Brian did not know what to do when faced with a troll. He tottered on the bridge.
Every nerve was hissing. He could feel his face getting paler.
His hands opened and closed. He clenched the wood of the railing.
What he thought about was the ax. What it would feel like, moving through his organs. How sharp. What it would feel like, hitting the bone with a wet thud. The bones hidden inside of him.
He thought about how things would fall out. Nothing could stop them from falling out.
The troll bent its knees and lowered its head between its gaunt shoulders. It grinned and stepped toward him.
Brian backed off the bridge.
The troll, in a rasping voice, croaked, “Give me. Give me.”
“You see,” called Jack, “the kind of thing with which you have to contend? It really is too much for you. I would assert that death, really, is inevitable.”
“Give me,” said the troll.
“What does it want?” choked Brian.
“Your organ meats,” said Jack. “I would recommend you back away farther.”
Brian stepped backward unsteadily. Then, mustering his courage, Brian looked the troll in the eyes. “What do you want?” he asked.
And the troll straightened up, and recited,
“Bird of the air,
I answer the gust.
With a long, sorrowed groan
I go where I must.”
Then the troll repeated, “Give me.”
“The bird of the air?” said Brian.
The troll nodded.
Brian looked at Jack, who was squinting up at the sun.
Brian looked back at the bridge. The troll leaped on top of the railing, its thin arms wheeling. It teetered there for a moment, its claws flexing and unflexing around the wood, then it swung itself down into the ravine and disappeared from sight.
“Ah,” said Jack. “Ah, yes. This is all a very disappointing touch. It points to a real lack of imagination on the part of those who devised the Game. The troll, the bridge, the riddle. Very unimpressive, don’t you think? We’ve seen it all before.” He started to walk away. “It makes one weary. I’ve walked through so many worlds. Trolls, bridges, riddles. Riddles, bridges, trolls.” He shrugged.
Brian stood stock-still. His heart was starting to slow down.
Jack said, “Don’t look at me like I’m trying to abduct you. I’m leaving. I just wanted to keep you out of danger. I told you before. Things are deadly here. People disappear. There are spaces between worlds in this wood. Things fall and don’t stop falling. Things walk out of stumps.”
Brian was still shaken. He managed to say, “What do you mean—what do you mean about worlds?”
“Mr. Thatz, this discussion isn’t worth my while. Run home, tell your friend what you’ve seen. And tell him to stay away from the Chasm of Gelt the Winnower. Gelt moves very quickly. He’s what we call limber. He doesn’t give any second chances. In any case, Mr. Thatz, it’s clearly time you headed back to Boston.”
“What is the Game? Who’s playing?”
“Not listening,” said Jack.
“Are we playing against you?”
Jack Stimple blocked his ears. “Not listening,” he said. He turned and walked away, his hands over his ears, singing, “I’m a little teapot, short and stout. This is my handle, this…”
But before he even finished the line, he had disappeared into the woods.
Gregory was sitting on the Club of Snarth, waiting for Brian to reappear.
“What did you find?” asked Gregory. “I found the petroglyphs. They were little drawings all over this boulder.”
Brian walked over to the fallen tree and sat down heavily.
“And,” said Gregory, “I found the chasm. It looks like there’s some kind of trap. I didn’t touch it. There’s all of these thin wires.”
Brian stared speechlessly at the ground.
Gregory shoved him gently. “Hey. Hey, bruiser…you awake? Smell the sweet rolls and chitlins, son. You see anything interesting?”
“Yeah,” said Brian.
“What’d’ you see?”
Brian was quiet a long time before answering. “A troll,” he said.
“A troll.”
“A troll,” repeated Brian.
And he told the story.
Later that afternoon, Brian was watching out the window when he saw Uncle Max come out of the woods. The old man was dressed in a chesterfield coat and twirling a cane at birds.
Gregory read from a list they had been making. “So our guesses about the troll’s riddle go like this:
- Not really a bird. (That would be too obvious.)
- Probably inanimate (at least by now—otherwise it couldn’t be gotten to give to the troll).
- Something that’s been around for a while, since the troll knows about it.
- Something portable?”
Outside, the wind was picking up, and it had started to rain again. It was a prickly, dismal rain.
The nursery, however, was cozy. Lumps of coal were burning in the grate. The room was warm. Downstairs, Prudence was practicing the piano. She played some hair-raising sonata. It sounded like a riverboat captain in love.
Gregory read the list again. “Inanimate. Old. Portable. Any ideas?” he asked. “Other than my granny?” He tapped his lips with the end of the pencil.
Suddenly, Brian nodded. “Yeah. I have an idea. There was a stuffed bird in the basement. Inside that bathing machine.”
“Hey…,” said Gregory, nodding, smiling, impressed. “Good thinking. Let’s go.”
They scrambled to their feet and went to the door.
Brian said, “Oh… One thing… Could we not split up again, okay? If we can avoid it?”
“Sure thing,” said Gregory. He tapped himself on the chest. “Stick with Poppa. Poppa will protect you.”
Brian stared at him. “It was a troll,” Brian said. “I’m not a coward.”
Gregory fiddled with the doorknob behind his back. “I didn’t say you were.”
“People have been…never mind.”
“What?”
“Jack Stimple and your Uncle Max…they’ve been saying that I’m somehow…I don’t know.”
“Okay,” said Gregory. “All right. I’m not saying anything. I made a joke. We’ll stick together, okay?”
“People…”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
They waited. Finally, Brian said, “Let’s…let’s go down and find the answer to that riddle.”
Gregory put his hand on the doorknob and hesitated. He stared down at the lawn. There, beneath the clouds, Uncle Max was spinning in circles, looking at the mountains.