Troll Bridge (humorous fantasy short story)

     The following is part of my fairytale series. For most of these I wanted to go for blatant humor or ironic humor. Enjoy.

Troll Bridge

 

            “I really don’t understand dad; we sit under here in the dark and just wait for someone to try and cross this bridge and…”

            “Our bridge,” dad interrupts.

            “This is another point that has me confused. How is this our bridge?”

            Dad shakes his head. “My father collected tolls and his father collected tolls back for generations.”

            “Still confused here, why do we collect tolls?”

            Dad’s already green complexion darkens. “Cause we are trolls boy. Trolls. Tolls. See?”

            “We collect tolls because it rhymes with trolls?”

            Now this is the point of the conversation that dad just throws up his log-like arms and gives up. “It is how it is because that is how it is written in the historical tales boy. Now shut up so some weary traveler doesn’t hears you and decides to go down to Qwrks’tr’s bridge to cross. I can’t deal with him buying rounds again to throw his success into my face.”

            The troll’s son decides not to push it further; questioning in the past usually turns to circular argument and disappointment in him by his dad. Today is a special day, in his dad’s words. Today he is to collect his first toll. All he really wants to do is find himself an ugly little trolless and settle down on a stretch of land to farm. The peaceful life with no angry torch-and-pitchfork brandishing town folks driving him from under a stupid bridge. But, as dad has pointed out, with a look of disappointment, a thousand times before: that just ain’t what trolls do.

            A quick shake from his dad wakes the young troll from his daydreaming of peaceful crops and nonviolent chickens. His father holds a gnarled finger to his lips and points up to the underside of the bridge. He hears voices and the first footsteps of a couple of crossers. He grips the side of the bridge but hesitates. His father growl-whispers only like a mad father can, “Get up there, boy and collect our toll.” This motivates him and he swings up over the side of the bridge to land menacing facing… nothing.

            “Dad there isn’t anyone up here.” But before his dad can answer he is startled by laughter from behind him. He turns to find two local lads no older than himself; they are the source of the laughter directed at him by pointed fingers.

            “And just who you s’pose to be?” one of the pair asks.

            The troll puffs his chest out, just as dad had shown him, and bellows, “I am a troll, and this here is my toll bridge.”

            The second lad’s eyes open wide. “For reals? A real-life troll. We’s had lessons about your kind, but we thought no way they’s real.”

            “Well, I’m real and I will be needing that toll money, please.”

            The first lad starts digging through his one pocket that doesn’t have a hole in it yet, “geez, I don’t have a coin, not even a copper.”

            The second lad, not to be distracted, ignores his friend. “So, your like, a troll. How’s that like?”

            “Not good really. My dad says I got to keep in the family business.”

            “Toll collecting,” the second lad helps.

            “Yeah, toll collecting, but I want to just settle down on a nice farm.”

            The first lad not wanting to feel stupid or left out adds, “Me dad wants me to be a miller like him. That’s good work, being a miller.”

            The second lad bops the first upside the back of the head. “Shush, why would a troll cares if you crush up wheat.” Turning back to the troll, he asks, “So why don’ts you just farm?”

            “Dad says it just ain’t what trolls do.”

            The second lad shakes his head. “My dad wants me to follow in the family business, but I really just want to join a bard troupe and act, but you know how it is in these times, family business is, well, the family business.”

            The young troll leans against the bridge’s handrail. “Dads can be frustrating. So, what is the family business?”

            Many things cross the inexperienced troll’s mind. The first is the lad’s response: “Oh, we are troll hunters.” The second is the long, metal, sharp object he didn’t notice at first on the boy’s hip. And third, was again the long, metal, sharp object as it literally crossed the troll’s mind.

            As the boys’ footsteps cross the bridge, toll uncollected, dad ponders under the bridge… maybe his son was more cut out to be a farmer.