The Magic of a Troll
Heart
The Magic of a Troll
Heart
By Martin Calderwood
“Trolls.” The word rolled off ten-year-old Carl’s tongue with the
sureness of youth. “I know there are trolls out there!”
“I’m sure there are.” replied Grandpa jovially. “But don’t expect to see
them. I’ve lived on the edge of these woods most of my life and the only
proof I have to offer about Trolls is the occasional unexplained stolen
pitcher of cream and once, I found a footprint.”
“Footprint? You never told me! Where?” demanded Carl putting his hands
on his hips.
“By the shed, near the chicken coop. It wasn’t really clear and your dad
said it was a basket imprint but I know better.” Grandpa’s voice took on a
conspiratorial tone. “Your dad was
wrong. It was a Troll print.”
“But why does Dad say they aren’t real? Is it because they are big and
scary and they are out to trick you?” inquired Carl wide-eyed. “I want to
see a Troll. No, I want to meet a Troll!”
“Trolls can be big and scary and they can trick the unwary and the foolish.
Some trolls are downright mean but you will find that kind in all the
peoples of the world. Most Troll folk are gentle and only come out at night
but it is true that you should watch yourself and how much you trust a
strange troll. I have never known a troll yet that wasn’t a bit
mischievous.” said Grandpa with a wink. “Of course I have known quite a
few.”
“Why doesn’t dad believe? He seems too only think of the trolls as the old
women and story tellers who never believed in trolls do. Wouldn’t it be
wonderful if people wrote and told stories about trolls because they loved
them and not to make money?”
Grandpa chuckled. “Not many people can love a troll.”
“I do!” insisted Carl. “Maybe not because they are all cute and cuddly but
because they are ummmm they are.... Trolls!” he said with the finality of a
decade’s worth of wisdom.
“And I do too.” said Grandpa. “Right now though, I need help milking the
cow.”
Carl grinned and grabbed the old wooden bucket kept by the icebox. “Can I
leave a bowl of strippings for our House Troll?”
Grandpa nodded. “Of course. Can’t have ol’ Maas doing any mischief
because we don’t give him a treat.”
With a laugh Carl raced out of the house hoping to catch Maas before he hid
to watch them milk their steadfast cow, Gerta. Grandpa shivered as the cool
air rushed in. Out away from the city, doors did not close automatically,
still no matter how often he was reminded, Carl forgot to grab the latch and
pull the heavy wooden door closed. Grandpa turned and put down the bowl he
was carrying when he turned back the door was closing silently on its own.
Almost a half hour later Carl pushed open the door and then picked up the
bucket. “Almost a full bucket!” he announced triumphantly as he entered the
cabin. “I gave Maas an extra-helping.”
“Did you see him?” asked Grandpa stoking the fire on which cooked a vat of
steaming honey porridge for breakfast He watched amiably as his grandson
carefully poured the milk into three pitchers two of which would be put in
the cooler for later. Grandpa hated waste so he knew he’d be spending part
of the day making butter or curd cheese from the leftover milk and later he
would take a quart over to Mrs. Olfason for her dinner. The old widow was
his nearest neighbor
and made the best bread in the valley. The short, two and a half mile trip,
from his home to hers would take him through the deepest part of the woods
and perhaps today Carl would get to see his Troll.
“Grandpa?” Said Carl after a few moments. “I think I did see Maas, he was
hiding behind the hay pile. His hair was darker you know. How tall do you
think he is?”
“Oh about 24 to 25 centimeters when he lives here, just like all good House
Trolls.” replied Grandpa handing him some porridge.
“So why do they stay in barns and sheds if they are House Trolls?” asked
Carl with a giggle as he poured his milk.
“Simple, they stay with a Household, not just in a house, sometimes for
generations, particularly if the family has a believer or two in it.”
answered Grandpa.
“Like me?” exclaimed Carl spitting out a bit of porridge accidently.
Grandpa reached over and tosseled Carl’s straw colored hair then poured the
last of the milk from the bucket into a bowl for the cat they called
‘Gjetost’ because of the soft brown color of its fur. “Yes like you!” he
said finally. “Yes like you.”
“Did dad ever believe in Trolls?”
Grandpa looked wistful. “Yes, he believed just like you at first but the
Trolls never showed themselves to him. The reason for this, I suppose, was
because every time I would point
one out he had a better explanation. ‘That’s just a tree. All I see is a
rock. It’s a cat.’ Your father is tough and only believed what he could
see. When he went to the University at Oslo, he didn’t believe in Trolls
at all. They were just stories.” Grandpa sighed. “No matter what I did,
he just would not believe and he would not stay on our farm. My father was
disappointed. He died just after your dad left for his second year of
school.”
“I’m glad he lets me come here during fall recess and that we all come home
for Yule time. I tried to get him to let me come in the summer, but he has
too many other things planned.” said Carl softly.
“Your father is a busy man and very successful. If he didn’t make as much
money as he does, you could not come here at all.”
“I know, but I still wish it was for more than just a few days.”
“So do I. Since your grandma passed on last year, it gets lonely up here.
If it weren’t for Maas and his friends, it would be unbearable.”
Carl’s eyes sparkled as he pulled of a chunk of bread and took a bite.
“How come they still hide when I come. They don’t want me to turn out like
dad, do they?” he asked with his mouth full.
“You are still a stranger, I guess. Oh I sit on the porch sometimes and
tell them about you, especially when it’s warm, but Trolls have their ways
and they will show when they want to. Trolls are simple folk, and because
they don’t look like us, they get a bad reputation, but Trolls, with only a
few exceptions are gentle earth folk. And,” Grandpa paused and drained the
last of
his porridge, “Trolls are loyal not only to their own kind but to those
few humans to whom they show themselves.”
“Do you think Maas would like the rest of this crust?” asked Carl.
“He might if he’s hungry. Go out and put it on the top fence post. If you
make it harder to get he’ll want it more.”
Carl wiped the crumbs from his face and raced outside once again forgetting
to close the door. This time Grandpa drew in a deep breath savoring the
crisp smells of the small farm upon
which he had grown up. “He’s a good boy, Maas. You should let him meet you
soon. I don’t want him to stop believing like his father.”
Grandpa turned and began to run water into the sink. One of the few
concessions he had made to his beloved Agnus after they were married was to
put in pipes that ran water from the well through a small heater to the
sink, and the shower he had added to the house. The cold pipe had to be
kept warm to keep from freezing during the cold winter weeks so he had it
run right next to the heater which he kept stoked with coal or wood that he
had hauled in every year about this time. When he added a real toilet that
flushed, his wife told him she felt she had died and gone to heaven. She
did two years later. He did not even turn as he heard the door close
behind him. The crust would be gone before Carl could turn around to check
on it from across the yard.
As the morning waned, Grandpa finished the last of his chores. Carl had
helped with the animals and some of the cleaning, but had grown tired and a
bit petulant, so Grandpa wisely let him go look for troll signs on the edge
of the woods which bordered the small farm on three sides. A stream formed
the fourth jagged boundary on the North, a stream that if followed would
eventually drop into one of the magnificent fjords unique to his sweet
homeland.
Grandpa looked West and saw Carl playing along the old stone ‘wall’ that
marked the closest edge of his farm. He then looked over to the short
stretch of clean white picket fence he had built around what he called
‘Agnus’ private domain’, her treasured garden. He waved as he often did,
and in his mind she waved back silently, a broad smile on her face as she
continued to keep the flowers and plants green and bright long after they
should have begun to wither. He then glanced at the highest part of the
fence and as he expected the crust was gone.
Smiling, Grandpa went over to the small barn and brought his other best
friend on the old farm. Even though Bisket was over 18 years old he still
had the determination and drive of a two-year old, only his stamina had
declined and the eleven-mile journey into town was getting harder each
winter. Grandpa took great care as he hooked Bisket up to the wagon making
sure each strap and bridle was cinched and comfortable. As he worked, he
looked skyward and knew that in a few short days, he would have to put the
runners on the wagon he and his son had built in order to get around easily.
With Bisket hitched and ready, Grandpa went into the house and gathered
several items he would take over to Mrs. Olafson including a few eggs, some
cheese and of course, the pitcher of milk. He also put in a chicken he had
killed and dressed just yesterday evening. When
Grandpa returned to the wagon Bisket snorted, anxious to be on his way.
Carl came bounding over when he noticed Bisket emerge from behind the barn.
“Grandpa!” he said breathlessly as he clambered up on the seat, “I think I
saw a troll! It came out of the woods and was kneeling by the stream
getting a drink. I turned to holler at you but when I turned back all I saw
was a tree branch on a rock. I started toward it but then I saw Bisket and
I hurried over.”
“That might be. If it is who I think it is he claims the old stone bridge
we’ll be crossing. I brought the rest of that loaf of bread for him so
he’ll let me cross. If you talk real nice to him I
will let you put it on the side. He likes chicken to so I leave him the
bones and other stuff and I have a small bucket of those chicken guts I
cleaned out. He’ll eat well tonight. Sometimes I even cook one for him. I
let these stew by the water heater overnight so they are a bit cooked.”
“Really??” Carl’s eyes widened. He had never heard his grandpa talk about
how he fed the local Trolls to keep them happy. He remembered how his
father had told Grandpa not to fill ‘the boy’s head’ with such nonsense as
Trolls, so for a long time, all last year, Carl had to work hard to get his
Grandpa to talk about Trolls at all. In fact, it had taken a solemn vow not
to pester his parents with troll stories before Grandpa could talk at all.
Still, when his parents were
around all they talked about was the weather, the farm and Aunt Ruth’s
latest boyfriend. The way his mom talked about her sister was funny, but it
still wasn’t trolls.
The stop at the bridge only took a few minutes. Carl had jumped down and
taken the crust and the bucket over to the edge of the bridge. After some
coaxing and praise of the wisdom of the old troll, Carl retrieved the bucket
from the previous visit and climbed up next to his grandpa and pulled the
light blanket over him to keep warm in the shade of the old woods.
As they rode slowly and steadily toward Mrs. Olafson’s farm, they talked
and every so often Carl would point at a thick brush or a craggy rock and
ask if that was a troll. Grandpa took delight in schooling the boy in what
was and was not a troll, and though he was careful not to lie, they did
think they saw an old troll in the distance as it stood looking for someone
or something.
“Grandpa! There’s Old Tom!” Carl was pointing to a gnarled old tree.
“Turned to wood, turned to wood!” he say in a mocking cronish voice he’d
first heard his Grandpa use when he pointed out ‘Old Tom’ who’s limbs and
sparse growth resembled a vague outline of a wood
troll.
Grandpa did not respond.
“Grandpa?” exclaimed Carl turning. “Grandpa?” his voice shook Grandpa was
slumping forward slightly the reins hanging loosely in his hand.
“Grandpa!” The boy screamed shaking him.
Bisket slowed and finally stopped. The boy continued to shake his grandpa.
“Help!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “Can anyone hear me? Help!”
Movement, a rustle in the trees. Behind him a pile of rags seemed to stir
in the breeze.
“Help me! Please, somebody, help me! My Grandpa’s sick!” Carl pulled
frantically at his Grandpa’s sleeve.
A guttural moan escaped Grandpa’s lips as he slumped sideways toward Carl
pinning him.
“Grandpa!”
A dark shadowy movement caught the corner of Carl’s eye. He turned and
came face to face with a long greenish brown rose tipped nose, two slick
black eyes with bushy brows above which a shock of deep midnight brown hair
exploded like porcupine quills. The face, mere
centimeters away, was no larger than that of a house cat which was what Carl
mistook if for until it blinked and smiled a broad gap-toothed grin.
“Grandpa sick?” came a raspy alto voice that sounded like a bass singer on
helium.
“Uh.” Carl pulled back and almost fell off the wagon. His mind leaped
through a thousand possibilities other than the obvious.
“Grandpa sick.” said the voice flatly.
“Help?” was all that Carl could say in a hoarse whisper.
“Sick.” The Troll nodded.
“Yes sick. I don’t want him to die.”
“Die, no die! Get down off wagon.” said the Troll pointing at Grandpa.
“I can’t. He’s too big, and heavy.” worried Carl.
“Big, Not big. Maas big!” said the House Troll and he leaped off the wagon
doing a somersault in the air coming down twice as big as he was. Then
twice again then twice again until he was almost two meters tall.
Carl stood silently agape as Maas quickly scooped up the old man as if he
were a sack of onions and lay him on the ground as gently as one could
imagine. The Troll then seemed to shrink to about half the size he was
before bending over the stricken man listening with ears that almost thrice
the size of humans. He was wearing patched green trousers with matching
suspenders and looked like he had otherwise been carved from an old tree.
His large feet had five distinct toes but were at least as long as his
stubby legs were long. His fingers were surprisingly agile for as thick as
they appeared. Carl could also see a tail that swished like an old cow’s as
the little creature seemed to poke and move around the prone man.
“Be careful. Don’t hurt him,” said Carl taking a step closer. “If you hurt
him..”
“No hurt Grandpa friend. Try fix. Him strong but have sad heart. Need
heart of Troll and he be good, like spring day.”
“Heart of a Troll? What do you mean?”
Maas looked around and made a low moaning sound like an echo of the wind
through an old stump. Almost immediately the brush nearby rustled and out
stepped an old hag troll who was as ugly as she was old. She wore a red
bonnet over her gray brown hair and was dressed
from head to toe in a woven wool dress. She carried on her arm a basket and
when she stooped down next to Grandpa she was still several centimeters
taller than Carl.
“You want to do this.” She asked in a jagged voice of scraping metal.
Maas nodded. “Not hurt. Help Grandpa.”
The old women troll gave a toothy smile and reached out with one almost
branch thin arm and touched just left of the center of Maas’ chest. She
then extended the other and touched Grandpa. For a moment it was if
everything in the forest held its breath. Then there was a little snap or
miniature thunder clap as a spark seemed to rush out from Maas through the
arms of the old Troll and into Grandpa’s chest. Grandpa twitched and
coughed. The old women kept her hand on his chest preventing any movement.
Grandpa’s eyes flew open as he coughed again and drew a deep breath.
The women guffawed and stood looking down at the old man then at Maas.
Maas grinned and rubbed his chest nodding happily but even to Carl he looked
less energetic then before.
“Carl.” Grandpa’s voice was little more that a whisper.
Carl rushed to his Grandpa’s side and knelt giving him a hug. Tears were
streaming down his cheeks.
“The basket. Give her the basket.” whispered Grandpa.
“Basket?” asked Carl uncomprehending.
“The one for Mrs. Olafson. We’ll get more.”
Carl hesitated then jumped up and moved swiftly. From behind the seat he
carefully removed the old woven basket full of food. With a childlike
reverence he carried it to the old hag and forcing a smile held it up for
her.
“For you.” He managed to say. “Thank you!”
She nodded and reached out and patted him on the head. “Good child.” she
said as she accepted the basket. “Good man.” she added looking at Grandpa.
She turned quietly and faded into the woods.
Carl shook himself and then turned back toward Maas and Grandpa.
“Thank you too, Maas.” he said softly extending his hand.
Maas, who was now his normal size reached up and took the hand shaking it
solemnly. “Grandpa good.”
“Yes. We need to get him to the city to a doctor.”
“Doctor.” said Maas looking after the old troll.
“I am okay.” said Grandpa his voice sounding a wee bit stronger. “Help me
up, please.”
Carl turned and moved closer to his Grandpa who was already moving to his
knees. Carl let Grandpa put his arm on his shoulder in order for him to
push himself up. When he was standing he leaned heavily on his grandson and
moved slowly but steadily to the wagon. With a slow careful movement he
climbed up into the wagon and took the reigns.
“We need to go back and get some more food or Mrs. Olafson will have a poor
dinner tonight. Come along Maas, my old friend. I owe you and your friend
my life.”
Maas bounded up happily into the wagon and took his place behind the seat.
“Grandpa have heart of Troll.” he said as he vanished from site. “Maas
happy to help.”
They rode in silence for several minutes savoring each other’s company and
the fact that they were both alive. Finally Carl asked the one question he
could not figure out.
“How did she do it?”
“Magic.” was the flat reply. “She took a little of Maas’ heart and gave it
to me. Most people forget that Trolls are magical creatures and you just
witnessed the greatest of all magic.”
“What do you mean?” asked Carl.
“He gave me a little of his heart and that is big magic. The old women did
the magic but Maas, he was the reason it happened.”
“Why? Maas, why did you do it?”
The blanket moved and Maas stood up then leaped up on the seat between the
two. “Grandpa good. Him Troll friend. Keep our secret. Old Haggoth know
or she not do magic.”
Grandpa looked at Maas. “Why Maas, that is the most I have ever heard you
say at one time.”
A smile split Maas’ face. “Grandpa good.” He then leaped down and
vanished into the back of the wagon.
Grandpa turned and smiled. “Maas GOOD too!”
The giggled reply from the hidden troll made them chuckle the rest of the
way home.
That night as Carl crawled under the thick, warm quilt made by his Grandma
he thought he caught a glimpse of Maas sneaking up to get the bowl of cream
and bread Carl had made and left in the corner of the room.
“You know Maas.” he said sleepily, “you’re a real hero. I asked God to
bless you and those you love, in my prayers.”
As sleep filled his mind, Carl was not certain bu he thought he heard a
small voice whisper “He has, Me Troll.” But with Trolls, one never knows.
*****
Final note:
Grandpa lived another nine years after the incident and enjoyed
perfect health. I believe he could have lived even longer, but after my
family emigrated to America he began to miss Grandma so much he just grew
tired.
Dad never did believe our story but I think my mother and at least my
sisters seemed to, but we never talked about it. Our old farm is still
there, it was sold by my father to a man named Sven shortly after Grandpa’s
death. I went off to war shortly afterward and returned home three years
later.
As for Maas, he still gets his bowl of cream or milk and he still loves the
crust of homemade bread with it, but most of all he loves it when my
grandchildren visit. He takes great delight in teasing them and hiding from
them just as he did my children and me. For like me, they are true
believers and, who knows, someday my grandchildren may even meet him in
person and then won’t things get interesting?