by R. E. Vance
So the troll is making tombstones for all the John and Jane Does he has unearthed. Tombstones that sit in his workshop, waiting to be claimed once the bodies are officially named. How... odd.
In the corner of the workshop sits another desk with a computer and telephone on it, both drawing power from one of the many wires running around in the cave. Evidently this is where the troll works.
The room to the left is even larger. In it, there is a bed made from dung and an underground spring that supplies a small pool with fresh water. And what is next to that pool? Bone flutes. Dozens of them.
↔
Officer Steve picks up one of the bones. Polished, there is no evidence of flesh and blood, sinew and muscle, that once clung to its frame. To the untrained eye, it looks like a flute made from ivory—an extravagant, illegal instrument and nothing more.
The Gruff pulls out his cell phone and dials the precinct. The line is flat and he realizes that the satellite signal cannot reach so deep into the earth. He feels a moment of panic—he has no way of calling for help—but then, just like Luther, he gets angry. Angry at the creature for digging a hole so deep into the ground, angry at the troll for disrespecting death, angry at the world for being so different from home.
He starts up the tunnel when he hears a lumbering voice slurring, “Dug, dug, dug them up,” it says. GoneGodDamn it! The troll is home.
↔
He has a choice: confront the troll or hide. Luther would walk up to the troll and punch that grave robbing, rotting-flesh smelling monster in the nose. But the youngest of the Gruffs is no Luther. He is terrified.
Officer Steve turns around and runs back down. He eyes the office and the pool room. Given that the troll has most likely returned from the graveyard, Officer Steve gambles that the office is his safest choice.
His gamble pays off. The troll lumbers in and turns to the left without so much as a glance in the other direction. By the GoneGods, he’s huge. Gray-green skin covered in warts and hairy moles, crooked teeth and sagging skin, this troll is the worst kind of troll—which is to say, typical.
The troll walks into the pool room, removing the bones from his canvas bag. Officer Steve watches as the monster washes each of the bones, careful to clean them well. Once they are clean, the troll chants in ancient Fae: the language of Steve’s home... a language he hasn’t heard spoken since he arrived on Earth.
The troll hums as he works. His big and clunky hands should not be able to wield such fine tools. But they do, and masterfully so. The troll is a true craftsman. It takes him very little time to straighten the bone, hollow it out and dig holes into its shaft. Less than an hour passes before the troll is ready to attach the lip plate over the embouchure hole. He adds pre-made keys and fastens on the Y arm. Then, the flute nearly complete, he reaches into his shallow well of time and burns a few minutes, imbuing the flute with the necessary magic to tell the stories of the dead. “Sleep, sleep, sleep. Even the sleep should sing,” says the troll after the flute is fashioned.
And the whole time, Officer Steve watches and trembles. He is paralyzed with fear, just like he had been all those years ago. He knows he should move. Fight, run, scream... do something. He is trying to summon Luther’s anger to help him overcome this beast. He wants to confront the monster. And if not confront him, then at the very least sneak past him and up the path and escape. A whole hour passes before he thinks of the phone. He could call for backup. Except, it’s not backup that he wants. It’s Magnus. Magnus would save him, just like he did before.
The youngest of the Gruffs shakes his head. Just like he did before. But what about after, with the endless teasing and bullying, the constant reminding that he was not strong enough, smart enough, big enough to beat the troll.
This snaps Officer Steve back to the present and he realizes that it will not be anger that will save him tonight. It will be pride. He is too proud to call for his brother’s help. So he takes a deep breath as he calmly removes the charcoal gray jacket and faded red tie.
Right now he doesn’t need to be Luther. Right now he needs to be a Gruff.
The youngest Gruff there is.
↔
Officer Steve does what he should have done so long ago. He steps out of the office and into the joint that divides the two rooms. “Troll, you have broken the law.” His voice is much steadier than he thought possible. The Gruff lowers his head, ready to charge the troll, knock it back against the wall. He digs in his hooves, readying to strike.
The troll looks around before his eyes finally settle on Steve. But instead of blind rage, or stupid fury, the look this monster gives him is one of remorse. “No,” he says. “How did you find me? I did not eat flesh. There are no sick eagles.”
Officer Gruff doesn’t understand what the troll is saying and doesn’t care. He lowers his head, preparing to hit the beast on its knees. That should bring it down.
But the troll does not stand. Does not get angry. He just looks worried. He points to the adjacent room as if that makes the case for him. “We must make the best out of the bad. That’s what my caseworker says.”
“Caseworker?”
“Yes, she got me my job as tombstone maker,” the troll says with tears in his eyes. He is crying and Officer Steve is shocked. He didn’t know trolls could cry. “I make tombstones. Write their names. But so many with no names. So many NeverWakes whose stories are lost forever.” He looks at the bones and says, “So many stories. They feel better after they tell their stories.” Now the troll is weeping. “The NeverWakes should tell their stories. Just like everyone else.”
And then something happens that is akin to a miracle. Officer Steve no longer sees the troll as a monster. In a soft tone that is not Luther or Monk, Foley or Sherlock, Steve says, “You’re right, even the sleeping should tell their stories. But not like this.”
↔↔↔
The darkness of night is cut by red and blue that flash from the tops of police cars. Officers are on the scene, bagging and tagging everything in sight. There are so many bone flutes, so many names and so many addresses that need to be archived.
Officer Steve stands at the threshold of the cave. He is wearing the charcoal jacket, but he hasn’t put back on the faded red tie. He tries to think if he knows any detective that dresses like he is dressed now, and cannot think of any.
The troll is in handcuffs, being carted away by two minotaur beat cops. The troll offers no resistance. He just keeps repeating, “Everyone should tell their story. Even in sleep,” over and over again.
“Careful with him,” Officer Steve says and nods at the troll, who hangs his head low in shame.
“Everyone should tell their story,” the troll says.
“Yes,” Officer Steve agrees. “Everyone should tell their story.” He sighs as the troll is taken away. The troll will be jailed. For how long? He doesn’t know. He doubts there is any legal precedent to dictate sentence terms. The troll will probably go away for a long, long time... and why? Because he wanted to help the dead tell their story. Help them share the only thing anyone truly possesses.
What’s so wrong about that? Office Steve isn’t sure.
Officer Steve feels a heavy hoof tap his back. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that it’s Magnus. He’s probably come over to mock him, or worse, punish him for fighting a troll on his own.
“Steve.” Magnus’s voice charges the air with an electrical heat.
“What?” Steve says, still not turning around.
“I heard you defeated the troll on your own.”
“He didn’t put up much of fight.”
Magnus ignores this, dismissing it as bravado and not the truth. “Tell me, how did you find him?”
The youngest Gruff turns to face his brother. “It was easy, once I started to think about it in the right way. The troll figured out the Jane and John Doe’s real names using magic, the bone flutes were crafted using magic and he covered his tracks using magic. But the one thing he couldn’t u
se magic for was the dead’s next of kin. I already suspected it was a troll because... you know, from back home when...”
Magnus nods.
“So how do you find one’s next of kin?” Steve continues. “Hospital records, for one. But St. Mercy doesn’t have any trolls on their payroll. Then there’s the DMV, but who would give a troll a customer service position? Trolls aren’t exactly known to be affable. So what could the troll be doing that gives him access to the right kind of databases?
“To answer that, I had to first ask: What are trolls good at? A profession that would allow them to use their skills. Digging, for one. Stone masonry, for another. It occurred to me that he would be exactly that: a grave digger and a tombstone maker—possibly both. Most tombstone work is done by private firms, but there was one municipal division that was in charge of John and Jane Doe graves and they had one troll on staff.”
There is a pause before Magnus exhales with a heavy sniff. “Good job, little brother. You have done well. Very well.” His voice cracks just before he says, “Maybe we should give you a new name... One that conveys your triumph today. Perhaps Ajax or Mark? Archer? You can choose any name you like.”
Steve’s eyes widen. He is not sure he heard his brother correctly. Did Magnus really just say he could choose his own name? Is this a trick in which Steve chooses a name and Magnus rewards him with a head-butt, or worse?
But Magnus is many things—a trickster he is not. He says what he means and means what he says. His offer is genuine. Steve is indeed free to choose a new name for himself.
The youngest Gruff snorts out and sheepishly digs his hooves in the ground. “Thank you, brother, but I like the name you gave me. Steve is... is malleable.”
Magnus nods in approval. “Indeed it is, little brother. Indeed it is.”
↔↔↔
Officer Steve Gruff looks into his closet. He’s unsure which uniform to wear today. Today is going to be a typical Tuesday. Well, maybe not typical. It is the day after he single-handedly arrested the Bone Flute Troll. That makes it a special Tuesday. At least for him.
He can’t decide which uniform to wear. There are so many to choose from and none conveys how he feels. Maybe Nancy Drew or Jessica Fletcher—they both have swagger. Still not quite right. Not for a day like today.
He pulls out uniform after uniform until he grabs the one outfit he’s never worn because he’s never felt worthy to put it on. After all, it is the costume that the greatest detective of all time wears.
He shakes his head. He may have overcome his fear, but he’s not quite ready to wear this uniform. One day soon, he thinks, I’ll be good enough to wear Batman’s cowl.
Epilogue
It seems the troll was quite busy digging up graves and crafting flutes. So many missing human femurs, so many human bodies that need to be made complete. So many unmarked graves to update. The daunting task of making it all right is left to Azrael and Holly. They are, after all, Paradise Lot’s funeral directors.
Andrew Watson, John MacKaken, Emily Rose...
One by one, they place the bone flutes where they belong.
Chelsea Miller, Scott Allan, Kate Lovett...
And as they do, neither say what both are thinking.
Jamie Grodberg, Angie Mroczka, David MacKay...
What a waste... the stories these bones could tell. Seems like such a shame to bury them once more.
They go through body after body until there is only one left. “Hey,” Azrael says as he classifies the last bone flute. “What is the name of that hotelier?”
“What hotelier?” Holly asks.
“You know, the one who dealt with the Avatar of Gravity?”
“Jean-Luc something,” she says.
“Matthias?”
“Yeah, I believe so.”
“Oh.”
Holly puts down her clipboard. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“No reason?”
“No reason.” Azrael bags the last flute, knowing that the daunting task of exhuming the bodies will follow. So many flutes, so many stories—and to think that this last flute belongs to a Julie Matthias.
He wonders if this Matthias really is related to the hotelier. He suspects so. But why create a fuss? The police have already made them promise not to tell the humans. And another promise to not blow the flutes. Promises Azrael swore to uphold.
Still, the former angel of death wonders, what story would she tell?
Paradise Lot
Presents
“Refugee Status”
by
R.E. Vance
The ebb and flow of the crowd is intense, with every conceivable kind of Other pushing to get in. Minotaurs, centaurs and golems use their weight to edge forward. Orcs, trolls and ogres use their brute strength and complete disregard for civility to also push forward. Pixies and fairies try to flutter through cracks in the crowd while dwarves try to climb on the shoulders of larger creatures to get to the front.
Each and every one of them wants to get to the mesh fence that separates them from the ship that gently sways in the harbor. The ship is oblivious to the fact that it is so desired. Why would it know? It is just a ship and, truth be told, it is not the ship but where it is headed that the Others are so desperate to get to.
Human sentries stand with guns and nets. They are on the other side of the fence, and they have the power to open the little metal gate and let the Others through. But the human sentries do not open the gate. Quite the opposite. They slam the butt of their rifles on the inhuman hands that clasp the fence and scream, “Get back!” And every time one of the floaters—for that’s what they call Others gifted with flight—try to hop the fence, they shoot their nets and force them to the ground.
↔
Asal stands in the crowd, pushing to the front like everyone else. He, too, wants to get to the place the ship is going—Paradise. No, that’s not quite right ... it’s Paradise ... Paradise something. He can’t quite remember. It is rumored that the little island is a safe haven for Others. A place where his kind will be welcomed with open arms.
They use Other-friendly words: “safe,” “multi-Othered,” “hunt-free zone.” Being a particularly large and ugly onocentaur, he knows that he needs to get somewhere that is Other-friendly, lest the human children pull his donkey ears or, worse, play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.
The half-man, half-donkey knows that Paradise Lot will not be like his home ... but anything is better than this. Anything.
Asal is desperate to get to Paradise Lot. But first he has to get through the gate.
↔
Earth is terrible. Of all the domains that were spared, why did it have to be Earth? Asal is the onocentaur—carrier, traveler, messenger. In his long, long life he has traveled to almost every place there is to travel and he can say, without a doubt, that Earth is the armpit of them all. First of all, there is only one form of truly intelligent life here—the whales. Second, it is overrun by violent, greedy and quite stupid humans. And third, nowhere on the planet can you get a decent carrot. They’re all so short and stumpy and orange—not like the vibrant auburn of Valhalla or the crystalline amber of Olympus.
It’s not Asal’s fault that he came out of the Temple of Palmyra. Truth be told, he should have exited from Borgund Stave Church in Norway or maybe near Garabogazköl Aylagy. All of those places would have been better than here. Anywhere would have been better than here.
Just before the gods left, he had been tasked to carry Poseidon’s trident to the Irkalla of the Great Below, where it would have been locked away for eternity. It was the last task the gods gave him and just as he was about to enter Irkalla’s gates he heard that damn message: “Thank you for believing in us, but it is not enough. We’re leaving. Good luck.” And then, poof, the darkness came and he was forced to either let it wash over him or escape to Earth.
Not that that matters anymore. All that does matter is he is stuck here and wants to get there. And why do
es he want to get there? Because anywhere is better than here.
Asal needs to get on to that ship.
↔
Asal is at the front now. The desperation is palpable with once noble creatures crying, begging, pleading to be allowed through. The sentry announces that there is space for exactly three more Others. Anyone who does not get through tonight will have to try again tomorrow.
There are more than three Others in front of him and even though he knows it is terribly rude, he cries out to the sentry, “I am Asal, the great onocentaur of the Vanir. As is proof of my importance, see what I carry on my back. The trident of Poseidon. It was tasked to me by the great god himself—”
“Shut it,” the human sentry yells and then lets three gruff looking goats in front of him through. Damn human fool.
Closing the gate, the sentry announces, “That’s it for today. Try again tomorrow.” And with that, it is done. Asal is stuck on the wrong side of the gate for yet another day.
↔
Asal meanders off with the rest of the crowd to the tented areas that the humans have provided. It is what they consider shelter, but let’s be honest—crude tents that do not block the wind or stop the rain can hardly be called shelter. Food is dished out as well, but what is provided is moldy bread, old cheese and spoiling vegetables.
For all the effort the gods put into creating humans, you would have thought they would have made them a bit more generous. The more Asal gets to know humanity, the less he likes them. They are petty and scared, greedy and uncaring.
Asal wonders how the Others would have treated the humans should they have been forced into their domains. He cannot speak for other realms, but in his own Valhalla they would have offered them everything they needed and more, making sure each and every one of them had secure homes, good food and dignity. Such is Norse divine generosity. Or rather, such was Norse divine generosity.