“Fraulein? Are you still with us?”
Gretel was tempted to say no, but resisted. In fact, she was incapable of saying anything. It was breathe or speak; she could not do both. She raised a hand in what she hoped was a cheerful, reassuring manner. She did not want fuss and attention. Her plan was to follow the group as far as was necessary, using the guide to take her up to the level of the last hunting lodge, then look for a path leading off toward a stream, sneak away, and, hopefully, locate the troll. With luck they would all be far too busy scrutinizing some rare buttercup or other to notice her absence. Gretel’s left foot dislodged a loose stone, sending it skittering down the precipitous slope. She gasped, clinging to the only bush that had sufficient temerity to grow in such a place, and gave thanks for the stout walking boots she had for once made herself wear.
After a further hour of scrambling and plodding, during which time the splendor of the scenery was entirely wasted on Gretel, they did indeed pass the uppermost hunting lodge on the trail. Within a few yards, she spotted a narrow track snaking off to the right, just as the main track turned sharply in the other direction. She hung back a little more, waiting until she was sure her departure would not be observed, and then scampered away. It was blissful to be going downhill for the first time that morning.
Her delight at not having to haul herself upward got the better of her good sense, so that she was soon charging down the track, gathering alarming momentum. If she should trip at such speed there would be no stopping her. One wrongly placed foot and she would be sent rolling all the way down to Bad am Zee. Thankfully, the path began to level out, which slowed her descent just in time for her to spot a fast-flowing stream. The path followed its banks and soon enough crossed it by way of an old stone bridge. Gretel leaned over, peering into the darkness beneath the low arch of stone. It was too gloomy for her to see anything properly, but she fancied there was a small doorway hidden in the shadows.
She crossed the bridge, left the path, and clambered down to the stream’s edge. The first thing she met was the most revolting smell she had ever encountered. It seemed to consist of rotting things and putrid matter of indescribable awfulness, with high notes of sewage and yet more unknowable ingredients. Gretel whipped out a hankie and pressed it to her nose and mouth. The second thing she met was a roughly painted sign bearing the warning “Persons Entering Better Not.” It occurred to her that Agnes’s vision had been something of a bum steer, but even so, this was proof—if proof were needed—that she was in the right place. It was also evidence that the troll was of a low level of education and literacy. That he could write at all surprised Gretel, and it was only then that she realized she knew next to nothing about the creatures. Were they big or small? Fearsome or harmless? Friendly or dangerous? The sign seemed to suggest callers were not welcome. Gretel squared her shoulders and patted the bags of gold coins and notes tucked into her corset, reasoning that just about everybody had his price.
“Hello?” she called out. “Anyone at home?”
Her voice echoed eerily in the small cavern formed by the bridge. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the low light, she could see that she had been right about the doorway, and that it was blocked by a particularly stout, studded door. Risking mouthfuls of the stench, she shouted out this time.
“I say, hello!” she tried again. “Herr Troll, are you there?”
Suddenly, a heavy shape dropped from the bridge, landing on the stony soil behind her. Gretel peered at it, but it remained but a featureless silhouette, broad as a bear, against the brightness of the day beyond. It crouched low, moving its curiously misshapen head from side to side, emitting a soft, menacing growl as it did so.
Gretel, who had considered herself pretty well exhausted up until this point, felt adrenaline coursing through her veins, charging her body with the wherewithal to flee. She clenched her teeth, as much against the ever increasing stink as against her own fear, and attempted to keep her voice steady.
“Ah. Good morning to you,” she said. “I was hoping to, er, have a word or two with you. If you’re not too busy.”
The growl grew into a deep, gravelly voice; a voice you could hire out to infest children’s nightmares and turn a reliable profit.
“Troll bin watchin’ you,” he said, the words carried on fetid breath. “Troll bin seeing you a-tumbling an’ a-lumbering down the hill.” The troll took a step nearer, dragging one foot as he did so, his arms hanging low, his head still turning this way and that. “Big woman,” he said—somewhat unnecessarily, in Gretel’s opinion. “Big, big woman.”
“Yes, quite. Well, there it is. Now . . .” Gretel paused to fumble for her money. She took out a small bag of coins and jangled it as attractively as she knew how.
The troll showed not the slightest interest, but stepped forward one more shambling stride. At that moment, a shaft of light fell through a hole in the bridge above and illuminated the face of the troll. It took all Gretel’s willpower to quell a full-blown scream of horror. She had seen some pretty nasty things in her time, but nothing had prepared her for the revolting visage of the troll. His skin was of a bilious green hue and his face consisted of a short, wide snout; two piggy eyes; a wide, dribbling mouth; and a mass of pustules and spots. Two tusks protruded from between slack lips. The troll’s hair was matted and white and stood in thick tufts on top of its fat head. His earlobes were pendulous and weighed down by what looked like chunks of ivory. He was clothed in a shapeless sheepskin garment that wriggled and glinted all of its own accord. Two-fingered hands hung on the ends of bristly arms. A wide belt around his middle gave the poor creature some shape, but had the unfortunate effect of accentuating the bulging codpiece below it. Short, muscular legs and large, filthy, feet completed the gruesome apparition.
The troll stepped closer. He squinted myopically at Gretel, sniffing her up and down as he leaned terrifyingly near.
“Big woman. Big-fat woman,” he said again, his voice husky with desire.
The speed with which Gretel moved surprised even her. Within the blink of a rheumy eye she had spun on her heel and bolted out the other side of the bridge, galloping for the path as fast as her aching legs would carry her.
But she was no match for the troll. In two bounds he had overtaken her and was blocking her way. Gretel skidded on the rubbly surface of the mountain slope and fell heavily on her backside, right at the troll’s disgusting feet.
“Big-fat woman stay,” he growled. Then, his head almost coquettishly on one side, he added, “Big-fat woman want drink?”
It had been many years since Gretel had been on the receiving end of a pickup line, but even she considered this to be a poor effort. However, given that her chances of outrunning the troll were precisely nil, and that she clearly needed time to plan her escape, a drink didn’t seem like a bad idea.
Gretel allowed herself to be led inside the troll’s dwelling. The stench was thick enough to swallow. The single room had been hewn out of the mountain and was windowless, airless, and sticky. The troll lit two tallow candles and gestured for Gretel to sit on one of the small wooden stools by the smoldering fire. Though powerfully built, the troll was no taller than she was, but still had to stoop beneath the low ceiling. He fetched a flagon of what Gretel eventually decided was grog. He swigged noisily before holding out the stone jar for her. Seeing the look on her face, the troll snatched it back and carefully wiped the top with a sweaty palm. He proffered the drink once more. Gretel took it, steeled herself against possible troll drool, and gulped down some of the foamy liquid. Instantly her throat burned and her head spun as the fiery brew hit home. The initial alcoholic blast was followed by a foul aftertaste, and then, seconds later, a curious fuzziness that was not wholly unpleasant. She took another swig and handed it back.
The troll, clearly delighted at her ability to share a beverage, grinned widely. Gretel would much rather he hadn’t felt the need. She pulled herself together, deciding the creature’s cooperation might, after all, be
won.
“So, Herr Troll, have you lived here long?”
The troll gazed about his home as if for the first time.
“Long time troll house. Troll bin makin’ house lots of years.” He studied Gretel’s face. “Big-fat woman like?”
“Oh, very nice. I love what you’ve done with the . . .”—She cast desperately around for a feature worthy of comment—“. . . stools.”
The troll looked crestfallen.
“And the fireplace,” she went on. “Lovely.” The troll nodded.
“Troll sleep here,” he explained, “by fire. Warm. Good place to sleep.”
Gretel was astonished to witness the creature giving her what could only have been a meaningful wink. She quelled a shudder and pressed home her advantage.
“Herr Troll, I am very much in need of your help.”
The troll looked suitably baffled, having never in his life before been asked for assistance.
“Yes,”’ Gretel continued, “that is why I have traveled so many miles to find you. It’s like this: I have a friend, a very dear friend . . .” Seeing something approaching jealousy on the troll’s face, she hastened to reassure him. “. . . an elderly lady of my acquaintance.”
The troll relaxed.
“And this gentle woman is heartbroken at the loss of three of her cherished cats.” The troll frowned. Whether this was because there were words he did not understand, or whether it was the mention of cats, Gretel could not be certain. When he remained silent, she went on.
“Have you, perhaps, heard any talk, any mention, any word, regarding somebody taking somebody else’s cats? Perhaps?” Gretel made a mental note to brush up on her interrogation techniques. She was out of practice.
The troll drank lustily and then pushed the jar back to Gretel, nodding pointedly at it. She took the drink and sipped a little. The troll frowned and grunted, waving a bi-digit hand at her, signaling she should do the thing properly. With a sigh, Gretel did as she was bid.
Pleased, her host snatched the jar away and swigged again. “The cats?” said Gretel, more than a little woozily.
“Troll only eat cats in winter, not spring,” he said.
Gretel wasn’t sure that cleared the matter up entirely, although it was comforting information.
“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting for one minute that you yourself would . . . I meant that, just possibly, you had heard of a person wanting cats?”
“Troll bin hearing. Troll knows some things sometimes.”
Gretel nodded, encouraging the beast to go on, but it merely handed her the flagon once more.
“Ah. I see,” she said. “So this is how it’s to be.” She took the brew and drank again before passing it back. “Your turn. And no cheating.”
The troll laughed at this, a dreadful, phlegm-filled rattle of a laugh. He glugged deeply, making a show of emptying the stone jar. He rose to his feet somewhat unsteadily and fetched more grog. When he had resettled on his stool, Gretel asked again.
“The cats, Herr Troll?”
“Somebody want cats.” He nodded. “Pretty cats.”
“Yes? Go on, go on . . . ?”
Her entreaties were greeted with a smile, which spread slowly across the troll’s face like a slug lunging at a lettuce. He handed her the drink.
A further hour passed in this fashion. Gretel asked simple questions, the troll gave even simpler answers, each exchange punctuated by quantities of the fiery ale. Gretel clung to what little information she had extracted from the increasingly tipsy creature.
There was indeed someone in the area who wanted the cats, and who paid handsomely for the cats to be taken to him. The troll would not give up the identity of the cat collector, but did let slip that he lived a further day’s ride over the mountains and never ventured from home himself. Gretel was confident, after years of keeping up with Hans, that she could outdrink the troll. However, she did not want him to pass out before he had given her a name. Without the identity of the kitnapper, her encounter with the odious creature would be for nothing.
She pushed her hand inside her jacket, fumbling for another bag of coins. She noted with alarm that the sight of her rummaging in her undergarments was inflaming the troll’s passions. She turned her head so as not to witness the stirring in its codpiece. “Here,” she said, emptying the gold onto the floor between them. The coins shone beautifully in the flickering light of the fire. “Tell me the name of the person who wants the cats and you can have it all. And more besides, if the information proves to be useful.”
In a rage, the troll threw down the stone jar, smashing it onto the coins. He leapt to his feet, his movements slurred by drink but still fearsomely powerful as he stomped around the room.
“Troll not want money! Money no good! If Troll take money to buy things people did bin running, people did bin screaming! Nobody take Troll’s money. Troll not wanting it!”
Gretel forced herself to ask the question she had been dreading ever since the wink. “So, what does Herr Troll want?”
There was a worryingly long pause, during which the troll gazed down at Gretel as he swayed. He stepped closer, studying her, letting his piggy eyes travel blurrily the length and breadth of her body. Suddenly he leaned forward, arms outstretched.
Gretel recoiled, waiting for the inevitable bodily contact that she feared might scar her for life. But the troll merely reached up to the grimy shelf above her and took down a large wooden box. With great care, he set the box down in front of the fire and knelt beside it. He undid the brass latch and opened the lid to reveal the contents.
Gretel leaned forward, her heart still pounding in her ears. She had difficulty making out exactly what the treasured objects were. There were twenty, maybe thirty of the things. They were small, white, and two to four inches long. The troll touched them tenderly, making a soft purring noise as he did so.
“The cats?” Gretel heard herself ask.
“Ha! Not cats!” The troll clearly thought the idea ridiculous. “Troll not like cats.”
“No, no, of course not. Silly of me,” said Gretel. “Then, these are . . . ?”
The troll smiled and then, very gently, took Gretel’s hand in his. Her neatly manicured fingers lay in his bristly, malformed palm, his own two fat digits dwarfing her comparatively slender ones.
“Fingers,” whispered the troll. “Beautiful fingers.”
Gretel felt an urgent need to urinate. She looked again at the box and could see now that what it contained was a collection of finger bones. Some were elegantly long, others jointed, some were thumbs, and others in three longer pieces, but they were all very definitely human fingers. Gretel slowly withdrew her hand from the troll’s grasp.
“Ah,” she said. “The thing is, Herr Troll, I am, myself, rather attached to my fingers.” The troll snatched up the wooden box, snapping shut the lid, and clasped it to his chest protectively.
“Big-fat woman want name—big-fat woman find finger for Troll,” he said.
Relief flooded Gretel’s body. This was not a bargain she would ordinarily have thought a fair one, but in the circumstances it seemed completely sensible. All she had to do now was make sure the troll didn’t get any other ideas into its knobbly head.
Silently thanking Hans for the quantities of drink he had inured her to, she smiled at her host.
“That,” she said, “sounds like a deal we should drink to, Herr Troll. Any more of that delicious grog of yours going, perchance?”
Once safely back at the Bad-Hotel, Gretel rewarded herself with as many pampering treatments as were on offer. It took a full twenty-four hours for her to clear the stink of the troll from her nostrils and the memory of his looks of lustful longing from her mind. She lay on a fluffy-toweled couch while a young masseur worked on the screaming muscles in her calves and did a mental tally of what her efforts had yielded. The gains were few, but important. She now knew that someone was snatching the cats, or, more accurately, having the cats snatched. She knew also that thi
s person lived over the mountains one day hence. Furthermore, she knew that the troll knew who this person was. In addition, she had a rare insight into the life, habits, and singular desires of trolls, but she decided against counting this as a plus of any sort. She had also deduced that the troll was more involved than he was letting on, given the missing finger on the corpse at Hund’s yard. She was convinced the unknown man’s death and the catnapping were connected. On the minus side, her body ached terribly from all the clambering up and scrambling down the mountain she had done; her insides had not yet recovered from the toxic brew she had been required to drink in dangerous quantities; there was a very real chance that one day Herr Troll would appear on her doorstep clutching a bunch of flowers; and the only way to discover the identity of the cat collector was to obtain a human finger and take it to said troll.
“Argh!” she cried, as the masseur found a particularly sensitive spot.
“Fraulein, you have been overworking these muscles. It is important to build up stamina before attempting any serious activity.”
Gretel groaned. “Needs must. Besides, I’m not sure what the recommended training would be before encountering trolls.”
“I would be happy to provide you with a program of exercises.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. After your expert attentions I intend to return home and spend considerable amounts of time on my daybed.” She paused to gasp as the pitiless young man probed deep into her protective layers of plumpness and located another painfully knotted muscle. When she had recovered her breath, she went on. “I do, however, have one task I need to perform.” She shut the image of what she knew she must do from her mind. “Tell me, does Bad am Zee boast such a thing as a hunting shop?”
“Fraulein is thinking of joining the chase? Oh, please consider your condition! Such strenuous activity . . .”
“I’m thinking of no such thing. I merely wish to acquire one inexpensive but very sharp knife.”
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