Authors: P. J. Brackston
“Now then, Herr Troll, no need for such haste. I have traveled a great distance and endured considerable personal risk and discomfort to be here. The least I would expect from such an excellent host as yourself is that you offer me a seat.”
She smiled expectantly.
The troll looked at first surprised and then embarrassed. He shuffled about the fetid space, dusting off one of the wooden stools by the fire, gesturing at her to sit upon it. Gretel did so, finding herself grateful for the smoky warmth of the fire. The heat of the day had departed with the sun, so that her wet clothes now felt horribly chill against her flesh. She moved a little closer to the flames. Steam began to rise from her skirts. She expected the troll to sit opposite her but instead he busied himself gathering bowls and spoons and ladled something pungent and lumpy from the pot above the fire. He handed a bowl to Gretel, nodding emphatically.
“Big-fat woman like,” he told her. “Big-fat woman eat!”
She took a steadying breath and reminded herself that a stomach trained on boarding school meals could hold onto anything offered it. Even so, it took an immense effort of will to force down the rancid chunks of meat and gray gravy in which they swam. She refused to consider what creature might have given its life to form this revolting concoction. The troll was watching her with a gaze of unnerving intensity. Gretel swallowed hard and forced a smile.
“Delicious,” she declared. “Indeed, it could only be improved by a sip of that superlative grog I recall from my previous visit. Might you have a drop or two to spare?”
The troll's highly mobile face underwent a range of expressions that registered first pleasure, then memory, next suspicion,
followed by confusion, coming to rest in the shape of cautious agreement. He fetched a stone jar, removed the cork with his teeth, and passed it to Gretel.
“So kind,” she said, relieved to be washing down the foul food with something that might at least render inert the more serious diseases that must have been bubbling away within the stew for several days. She handed the drink back to the troll, who took only a modest swig before sitting heavily on the stool in front of her. He did not eat but continued to watch her as she battled through her seemingly bottomless bowl of supper. A piece of gristle lodged itself between her front teeth, but, as she felt it unlikely her host's possessions included a box of toothpicks, there was little she could do about it. She decided it was best to get to the reason for her visit without further preamble.
“As I mentioned, I do indeed have a gift for you, Herr Troll. A splendid specimen to add to your collection. I am certain you will be more than pleased with the quality of the . . . item I have procured for you.”
She paused, partly to allow for a grunt or nod or some other sign of the troll's approval, and partly to chew a particularly fibrous morsel of meat. The troll, clearly not versed in the matter of polite conversation, offered nothing by way of encouragement. The meat also refused to yield. Gretel held out her hand for the brew and took another gulp. Gasping, she went on. “And I shall happily pass this trophy over to you, the second you furnish me with the information I require.”
The troll shifted on his stool, his rheumy eyes narrowing.
“If you recall, Herr Troll, I require the name and address of who it was that stole the cats, or, as seems to be the case, had the cats stolen on his behalf. Give me that name, and that address, and I shall give you the splendid, freshly picked, first-class finger.” She quelled a shudder at the memory of the
lifeless digits and was fleetingly thankful for the lack of light in the hovel, which prevented her from seeing what she was eating. She feared it would all too closely resemble the gray, wrinkled nastiness that had been the defining characteristic of the fingers when last she had forced herself to check them.
The troll scowled, hesitated, and then slowly uttered the awful words, “Giant want cats.”
Gretel stopped chewing. “Giant?”
“Giant.” The troll nodded. “Giant always bin wantin' cats. People bin gettin' cats for giant. He pay lots-of-lots-of treasure. Troll take cats to Giant. Some times Troll bin gettin' cats.” He smiled at the memory, his tusks exposed to their very gums. “Giant give Troll lots-of-lots-of fingers!” He laughed his customary phlegm-filled chortle.
Gretel attempted, with some difficulty, to remain focused. “And does this giant have a name?” she asked.
The troll shrugged. “Giant,” he said.
“Giant,” Gretel repeated. She put down her bowl. “And this giant lives where, precisely?”
“Thirty leagues.”
“Thirty leagues!”
“Could be fortyâTroll not sure. That way.” He waved a lumpen arm. “Follow road to east for one day and one night. Climb big hill with snow. Giant has cave at top and castle inside cave.”
“A castle inside a cave? That doesn't sound likely.”
The troll shrugged again. He took what was probably his first-ever stab at elaboration. “Is castle. Is inside cave,” he said.
Gretel heard some small, distant voice in her head telling her to be careful what she wished for. She had wanted the identity of the catnapper, and now she had it. She had needed to know his whereabouts, and the troll had supplied that detail also. Somehow, though, being in possession of these facts brought
her no joy. She was prevented from further contemplation of what might lie ahead by the troll springing to his feet, bi-digit hand outstretched.
“Big-fat woman give troll finger now,” he said.
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
Gretel stood up and handed over the parcel. The troll tore off the wrapping and then tenderly, almost lovingly caressed the cold, blue finger. Sniffed it. Nuzzled it.
Gazed at it adoringly. The troll took down his special box and gently placed his new acquisition inside, taking one more lingering look before snapping shut the lid and replacing the box on the mantel.
“Well,” said Gretel cheerily, “I believe that concludes our business. I will take up no more of your time, Herr Troll, but bid you good night.”
She started toward the door but the troll placed himself very solidly in front of her. “Big-fat woman stay,” he purred, his voice soft and husky, his piggy eyes half closing as he let his gaze wander over Gretel's body.
“I'd love to, of course,” said Gretel, “but, alas, this is a business trip, and that business demands my urgent attention.”
“Big-fat woman stay,” the troll insisted slowly. “Stay with Troll all night.” Gretel's tongue suddenly felt dry as parchment and beads of desperate perspiration formed on her brow.
“Sadly, I must decline your generous offer.” She kept her voice as level and firm as she could, but a mouselike squeak had attached itself to the end of each word.
The troll frowned.
“Big-fat woman not want to stay!”
“I assure you that is not the case.”
“Big-fat woman not like Troll!”
“As I said, it is urgent business that calls me away, nothing more.” She paused before playing her trump card. “Naturally, I
would hate you to think me ungrateful or rude by refusing your hospitality further. There is, perhaps, some way I can convince of my genuine gratitude. Something I can give you?”
The troll's face lit up. He took a step forward and placed a heavy hand on Gretel's arm. She held her nerve, giving a little laugh that she prayed did not sound flirtatious.
Moving minutely so as to dislodge the unwanted weight of the troll's paw, she said brightly, “Knowing how much you prize your collection, I took it upon myself to bring a second specimen, just as a thank-you for your cooperation and gentlemanly behavior.”
“More finger?”
“Yes. One more finger.”
“Give Troll!” he demanded in a tone that suggested he was not altogether convinced.
“I do not have it on me. I have left it in a safe place.”
“Where is?”
“A little way back along the trail. We can go there now, you and me, and I will give you the finger. How would that be?”
The troll said nothing for a long minute, but scratched his fistulous chin, his eyes raised to the roof of the hovel as if searching for answers among the moss and algae that flourished there. At last he nodded curtly. “Big-fat woman take Troll to place,” he said.
It was properly dark now. A sky grubby with clouds left over from the earlier storm allowed only fragmented moonlight to light the path. The troll appeared not to need any form of illumination to find his way and lumbered on ahead while Gretel struggled to keep up, frequently stumbling and slithering on the uneven, wet track.
She directed him to the place where she had indeed, earlier in the evening, hidden the second tightly wrapped finger. The troll dug beneath the muddy stones. For a horrible moment
Gretel worried that some scavenging animal might have discovered the body part and enjoyed a free supper. After an agonizingly long time, the troll let out a grunt of glee. He pulled off the waxed paper and held the finger up, testing it with his teeth as if assuring himself of the quality of a gold coin.
Gretel silently congratulated herself for the brilliance of her planâshe knew it would pay to keep a finger up her sleeve. She also knew timing was crucial. She had already begun to back away, remembering all too well how quickly the troll could cover the ground. Relying on the fact that he would be too engrossed with his new prize to notice her slipping into the night, she had chosen this spot because she had already selected an excellent hiding place not a minute's scramble off the path. She could never outrun the creature, but if she could make it to her cover and stay there until the troll tired of searching for her, all would be well. She was fairly certain he would be eager to return his precious finger to the safety of his collection, and that eagerness would, heaven willing, override any transient interest he might have in Gretel herself.
With a small but significant distance now opened up between herself and the revolting creature, she risked turning and quickening her pace. The silence behind her suggested the troll was still lost in a loving reverie with his cherished object. Gretel's left foot found a patch of thick mud and shot forward, lengthening her stride unnaturally and painfully. She gasped, but forced herself not to cry out. In a flash, everything changed. With a roar the troll lurched after her and flung himself forward. He crashed to the ground at her heel, one hand clasped firmly around her right ankle. Gretel screamed. The troll roared again, springing to his feet, still holding tightly onto her. Gretel found her leg raised high in the air in a position that was as undignified as it was uncomfortable.
“Let go!” she yelled. “Let me go!”
The troll paid no attention to her entreaties but proceeded to drag her back along the trail in the direction of his home.
Gretel bounced over the sharp stones and through the cold, filthy mud, her skirts gathering up about her armpits as they went, her underwear quickly beginning to shred. She snatched at bushes and boulders as she was hauled past, but all were wet and slippery and impossible to keep hold of.
“Stop it, you brute! Let me go this instant!” she shouted in the no-nonsense, do-as-I-say-or-else voice she ordinarily reserved for Hans in his most drunken state. But to no avail.
“Big-fat woman stay with Troll!” he insisted, hauling away, apparently oblivious to the considerable weight of his quarry.
She was just about to give in and accept the awful fate that seemed to be written for Gretel of Gesternstadt when there was a rustling in the undergrowth followed by a loud thud. The troll stopped. A break in the clouds allowed Gretel a clear view of her abductor as he teetered, reeled, and fell. She screamed as the vile body plummeted toward hers, but it toppled aslant, landing with a bone-crunching splat on the stony path beside her. Roland appeared at her feet, clutching the hefty bough with which he had just poleaxed the troll.
“Aren't you supposed to be camped in the woods farther down the mountain?” she asked him.
“Aren't you glad I'm up here instead?” he asked her.
Gretel had to admit that she was. He helped her to her feet and she did her best to rearrange what was left of her clothes. The troll showed little sign of stirring but she had no desire to linger. Clinging to Roland's arm, she hurried down the path and to the gig he had parked in the lea of the hill.
An hour later they had scampered back through Bad am Zee, taking advantage of the cover of night, and traveled off the main road for some distance before they found a deserted farm building in which to shelter. Roland tethered the horse
near some loose hay at one end of the barn. Gretel changed into fresh, if crumpled, clothes. In the doorway Roland made a circle of stones and lit a small fire, reasoning that no one would be abroad to notice the smoke at such an hour. Gretel was glad of the comfort of the flames. Even in dry garments she felt chilled and sore, her grazes and bruises properly beginning to make themselves felt now. She undid the parcel of provisions Hans had furnished her with and offered Roland some of the excellent bratwurst and black bread. There was a bottle of beer, too, which, on top of the earlier swigs of grog, quickly began to spread a welcome numbness through her body.
She noticed that her traveling companion wore his habitual look of melancholy as he stared into the fire.
“Thank you,” she said, “for coming to my aid.”
“You know I did not think it wise for you to go there.”
“The troll had information vital to my investigation.”
“And did you get that information out of the wretched creature?” Roland picked up a stick and poked at the flames.
“You have met him before, I think,” she said.
“I have. Which is why I could not rest easy knowing where you were. I could not leave you to his . . . attentions.”
“But you thought to. To begin with. You were content with our plan, that I confront the troll alone while you waited.”