Finally, the troll wife calmed down and introduced herself. Her name was Hrauna. She did not live in the cliff behind Signy's house, but farther back in the mountains, and she had two children, one a girl and one a boy. She was obviously a bit emotional, but she did have a problem. How was she going to care for her children without help from her husband Steinn?
Signy thought about this. Her husband's transformation was mostly his fault, but she had to bear some responsibility. She could have moved to Reykjavik or Manitoba. Instead, she chose to stay and fight. It could be said that she had killed the troll, in spite of her respect for ecology and the flora and fauna of Iceland.
“I can bring extra food out from the city, the next time I come,” she told Hrauna.
“Thank you,” the troll wife said.
Signy went to the city a few days later and came back with food, though she felt surprised about helping a troll. How could a modern woman be dealing with imaginary creatures from the past, who did not have good reputations? She might get in trouble. But the troll wife was already in trouble, and women ought to stick together, even if they were not the same species.
She put the food in a basket on her doorstep: bread and milk, cheese, smoked fish, fresh vegetables. Then she went inside, putting a chair by the light switch. After dark, the troll wife came, lit by a half moon. She must be watching the house from somewhere close by in the mountains. She pawed though the basket and tasted the food, exclaiming. Everything was fine, except the vegetables. She wasn't familiar with cucumbers or with tomatoes, and they seemed strange to her, without much substance or taste.
“They will be good for your children,” Signy told her.
“Well, then. I will give them a try. Thank you for your help, Signy. I will bring the basket back in three days.” She left, carrying the basket off into the night.
After that they fell into habits. Signy brought extra food to her summer house, and Hrauna came down from the mountains with her two gray, long-nosed children. At first Signy stayed inside by the light switch. But gradually she came to trust the troll wife, and opened her door, setting her chair in the doorway.
Usually the troll wife came on moonlit nights. If she came on a dark night, Signy made sure all the inside lights were on. Bright illumination spilled out through windows and the open door. She could watch the children tumbling in the grass and talk to Hrauna.
Bit by bit, she learned about the troll wife's life. It seemed hard to Signy, without any of the modern conveniences and imported luxuries that human Icelanders enjoyed. For the most part, Hrauna said, the trolls lived by fishing and hunting birds. Sometimes they took a reindeer or a few sheep, but they did this carefully, since they did not want to attract attention. Humans frightened them, with their machines that moved so quickly and made so much noise.
They spun and wove wool, taken from the sheep they took. But they were always short of cloth, and their clothing was always ragged and patched. Of course, they had almost no wood, since there was almost no wood in Iceland, and they lacked metal, except for the human tools they sometimes found.
“A hard life.” Hrauna often said. “But it could be worse. There are far fewer humans living in the country these days, especially here in the east; and that is good. But those who remain are so noisy and disruptive!”
At the end of every visit, Hrauna would give the boulder a big, smacking kiss and then a kick. Off the trolls would go, carrying their food, into the darkness.
Maybe she would write a story about trolls for children, Signy thought. The novel didn't seem to be getting anywhere at the moment.
After this had gone on for several months, a police car came up the mountain, and Hrafn climbed out. “Have you had any more trouble?” he asked.
“No, though I put these lights up, just in case.” Signy waved at the lamps on the front of her house.
Hrafn looked at them closely, then he said, “I have a cousin who works in a market in the city. According to him, you are buying a lot of food these days. Why? You live alone.”
“That's my business,” said Signy. “It's nothing illegal.”
“Lots of milk,” said Hrafn. “I checked around. There are no children missing. Are you feeding a reindeer calf? Are you bribing your stalker with skyr?”
“No,” said Signy. “As far as I can tell, he's gone.”
“Ah,” said Hrafn and looked at the lamps a second time. Then he wished her a good day, climbed into his car, and drove away.
His curiosity was worrying. But he had other things to occupy him, as Signy knew. The Karahnjukar Hydroelectric Project was nearing completion, and a flood of environmental protesters were coming into the East Fjords from all over Iceland and Europe. Signy had written about the project, since it and the protesters were big news, but she tried to avoid thinking about it when she was in her summer house. It wasn't the Iceland she wanted to see when she was in the East Fjords; it interfered with her novel, which was going to be modest and down-to-earth.
Everything about the project was oversized. Engineers had built the tallest dam in Europe on a bare highland at the edge of the Vatnajokul glacier, and the backed-up water from two glacial rivers had formed a huge new lake. That part was done, though the lake was still filling. Now giant tunnels were being driven through rock to carry the water to an underground power plant. When the tunnels were complete, and the power plant was in operation, power lines—kilometers of them, strung on a forest of pylons—would carry electricity to the coast, over farms and farmers and flocks of sheep.
The local people mostly liked the project, since it brought money in; they hoped their children would get jobs in the new aluminum plant in Reydarfjord and stay in the East Fjords.
It made environmentalists crazy. A pristine environment was being ripped apart, land flooded and rivers drained, and for what? Aluminum and four hundred jobs. What were Icelanders thinking of? Were they out of their minds?
Whether the answer was yes or no, the demonstrations meant that Hrafn was not likely to visit her house, which was south of all the action, and he wouldn't have time to worry about her grocery purchases, while angry demonstrators were pouring buckets of skyr dyed green over public officials.
She told Hrauna about the project one evening, while they sat by the door and the troll children played tag in the dark. The troll wife listened with interest. “That's what all the racket has been. We weren't happy when the Jokulsa i Fljotsdal River dried up, and the Jokulsa a Bru River as well; and we don't care for the new lake in the highlands. We have been hoping that all the racket would end, and things would go back to the way they had been. But you are saying that still more is planned.”
“Karahnjukar isn't finished, and there are plans for more dams and more projects. All Iceland has, besides fish and sheep, is energy, and it's a kind of energy that can't be exported, unless it's turned into something. So the government dreams of aluminum plants. We will grow rich by providing all the cooking pans that Europe needs.”
Hrauna didn't understand this part. Trolls don't think much about energy. But she did understand the noise and the dry rivers and the lake where no lake had ever been. “You humans are as active as volcanoes, and it looks as if you are going to do as much harm. I think I need to tell our queen about this.”
“Trolls have a queen?” asked Signy.
Hrauna looked embarrassed. “It's something that came from Norway. Lots of us say we ought to have a republic, as you humans do. This is a new land. We shouldn't keep the old ways. But we are slow to change.
“She isn't the queen of all the trolls in Iceland. Every region has its own king or queen. But here in the east the one who rules is Hella.”
Hrauna gathered up her children and left with a loping stride that looked awkward, but covered ground rapidly. In a moment or so, she was gone from sight.
What will come of this? Signy wondered. Was it possible that the trolls could stop the project? There were plenty of stories in Iceland about construction projects th
at ran into trouble when they tried to excavate areas where elves lived. The elves and their houses were not visible to most people. But all at once, equipment didn't work, and drills broke; nothing went forward. After a while, people would decide the problem was elves. Sometimes an elf speaker was called in to ask the elves if they would please move, and sometimes the elves would agree, provided they were given some peace and quiet, while they packed up. Once they were gone, the project had no further trouble. In other cases, the elves stayed put and the project went around the elves. There were odd jogs in roads in Iceland, due to elf towns.
She had never heard of trolls interfering with construction, but then she had never given trolls a lot of attention. First of all, she had never believed they existed. Second, she had the impression that they kept to the mountains and the interior wastelands; but that was where the project was being built.
Two nights later the troll wife came back. She did not bring her children. “The queen wants to see you,” she told Signy. “She wants to hear the story of these troubles from your own mouth. Will you come with me?”
“To what place?”
“Her great hall. It's back in the mountains, and there is no human road. But I can carry you.”
At that point, Signy had to make a decision. It was frightening to think of going alone to a troll stronghold. But she was a journalist, and this would make a fine story.
“How do I know I will be safe?” she asked Hrauna.
“Bishop Gvendur took care of most of our troublemakers long ago. Those of us who remain are peaceful.”
“Except your husband.”
“Steinn was a fool led by that knob he called a staff, and—to be fair—he did not threaten you with anything except marriage.”
“That seemed like a threat to me,” Signy replied.
“He wasn't much as a husband,” the troll wife admitted. “I give you my word that you will not be harmed, and the word of the troll queen as well. “
If she didn't go, she would spend the rest of life thinking of what she had missed. Signy nodded.
“Tomorrow night, then,” Hrauna said. “I will come as soon as it's dark.”
The next day Signy looked at her cell phones. She had a new Nokia with absolutely everything, but it was bulky and difficult to use. Instead she charged an older phone, which included a camera and GPS, but nothing else. She put spare batteries in her pocket and added a small audio recorder. No one would believe her unless she had proof, which meant pictures and an audio recording.
She was too restless to sleep. Instead she drank coffee and watched the ocean, gleaming blue at the end of her slope. Her grass was yellow now. A pair of gyrfalcons raced across the sky.
A little after sunset, Hrauna arrived. Signy closed her door and locked it, putting the key in her pocket. The troll wife gathered her up. She wasn't a large woman, but she was surprised at how easily the troll wife lifted her. “You are light,” Hrauna said and turned and set off at a loping run.
As awkward as the troll wife had always seemed, her gait felt smooth, like an Icelandic pony's tolt, a gait that no other horse had. Signy was not a rider, but she had been told that a person could sit on an Icelandic pony and drink tea from a china cup while it tolted. If she had brought tea and a china cup, she could have done the same in Hrauna's arms.
In the dark, under the blazing stars, she had no idea of time. But Hrauna did not stop running soon. The mountain peaks were invisible, except as patches of darkness against the stars. She felt the land, rather than saw it, as Hrauna loped up slopes, then down into valleys. After a while, Signy dozed.
She woke when Hrauna stopped. Opening her eyes, she looked around. The stars were gone. Instead, in front of them fires shone. The troll wife set her down. They were inside a cave or tunnel. Lumpy figures holding torches stood a short distance away.
“Go forward,” the troll wife said.
She walked farther into the tunnel. The figures were trolls. Like Hrauna, they were large and gray with rough skins, long noses, and large hands and feet. They wore torn shirts and ragged pants, tied at their waists with pieces of rope, and the torches they carried were made of twisted reeds.
She was looking at poverty, Signy thought, the kind of poverty no modern human Icelander knew. There were no flashlights here, no imported shirts and sweaters, no Chinese running shoes.
“Come,” a troll said harshly, and turned. She followed him along the tunnel, which slanted down. Hrauna came behind her, as did the other torchbearers. Their long shadows stretched past Signy, moving on the tunnel's walls and floor. The air grew dry and dusty. Drawing it in, Signy tasted stone.
At last they arrived at a large, round cave. It must have held a pool of magma once. Now it was empty except for a high chair, roughly made of volcanic stone. More trolls with torches stood around the chair. In it sat a heap of lava, all lumps and crevices, with two eyes like obsidian chips.
The lava moved, leaning forward and fixing Signy with its obsidian eyes. A grating voice spoke.
"Harsh the hand of Signy,
dealing doom to Steinn.
Helpless the troll,
hopeless the ending,
when the battle-swan turned on the lights."
“Well, yes,” said Signy. “But it was in self defense.”
The rock in the throne leaned back. It was a woman, Signy could see now, with long, pendulous breasts and broad thighs. The gray, pitted face was barely a face, though Signy could make out the eyes, a slash of a mouth, and the nose. A ragged shift covered the queen's torso. On her head was a crown made of gold and garnets. It looked ancient, like the art of the Viking Era. The queen spoke again:
"Tell the tale of human vengeance—
rock ripped and rivers emptied,
fire-old Iceland cored
like Idun's apples,
giving nothing more to gods and men."
She had studied the old stories, while doing research for her book. She knew that Idun's apples kept the Norse gods from aging. But she didn't remember a story about the apples being cored.
Hrauna poked her. “Tell your story, Signy, and speak loudly, so everyone can hear.”
Signy looked around. She had thought the cave was empty except for the queen and her retainers. It was not. Trolls stood along the walls, their gray bodies seeming to merge with—or emerge from—the stone. The smallest were knee-high to her. The tallest towered ten meters or more. Like all the trolls she had met so far, they were dressed in ragged clothing: shifts, long shirts, and pants with torn bottoms. Their feet were bare and huge.
Hrauna poked her again, and Signy told the story of the hydroelectric project. The trolls were as silent as stone. In front of her, the queen remained so still that Signy was no longer able to see the person, only a lump of lava with a crown perched on top. There were rocks this oddly shaped all over Iceland, though they did not usually have crowns.
She came to the end of the story and stopped. The troll queen finally stirred. “I will speak plainly and in prose,” she said. “The old human heroes could make up poems in the most difficult of times, in the middle of battle and even while being cut down by their enemies. I am not them. Your kin are destroying my land, Signy.”
“I have nothing to do with this,” Signy protested. “I am opposed to the project and have written against it.”
“I did not say you did,” the queen replied. “I said it's being done by humans, who are your kin, and now we must decide what to do, if anything.”
“Break the dam,” said a harsh voice behind Signy.
A second troll said, “Fill in the tunnels.”
“Let Jokulsa a Bru run free, as it has always done,” a third added.
“What right do humans have to do this to us?” a fourth voice asked.
“Bishop Gvendur would not permit this,” another harsh voice put in. “He knew even trolls need a place to live. That's why he left one part of the cliff at Drangey unblessed, so we could live there and get in and out
.”
This was another story she knew, though not from research. It was both famous and old. Bishop Gvendur—Gudmundur the Good Arason—had been dead for centuries.
The queen lifted a gray, pitted hand. “We will consult about this. Because you are a saga writer, Signy, I would like you to hear our decision. As Odin said in the Havamal, everything dies except fame. We want our story told.”
The hand dropped. The queen slumped, until she looked like a lump of lava once again.
Hrauna tugged at Signy. “Come away.”
She followed the troll wife into a new tunnel. Was this the time to take out her phone? She had forgotten it, while in the throne room. But there was no light except the torchlight flickering behind them. If she tried to snap a picture, the flash would go off, almost certainly frightening Hrauna and the other trolls. Frightened folk were dangerous. She decided to wait.
The torchlight faded till they were in complete darkness. Hrauna took Signy's hand. Strange, to feel those huge, hard, rocklike fingers folded around hers. They walked a long way like this. She was in the heart of Iceland, Signy thought, the core the troll queen had mentioned in her poem. There was nothing here except dry air, the smell of rock, and their own footsteps, echoing between bare stone walls.
Hrauna said, “You will stay here.”
“Where?”
“We are in a little room, made by a bubble in the lava. It's large enough for a human. I will bring you food and light. Sit down. Be comfortable.”
Signy sat down. Hrauna stumped off. After a while, she opened her phone. Light shone out, which was comforting, but she could not find a connection. She took several pictures, using the flash. There was nothing except bare rock. Hardly interesting or proof of anything. She put the phone away.
Hrauna came back finally, carrying a bowl and lamp, both roughly made from stone. The lamp burned oil, which had a familiar smell. The bowl was full of something pale gray and lumpy.
Asimov's SF, October-November 2011 Page 20