Andrew R. Clark
Prologue
Magic? I have a little, say to conceal my door where no one will find it. Sorcery, pacts with the devil? I don’t know anything about that. I don’t know if that sort of magic even exists. Some plants make spells inside themselves that can be used, distinct from medicine or poison. Animals have some. I knew an old stag who could paralyze a person just long enough to run off. Rabbit’s feet really are lucky, but mostly when they’re attached to the rabbit. But the kind I know is simple stuff that could never hurt anyone.
There’s one race, however, whose magic is different. It’s said they were there at the beginning of creation, but I’m not that old, so I don’t know if that’s true. Memory of their power is so tightly woven into legend they’re synonymous with magic itself. Their deeds have sometimes earned them the name goblin, but most people would say fairy or elf.
It’s possible you’ve run into one, but you’d never know it. You’d just pat your pocket, and your wallet would be gone, or you’d cut your foot on broken glass at the beach. There might be elves nearby having a laugh at your expense. I’d move over to the other side of the street if I saw one coming.
Who am I? Some call us ogres, but that’s considered impolite. There’s a scientific name, but it only tells half the story. I’m a troll; I come from a long line of trolls. But what’s a troll doing walking around? Isn’t that all make‑believe? I hate to be the one to burst your bubble.
What’s a troll then? What does troll even mean? My family originally comes from a part of Italy and Austria, up in the Alps. Maybe there’s a connection—Tyrolean, Tyrol, troll. In Old Norse it means magic, so maybe that’s it. But it might as well be French, meaning to wander, for we’re far‑flung now, when you can find any of us at all. My grandmother used to tell me troll meant handsome, but you can’t always trust your grandmother.
Some of us still live in the mountains, but I’m not a mountain troll. There is such a thing—I met one once—though I’m not sure why they’re called that. He was tall as a human, but I wouldn’t have said he was mountainous. Do they live in the mountains? I don’t think so. The one I met was at a bus stop. I have a friend who says they got the name after one forgot to flush the toilet, but I wouldn’t repeat that sort of thing.
So I’m a troll. What do I do, hide under bridges and scare people? Nonsense. I mind my own business. That’s what trolls do, mind their own business.
#
The world outside the classroom window was gray and wet. Jonathan watched rain fall on the playground and gather in puddles. Recess was canceled, or rather his class had the choice of going to the library or staying in the lunchroom for an extra half hour. Jonathan had a book report to do, so he went to the library.
R is for radishes and Rasputin, Q is for queens and quarks, and P is for the Pacific Ocean and … Jonathan chose a P book and went to a comfortable chair in the corner to read.
#
If you were to stumble upon a narrow, winding trail that split off from the main path—and you weren’t likely to—you’d pass beside train tracks atop a steep bank. If you stayed on this trail—which you weren’t likely to— you’d eventually come to a door built into the berm. If you were to take a closer look at this door—which you weren’t likely to—it would appear to be some sort of access to things long forgotten and out of use. But if you looked with a troll’s eyes, you’d see home.
It had been raining most of the day, so when it stopped Omer went for a walk. He was feeling cooped up, and a stretch of the legs always made things better. After exiting the front door, he locked it, and taking a moment to concentrate, hid it. Approaching the main walking path, a sound caught his attention, and he stopped, holding very still.
Omer began carefully retracing his steps. Kneeling beside the stump of a fallen tree, he saw them on the far side of the pond, three or four darker shadows in the gloom among the bushes. They were hard to make out, but he knew what they were.
It had been a very long time since he’d encountered an elf, but not nearly long enough. Should he go back home and risk exposing his door? Should he flee into the woods? It’s true a troll may hide himself from the eyes of most, but these were not ordinary folk. He held motionless and listened, still occasionally hearing piping laughter and seeing small movements in the brush.
Then Omer heard something else. His feet crunching gravel, a boy approached on the main path. Head down and hands in his pockets, nearing the elves’ bush, he slipped. Despite the rain, the path was wide and well maintained and should have provided good footing. But the boy pitched down the wet, grassy slope, splashing into the water.
A succession of ponds stretch north from the troll’s home, part of a flood control system maintained by the county. Paths circle them, used by dog walkers and hikers. Culverts connect the pools, with metal gates, lowered and raised as needed. At the bottom end of the drainage, the stream confronts the bank of the train tracks and before continuing downhill must pass under.
An arch of reddish sandstone blocks mark this aperture. A heavy grate helps prevent it from being clogged by beavers with branches. It’s also designed to prevent someone from getting pulled in. Spring runoff rushed through the system, and the boy was pushed against the grate. He struggled, disappearing below the surface before coming back up and grasping ahold.
A troll avoids trouble, but not when someone is drowning. Omer leapt up, scrambled down the slope, and plunged into shocking cold. He swam as hard as he could and soon was also pressed against the grate. The boy was barely conscious, his head dipping into the flow as the torrent pummeled them. But a troll, though he may be shy, is strong.
Omer gripped the back of the boy’s coat, working them both over to the edge. He reached around the lip of the arch, feeling for something to hold onto. His fingers found a seem in the stonework, and he got them onto land. The boy was limp, but he was breathing. Omer gathered him under his arm and began crawling up the bank.
They were out of the water, but danger was still near. The elves would’ve been watching, so they must have seen him. He would have to hope this gave him an advantage. After all, the elves might not have seen a troll in as long as Omer hadn’t seen one of them.
At the top of the bank, he stopped—no sound besides the current rushing below, no laughter in the bushes. The little folk are cunning, but a troll has his resources too. Omer concentrated and thought it might be very hard to see anything amongst these trees. He thought that even if you did find a troll’s trail, it was winding and easily lost. Picking up the boy, Omer turned toward home, but instead of going there he took a deer path skirting around the backside of the pond. A bit farther on, the way forked again. An elf might think he had gone straight, because that was what Omer was thinking. But he didn’t.
Beside the county highway, a green box the size of a shopping cart sat on a cement pad. If you unlocked the lid and lifted it, you gained access to utility cables. If you thought about it just right, there was another cement pad, set back from the road, with steel doors lying flat to the ground. These doors had once served the same purpose as the green box before newer equipment was installed. The work crew didn’t fill it in as had been intended. For some reason they forgot all about it.
Unlocking the hatch and lifting the handles, Omer heaved the unconscious boy onto his shoulder and carefully descended the steps of his back door. What was he to do? It wasn’t smart to pick a fight with the little folk. They were dangerous and never forgot a challenge. And what was he supposed to do with a human child, maybe injured, maybe charmed? Well, he knew what to do about cold and wet.
Omer lay the boy down near the stove, wrapping him in a blanket. After adding some sticks to the fire, he went to the kitchen to heat the kettle. Returning to the parlor, he found the boy still asleep—or something else. He went to the bench in the front hallway and took a seat, listening, wondering if anyone lurked on the other side of the door. The kettle began to sing, interrupting his thoughts.
The boy was sitting up now. “Do you like cocoa?”
“Yes,” Jonathan said groggily.
He set down the mugs and helped the boy into a chair. “Let me have your wet coat.” Omer hung it on a hook beside the stove and stuffed the blanket tighter around the boy’s shoulders. “Take off those shoes.” After going away for a minute, he knelt down and replaced the boy’s wet socks with dry ones. “Scoot closer to the stove.”
They both sat quietly, sipping hot chocolate, before the boy finally asked, “Where am I? What happened?”
“Do you remember anything? Do you remember me?”
“I remember you helped me get away.”
“I was trying to get away myself,” Omer chuckled and took another sip. “What’s your name?” Jonathan told him. “People call me Omer. It’s really Omerastus, so just Omer. I’m sorry, Jonathan,” he continued, “but we’re in a pickle. The thing is, there’s someone you might not know, but now they know you. They’re angry people. It’s a long story—”
“I want to go home,” Jonathan interrupted.
“Of course you do, and we’ll get you there as soon as you’re ready.” Omer put their empty cups in the sink. When he returned the boy’s head was slumped forward in sleep. On the bench in the hallway, he went back to the problem: what to do about the boy, and what to do about the elves?
When Jonathan woke up, Omer decided they should risk the walk through the darkening woods. “Just follow me, and you’ll be home in no time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not sir, it’s Omer.”
A steep footpath crossed the train tracks, into the park on the other side. “Watch your feet here, it’s muddy.” Omer guided Jonathon by the elbow, up and over. A bike path through the woods led to an open stretch of lawn near the school. The boy was slowing down. “Let’s sit for a minute.” On a bench beside the trail, the boy fell asleep again. Jonathan closed his arms around the troll’s neck as Omer picked him up and continued down the path. Reaching Maple Street, Omer set him down.
“I don’t think I should come with you to the door. You’re late, and I’m sure everyone is worried.” Omer reached into his coat and handed something to the boy. “This belonged to a friend of mine. He left it to me in his will. It might help with explanations.”
Jonathan started toward his house but hesitated. “What if I need to find you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Here’s my phone number.”
“You have a phone?”
“Sure, don’t most people?”
After exchanging numbers, the boy continued down the street and turned toward a lighted porch. He opened the door, stepped inside, and started up the stairs.
“Jonathan is that you?” his mother called. “Where have you been?”
“I was at school,” he said without thinking.
She leaned her head out of the kitchen. “What were you doing?”
“Writing a book report.”
“What about?”
“Pa·le·o·an·thro·pol·o·gy,” he carefully pronounced, syllable by syllable, a word from the title of the book he’d been reading in the library.
“What’s that?”
“The study of old people.”
“You mean ger·on·tol·o·gy.” Jonathan started to say his word again but stopped. She’d gotten him. Scowling ruefully, he continued climbing the stairs. “Wash up. Supper’s almost ready.”
When he got to his room, Jonathan sat on the bed. He was still a little wet, so he put on his pajamas. While undressing he felt a bulge in his shirt pocket, and remembering Omer giving him something, reached in and pulled out a fuzzy rabbit’s foot key chain.
#
At mid‑afternoon Omer walked over to the picnic enclosure near the school. He seated himself at one of the cement tables and removed a sandwich and an apple from his bag. Orange buses took their place in line, and parents sat in cars, waiting until bells rang in the building and children streamed out the doors. Nothing seemed out of place, he didn’t sense the elves anywhere nearby, but that didn’t prove they were gone.
A child detached itself from the mass of excited youngsters and walked up the path toward the picnic area. It was Jonathan. “Hello there, how was school?” Omer munched his sandwich, looking out over the children squirreling around the school yard.
“I remember better what happened, but maybe not all of it.” Jonathan sat down across from him. “I was walking by the pond after school, and I fell in, or maybe somebody pushed me. You pulled me out and brought me to your house and warmed me up. And I guess I got home because I remember being home.” Jonathan seemed to have finished but then asked, “Did someone push me?”
“I don’t think so, but they might have tricked you, made you slip.”
“Who was it? I felt funny before I fell.”
“There was someone else there, but I don’t think they’re around anymore. I’ve been looking. I did see something peculiar, though, about halfway up the trail. Would you like to go see?” The boy tensed up at the suggestion of going back near where it had happened. “You’ll come to no harm if you’re with me.”
Jonathan’s shoulders relaxed, and he stood up and stuck out his hand. “I’m Jonathan.”
The troll also stood. “Yes, I remember, and I’m Omer.” They shook hands across the picnic table.
“Gomer?”
“Omer.”
“Homer?”
The troll started to say his name again but stopped, a broad smile spreading across his broad face. “You got me.”
The boy grinned proudly.
“Are you hungry?” Omer asked. He took a pen knife from his pocket and split the apple in two. After trimming the ends and cutting out the core, he handed half to the boy, and they headed toward the ponds.
At the point where the northernmost of the ponds, a small lake really, empties into the next one in the chain, they encountered a low earthen levee. “Come up to the edge slowly. Do you see them?”
Jonathan crept forward. “Yes … fish.” They kneeled at the edge of the pool, the creatures only a few yards away.
“They remind me of those giant goldfish.”
“Yes, but they’re not. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this kind before, and that shouldn’t be true.” Out in the pool, ten or fifteen forms slowly twirled. They had broad, delicate fins and large silver scales. “I’m not sure what it means, but our little woods here are turning peculiar.”
They watched the fish swim their dance a while longer then walked back the way they’d come.
Grasshoppers buzzed in the afternoon heat. With Jonathan close behind, Omer wound his way along the narrow trail beside the train embankment. Stopping near a clump of brambles, he produced a key from his pocket and turned the lock in a door, now visible amongst the vines. They went inside, Omer flipped on the lights, and Jonathan plopped himself down in an overstuffed armchair.
“Would you like some lemonade?”
“Sure.”
Removing a large stoneware jar from the icebox, Omer poured two glasses.
“This tastes different,” Jonathan said. “It’s good, it just tastes different.”
“That could be because I squeezed the lemons myself. And a bit of advice, If you ever make lemonade from scratch, use goggles,” Omer said, squinting and blinking his eyes.
Jonathan was enrolled in a summer recreation program, learning kayaking and archery and other outdoor things. He was also entered in a charity reading challenge. But his parents didn’t believe in overscheduling, so he had plenty of free time to play baseball with his friends and putter around the neighborhood. And it had become his habit to visit Omer some afternoons.
They’d gone all the way down the paved trail to the river, walking Jonathan’s dog. On the lawn by school, he’d tried to show the troll how to throw a Frisbee only to find out Omer already could do it pretty well. They both tried to throw a boomerang that Jonathan’s father had gotten him for his birthday that year, but neither of them could get it to come back.
But what Jonathan liked to do best with Omer was nothing. They would have a spot of tea—he’d heard that phrase on a television show—and talk. They mostly stayed away from one subject, but today for some reason Jonathan said, “Have you seen the elves again?”
“Why would you think there’s any such thing as elves?” Omer replied nonchalantly.
“I was reading, and I think I figured it out.”
“When I was a boy,” Omer said after a moment, “while we were doing things together, my grandmother would tell stories—she raised me, you see. It wasn’t until I was older that I found out we weren’t really related. She showed me a grave on the hill and said my mother had been traveling and had gotten sick. My grandmother told me fairy tales, the sort you’ve heard before. She had other stories, more like poems, she said were older. This is one I remember.
Overhead a strange bird flew
First one by one then two by two
New birds came north
Soon filling the sky
Covering the sun
Drinking rivers dry
One day landing in the trees
The birds began to trill
The seeds of this valley are ours now
You may do as you will
“She had lots of stories about elves. Some were scary, though others were funny because the little folk gave a fool his comeuppance. But like my grandmother’s stories, most of the things you read about elves are made up. And no, I haven’t seen them again since we both did this spring.”
Jonathan seemed reassured. Omer, however, was not. Although it’s true that much of what’s in histories and folklore is imagined, some things in books and old stories are true. And he hadn’t told the boy everything.
A circle of mushrooms is called a fairy ring, but it isn’t magic, it’s just how the fungus grows. But perhaps, long ago, it reminded people of strange places in the woods, growing in patterns and shapes, the way things grow near the little folk.
Most people will never see an elf—it would be like spotting an ivory‑billed woodpecker—but they once ordered all nature, and all living things are drawn to them. Myth has it the stone rings in Europe mark the entrance to a fairy’s underground kingdom, filled with treasure. This isn’t true, but that story may have begun because some of those places had been built where elves once dwelt, in belief they still held magic. And sometimes, when no one was around, the little folk would sneak back in. Maybe there was power there, power they knew how to use. Maybe they only wished to defile.
What concerned Omer most about the old legends was the part where a human child, one the elves had enchanted, was led away from its home, never to be seen again. No one he’d ever heard had a satisfactory explanation for what the elves did. His grandmother claimed to have seen the remains of one of these rites, the butchered and reshaped bones arranged in a posture more like a dog’s than a human’s, the extra bits used for the tail.
#
As summer progressed Omer continued to be out and about. He’d always loved a good walk, even if his outings had now become more of a patrol than a stroll. When autumn stripped the trees of leaves, he started to find strange things in the woods. A glen of saplings had wound themselves all around each other. In the field near the road, the grass had lain down in twisting swirls—not flattened as someone might do with a board as a prank, not random as though formed by the wind. The shapes almost looked like writing.
Winter came apace, and a cold snap froze the ponds. A few weeks later, a deep snow fell, sending Omer on a search through his closets, rummaging around until he found his snowshoes. It was quiet in the woods, his tracks the only ones in sight. Though mid‑afternoon, the sun was already beginning to set, turning high clouds coral pink and violet. But then he felt something odd, a tingle as distinct as an itch.
Omer turned back home, but instead of stopping there he hurried along toward the park. Passing the school and the sledding hill, down to another frozen pond, he detected it again, the charm of elves. Twilight was setting in as he carefully made his way down the icy slope. At the bottom the imprint of a sled headed onto the snow‑covered pond, with several sets of shallow footprints dotted around it, small feet with odd shoes.
He followed the tracks out onto the ice. When they reached the road, they passed into a large culvert. Omer took off his snowshoes, got down on his hands and knees, and continued. He crossed under the road and over the next pond until the marks of the sled met the bike path down to the river.
Floodplain borders the town to east and west. A cathedral vault of bare branches arch above huge cottonwood and silver maple trunks, casting a net of shadows onto the snowy ground. Held in this web, a flickering fire illuminated Jonathan, tied to a leaning, partially fallen tree. Fairies were there too.
They formed a circle around the boy, their eerie chant echoing in the cold air. One of them stepped forward into the firelight, the ring closing behind him. He appeared a handsome child, his dark hair entwined with fine gold wire set with small rubies. Or was it thread strung with winter berries? The elf raised his arm, something bright in his hand.
The chant faltered, the spell breaking, as the troll came crashing through the trees. Standing frozen a moment, looking to one another and to the one at the center of the ring, the fairies scattered into the darkness.
“Jonathan?” Omer gently shook the boy’s shoulder. He raised his head, eyes bewildered. “We need to get out of here.” Untying him and swinging the boy up onto his back, Omer retreated into the woods. But he didn’t turn toward town.
In a few minutes, they came to the riverbank. A figure stood in the middle of the moonlit expanse, the elf who’d been at the center of the circle. Omer set Jonathan down, propping him against a tree trunk. “Wait here a minute. I’ll keep an eye on you.” Then he stepped out onto the ice.
When he’d been a boy and the nearby lake had frozen over, before there was much snow, Omer went out skating. As the sun began to set and the temperature dropped, a sound like a gunshot rang out. It was the ice cracking. He stopped, looking all around. There was no open water. The ice remained in place. But he never forgot that feeling, being forced to remember he was suspended above deadly cold. When a river freezes, the water beneath never stops flowing, never lets the ice above form a uniform sheet. Frozen rivers are never truly safe to walk on.
Carefully stepping over ridges pushed up by the current, trying not to slip on the smooth patches, Omer approached the motionless figure. When he judged himself near enough, he stopped. “You lead your people? You’re their king?” The only sound was a faint gurgling from the river below. “You should go now. This place is guarded by a troll.”
The fairy king stood motionless, silent. But then a piping voice, harsh as a crow’s call, replied, “I don’t know who I hate more, them or you. We were here before grass, before trees, when ferns were trees. When your people started showing up it seemed trivial, but when they appeared it was like the sea coming onto land. Together we might have stopped them. There were enough of us then. Instead, you hid in your caves.”
“That boy never harmed you. He doesn’t know why he was put on Earth any more than you know why you were.”
The elf reached for his belt and withdrew a dagger, pail moonlight reflecting off its thin, curving blade. It’s the little folk’s chance to have power over life, both health and decay. Omer knew the knife was not just metal that could cut flesh. If it only grazed him, it would release a spell of decline. If it was near enough to bare skin, without even touching, it might do its intended task.
Luckily, when the fairy king launched his blade, Omer wasn’t standing there. The elf spun wildly, questing for his target. He slashed the magic knife back and forth through empty air until Omer stepped up from behind and laid his hand on the elf’s slight shoulder. Tired from wasting his power, grieving for a lost world, the fairy king collapsed to his knees.
“You may know my kind for our gift to conceal, but perhaps you don’t know our ability also to reveal. If you don’t leave,” the troll said, “I’ll make it so all can see you, so that men will know you. Leave the boy alone, leave this town alone, or I’ll do this.”
He left the little king crying bitter tears onto the river’s black ice. Omer couldn’t hate him, there were so few of them left, but neither could he let the elves harm Jonathan or the other children from the school. And maybe, thought the troll, he was in part to blame.
Returning to Jonathan on the riverbank, he again lifted the boy, swinging him onto his back and heading for home. Climbing the bluff fatigue finally hit, but in half an hour they were nearing the house on Maple Street. Omer set Jonathan down and rang the doorbell. He pressed the button again and heard someone approaching from within. Before the door opened, holding the handle lightly, he felt a touch on the other side.
“Here we are, back again.” Jonathan’s father stood motionless, a puzzled look on his face. “The boys were all having fun at the sleepover, but when Jonathan started feeling poorly it seemed there was only one thing to do.”
The father’s look of confusion resolved, replaced by relief. “Thank you so much Mr.—I’m sorry, my memory is so bad.”
“People call me Omer.”
“Better get him off to bed.” Jonathan’s father reached out his hand. “I hope to see you again, Mr. Omer. And thank you so much for taking care of my son.” The troll decided to let the error pass, and they shook hands.
He went back up the dark street toward the school and the park. Soon he was nearing where, close beside the train tracks, a little trail left the main path. Omer paused for a moment and unmasked its entrance. When he reached home, he revealed the door set into the bank and left it that way.
He’d been thinking, why would elves, the rarest folk in all the world, show up on his doorstep? Had they sensed his own humble magic in these woods? Had he somehow attracted them? Maybe it would be better to try and live without magic for a while. It could be more trouble than it’s worth.
Taking out his key, he slid it into the well‑oiled lock in the rusty iron door. Inside, he banked the coals and added a piece of firewood to the stove. To any who were near enough and looking in the right direction, a faint line of smoke could be seen exiting the top of a hollow tree, rising in the moonlight.