Rocco always knew he was a little different.
While other dinosaurs ran wild through the forest, Rocco spent his time in the kitchen wearing an apron and doing baking experiments.
Rocco was
... [+]
Rob Roy O'Keefe is the author of Small Stories: A Perfectly Absurd Novel, short-listed by the Chanticleer International Book Awards. His short story collection, 19 Doors, will be available this summer, 2025. "For whom the troll tolls" is in Short Circuit #17, Short Édition's quarterly review.
I couldn't believe it.
"10,000 Kroners! That's outrageous!"
I was deep in the Troms region of Norway on the Nordost Road. I had been for a while. At the moment, I was trying to cross the Lundefjord bridge, the only way across the fjord of the same name. Actually, it was more like I was hoping it was the Lundefjord bridge because GPS had stopped working long ago.
Now I was being told that if I wanted to cross, I would have to pay a toll that would make a loan shark blush. My extortionist? A large, stocky troll wearing a red parka and matching shorts. Yep, a toll troll.
"It's a quantity and quality thing," he casually explained while lumbering toward my truck. "I don't get much traffic out here, so I charge a lot in order to maintain my standard of living. For the convenience of those who do make it out this way, I accept payment in five different currencies as well as all major credit cards. Oh, and goats."
"Goats? What about goats?" I asked, confused.
"You can pay me in goats. Of course, it would have to be a lot of goats."
"I don't have any goats." I was fast approaching exasperation as I stepped out of my vehicle. "I have a dog. And you can't have him." The dog, a mixed breed, barked on cue.
"Then it's cash or credit."
"And if I don't pay, I suppose you'll threaten to eat me?" I was trying to put on a brave face while simultaneously dragging out the conversation until I could think of a way out of this mess.
It didn't work.
"Are you really bringing up that old stereotype? So disappointing in this day and age. It's all because of that Peer Gynt play. You'd think this would be covered in sensitivity training."
"Well, isn't that what trolls do?"
"No, it isn't ‘what trolls do,'" he repeated mockingly. "And I'm not a troll. I'm more of a Bergresar."
I didn't know anything about Bergresars, but this one was too big and formidable to drive around.
I tried a less confrontational approach. "Look, I could use a break. It's been hours since I last saw a village, I've been on the road for days, and I still have a long way to go before I can even start what I came here for."
"Must be important," he ventured.
"It is. I'm a soil scientist."
"Seriously?" He started laughing. It was a deep laugh that shook the ground.
"What's so funny?" I was back to being annoyed.
"You study dirt?" He was incredulous. "You've come up all this way to poke at the ground? Come on, is this a prank?"
"No, it's not a—" I began before he cut me off.
"Hold on, I've got to tell Hildur. She'll get a kick out of this." He turned back toward the bridge and shouted, "Hildur! Did you hear that? He studies dirt."
From the far side of the bridge, a figure approached, floating more than walking. Presumably this was Hildur. She was small, maybe half my height, pale, and led a goat tied to a rope.
She stopped when she reached the troll.
"You know the ground is frozen solid for at least three more months, right?" She and the troll exchanged glances as they shook their heads.
"Hey, there's a lot to learn from soil," I protested.
"Is that your dog?" Hildur asked, pointing to where my dog was sticking his head out of the open passenger window.
Something about Hikdur's look and tone put me on edge. Probably the way she smiled and started to lick her teeth—very sharp teeth.
"Yes," I answered slowly. "Why?"
"Do you want to trade it for my goat?"
The troll offered clarification. "Hildur is one of the huldufólk. They have a fondness for dog."
"No, I'm not going to trade my dog so you can, can . . . whatever it is you think you're going to do," I sputtered.
My dog must have sensed he was the subject of our conversation because he began to whine and quietly crept to the back of the truck.
"Can we get back to the main subject here? Maybe we can find a way around this toll of yours?" I asked the troll.
I turned to Hildur. "Other than giving you my dog."
The troll's assistant sulked.
I continued. "When the shopkeeper at the village told me to follow this road, she didn't say anything about a toll."
The troll and Hildur exchanged a knowing look.
"Describe this shopkeeper," the troll urged.
So I did.
"Talfar!" the two of them called out in unison.
"Who?" I asked.
"A dark elf," said Hildur.
"A dark elf with a large debt to pay," added the troll.
"So what's any of that got to do with me?"
"Talfar has been building up a very large gambling debt to a group of faeries," the troll explained.
"The kind you don't play around with," added Hildur.
"Now, there are lots of ways to pay off a debt to faeries," the troll continued. "There's gold, of course. But there's also oaths of servitude."
"Again, how is that relevant?"
"The servitude doesn't have to be voluntary," said Hildur, who seemed to be watching me for a reaction. Seeing only a blank look on my face, she went on.
"Talfar sent you here because this road comes to an abrupt end in a few leagues. When it does, you'll find yourself in the middle of a very dense and forbidding forest, home to those same nasty faeries."
Still no reaction from me.
Hildur spelled it out like she was talking to a child. "She sent you . . . in her place . . . to fulfill . . . an oath . . . of servitude!"
"Oh," I responded weakly. And then it dawned on me.
"Oh! Oh!! Wait, what do you mean when you say servitude?"
"You'll spend eternity entertaining a bunch of inebriated, bad-tempered, dark elves. It requires dancing, frolicking, playing the dulcimer, maybe the willow flute, and juggling—lots and lots of juggling."
While Huldir was bringing me up to speed on my potential career move, the troll had been scrutinizing my truck, walking around it a few times while looking carefully inside.
"Is this a plug-in hybrid?" he asked.
"Um, yeah. Why?"
"I always wanted to take one of these for a spin," he said dreamily. "But my bridge responsibilities won't allow it. No chance to navigate the open road, follow the endless, winding highway, find my way on the—"
"I get it, you'd like to drive," I broke in. "Well, I always wanted not to be lost above the Arctic Circle. Or not become an indentured servant, so it looks like we're both out of luck!"
The troll stood for a moment, looking thoughtful. "You know, Talfar is also in debt to me. She's really bad at throwing bones."
Then he got excited. "I can fix this for you! Loan me your truck until the last mid-natts-sol, and I'll get Telfar to kill the deal. And when I get back, I'll tell you how to get to your real destination. What do you think?"
"So until you get back, I'm supposed to live under a bridge?"
"Hey, living under a bridge is a proud tradition that goes back centuries. And it has the added benefit of making you untouchable. Anyone operating the bridge is off-limits to the faery world."
***
I watched as the troll drove away in my truck.
At least he left me his red parka. It was much too large, but it was warm.
I turned to look down at Hildur. "When is the last mid-natts-sol, anyway?"
"The last midnight sun? End of July."
"That's months from now!"
"Don't worry, the Polar Night goes by fast. And the northern lights are really something up here."
"I can't believe my dog went with him."
"They're fickle beasts," Holder said, sympathetically. "You hungry?"
"Well, now that you mention it . . ."
"Good. Me, too. How do you like your goat?"