The Toll

by Jeanette Lynn

  “Yes, like that. The way you used to.”

  “An’ how that be?” Troll chuffed, trying to bluff.

  “Like I’m something, somebody—special. Like you love me too,” I whispered softly, knowing he’d still hear. Scooting closer, I turned and yawned, snuggling my back against him, not waiting for his reply, wrapping his arm around me tight when he hesitated. “I have some questions, though, not that you could answer them as the real you would, but I want to know.”

  “An’ what would those be?” He tried to pull his hand back, as if he’d thought better of it, but I held him tight.

  “What did I do wrong? Why... why do you hate me?”

  “Ye... ye really dinna know?”

  “You already know the answer to that,” I murmured, drifting off to sleep.

  ****

  I woke with a start the next morning, lifting my head up groggily. It was still very early, the first beams of morning light streaming into my room.

  My hand slowly came up to rub at my swollen lips, gaze drifting down to where my gown was hiked up around my waist, my sex bared.

  Blowing out a long breath, I dropped my head back on my pillow and groaned, my eyes popping open to stare at the ceiling.

  “Please tell me I made raucous, shout the roof down love to my pillow,” I mumbled, loath to face the day and all of its dawning reality.

  The cock crowing outside, and the third bag of coins, a red one this time, sitting neatly atop my small crate dresser, all three lined up nicely in a row, said otherwise.

  I slept with the small chest I kept at the foot of my bed pressed up against my door, and a pair of men’s breeches on after that, hoping like hell troll magic didn’t poof you into a room.

  It’s The Little Things

  Papa came in for lunch, rubbing his temples tiredly as he plopped down next to me at the table, where I was studiously snapping green beans.

  Trystan came in not too long after, sitting down across from me, smiling his thanks as Mamma fetched him a pitcher of water and a cup. Taking the cup gratefully, he thanked her one last time and took a long swig.

  Noting the action, I caught his eye over the rim but quickly looked away.

  “Why aren’t you eating at home?” I asked bluntly, “Don’t you have a wife to cook your meals?” I wasn’t being mean about it, just honest.

  “Uh, well, uh...”

  “He got sick the last time he tried to stomach one of her suppers,” Papa snorted and stole one of my green beans from the small bowl. “She cooks as good as she stitches.”

  I blinked and opened and closed my mouth, clearing my throat before I went back to my beans.

  “Oh, no,” Mamma said after a long moment, cutting thick slices of bread for everyone, “she’s better at sewing than cooking.”

  “She’s terrible at sewing,” I blurted, before I’d thought better of it.

  “And aint that the truth,” Papa whispered with growing co-conspirator-ship.

  Lips tugging up, I smiled a little and hid it over my bowl, but it soon turned into a quiet chuckle, and the bowl shook as I gripped it, worried it might spill over.

  “I’ve missed your laugh.”

  My smile fell, chuckle dying on my lips as my head shot up to stare at Trystan as he met my gaze evenly, staring deeply into my eyes. He didn’t apologize or take it back, announcing it so boldly in front of my parents—his in-laws.

  Embarrassed, I looked away, his gaze too much, especially when the feelings he had were no longer reciprocated.

  Otvla chose that moment to walk in, sniffing hungrily, plopping down right next to me.

  “What’s for lunch? I’m starved,” she asked Mamma, the look on Trystan’s face as he eyed his wife saying they most certainly would if they didn’t count on my folks for nourishment.

  I couldn’t help it when I started laughing, and I didn’t hold back, letting it tumble out of my gut, spilling out, loud and long, Papa’s small, amused chuckle soon joining in. It felt good.

  “What?” Otvla demanded around a mouth full of bread. “What did I say?”

  Exposed

  I sat in the hip bath, several weeks having passed, the most slow going, miserably drudging weeks of my life. Lathering up my arms, I was careful of the flaking, healing black patterns forever tattooed into my skin.

  I refused to admit that I might, might, be feeling a bit blue as of late, as if I was missing a part of myself, a deep sense of loss I desperately needed to fill.

  Thankfully, I hadn’t had any other dreams of Troll since that one night, and I was glad of it. My dreams were blissfully empty, the real and otherwise.

  Splashing more water over my neck and chest, I sighed heavily and admitted, if only to myself, it was killing me. It shouldn’t, but it was. Just the sound of his voice, even if just to berate me for a few seconds, would suffice. He’d stopped calling out to me, trying to coax me to him in my dreams, and now it had me anxious, worrying.

  Did he lose interest? Or is he going to do something else entirely? A new approach, maybe?

  I always started out along that line of thinking, but wouldn’t allow myself to wallow in it for long. Nothing good could come of it.

  The pouches full of gold were currently the bane of my existence, my current distraction/focus, coming back to me, like clockwork, no matter where I tossed or buried them, determined to get rid of the dirty coins.

  My hair was piled up high atop my head as I sat, not quite knee deep in lukewarm water, splashing the soap off of me as quietly as possible, my back facing the door.

  I’d dragged the large wooden tub into my room, stationing it at the foot of my bed, heating and hefty the water quietly, so as not to wake anyone, all by myself.

  I was unwilling to wake Mamma up and have to explain why I wouldn’t be bathing out in the middle of the kitchen, as we’d all grown up used to doing.

  I’d never had to worry about anyone walking in on me as I’d had my bath back then, Papa was long gone to the field, and I wasn’t shy about being naked in front of Mamma or Otvla. That was just how things had always been.

  Now I avoided that very thing, almost fearing it. That’s why I’d decided to take one so early, my parent’s still soundly asleep.

  Sighing heavily, I fingered the black swirling patterns slowly, dotting my skin, a deep sense of shame washing over me. They didn’t hurt anymore, the pain quickly fading, leaving me with only the sharp, vivid memory of how I’d received them. Sometimes, when my emotions were high, I could almost swear they tingled.

  My head cocked to the side, dragging me from my thoughts, when I heard a small creak, as if the door hinge was rattling again.

  Pausing, I held perfectly still and waited.

  Nothing.

  Huh. It was windy outside, so I chalked it off to that. I’ll have to remember to tell Papa later so he can check it.

  Sloughing it off, I continued with my ministrations, letting my hair down to dump water over it, using the small tin cup I’d brought with me.

  I’d just finished lathering it with the lavender scented soap Mamma always favored when I heard the sound of a door slowly creaking open.

  Moving fast, I had just enough time to pull my towel over my chest and spin around before my door swung wide open.

  Eyes wide, I gaped as Otvla hurried in, a large, heavy pan held out high above her head in her hands.

  “Ah-hah!” she shouted, waving it around like a demented person, her night rail on over a thick, fur-lined winter cape.

  “What are you doing?!” I screeched. “Otvla! Get out!”

  “I knew you were-” She froze and frowned, gazing around the room. Brows pinching in confusion, she slowly lowered her arms, ignoring my harsh whispers, huffing at her to leave immediately. “But I thought...” The pan fell out of her hands with a heavy clink, thunking to the floor.

  “You thought what?” I snapped, motioning for her to get out.

  “Well...” She pulled at her lower lip with her fingers, the sam
e way she used to when she’d just done something ridiculously stupid and gotten caught. “I, uh, well...”

  “What is the meaning of all this?” Papa came rushing into the room in his nightclothes, blinking in disbelief as he took in the scene before him, his pistol gripped tightly in his right hand, skinny, hairy stick legs prominently out on display.

  Sharp, shrewd eyes missing nothing, he took in the pot lying at Otvla’s feet, quickly averting his eyes at my indecent, barely covered state, and then they went back to my baby sister. Frowning hard, thick brows pulling down, he scowled as his eyes strayed to that pan again, and then her attire.

  She noticed and tried to smooth down her hair, sticking up at odd angles around her head in a fluffy brown mass, more than likely from the way she’d slept.

  Walking over slowly, he stooped and picked up the pan, testing the weight of it in his hand.

  I noticed, offhandedly, that what little hair he had left on his head was also sticking up around the crown of his head, puffing up around him like frizzy orange cotton, complementing his befuddle expression perfectly.

  Mamma saw fit to come in right then, rubbing at her eyes as she peered around the room. “Did Trystan come and fetch you, then?” she asked Otvla, yawning as she tightened her robe.

  “Fetch me?” Otvla parroted, dumbfounded.

  “Mm.” Mamma nodded. “Yes, to have you wait for him as the calf birthed. I told him he might want to. I know how much you don’t like being alone.” Shifting from foot to foot, she glanced down at Papa’s hands and eyed him questioningly. “Nathem, do you need me to boil water or something, for birthing the calf, perhaps?”

  “Birthing the...”

  She motioned to the pan in his hands at his perplexed look, and he shook his head.

  “Is everyone up early now?” A voice called.

  My face reddened and I huddled down, dragging my towel into my bath with me to make sure my good bits were all adequately covered.

  “Everyone get out. Now!” I hissed. When nobody moved, I groaned, resigned to my fate as Trystan’s head, towering over everyone else’s, came into view. “Please!”

  “What’s going on in here... oh.” He stopped the second he caught sight of me, quickly looking away when Otvla elbowed him in the stomach. With an oomph, he bent over a little and gave her a dirty look as she glared at him.

  I missed it when a hank of my hair fell off of my shoulder, exposing the Troll’s curse to Mamma’s keen eyes.

  “Daphedaenya,” she whispered, hand trembling as she brought it up to her lips, eyes wide with shock. “What has been done to you?”

  ****

  It was a very quiet breakfast, as everyone tried to ignore the big grey elephant in the room.

  Otvla cleared her throat a little and asked Trystan, “Is the heifer fine?”

  “I didn’t tup it,” he grumbled, beating his grits with his spoon, “if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “I never said you two were tupping!” she growled out defensively, her face flushing pink.

  Shaking his head, he raised a brow, motioning to her pot sitting on the stove. “You brought the pot to what? Make us pudding if we weren’t?”

  “Oh!” Throwing her hands up, she slapped her spoon down and stormed from the room.

  Once she’d disappeared from sight, he sighed heavily but didn’t go after her.

  “She’s your wife.” Setting down my own spoon, I stared at him meaningfully.

  “She does this all the time.” He didn’t look up.

  Knowing Otvla, I believed him.

  “You should go talk to her.” I paused and thought about that. “Wouldn’t hurt you to finish eating first, though, I guess.” Ending it at that, I shrugged and went back to my food.

  I had to question my better judgment for interfering at all, but I had. I wasn’t speaking so much for her, in a way, so much as... Oh, what the hell do I know? Yes, I am. The realization irked me immensely. It bothered me because, really, why am I? What has she ever done for me? But then I sighed inwardly and cringed at myself. It’s hard to listen to yourself, even if in your head, letting the world turn you so bitter.

  Maybe it’s not bitter, but better aware? I mused. My eyes having been opened, as of late.

  It’s hard to just shrug someone off like that, though, no matter the wrongs they’ve committed, towards you or otherwise. It’s the curse of family.

  No, I corrected, it’s the curse of unconditionally loving—even if it’s not reciprocated—something I’ve done for years—yet never questioned until these past few months.

  “It should have been you,” Trystan muttered, mumbling it under his breath so no one else could hear.

  “No one forced you to marry her,” I bit out, “you could have easily said no.” I couldn’t help my clipped out tone.

  His eyes dropped and he scooted the bowl closer to him. “No one else would’ve had me but you, and no one else wanted her after the troll grabbed her.” Eyes still downcast, he shrugged and took a quick swig of his coffee, gripping the cup tight. “I never...” lips tightening, he stopped and cleared his throat, as if he might be choking, giving his head a quick shake. “After what happened, I never expected to see you again.”

  Snorting, I finished and went to take care of my bowl. “Life has a funny way of fucking you over sometimes, doesn’t it?” Rinsing my dirty dishes off and setting them up to dry, I walked out of the house as they all, Mamma, Papa, and Trystan, minus the pouting Otvla—who’d probably ran home—stared after me.

  Pining Isn’t Only For Lowly Sap

  “You’re awfully quiet.”

  It was quiet for a long moment, so I looked up to see what all the fuss was about.

  Everyone was staring at me.

  “What?” My eyes met my mother’s and she smiled sadly, as if she truly cared for once.

  I was still hard pressed to believe it was just pity, pity for her troll cursed daughter, but maybe that was just the pessimist in me.

  “Berthold was just saying that you’re being awfully quiet.”

  “Oh.” Glancing down again, I swished my spoon around listlessly in my soup, not really feeling up to eating. I hadn’t had much of an appetite as of late, and everything I ate just came right back up. Eating had lost its appeal to me two days ago, so, other than when necessary, I didn’t.

  “Are you well, dear? I mean, all things considered,” Trystan’s mother asked kindly, smiling at me from across the table sympathetically.

  “I’m fine, just tired.” I tried to return her smile, but it felt forced, so I gave up.

  I’d been thinking a lot about Troll, and then myself, things that had happened, had been said—it just wasn’t making much sense.

  Would it ever?

  He’d also been trying to invade my dreams again, but I kept vigilant, making it easier and easier to block him out, no matter how angry or tenacious he got at my continued rejection.

  There was a part of me that was dying to let him in, but where has that ever gotten me? Nowhere good, I can tell you that. I wanted to growl in frustration.

  Would I ever know? And what would it matter, anyways? He tossed me away, just as much a fake and a liar as anyone else.

  Papa cleared his throat, noting the change in me as I clasped my hands together in my lap until they turned white, quickly changing the subject. “Will we be seeing you at the festival?”

  Trystan’s parents both nodded in unison, their matched set of dark hair, streaked liberally with grey, bobbing in time together. If I didn’t know they were married, I’d have pegged them for brother and sister, they were so much alike, not husband and wife.

  They got along so well I envied them their relationship, even more so their love for each other. They truly were devoted to one another—a real love match.

  “Yes, mm-hmm. I’m bringing a pie to auction off and help raise money for the new church. Daphedaenya, what about you? Are you bringing anything for the festival?”

  “Who would
want to buy a pie or baked good from me now?” I asked honestly, my eyes meeting hers as I slowly lifted my head. “I’d just be setting myself up to be mocked.”

  Natty, Trystan’s mother, blushed and fiddled with her soup spoon. Much as she tried, she couldn’t muster up a smile for that. “True, dear,” she mumbled, “forgive me, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I’m sorry too,” I apologized, “that was rude of me.” Licking my lips slowly, I took a deep breath and offered, “I can make something and you can add that to your pile, how would that be? It’s not for a few weeks still, a little over a month, I believe... You could even pick out what you’d like me to make, if you want.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t be right! Me, take all the credit, and you do all the work? Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she shook her head, “I just couldn’t.”

  My brow cocked up, “Of course you can.”

  “No.” Her head shook more vigorously than before, but her big brown eyes were dancing at the idea, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re a much better cook than I, everyone would know, to be sure! I’d be found out and called out! And at a festival, no less.” She laughed, and I acknowledged the compliment, reaching over to give her a little thank you pat on the hand. I could see she liked the idea very much, but was only holding back for proprieties sake.

  Urging her on, I shook my head. “I insist.”

  “Only if you’re sure...?” Eyeing me worriedly, as if concerned she’d offend me by accepting, she bit her lip and glanced at Berthold, trying to garner his thoughts on it.

  He grinned and gave me a quick, fatherly pat on the back. “Why, that sounds like a lovely idea, and I’ll even offer to taste test!”

  Thankful for their friendship, and when I needed friends so badly, I chuckled a little and my lips curved up at the corners.

  “Oh, you,” Natty tittered, giving his chest a slapping tease.