations of the crossing. Marg and Wilbur stared at each other in alarm.
“Whence came that voice?” Marg whispered furtively to her brother. “Didst thou not hear it as I did? Its sound was quite vicious and struck me as unfriendly. Dare we cross?”
“Foorsooth! I heardst its chilling beckoning draw near to my heart and snatch my strings till my very soul trembled! Alas, I too want of knowledge to the speaker’s presence and their intentions!” Wilbur glanced hesitatingly at the dark shadows under the soggy arches. “Ho, voice from which percheth ‘neath the sturdy pillars of here path! We wish to travel home, but have not our way. Truly, we art lost.”
The voice beneath the bridge replied with menace,
O simple one, I asked thee thus:
From whence thou cam’st, not whither
Thou look, if indeed ye trust
My words so bare of snakey slither.
So spoke the voice too deep for groanings and hence continued:
But still, an error of grammaticity
Is fine and passing ill to be forgone.
For what thou needst with authenticity
Is over here this bridge to tread upon.
Marg turned with displeasure to face Wilbur. “How has this bodiless creature, uncouth and uncivilized as all forest dwellers be, whom we but hear and cannot perceive with sight, caught thee in a grievous grammatical error? He asked from whence we came, and careth not to where we travel.”
Wilbur, disgruntled, responded, “I knoweth not the means nor speaker which has himself perceived and enlightened us of our own uneducated minds! Prithee, did thou not even learn how to read one’s alphabet nor count more than the sum of sixty and seven? Truly, truly, I say to thee, I cannot fathom from whence this creature speaketh, but I knoweth whither I shall go.”
And with these stubborn and troubled words, Wilbur ardently stepped forwards to cross the clean white stones of the bridge.
Suddenly, with a “whoomph!” and a “OOMPH” (the latter sound much louder than the former), a massive shadow the size of a mountain eclipsed the sorry wet form of Wilbur. Even the sun frowned at the sight of the ugly monstrosity emerging from beneath the bridge. It was a troll.3 Yet, it was not a troll that one would expect, as few these days have seen real trolls with their own eyes. So bear with us as we follow a brief or not so brief rabbit trail and enlighten you readers on the background of trolls in general and of this troll in particular.
Usually, according to the lexicons of Tolkien or some other Grimm siblings, trolls tend to be rather simple-minded creatures, unsure of the identity of a hobbit or a potato. That, or they fall to their based and greedy desires of more food as illustrated in the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff.4 One can understand this of all trolls as well: they seem to have a fondness regarding guarding bridges and taxes, something that would make them excellent politicians if ever they were, or were able to, run for an office. Nevertheless, trolls are usually treated poorly and no unions have yet formed for their protection.5
This particular troll differed from his compatriots in that he had received a smattering of the benefits of a classical education. Unlike most trolls of his genus, this troll had demonstrated signs of a witty intellect from a young age. The abnormality of such a development had so alarmed his family (who considered themselves properly improper as trolls ought to be) had sent him off to live with his Great Uncle Ulvert in hopes their son would forget his hoity-toity ways. Despite their best efforts, our antagonist had escaped his Uncle’s eye on the first opportunity presented and trespassed a nearby farmers’ cottage. He had made off in secret with a battered copy of Oliver Twist and painstakingly taught himself to read from the book’s contents. Thus, our troll is unique in that he was an educated person, quietly amusing himself with mythology such as Oedipus Rex, The Odyssey, or The Hobbit which he had stolen from various colleges and schools along his path. Indeed, nowadays, he had himself donned on a Dante cap and composed fair poetry for the love of his life.6 As this most excellent female troll was then absent (and in fact nonexistent), he amused himself with composing poems in the form of riddles for nosy travelers as we shall see presently.
Answer me these riddles three
And let you cross my bridge, I might;
Answer wrong, and before long
Thou shalt regret thy oversight.
For I be the troll of this bridge,
And it wilt be my privilege
To EAT thee should thou guess me wrong!
Thus growled the troll (whose name shall henceforth be known as Tim). Shaking to his boots (and not from the cold), Wilbur stuttered:
“A troll! Oh, merry, how poor is my fate so that I might meet my end at the hands of a beastly troll! Verily, I shalt weep tears of anguish for my sorry lot as I have not a sword nor a tribe of goats to defend me from my plight!” The poor boy bemoaned his luck and commenced rocking back and forth with his hands across his face, endlessly caressing his temples in childish terror.
“Cease thy pathetic whining. Thou art a goat thyself to think such (and cowardice smelleth as such upon a child),” scolded Marg squarely, “Shalt we surrender our lives before a chance to save them has been made? Or shall we attempt upon the rescue ourselves with some wit?” Turning to the troll she uttered: “What is thy first attack, ye mangly beast?”
Your riddle first is of simple task:
What shall a sailor hate and ask
Not to drink nor shower his back.
When fresh is gone and clean has lacked
This all surround him lies sunlight basked?
Wilbur opened his mouth to speak, but fear seized his lips as if a viper coiled around his heels, and he uttered none but strange croaks. His first guess had been rum, after all, what sailor would want to drink old ale or bathe in it? Nonetheless, that didn’t seem to be quite correct. The last line puzzled him to no end, and he continued his ceaseless moaning.
“Child’s play,” shouted back Marg, “Simply, that is the salt of the sea which no man should use to quench his soul nor bathe in it lest more grime cling to his arms and shoulders!”
The troll nodded, not surprised in the least that this first riddle had been answered. Indeed, he had expected the girl to answer well; she seemed to possess a well educated mind. The boy, however, he’d in part hoped would foolishly blurt out the wrong answer, (for he knew little boys were prone to do so when they stood afraid) and so condemn the pair to the troll’s own stomach early in the game. Tim saw he would have to postpone his meal further and arrange a second riddle, for he was an honorable troll, as far as trolls go (which isn’t very far where honor is concerned, but we will give Tim the benefit of the doubt). After a moment’s contemplation, he presented this puzzler:
The riddle second flies into the air
Tell me hence: what is up there;
The aviary which swoops and dives
Voracious hunting for more lives
Of legged pests flitting near its lair?
“A swallow!” cried Marg, without hesitation. “That’s in Uncle Geese’s Fairy Tales7—word for word, even—everyone knows that!” (Indeed, it seemed that she knew her reads as well as the troll). Wilbur hid his face, for he had skimmed that assigned reading in school at the time.
Enraged at such a quick reply, Tim worked in his mind a new devious trick. Clearly, modernity was not to serve him well as his literary knowledge was quite matched against this wench. If she and her brother were to pass unharmed, he would forgo another night foodless and tummy rumbling, spending who knew how long a time waiting for new passerbyers.8 Thus, he contrived his plan. He would give an impossible riddle, and while the two tasty morsels of his puzzled over such a questionnaire, he’d snatch them up and eat them! The code of honor had served him for two rounds of riddle-jousting, but he intended to abandon it and give priority to his stomach’s grumbles. So, he enacted his dastardly plot:
The last and hardest of them all:
If in the woods a tree should fall
And none be around to hear it
Can we be sure of where we sit
Of whether it gave a deathly call?
Marg hesitated. This riddle was of a new sort, not referenced from any children’s tales. She looked at her feet in quiet contemplation. The troll stealthily stole closer to the pair, eagerly laying his chubby and grubby hands before them.
Fortunately for them, Wilbur chose to look at the clouds for his answer, although, one could suppose he was bored and waiting for Marg to spare him the task of answering, and suddenly saw the white fluff in the sky he’d supposed to be a sheep, enshrouded by the manky dark form of Tim. Wilbur screamed higher than a little girl which startled Marg so badly she echoed his scream (though at a couple octaves lower). In turn, Tim was also so terrified at this strange turn of events that he stumbled back and fell off the bridge!
Collapsing into the rushing water, he quickly rose, angrily lashing his thick fingers any which way to find those cursed children. But the cold, icy water weighed down his esteemed cap, blinding his face so that he could not see their escaping hoods leap across the bridge and into the adjacent woods once more.
The End…
…but to be continued!
(Cover image from Seattle—The Fremont Troll)
And when we say such things, we mean that it was like any other setting to a fairy tale where it matters not where they came from and what happened before but more of where they are going and what will happen. For what matters matters not to the reader if it came former but rather what would become of the latter that became such adventurers. Also, it hints that this story may have been written on the roof of a red doghouse.
Henceforth spelled “Wilbur” for the sake of convenience on the part of the reader.
Now, keen readers deep in their knowledge of fairy tales and all such other nerdy business would take issue with the troll not taking on a form of stone, being basked in the sunlight. We would remind such “keen” readers that it happened to be raining at the time and so the sun could not shine upon the troll’s back. The sun mainly frowned because it couldn’t give the right paddle to the beast; yet, heavy clouds seemed to soften the blow.
Unfortunately for the troll race, they themselves had not had a chance to read such a tale and continually fell for the same trick for ages to come. So terrible and pervasive was this story that all around the English areas, the number farmers who carried three billy goats of ascending size with them and the number of troll spottings varied indirectly! Unfortunately, for Marg and Wilbur, they were goatless, a rare phenomenon of that age, to be sure.
One did try to form in the days of Middle Earth, but soon fell apart after dwarves went out of style in the mines and the dark ages followed where night hours were rejected. Nowadays, however, with the wondrous invention of electricity, surviving trolls of the 1964 Purge have found their ways into modern office jobs where they hide in cubicles, pervading riddles to all peoples (but mainly to H.R.).
Whom he would never likely meet as female trolls aren’t drawn to well spoken trolls. They call them “garshfuncklecrunklenubbleton” which means “gay” in our language.
A copy which may be purchased at one’s local genie for twenty and eleventy quid. An advertisement can be found in video form with a discount attached here.
Indeed, this bridge was quite out of the way for most wanderers, not that any chose to be wanderers by trade. But, Marg and Wilbur had an unfortunate luck, so here they were. Goatless as ever and heavily regretting their decision.
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