Troll Bridge (3 page)

Moira sat. In such a short time, she'd learned a kind of obedience. The stone floor was not as cold as she'd feared.

The fox sat, too, and curled his bushy tail around his feet. “You are in Trollholm. And that creature who captured your friends was Aenmarr the troll, whose bridge you came over at sunset.”

“A troll? You have
got
to be kidding!” Moira wondered if the whole thing was some sort of dream. Had she fallen asleep while driving? “You mean like trit-trot, trit-trot … the three billy goats going over a bridge and…”

“This is no fairy story,” the fox said, his pink tongue suddenly slipping out between his teeth.

Remembering the troll's awful protruding teeth and the photographer ground between them, Moira shivered. “No happily ever after?” she asked.

“Not for everyone,” the fox told her. “Perhaps not for anyone.”

Tears suddenly filled Moira's eyes. She didn't know if she was crying for herself, or for the captured girls, or for the poor photographer she'd last seen in Aenmarr the troll's mouth. But she couldn't stop the tears from coming, and soon sobs racked her body sending fat sloppy tears to splash onto the stone cave floor.

The fox licked its fur and watched her impassively, his eyes like obsidian.

3

Moira

Moira hadn't meant to sleep. But the long rehearsal and long drive, and then everything after, all combined to knock her out.

Or else it was magic. She couldn't be sure.

When she awoke, her eyes were crusted as if she'd been sleeping for days with a fever. An oddly muffled booming sounded behind her.
Waterfall?
she wondered. But when she turned to look, she couldn't see a thing.

Turning over on her side, she noticed a half circle of light about a hundred feet away, slowly growing in intensity. Underneath her was stone. It took her a minute to remember where she was.

Only, of course, she didn't believe it. She
couldn't
believe it. It had to be a dream or a nightmare or, she thought, a coma.

That was it. She'd fallen asleep in the car somewhere after Duluth or even right before turning into Vanderby, and driven off the road. Probably she was now in a hospital. Her mother and dad had certainly been called, because she had a who-to-call card in her wallet and another in her glove compartment. Her mom had insisted on it. So they were probably already in the hospital room, weeping over her, waiting for her to wake up.

“Mom…” she whispered. “Dad…” She closed her eyes and tears seeped onto her cheeks.

Then she opened them again and looked at the half circle of light once more. She'd read about such a thing. Soon someone from her past, someone dead—maybe her grandmother Darr, or her first harp teacher, Mr. Mikelson—would appear and call to her. And she would go toward the light. She would go—and die.

I don't want to die,
she thought.
I'm only sixteen. I only just got my license.

Suddenly she saw a figure filling the half circle of light and she began to shiver, though not from being cold. The figure was the fox.

“Hungry, human child?” he called out, his voice breathy in her head.

And she was. Though frightened, stunned, numb, freezing, and weepy, she discovered with astonishment, she was also enormously hungry.

“Famished,” she said, starting to crawl toward the cave opening.

The fox trotted over to her, opened his mouth, and dropped a dozen or so beetles in front of her. They looked dead, except for one that was still waggling its front feet feebly.

Stomach acid rose up and pooled in Moira's mouth.
I'd rather starve,
she thought.

“If that is your wish,” said the fox. He put his head to one side quizzically and stared at her till she was forced to look down. The almost-dead beetle had stopped moving.

Maybe,
she thought,
maybe I should think of this as a survival show.
She'd never actually watched one, but the Dairy Princesses talked about them at rehearsals incessantly. Evidently, people had to eat the oddest things on those shows. And she
was
awfully hungry. Picking up one of the beetles, she popped it into her mouth quickly, before she could think too much about it. But the beetle scrabbled sluggishly on her tongue, which made her gag. She spit it out, scrubbed her hand over her lips, and shuddered violently.

The fox gave a short, sharp laugh, more like a yip. “There are always worms.…”

“Starvation is sounding better and better,” Moira told him. “Besides, we need to find my friends. I can't believe I slept all night.” The light at the cave's entrance was, if anything, brighter. She stood up slowly, being careful not to hit her head.

“There is no rush,” the fox said calmly.

“No rush? That monster, that…”

“The princesses are to be troll brides, not troll dinner.”

“That's a lot of brides,” she mused. Then she thought a minute. “I suppose that's…” she looked for a word, “… preferable to being dinner.”

“Very preferable.”

Moira wasn't so sure of that. Then she had another thought. “But the photographer … the man.
He
can't be a bride.”

The fox looked away and for a long moment said nothing.

Moira squatted down and willed the fox to look back at her. Unbelievably, he did.

“What…” she said slowly, spacing out her words for emphasis, as if talking to a slightly stupid child, or a foreigner. “… Happened … to … the … man … the photographer?”

The fox's black eyes bore into hers. “You do not want to know, human child.”

“I do.”

“You do not.” The fox turned his head away.

Ignoring the fox's warning about being touched, Moira reached out and—as she did with her dog Wolfgang—took his snout in her hand, pulling his head back toward her. “Tell me.” No animal, even a talking animal, was going to get the better of her.

He growled and ripped his face away from her grasp. Moira flinched, thinking he would bite her. But he didn't.

“He was eaten,” the fox said. Moira paled. “And trolls are notoriously messy eaters.”

“Erp,” Moira said. Or something like it. A bad taste flooded into her mouth. “I think I'm going to be—”

“Throw up in my cave,” the fox said tonelessly, “and I will deliver you to the troll myself.”

She gulped back what had already risen into her mouth, and then began to sob.

“Trolls,” the fox went on relentlessly, “crave meat. Fresh meat. And human meat most of all. But Aenmarr hasn't had an opportunity to savor any since he made a pact with the humans a long time ago.” He bared his teeth. “But you humans broke the pact. Aenmarr must have eaten this meal with gusto.”

Sputtering through her tears, Moira cried, “Stop it. I don't want to hear any more.”

The fox relented. “I am sorry, child of man. But you did insist on hearing.”

“I know. I … needed to know.” Moira tried to collect her thoughts, but all she could think about was the poor photographer—who she hadn't even known, hadn't even spoken to—stewed or roasted or baked or … It was too awful. “I'm a harpist,” she managed to say. “Not a hero. And I don't … I don't … know what … I don't know what to do.”

The fox smiled and showed too many teeth. “But perhaps,” he said, suddenly stretching his head up and licking the tears from her cheeks, an action that was both intimate and frightening, “perhaps I do.”

Moira sat down heavily at the fox's feet. “Tell me.”

“The first thing you must know,” the fox told her, “is that I am a musician, too.”

Looking at the creature's paws, she found that hard to believe. They were not built to hold an instrument, much less pluck strings or finger notes.

“Ah, but this is not my true body,” the fox said, for he'd read her mind of course. “In that body I look more like a human than an animal, though I am neither. I am a master musician. And I am called Fossegrim.”

“Then why be a fox if it is not your true body, Foss?” Moira asked, leaning forward but careful not to touch him again. “It must be hard to play music with … with paws.”

The fox sighed and gazed wistfully down at his paws, as if recalling a particular lost skill. “Tradition,” he answered.

Which,
Moira thought,
is no answer at all.
“What do you play?” Really, getting answers out of him was like pulling teeth. She gave a short snort. And he had rather too many teeth.

This time he ignored her thoughts. “I play the fiddle.”

Hey-diddle-diddle, the fox and the fiddle. Right!
She hated fiddles and country music, that scraping, often off-key sound. Now violins—played with vibrato and passion—that was
real
music. “Where is your … fiddle, fox?” She wasn't sure she believed any of this anyway.

“You must open your mind to the world of the impossible,” the fox said, “and then it becomes the world of the possible.” He shook himself all over. “My fiddle hangs on a wall in Trollholm.”

“Okay, Foss,” Moira said, a little sharper than she planned. “So you're a master musician who plays a missing fiddle. This will get me to the other girls how?”

“It will get you into Aenmarr's houses. Trolls love music. Well, rather they are transfixed by music. Their taste, however, is execrable and they are never on key.”

“Scrabble?”

“Execrable. Bad. Extraordinarily bad.”

“Oh.” Moira smiled for the first time since arriving at Trollholm.
Execrable
was a good word. It described country music exactly. But as quickly she turned the smile into a frown. “I don't want to get into Aenmarr's house. Not if the troll monster wants me as another of his brides.”

The fox sighed in aggravation. “The princesses,” he said, speaking slowly in her head as if she—and not he—were the stupid child, “are not to be brides for Aenmarr. He is already married, human child. Do you not know anything? I expect that is why we are in this predicament. The old ones knew about troll brides and sacrifices and…”

“Hey!” she interrupted. “You're the one without a fiddle.”

He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. Taking a deep breath, he said, “The princesses are for his sons.”

“He has eleven sons?” That was an awful lot of trolls.

“Oh no, only three.”

She thought:
Three I can handle. As long as it's not eleven.

Foss shook himself all over. “No, child of man, that is three sons too many. One son with each of his wives. Each of whom lives in her own house. Selvi, Trigvi, and Botvi. Aenmarr wants four brides for each son. Troll women only have one child. Not…” he said, almost slyly, “like foxes.” His eyes suddenly glittered as if he were plotting something.

Moira divided quickly and realized that she was meant to be the fourth bride for one of the troll boys. Had Foss been making more than a simple threat when he said he would deliver her to the troll himself? She let her mind go blank, so as not to broadcast that she guessed this. Foss already knew way too much. Instead, acting innocent, she looked deep into his eyes. “Why me? Why did you save me?”

Foss shifted uneasily on his haunches. “You are a musician. Like calls to like. It is why we can talk, mind to mind. I cannot speak to the other princesses. They do not have music in their souls. But together you and I will get my fiddle and rescue your friends. And once I have my fiddle…” He looked away.

Moira waited to hear the rest. But Foss was suddenly and strangely silent on what would happen after.

4

Moira

“Are you ready, human child?” The fox stood.

“Wait,” Moira cried, “is it safe?”

Foss stopped, turned his head and said over his shoulder, “Trollholm is never safe. But daylight is less … unsafe.”

“Oh, great,” she said, but he was already gone.

Moira left the cave after him. Outside, red fur gleaming in the sun, he looked like an ordinary fox, certainly quite beautiful, but not magical at all. Glancing past him to a wall of sturdy pines where a path ran between the two tallest trees, Moira whispered, “Maybe … maybe we should just go for help. The police. The National Guard. The FBI.”

“You cannot leave Trollholm without permission,” he told her, the words buzzing inside her head.

“What do you mean,
‘permission'
? There's a path.” She pointed. “It must lead to somewhere.”

“It leads to nowhere, human child. Look more closely. You must open yourself to—”

“To the world of the impossible,” she interrupted, but nevertheless she leaned forward and stared at the path and the trees beyond. She saw now what she hadn't noticed before. The path was flat, as if badly drawn, and the trees it ran between were equally flat, unmoving, not fully realized. The whole was like a painting on canvas.
Like the backdrop in a play or an opera.
She'd been in the orchestra for enough stage performances to recognize them. They fooled the eye if the audience gave itself over to the sets. “But how…?” She knew before the fox told her.
Magic
.

Turning, she glared down at him, knowing what to say. “Then give me permission to go.”

He laughed that sharp barking laugh again, but this time she heard the pain underneath. “It is not mine to give, child.”

Not his to give.
That was when she understood. He needed her as much as she needed him. He was a prisoner here, too.

“Then first we get the princesses,” she told him. “And then we get the permission.”

“No!” He shook his head and his silky red coat trembled with the movement. “First we get the
fiddle.
Once we have that, we can get the princesses, and then…”