Troll's Eye View by Ellen Datlow

Author:Ellen Datlow
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group (USA), Inc.

Troll

Jane Yolen

Troll peeked out from under Bridge just as the sun was setting. It was raining.

“O, I like rain,” Troll said. Of course he said the same about fog and wind and sleet. “O, I like fog.” And “O, I like wind.” And “O, I like sleet.” He was that kind of troll.

His name was simply Troll and he had no other. His Mother had little imagination when it came to names, or anything else. Lack of imagination is why you so seldom see Trolls today. Except on the Internet.

Troll was like his name: heavy on top and bottom with a kind of round O philosophy of life. Meant he was hard to tip over and hard to surprise.

Troll’s Mother had said to him one bright summer day, “Troll, dear, I am going above (meaning on top of Bridge) and get us Goat for supper.” She had said this before, of course. Often. And every time it was the same. She’d be gone for a bit and then return, with Goat for supper.

But this time it was different. This time she never returned. There was a splash. And a crash. But Troll, having no imagination, could not fathom what that splash and crash meant. So he waited and waited, but his Mother never returned.

Troll was simple and had no imagination, but he was not stupid. He knew that his Mother’s disappearance had something to do with Goat, since that was the last thing she had mentioned, and he was determined to have nothing more to do with that horrid creature—for supper or otherwise.

So he took to eating Grass and Reeds and the occasional Fish. The Very occasional Fish. It was not a big River.

“O, I like fish,” he would say often, though not—I am afraid—often enough. He grew up pretty stunted for a Troll, which means he was only about twice the size of a grown Man instead of quadruple in all directions.

Now it was the first spring without his Mother, and there was plenty of green Grass on either side of Bridge. Under Bridge was becoming noisy, what with the spring spate and Water tumbling over Rocks and the increase of trit-trot-traffic over Bridge. Troll could scarcely sleep in the daytime for the noise, and it made him grumpy. Even a small Troll grumpy is not a pleasant thing.

Troll growled and muttered, he fidgeted and fussed, he whinged and whined and wrangled his considerable hands. Even his O became misshapen and ugly.

“Ooooow, I do not like noise,” Troll complained. “I do not like it at all.” He made a swipe at a small speckled Trout that laughed at him, escaping on a trail of bubbles far downstream. To make matters worse, when Trout was far enough downstream to feel totally safe, she flipped up into the air and zinged a frothy raspberry in Troll’s direction before heading toward the sea.

“Ooooow, I hates Fish,” Troll said and, for that moment, it was true.

So for the next few days, Troll ate no Fish, but subsisted on Reeds and Weeds.

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