Down (and) Under.....
Aug. 9th, 2010 08:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyspriteI love living in a college town – though, to be honest, that’s a grotesque understatement when it comes to Boston and its suburbs. I love living in an area where, as far as I can tell, there are more colleges than there are grocery stores. People come here to get an education, then stick around and raise happy, educated, intellectual families. While there are the occasional exceptions, it seems like everyone here is a slightly-overeducated intellectual.
The Mystic River runs right near my house. I’ve loved this river since I first moved to the area, and when I’m having a bad day, or feeling particularly introspective, or just have some time to pass and don’t want to spend it randomly zoning out on the internet, I can spend an entire afternoon sitting there on the banks, half-hidden by the mulberry trees, getting slowly nibbled to death by mosquitoes and watching the row of turtles that sit on the half-submerged log near the shore, and the heron, and the swans.
And that’s exactly what I set out to do a few weeks ago. Except this time, after I had been happily enjoying the play of sun and shade on the water for half an hour or so, I heard a gravelly cough and an ‘Excuse me.’ On its own, this wouldn’t have bothered me – there’s a foot path along the river that’s a popular dog-walking route – but this voice didn’t come from the foot path. It came from under the highway overpass that doubles as a bridge over the river.
As I turned around to figure out who was calling to me, the shadows under the bridge seemed to pull together into a cohesive shape. I started to pull back, but my own terminally curious nature wouldn’t let me get more than a step or two from the scene, and so I watched half-crouched behind a tumbled rock wall as a lumpy, misshapen gray figure stepped, hunched over, out from under the bridge and stood up. And up. And up.
That was how I first met Grahaeme, the Mystic River Bridge Troll. If I had any sense of self-preservation I would have scampered at the first sight of him, since trolls are notoriously fond of the flesh of sentients and even more notoriously rather dim-witted and less than respectful of the safe passage granted by the Queen of Faerie to those working on her behalf; luckily for me, Grahaeme, like the rest of the residents of my neighborhood of choice, is an intellectual.
I guess that living in a college town for over two centuries rubbed off on him. Either that, or the steady diet of undergraduates did. Either way, he’s now the holder of multiple Master’s degrees (achieved through the Tufts Distance Learning program), the primary financial supporter of the college’s rowing team, and has given up dining upon his fellow sentients – sixteen years human flesh free as of next month (he showed me the bronze chip with far more regret and pride than I was comfortable with, to be honest).
That was his problem, though, and where he needed my help. While he had sworn off dining on passersby and drunk coeds, trolls are obligate carnivores, and there wasn’t enough wildlife in the river area to support his appetite. So he had taken to raising goats. (Why goats? That’s a darn good question, and not one I was going to ask of an eight foot tall rock-beast with teeth like stalactites and several hours to go until supper. I’m just the vet here, and in situations where the client could eat me as a palate cleanser if we disagreed, the client is always right.) Honestly, he took lovely care of them – fed them right, kept them exercised and let them romp over the local hills and fields late at night, even milked the nannies and made cheese that he sold at the local Farmer’s Market on Thursdays. The only problem came in keeping them out of sight during the day. He had somehow gotten his hands on a cheap enchanted music box that could shrink them down and hold them, but apparently the rapid size changes were having some negative effects on the bone growth of the younger kids.
By the time he had finished explaining his problem to me, I’ll admit that intrigue had overcome fear as my primary emotion, and I was already brainstorming ways to work around the challenges of miniaturization and regrowth. If anything, it was refreshing to be working on a species that I had textbooks for, instead of trying to cobble together some vague guess at medicine from a combination of the Merck Veterinary Manual and my Complete Illustrated Grimm’s Fairy Tales. A few hoof shapings, stretchy splints, and some calcium and glucosamine supplements later, I was on my way home, richer by several logs of herbed chevre and a new friend.
Grahaeme has honestly become a joy to work with, and one of my least demanding clients. I still popped down to the river once a week or so, to see how the kids were growing, change their splints, and debate the literature and philosophy of the Transcendentalists – he’s a huge fan of Thoureau, but I can never get past the fact that, as far as I can tell, he broke Alcott’s heart – but that’s about it. So last week, when I was puttering around the house on my day off and I heard a trip-trop, trip-tropping sound coming up my path, he was the furthest thing from my mind.
I came downstairs as the trip-tropping changed to a strident bang on the door, and opened it to see a fairly stocky young goat standing on my porch. Admittedly, it wasn’t quite what I expected, but I’ve run into stranger things since I checked the ‘alternative medicine’ box as an interest on my financial aid application. I dropped down to my knees to scritch behind his horns before feeling for a collar at his neck. “Hey, little fella, you lost? Grahaeme miss you at morning count?”
“Please, do not condescend to me so.” The goat rolled his eyes at me, and I fell backwards on my rear, scrabbling back in surprise and embarrassment. “Doctor S, I presume?” I nodded, still at a loss for words, and he glared down his not-insignificant nose at me. “I am the Littlest Billy Goat Gruff.”
“…….of course you are.” I managed to get my feet back under me and stood leaning on the door frame, awkwardly holding out one hand to shake before realizing that he couldn’t exactly return the gesture. “Sorry for the confusion – you just… you know. I thought you were somethi- um… someone else.”
“Clearly.” In spite of the fact that his head only came to my waist, he still managed to somehow look down on me. “In fact, that’s what I’m here to speak with you about. You are working with the bridge troll and his…. herd, yes?”
“Yeah, sure; he’s a client. Why?”
A long-suffering sigh blew from his whiskery face. “You do realize that in doing so you are aiding and abetting in the enslavement of magical caprines, and in that foul beast’s cannibalism?”
I stared at him, confused and utterly at a loss as to how to proceed. “Magical? They’re just normal goats…..”
“Oh, and that would make it okay?” He snorted and pawed at the slate stones of our porch. “Be that as it may, they are enchanted, and therefore subject to protection by my brothers and me. And we would ask that you cease being party to such unspeakable and inhumane acts.” Rolling his eyes up, he glanced at me slyly. “And it will go much easier for you if you agree right now. I am, shall we say, the least of your worries.”
I ran a hand through my hair, stalling for time and fishing for words to answer his demands. “Um…. I can talk to Grahaeme, sure, but are you certain this is such a problem? I mean, have you seen the way he treats them? Maybe if you scheduled a visit, and oversaw the process…..?”
“He. Must. STOP!” Each word was punctuated with a hoof strike, the last one sending chips of stone flying. I flinched, and the littlest Gruff brother turned away, calling back over his shoulder. “My big brother will be back next week, to make sure you have complied with our demands.”
I waited until he had trotted out of sight before running down to the Mystic River bridge and checking on my client and his herd. Everything was fine there; apparently the Billy Goats Gruff were much more interested in harassing small redheads than large monsters. Unfortunately, my suggestions that perhaps he give up goatherding and instead take up chicken farming, or cattle ranching, or set up a tab at the local butcher shop, fell on deaf ears. Troll dinners apparently must be mammalian and fresh-killed, and it turns out I had the bad luck to be working with the Shadow World’s pickiest eater. He turned his bronze Omnivores Anonymous token over and over again in his stubby fingers as he told me this, running his rough tongue across his teeth, and held my hand just a little too long, and a little too tightly. I decided to skip our literary debate for that week, and hurried home, trying not to look over my shoulder too often.
I spent the next week feeling rather frazzled and anxious, and, seven days later, when I heard a TRIP-TROP, TRIP-TROPping coming up my path, I nearly jumped out of my skin. This time I made it to the door before my visitor had a chance to knock, and flung it open to reveal a midnight-black goat tall enough to look me in the eye, wearing…. wire-rimmed spectacles and a pair of leather panniers? This just kept getting weirder. “You must be the….”
“Second Billy Goat Gruff, yes. I see my younger brother must have made quite an impression.”
“Yeah, yeah. Come in, won’t you?” I glanced back and forth at the neighbor’s houses. “I’m supposed to be undercover here. You guys can’t keep showing up like this, someone’s going to see you!” I waved him into our house and shut the door quickly, then turned around and realized that having a pony-sized magical beast of questionable disposition and housebreaking status in my living room wasn’t necessarily a better situation. Folding my arms across my chest, I tried to look nonchalant.
The goat glared at me. “Unfortunately, it is clear from your continued actions that you have not chosen to comply with our request that you cease partaking in the enslavement and cannibalism of our kin.”
“You guys keep saying that – how is it cannibalism?” I was grasping at straws here, but it seemed like a valid question.
“I am a goat. They are goats. How is the devouring of my species anything else?”
“But he’s not a goat, he’s a troll. Doesn’t that make it not the same?”
“Ah, so it would be okay if he ate humans instead, not being a human himself?”
“No!” I exclaimed angrily. “That’d be….” I sighed and trailed off, conceding his point of view, if not his point.
He blew a condescending snort at me, then tugged at the buckles on his panniers with his teeth until they pulled open. Pulling out a sheaf of papers, he pushed them into my hands. “Now, if you have no further questions, let’s get on to business. As you can clearly see, Article CXIV of the Codes of the Bright Court quite clearly prohibits the enslavement and devouring of magical creatures. You, I believe, swore an oath to uphold those Codes, did you not?” The goat tossed his head, shaking down his spectacles until he could glance over them at me. “And you do know what happens to Oathbreakers, yes?”
Unfortunately for him, I had done some reading of my own in preparation for his visit. “But the goats themselves aren’t magical creatures – the enchantment is on the music box, not on them. They’re just plain, ordinary goats. He gets them from A-Ram-A-Llama Ding Dong Farm in Natick.”
The second Billy Goat Gruff gnashed his teeth and glared at me. “A fact which I intend to make sure never gets seen in Her Majesty’s Court.” He pawed at the floor and I winced, thinking of both the damage to the hardwood and the damage that could be done to my squishy mortal flesh if I got in the way. “They are our KIN! They are being locked in a box by day, slaughtered and eaten by night, and you are aiding in this torture! Our duty – our purpose – is to protect and defend. Any way we can.”
By this time I had backed up against the wall, my hands raised in front of me. “Please – please don’t do this. I mean, I know it’s your purpose and all, but…. he’s good to them. I make sure of that; it’s my purpose. And it’s the only thing keeping him from eating sentients!” I tried to meet his alien yellow eyes with my own, but in the face of his cold, unnatural glare, I dropped my gaze to the floor and slumped my shoulders in defeat.
“You will not give up this path?” I shook my head no, without looking up. “Very well. You should have accepted my offer, little human – the worst I would have faced you with would have been the Bright Queen’s prisons, and the mercy that comes to the penitent. My big brother will be back next week to see if you have changed your mind and complied with our demands.” I dared a glance up and he grinned at me, exposing teeth far sharper than any herbivore rightly needed. “You’re pretty for a primate; I’d hate to see you trampled to a paste beneath his hooves.”
I slid down the wall and curled up in a little ball on the floor. I’m not sure how he let himself out, but when I eventually managed to stop shaking and look up, he was gone. Stupid magical creatures and their stupid failure to comply with the laws of physics and reality.
That was last Tuesday. I’ve tried to contact Titania for some idea of what to do, but five minutes after I handed the letter to one of the flower sprites that lives in my rhododendrons my cell phone started flashing “Solve it yourself, my pet” before exploding in a flash of green light, birdsong, and the scent of lilacs.
I lose more cell phones that way. Thank god they’re deductable as a work expense. Seriously, I don’t know whether to be disheartened at the fact that the Queen of Air and Darkness communicates with my by text message or reassured that at least she isn’t using txt-speak.
Either way, I’m on my own for this decision. The third Billy Goat Gruff will be here by morning, and I still don’t know what I’m going to tell him. Do I back down, set the goats free, and doom the local pedestrians to a fate as Troll Chow? Or do I stand my ground, at least until my legs are turned to mushy red spooge under giant vengeful hooves?
One day. I have one day to decide, or come up with a third solution…..
The Mystic River runs right near my house. I’ve loved this river since I first moved to the area, and when I’m having a bad day, or feeling particularly introspective, or just have some time to pass and don’t want to spend it randomly zoning out on the internet, I can spend an entire afternoon sitting there on the banks, half-hidden by the mulberry trees, getting slowly nibbled to death by mosquitoes and watching the row of turtles that sit on the half-submerged log near the shore, and the heron, and the swans.
And that’s exactly what I set out to do a few weeks ago. Except this time, after I had been happily enjoying the play of sun and shade on the water for half an hour or so, I heard a gravelly cough and an ‘Excuse me.’ On its own, this wouldn’t have bothered me – there’s a foot path along the river that’s a popular dog-walking route – but this voice didn’t come from the foot path. It came from under the highway overpass that doubles as a bridge over the river.
As I turned around to figure out who was calling to me, the shadows under the bridge seemed to pull together into a cohesive shape. I started to pull back, but my own terminally curious nature wouldn’t let me get more than a step or two from the scene, and so I watched half-crouched behind a tumbled rock wall as a lumpy, misshapen gray figure stepped, hunched over, out from under the bridge and stood up. And up. And up.
That was how I first met Grahaeme, the Mystic River Bridge Troll. If I had any sense of self-preservation I would have scampered at the first sight of him, since trolls are notoriously fond of the flesh of sentients and even more notoriously rather dim-witted and less than respectful of the safe passage granted by the Queen of Faerie to those working on her behalf; luckily for me, Grahaeme, like the rest of the residents of my neighborhood of choice, is an intellectual.
I guess that living in a college town for over two centuries rubbed off on him. Either that, or the steady diet of undergraduates did. Either way, he’s now the holder of multiple Master’s degrees (achieved through the Tufts Distance Learning program), the primary financial supporter of the college’s rowing team, and has given up dining upon his fellow sentients – sixteen years human flesh free as of next month (he showed me the bronze chip with far more regret and pride than I was comfortable with, to be honest).
That was his problem, though, and where he needed my help. While he had sworn off dining on passersby and drunk coeds, trolls are obligate carnivores, and there wasn’t enough wildlife in the river area to support his appetite. So he had taken to raising goats. (Why goats? That’s a darn good question, and not one I was going to ask of an eight foot tall rock-beast with teeth like stalactites and several hours to go until supper. I’m just the vet here, and in situations where the client could eat me as a palate cleanser if we disagreed, the client is always right.) Honestly, he took lovely care of them – fed them right, kept them exercised and let them romp over the local hills and fields late at night, even milked the nannies and made cheese that he sold at the local Farmer’s Market on Thursdays. The only problem came in keeping them out of sight during the day. He had somehow gotten his hands on a cheap enchanted music box that could shrink them down and hold them, but apparently the rapid size changes were having some negative effects on the bone growth of the younger kids.
By the time he had finished explaining his problem to me, I’ll admit that intrigue had overcome fear as my primary emotion, and I was already brainstorming ways to work around the challenges of miniaturization and regrowth. If anything, it was refreshing to be working on a species that I had textbooks for, instead of trying to cobble together some vague guess at medicine from a combination of the Merck Veterinary Manual and my Complete Illustrated Grimm’s Fairy Tales. A few hoof shapings, stretchy splints, and some calcium and glucosamine supplements later, I was on my way home, richer by several logs of herbed chevre and a new friend.
Grahaeme has honestly become a joy to work with, and one of my least demanding clients. I still popped down to the river once a week or so, to see how the kids were growing, change their splints, and debate the literature and philosophy of the Transcendentalists – he’s a huge fan of Thoureau, but I can never get past the fact that, as far as I can tell, he broke Alcott’s heart – but that’s about it. So last week, when I was puttering around the house on my day off and I heard a trip-trop, trip-tropping sound coming up my path, he was the furthest thing from my mind.
I came downstairs as the trip-tropping changed to a strident bang on the door, and opened it to see a fairly stocky young goat standing on my porch. Admittedly, it wasn’t quite what I expected, but I’ve run into stranger things since I checked the ‘alternative medicine’ box as an interest on my financial aid application. I dropped down to my knees to scritch behind his horns before feeling for a collar at his neck. “Hey, little fella, you lost? Grahaeme miss you at morning count?”
“Please, do not condescend to me so.” The goat rolled his eyes at me, and I fell backwards on my rear, scrabbling back in surprise and embarrassment. “Doctor S, I presume?” I nodded, still at a loss for words, and he glared down his not-insignificant nose at me. “I am the Littlest Billy Goat Gruff.”
“…….of course you are.” I managed to get my feet back under me and stood leaning on the door frame, awkwardly holding out one hand to shake before realizing that he couldn’t exactly return the gesture. “Sorry for the confusion – you just… you know. I thought you were somethi- um… someone else.”
“Clearly.” In spite of the fact that his head only came to my waist, he still managed to somehow look down on me. “In fact, that’s what I’m here to speak with you about. You are working with the bridge troll and his…. herd, yes?”
“Yeah, sure; he’s a client. Why?”
A long-suffering sigh blew from his whiskery face. “You do realize that in doing so you are aiding and abetting in the enslavement of magical caprines, and in that foul beast’s cannibalism?”
I stared at him, confused and utterly at a loss as to how to proceed. “Magical? They’re just normal goats…..”
“Oh, and that would make it okay?” He snorted and pawed at the slate stones of our porch. “Be that as it may, they are enchanted, and therefore subject to protection by my brothers and me. And we would ask that you cease being party to such unspeakable and inhumane acts.” Rolling his eyes up, he glanced at me slyly. “And it will go much easier for you if you agree right now. I am, shall we say, the least of your worries.”
I ran a hand through my hair, stalling for time and fishing for words to answer his demands. “Um…. I can talk to Grahaeme, sure, but are you certain this is such a problem? I mean, have you seen the way he treats them? Maybe if you scheduled a visit, and oversaw the process…..?”
“He. Must. STOP!” Each word was punctuated with a hoof strike, the last one sending chips of stone flying. I flinched, and the littlest Gruff brother turned away, calling back over his shoulder. “My big brother will be back next week, to make sure you have complied with our demands.”
I waited until he had trotted out of sight before running down to the Mystic River bridge and checking on my client and his herd. Everything was fine there; apparently the Billy Goats Gruff were much more interested in harassing small redheads than large monsters. Unfortunately, my suggestions that perhaps he give up goatherding and instead take up chicken farming, or cattle ranching, or set up a tab at the local butcher shop, fell on deaf ears. Troll dinners apparently must be mammalian and fresh-killed, and it turns out I had the bad luck to be working with the Shadow World’s pickiest eater. He turned his bronze Omnivores Anonymous token over and over again in his stubby fingers as he told me this, running his rough tongue across his teeth, and held my hand just a little too long, and a little too tightly. I decided to skip our literary debate for that week, and hurried home, trying not to look over my shoulder too often.
I spent the next week feeling rather frazzled and anxious, and, seven days later, when I heard a TRIP-TROP, TRIP-TROPping coming up my path, I nearly jumped out of my skin. This time I made it to the door before my visitor had a chance to knock, and flung it open to reveal a midnight-black goat tall enough to look me in the eye, wearing…. wire-rimmed spectacles and a pair of leather panniers? This just kept getting weirder. “You must be the….”
“Second Billy Goat Gruff, yes. I see my younger brother must have made quite an impression.”
“Yeah, yeah. Come in, won’t you?” I glanced back and forth at the neighbor’s houses. “I’m supposed to be undercover here. You guys can’t keep showing up like this, someone’s going to see you!” I waved him into our house and shut the door quickly, then turned around and realized that having a pony-sized magical beast of questionable disposition and housebreaking status in my living room wasn’t necessarily a better situation. Folding my arms across my chest, I tried to look nonchalant.
The goat glared at me. “Unfortunately, it is clear from your continued actions that you have not chosen to comply with our request that you cease partaking in the enslavement and cannibalism of our kin.”
“You guys keep saying that – how is it cannibalism?” I was grasping at straws here, but it seemed like a valid question.
“I am a goat. They are goats. How is the devouring of my species anything else?”
“But he’s not a goat, he’s a troll. Doesn’t that make it not the same?”
“Ah, so it would be okay if he ate humans instead, not being a human himself?”
“No!” I exclaimed angrily. “That’d be….” I sighed and trailed off, conceding his point of view, if not his point.
He blew a condescending snort at me, then tugged at the buckles on his panniers with his teeth until they pulled open. Pulling out a sheaf of papers, he pushed them into my hands. “Now, if you have no further questions, let’s get on to business. As you can clearly see, Article CXIV of the Codes of the Bright Court quite clearly prohibits the enslavement and devouring of magical creatures. You, I believe, swore an oath to uphold those Codes, did you not?” The goat tossed his head, shaking down his spectacles until he could glance over them at me. “And you do know what happens to Oathbreakers, yes?”
Unfortunately for him, I had done some reading of my own in preparation for his visit. “But the goats themselves aren’t magical creatures – the enchantment is on the music box, not on them. They’re just plain, ordinary goats. He gets them from A-Ram-A-Llama Ding Dong Farm in Natick.”
The second Billy Goat Gruff gnashed his teeth and glared at me. “A fact which I intend to make sure never gets seen in Her Majesty’s Court.” He pawed at the floor and I winced, thinking of both the damage to the hardwood and the damage that could be done to my squishy mortal flesh if I got in the way. “They are our KIN! They are being locked in a box by day, slaughtered and eaten by night, and you are aiding in this torture! Our duty – our purpose – is to protect and defend. Any way we can.”
By this time I had backed up against the wall, my hands raised in front of me. “Please – please don’t do this. I mean, I know it’s your purpose and all, but…. he’s good to them. I make sure of that; it’s my purpose. And it’s the only thing keeping him from eating sentients!” I tried to meet his alien yellow eyes with my own, but in the face of his cold, unnatural glare, I dropped my gaze to the floor and slumped my shoulders in defeat.
“You will not give up this path?” I shook my head no, without looking up. “Very well. You should have accepted my offer, little human – the worst I would have faced you with would have been the Bright Queen’s prisons, and the mercy that comes to the penitent. My big brother will be back next week to see if you have changed your mind and complied with our demands.” I dared a glance up and he grinned at me, exposing teeth far sharper than any herbivore rightly needed. “You’re pretty for a primate; I’d hate to see you trampled to a paste beneath his hooves.”
I slid down the wall and curled up in a little ball on the floor. I’m not sure how he let himself out, but when I eventually managed to stop shaking and look up, he was gone. Stupid magical creatures and their stupid failure to comply with the laws of physics and reality.
That was last Tuesday. I’ve tried to contact Titania for some idea of what to do, but five minutes after I handed the letter to one of the flower sprites that lives in my rhododendrons my cell phone started flashing “Solve it yourself, my pet” before exploding in a flash of green light, birdsong, and the scent of lilacs.
I lose more cell phones that way. Thank god they’re deductable as a work expense. Seriously, I don’t know whether to be disheartened at the fact that the Queen of Air and Darkness communicates with my by text message or reassured that at least she isn’t using txt-speak.
Either way, I’m on my own for this decision. The third Billy Goat Gruff will be here by morning, and I still don’t know what I’m going to tell him. Do I back down, set the goats free, and doom the local pedestrians to a fate as Troll Chow? Or do I stand my ground, at least until my legs are turned to mushy red spooge under giant vengeful hooves?
One day. I have one day to decide, or come up with a third solution…..
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Date: 2010-08-09 01:33 pm (UTC)