I heard this story from an old hobgoblin storyteller. I’m going to tell it to you the same way it was told to me.
The story continues...
Once upon a time there was a great War Troll who lived under a bridge in the mountains. The bridge passed over a deep gorge, and there was no other way across. If a group of people wished to cross the bridge, the Troll exacted a steep price; they could only pass if one of their members was surrendered for him to eat. Needless to say, not many people were willing to pay that toll, and the Troll’s meals become less and less frequent, and he grew so hungry that sometimes he would eat his own foot. Which he hated to do, because he would have to wait for it to grow back before he could have another meal, plus his foot tasted terrible.
The Troll was so hungry that he decided to eat the next person he encountered, whether they intended to use the bridge or not. The Troll’s stomach was grumbling unhappily when along came Sora Tereza, hobbling along with her cane.
“Tap, tap, tap,” went Blind Teraza’s cane as she walked along the bridge.
“Who’s that tap-tapping on my bridge!” demanded the Troll.
“It is I, Teraza,” she said, “I must cross your bridge, for I am to meet my sisters on the other side.”
“Well, you won’t get to do that,” growled the Troll, “Because I am very hungry and I’m going to eat you for my supper!”
“Oh, dear, you don’t want to do that, “said Ancient Teraza, “I am old and frail, I am nought but skin and bone, I wouldn’t make a good meal. You should wait for my sister, Maenya, she will be along shortly, she is big and strong and has a lot of meat on her bones.”
“Well, that does sound better,” said the Troll, “But you should get going before I change my mind.”
So off tapped Sora Terza. But now the Troll’s stomach was growling very loudly indeed, and he was just wondering if maybe he should eat a few of his toes when, “Clomp, clomp, clomp,” he heard Sora Maenya’s hobnail boots on the bridge.
“Who’s that clomp-clomping on my bridge!” demanded the Troll.
“It is I, Maenya,” she said, “I must cross your bridge to meet my sisters on the other side.”
“Well, I am so hungry I could eat my own foot. But you look like you have a lot of meat on your bones, so I’m going to eat you instead!”
“I understand how that feels,” admitted Hungry Maenya. “But I am also very strong, I don’t know that you could defeat me. And anyway, I wouldn’t taste very good, my meat would be tough and there isn’t an ounce of fat on me. You should wait for my little sister, Katra, she is young and tender and would be a much tastier meal. Sometimes I think about eating her myself!”
The Troll looked Brawny Maenya up and down. She did, indeed, seem very formidable, so the Troll decided to take the better part of valour. “Get out of here, before I change my mind!” he growled, somewhat sulkily, and off clomped Cunning Maenya.
It took a long time for Sora Katra to arrive. The Troll was beginning to regret letting Maenya pass, and was thinking that this time he might have to eat both his feet. His stomach was grumbling so loudly that it shook the bridge, and he barely heard the “Pat, pat, pat,” of Katra's slippered feet walking upon it.
“Who’s that pat-patting on my bridge!” demanded the Troll.
“It is I, Katra,” she said, “I must cross your bridge to meet my sisters on the other side.”
“Well, I am so hungry I could eat both of my feet, and maybe a hand,” growled the Troll. “I let both your sisters pass because one was too old and the other was too tough. But I see your sister told the truth, you do look young and tender, and I’m going to eat you!” And with that, the Troll leapt onto the bridge and trussed up Katra faster than you could say “lickety-split”.
“I would indeed be tasty,” admitted Katra, as the Troll opened his mouth to take a bite. “But you aren’t going to eat me raw, are you? I would be so much better cooked.”
Charming Katra could be very persuasive. The Troll had to admit she was right, and he hadn’t eaten a well-cooked meal in a long time. “Uh, I’m not a very good cook,” he mumbled.
“That’s okay,’ said Katra cheerfully, “I can teach you. First, you need to have the right seasonings. Go gather some herbs and wild garlic and special spices, and some honey for the dessert, and a pot to cook me in.” Clever Katra instructed the Troll on where to find the ingredients, which the Troll dutifully gathered. Soon he had all the ingredients he needed, although the bees had stung him fiercely, and his fingers and mouth were sticky with the honey.
“Good,” said Katra, “Now bruise the herbs and peel and crush the garlic and grind the spices, and throw them into the pot.”
“Oh,” said the Troll,”I, uh, I don’t have a pot.”
“Then you are just going to have to roast me over an open fire,” said Katra.
Now, the Troll didn’t much like fire, but he wasn’t going to admit that to his dinner, so instead he said, “Um, I don’t have any firewood, and there are no trees nearby, I guess I can’t make a fire.”
But Enchanting Katra could be very persuasive. “Nonsense,” she said, “You can take the planks from this side of the bridge.” So the Troll dutifully pulled up the planks, and snapped them and split them, and with Katra’s instructions he piled them just in front of the hole he had made in the bridge.
When it came time to light the fire, the Troll realized he had another problem. “I, uh, don’t know how to start a fire,” he said. Indeed, he found the idea of deliberately setting something on fire to be quite alarming.
“That’s okay,” said Katra, “Untie me, and I will light it for you.” Well, the Troll did not know how he felt about that. But he was now very hungry, and roast Katra sounded very tasty. And Smiling Katra could be very persuasive.
So with a murmured, “No funny business,” the Troll untied Katra, and she lit the fire. The fire started out small, and the Troll was very impatient to eat. “How long until it is ready?” he asked.
“Not long,” said Katra. “It will grow faster if you get on your hands and knees, and get your head close to the flame, and blow on it.”
Well, the Troll really didn’t like the idea of getting that close to the fire, but he didn’t know how he was going to have roast Katra any other way. And Subtle Katra could be very persuasive. So he did as she said and got on his hands and knees, even though the honey made dirt stick to his hands. And pretty soon he had a roaring fire. Surely, now he could finally have roast Katra, he thought.
But Bewitching Katra could be very persuasive. “No, no,” she said, “I know you are hungry, and I will cook faster if the fire is as high as you can get it.” And the Troll was very hungry indeed, his stomach was growing so loud it caused an avalanche in a high mountain pass. He had sneaked some honey when she wasn’t looking, but it wasn’t enough, and now he was stickier than ever.
So the Troll dutifully got on his sticky hands and knees, with his rear end sticking in the air. He put his head low to the ground and as near to the fire as he could stand. And at that moment, Scheming Katra pushed him into the fire and over, through the hole in the bridge and tumbling into the chasm, bringing the fire with him as he fell.
And the Troll was never seen again. But I am told that if you ask the Daughters of Sora Kell what happened to him, they will tell you that is how they learned to make grist.
The story stops but never ends.
