The Toll

by Jeanette Lynn

  Dark hazel eyes, much the same color as Otvla’s, set in a too thin, wrinkle-lined face, came up to meet mine.

  “I told her,” she hiccupped, her puffy red eyes full of soon to be shed tears, “and your papa told her, but she did, she did it anyways, and then they took her. They took her!!”

  “Who took her?!” I demanded. My voice was bordering on an angry shout, but I couldn’t help it. This is so frustrating!

  “They did! They did! They took her! And now she’s gone! Forever!”

  I gave up right then as she went into another sobbing trance, muttering to herself through unseeing eyes. Whatever had happened to Otvla, it wasn’t good. I needed to think quick and act. We needed help and Mamma wasn’t going to be much good where that was concerned.

  Decided, I picked Mamma up, ignoring her initial protests, and carried her into the house. My sturdier, much thicker frame wasn’t just made of fat, you know—I have muscles hidden in there too. Papa needed help on the farm sometimes, and help was hard to find. I’d always fancied myself the dress wearing son he never had. I don’t think he’d quite seen it that way, only grudgingly accepting my help when he truly could find no one else, but I chose to see it that way because it made me feel good about it. No matter how much he grumbled at me about a woman’s place as I did so.

  Mamma settled, if only temporarily, and thinking of Papa, I went to run outside, kicking off my muddied slippers and reaching for the hook on the wall by the door on my way. Tossing on my dark brown cape and thick winter boots, I headed straight for the field he’d been working in this morning.

  It was even darker out now, having had a terrible time getting Mamma into the house. I hadn’t really realized how much time had passed. Then, I wasted even more time, having to go back and retrieve a lantern, worried about finding my way in the waning light. Careful of the glowing flame encased in glass, I held it out in front of me, keeping it still as best as I could as I ran headlong where I still hoped Papa would be.

  “Oh, please still be there. Please still be there.” Scared out of my mind, I jumped and shook, shivering, chewing my lip nervously at every little thing—every crick of a branch, croak or caw of some unknown creature. It was maddening and I was frightened, but I was on a mission.

  Papa may not find the darkness cumbersome or to his dislike, but I sure did. I never did quite shake my childhood fear of things that go bump in the night. Not that I’d told anyone that, mind you, I’m a grown woman of almost twenty eight winters—everyone would think me silly, as they should. Or, like my much loathed nickname, truly ‘Daphie’.

  My thick winter footwear slushed along, slopping and splattering mud all over me as I trampled, trudging through the muck of the lower, marshier grassland butting our property, closest to the Blood Mud swamps. I was thankful I’d remembered to slap the warm boots on after settling Mamma. This terrain was not made for flouncing around in slippers, which had been in bad enough shape as it was from my earlier romp in the fields with Trystan. It was, however, the fastest way I knew of to get there, through all that squishy muck, so I’d take a little mud splashing if it got help faster. And I was, indeed, in a hurry. Otvla needs help, now.

  My legs worked harder, determined, hands gripping my lantern a little tighter as I squinted into the darkness.

  Lips pressed together so tight they ached, I gritted my teeth and took a deep breath. “I’ll get you help, Otvla,” I promised. “If it’s the last thing I do.” And I’d meant every word.

  Plight Of The Wallflower

  Huffing and puffing from the longer than I’d anticipated walk/run—turned out he was not where I’d hoped he’d be—I finally spotted Papa as I ran into the taller growing dark green grass, slopping about brown and reddish tinted water and muck everywhere—a true sign the marsh was just beyond—panting as I caught up to him on his horse.

  Running out of steam, and beyond relieved to see him, I lunged at his pant leg, startling him as I gripped it tight.

  “Papa! Oh, Papa! I’ve been looking for you!”

  My father cursed and jumped, waving his lantern about wildly, back and forth, over my head, lowering the pistol he’d suddenly aimed at me—the one he always carried that I’d momentarily forgotten about—whoops!—when he realized it was just me and not some nameless, thieving marauder.

  Pepper, the old black mare he rode, chuffed as he pulled to a stop beside me, stomping her foot readily in protest. She was probably hungry and thirsty, ready to head back home and be put up for the night, the poor thing.

  “Papa! Papa! You have to come quick!” I managed to gasp out as I rested my lantern on a drier patch of grass, panting heavily, and held onto my knees for support.

  Papa frowned down at me, lowering his light, my chest heaving unbecomingly as I tried to catch my breath, his gnarled old hands holding onto the leather reins of his work horse tight, huffing disapprovingly at my current disheveled appearance. Dark, fuzzy caterpillar brows, a deeper, rustier orange to my brighter, lighter orangey red, scowled down at me in consternation as I started to babble.

  Grunting, he held a hand up. “Whoa there, Daphedaenya. What’s going on? What’s all this runnin’ and gibberin’ about? You scared me half to death, child!” Grunting, he adjusted himself in the saddle and glanced at where the house would be, somewhere off in the distance, meaningfully, then back at me. Muttering under his breath, he grumbled about silly females as he tugged off his hat and rubbed at his balding pate, only a thick ring of frizzy orange left to fringe around his head.

  “Something’s happened!” Stuttering and spluttering as I tried to spit it all out, I motioned towards the house and tugged at him once more before I released him and started hurrying towards the direction I hoped home was—it was kind of hard to tell at this time of night—by myself, urging him on.

  “What’s happened, Daphedaenya? You’re not making any-”

  “I don’t know!” I shouted, picking up my lantern, not waiting for him as I started to run off. “I couldn’t get Mamma to explain! She was beside herself! Someone took Otvla! That’s all I know!”

  “Otvla!” Papa’s eyes widened and he sat up straighter, the sun-kissed wrinkles around his eyelids stretching, right along with the faded pools of blue swimming around his pupils, in disbelief.

  “Yes!”

  “Otvla… no.” Papa gasped and let out a pained, choked noise. I almost stopped in my tracks to hurry back towards him, tempted to run up and offer him comfort.

  It would have been for nothing, though, as he passed me, having kicked his horse into gear, speeding past as he headed right for home.

  “Wait!” I called weakly as he sped off into the distance, leaving me to fend for myself, all alone, in the dark, the amber glow of his lantern fading as he got farther and farther away from me. “You forgot... me,” I finished lamely, coming to a stop suddenly and staring off after him in the distance. A little hurt, but nonetheless undeterred, I picked up my pace, my drive to help my sister trumping everything else. “I can do this.” Shoulders back, lantern held high, I ran like my ass was on fire, mumbling to myself the entire way, “This has nothing to do with scary bogies, this has absolutely nothing to do with scary bogies. Nothing. Nothing at all. This is for Otvla. This is for Otvla. There’s no such things as boogey men. There’s no such thing. Nope.” And I kept my little mantra up the entire way.

  ‘Cause, you know, nothing scares all the baddies away like a ranting plump woman mumbling to herself, mushy and wet, covered in mud, shrieking like a banshee at every and any little given thing, a lantern held up high in her pudgy, shaking fist as she runs like the fires of Hell are lapping at her heels.

  Nice Girls Finish Last

  When I finally reached the house, the hour was late, very late. All the lamps were lit and there were men standing around everywhere. A search party, I thought. Good.

  Glancing down at myself, I grimaced and tip-toed inside quietly, hoping not to disturb them. I did, unfortunately, the mere sight of me enough to
distract anyone, and they all stopped and gawked at me.

  “Daphie!” Trystan exclaimed, taking in my mud soaked, water drenched state. Did I mention it had started raining half way home, making it that much harder? Oh, and my clothes are very unbecomingly sticking to me like a second skin. A very rain drenched second skin.

  Face reddening, I blushed hard, my pale cheeks flushing a deep crimson. The fact that not only had all the other men seen me like this, but mainly him—my Trystan, my love—just added to my further embarrassment.

  Trystan crossed the room in a few short strides with his long, thick legs, and went to touch me, hold me, but caught himself; not before others, namely his father, noticed, though.

  Smiling slightly, his father nodded at his choice approvingly. Trystan, taking note, grinned, turning back to me eagerly to help me out of my soggy cape.

  “You can’t be traipsing around like this in the rain, love,” he whispered, just for my ears only, making me shiver—a very different kind of shiver—from somewhere deep inside. “You could get sick.”

  My hands briefly touched his over the little silver clasp on my cape and my skin prickled. “I know, and thank you, but it’s not like I’d meant for it to happen,” I hurriedly whispered back.

  Deep brown eyes never leaving mine, he stared at me questioningly, and I felt obliged to answer.

  Licking my lips to wet them, I shrugged helplessly. “Papa kind of, erm, forgot about me.” It didn’t really bother me so much. It wasn’t like this was the first time my parents had temporarily forgotten my existence. I was never half the trouble Otvla was proving, and more often than not, sometimes I just, more or less, blended into the background. Maybe I do it a little too well, I pondered.

  Everything had always ended up turning out okay, though, so I couldn’t complain. I considered it the curse of being the quieter, more subdued, overweight older sibling. This was just my lot in life, and I’d accepted it years ago. Along with the realization that Otvla always had been, and always would be, my parent’s favorite.

  Despite her shortcomings, I loved her too, but I didn’t run around with blinders on as to how she truly was. I know my sibling, as much as she thinks she knows me. Uhm, whenever it is she takes the time to notice me.

  Trystan’s jaw tightened and he glanced at my father. Jargling his arm to catch his attention, he finally looked away. Shoulders stiff, he hung my cape and paused before he turned back to me.

  I was about to call his name quietly, but he spoke before I could. “I see.”

  At the deep, irritated note, my eyes widened at the anger seething just below his usually jocular surface.

  “He forgot ‘bout ye, luv? Out in the rain an’ all, an’ after yer sister bein’ snatched up an’ all that? Och, tis a shame.” Seamus O’Donnelle shook his head sadly, having overheard us, and gave my father a reproachful look.

  Papa took off his hat and blushed right along with me, bald pate as cherry red as his weathered skin, catching on quick. “I’m, uh, sorry, Daphie, love, you know your old Pa didn’t mean it.”

  Very aware of our audience and the strained silence, I smiled sympathetically, offering the olive branch, as I always do. “I know, Papa. You were just…”

  “Worried,” Mamma sobbed into a fat hanky, cutting right in. “He was just worried. He never meant to forget you. He was just… he was just… Oh! Oh! My little Otvla!!”

  Everyone winced as her sharp cries started up again, her hysterics bordering on ear shattering. Small, thin frame shuddering, she worked herself up into a right fit.

  “Getting yourself all bawled out, carrying on the way you are, until you’re fit to be tied isn’t going to solve anything, Prun,” Gus Penderton, the local baker, grumbled.

  Prun, or Prundele Kinter, Mamma to me, wasn’t listening. If anything, she just got louder. Gus looked like he’d like nothing more than to shut her up himself. I was tempted to search out something to offer everyone to plug their ears with, mine too. Small tufts of cotton, perhaps, to hand out to the men to stuff in their ears, in hopes of saving what little hearing they might have left in their poor canals.

  Gus still had his apron on over his thick, wide barreled chest, a streak of flour still smudging his thick but rounded face as he glowered in Mamma’s direction. He clearly wasn’t impressed with her hysterics at the moment and let it be known. I was a bit worried the other men might all agree and mutiny, leaving Papa to search out Otvla all on his own.

  Papa patted Mamma’s hand awkwardly, quietly entreating her to calm herself, and looked to me helplessly. “Ah, Daphie, if you please, sweet,” he practically begged, eyes darting between Mamma and me desperately, then the rest of the occupants packed into the room.

  Bobbing my head, I nodded and excused myself from Trystan and his father, Berthold, taking Mamma’s arm as I gently led her into her room.

  Dressing her for bed in between sobbing fits, I quickly tucked her in. Holding her tight as she cried, even in sleep, I prayed as I heard the men all leaving, hoping they found Otvla and brought her back home, safe and sound.

  It was going to be a long night and I knew it, but I never lost hope.

  ****

  Mamma woke up a short while later and moaned out loud. Holding her tight and hoping she’d just go back to sleep, I held my breath.

  “Nathem? Is that you? Did you get her back?”

  “It’s just me, Mamma,” I assured her, running a hand softly over her mussed, mousy brown hair.

  “Otvla?” she asked excitedly, her eyes still closed as she sighed in relief.

  “No, Mamma, it’s me, Daphedaenya,” I whispered softly.

  Lower lip trembling, she let out a sharp cry and squeezed her eyes shut. Thin frame shaking, her eyes welled up and she let her tears spill over.

  Reaching over, I wiped them away gently with my thumb. “Don’t cry, Mamma. Papa will figure it all out. I’m sure he will. You’ll see.”

  “Oh, why! Why? Why her? Oh… why couldn’t it have been... been... you?” she cried softly, her hand swatting weakly, uselessly at my chest, “Why couldn’t the troll have taken you instead?”

  Shock shot through me and I just stared down at her unblinkingly. “Mamma?” I choked out, my own lips trembling, heart splitting in two.

  “Oh, why… why…” she continued to mutter, burying her face in my chest.

  Numb by her admission—whether she’s said it out of desperation and grief or not—I was struck. And worse, to top that all off—Otvla was taken by a troll? A troll? Filling with dread, my stomach turned over. You never hear good things about trolls. Ever.

  Quiet Conundrum

  Papa came back alone, late, or really early—however you chose to see it—pale and more frail looking than I’d ever seen him.

  I couldn’t sleep after the little scene with Mamma in her bedroom, and I was waiting for him at the old, seen-better-days kitchen table when he shuffled in.

  She only said it out of grief, I kept telling myself, but even I couldn’t stomach the lie.

  “I don’t know what else to do,” Papa mumbled as he glanced at me, his watered down blue eyes peering right through me. “I... I just don’t know…” Ashen and shaking, he looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

  Popping up, I ran to him, my cream colored shawl clutched tight around my shoulders over my night gown as I made my way across the room.

  “Papa? Papa? Did you find her? Is she alright? Mamma said something about a troll.”

  Papa started mumbling again, “What am I to do? She’s my little girl. My angel. How am I to…” His head shook. “How could…? My baby…”

  Otvla was far from angelic, but I understood the sentiment. Maybe a little too well. Their little Otvla could do no wrong in their eyes, and I’d resigned myself to second fiddle at the onset.

  “Is she coming home, Papa?” I peeked behind him and then walked to the door. No Otvla. My shoulders slumped. Oh, I hope she’s okay. Turning around, I walked back up to him, keeping pace, right behind.


  “Papa?” I asked tentatively. “Papa? She is okay, right?”

  Papa didn’t answer, staring off at nothing, straight ahead.

  Oh, god. My breath caught in my throat and I ran around him to face him.

  “Oh, Papa. Did they… is she?” I couldn’t finish, my eyes tearing up as he stopped, bumping right into me. Stumbling back, he finally looked down at me. It was as if he’d finally just noticed me in the same room with him for the first time.

  “We, uh,” he swallowed hard, “we found her. We… we… we just… it wasn’t…”

  The way he said it sent shivers down my spine.

  “Just what?”

  Shaking his head, he wouldn’t answer.

  “Tell me.”

  Muttering and cursing under his breath, face mottling, he made his way past me, once again, as if I didn’t exist, and shuffled his way to the back, towards his bedroom.

  “Papa!” I snapped sharply.

  My father’s head whipped around and he blinked at me owlishly.

  “Uhm, yes, Daphie?” he said finally, tiredly.

  “Is she alive?” It took everything I had in me to say it, but say it I did.

  Shoulders pinched, face drawn, he flinched. “Yes.”

  “Okay.” Taking a deep breath, I willed the tears back, nodding gratefully. “Okay, thank you, that’s all I wanted to know.”

  Turning away, he nodded and continued on towards his room.

  “Wait! Papa!” I called. “Is she unharmed?”

  Papa paused and took a long time in answering.

  “For now,” he said finally.

  Those words followed me into my room, into bed, into the late morning as I lay wide awake, staring sightlessly up at the sturdily thatched roof. For now. Lips trembling, I closed my eyes and let the hot tears welling up in them fall, hoping nothing bad befell my only little sister.