The Slave and
the Trolls
Gnaga - gnaw; Kljufa - cleave; Svelga - swallow (Old Norse)
“Sit down, slave! You struggle in vain. The rope that binds you is woven from hair of jǫtunn, nails of draugar and tail of nykr - not even Fenrir the Wolf could escape from its grasp! You might think that there is nothing sweeter than freedom, but freedom comes with its own burdens. So, sit still, slave! and listen – I have a most interesting story to tell you, a story that may change your mind!”
spoke Asvald, and sat himself at the table before his unwilling guest.
Through blindfolds sloppily - or strategically - tied, the slave’s vision was reduced to a thin strip of dim flickering light from a clay oil lamp on the table, trained upon the hands of the man in front of him. Dried blood was smeared all over them. He dipped them in the water of a small basin, tainting it with ripples of red.
Wiping his hands on a cloth, Asvald let himself fall lazily in an armchair. But when he reached at his belt and took out a dagger, the slave gasped. His breath ragged, he jerked in his seat, even though he knew that his hands were fastly secured at his back with the rope woven from hair of jǫtunn, nails of draugar and tail of nykr; but he still tried to release his hands, to no avail, because hope dies last.
Yet, instead of doing whatever the slave might have imagined him doing, Asvald stretched out his view and picked up a delicious-looking green apple and chipped off it a succulent morsel. As he savoured it, a shadow of a smile played about his lips, the kind that the slave - were he to see it - might not have found reassuring.
Then, he laid back in his armchair, placing his feet comfortably up on the table, and began to speak:
“There were once three trolls. The first was called Gnaga, the second Kljufa and the third Svelga. Mighty and high they were, and terrible for a mortal's eye to behold! They were shape-shifters, often mingling with the forest flora to deceive their prey only to strike at just the right moment, catch it, hold it in their grasp, devour it. The little critters they only killed for food. But humans - they hated with all their black hearts; for humans had cut down the forest, destroying the homes of the trolls, pushing them further up North.”
“It also happened that, in those dark times, a plague was haunting the land: it had been brought by the followers of a new deity who wanted to crown him as The One True God, thus placing themselves at the top of this new order.”
“Spreading from the far-off South, this plague ravaged everything in its path, seeking to wipe out all memory of the old faith of the kingdom’s inhabitants. So powerful it was, that even the King had decided to appease it by passing laws in its favour, forbidding the old customs of his people and enforcing the new ones under punishment of outlawry and tortures.”
“For this King was cunning and cruel too; this new order fit him like a glove, finally giving him the long-sought reason to subjugate all who did not accept him, all in the name of The One God. So, men in dark robes had come, zealots of the plague, preaching it from village to village. Some would accept it out of fear of the King’s wrath, but upon their deathbed would repent and pray to Óðinn to forgive their weakness and allow them to meet their kin once more. For men and women accepting it would be forever forbidden to join their ancestors in afterlife, doomed to spend eternity alone among strangers.”
“Now, up in the North, in an important man's household, there was a slave. He was treated well; he had protection, food, a roof over his head and a fire to warm his hands. But to him, it was not enough: he hated his master, thinking he was of the Devil's kin. For, you see, this slave was a follower of The One God - like you! - while his master honoured Óðinn, the Hanged One, Father of Wisdom! I hear that this new god told his followers to be kind and tolerant, but this little zealot was mean and hateful! He looked with disdain upon the red-painted stone engraved with runes that his master had erected in his yard and he scorned the likeness of Óðinn from his master's great hall. He would even spit on these sacred objects whenever he passed by them.”
“And so he did on this particular night that I am telling you about. Because the slave had decided that he was done with pagans and idols and service - so he stole from his master’s household, packed some food and grabbed a knife, and ran away.”
“As he went out into the snowy night, he saw that the sky above him was aflame with streaming lights of bright green, so he stared in awe and shuddered. For the slave was not from these parts of the world and he took it as a bad omen; so he made that sign in the shape of a cross that those of his faith employ for protection. But did he stop here? No, for he was a malicious little knave! Stopping to glance at his master’s household one last time, he uttered a terrible curse upon his master and his people, saying that they should burn eternally for being who they were.”
“Thus, he chose freedom over service and wilderness over safety. But because the slave was not from these parts of the world, he did not know what sort of beings lurk under every rock and hill, behind every tree, in the depths of every running river and still pond…”
“Now, the slave's malicious curses came to the ears of a blackbird. For birds and beasts understand the language of man, but men – proud and selfish as they are – pay no attention to nature's tongue. So the blackbird flew back to its nest and told its brothers that a human was approaching: oak-a-lee, oak-a-lee! she chirped, sitting on the brink of the tree's hollow. But she barely had time to finish her song, when – clump! - the tree swallowed the blackbird whole! For the tree's hollow was nothing else than the gaping mouth of Gnaga the Troll!”
“Umm, how my mouth drools for some man-flesh! Gnaga whispered, scratching his skin which was as wrinkled and cracked as the bark of an old tree. I've tasted blackbirds and owls, mice, squirrels and rabbits, but a human... that is a delicacy! Hush, here he comes…”
“The slave walked deeper into the woods, toilsomely through the tall snow, muttering prayers and curses and glancing back from time to time to make sure that no one was following him. Around his neck he had an amulet and at his waist the stolen knife. As he passed by the wrinkled tree, his cloak was caught in its branches so he pulled at it to release himself. But the troll would not let the human get away so easily.”
“With a great creaking sound, those gnarled branches began to move and close in on the intruder, hugging him until the twigs could tear through his thick winter clothes! The human could not believe his eyes. He yelled in shock and jerked in despair, trying to fight off the branches. Luckily for him, the cloak on his back was still caught in the branches, so twisted until he squirmed out of his it and, thus, managed to slip away from that dire embrace.”
“He ran off as fast as he possibly could.”
“But his hands and cheek were bleeding with scratches, and his back aching with grazes where Gnaga had grasped him. He was now without a cloak and the night was cold, and a light but freezing wind had begun to blow. And, he noticed in stupor, the amulet around his neck was missing. It must have remained caught in the great hands of Gnaga the Troll.
“Although, I'm sure, he was struggling to be silent, the human was making so much noise that the bugs in the earth were deafened by the sound of cracking twigs and screeching snow under his heavy steps and by his rowdy breathing. And the scratches on his skin were dripping red all over the snow where he was running, leaving a trail behind him. So the second Troll, Kljufa, could spot him from a great distance.”
“That smell! Oh, how my empty stomach snarls in hunger at this succulent sight! Crush his bones, taste their marrow! he hummed.”
“The slave was trembling, hands and feet numb from the cold. He wanted to light a fire and went to shield himself from the light but freezing wind in the shelter of a great rock. The rock looked welcoming from a distance, round and shapely, covered in soft hazel-coloured moss.”
“But the runaway could not hear the Troll's voice chanting, for their language is not intelligible to humans. He only hid behind a big round stone wrapped in fluffy moss, peeping above it trying to – and hoping not to – catch sight of that fabulous tree that had tried to grasp him in his terrible embrace. For, surely, there could be no other danger as great as a moving tree, hungry for human flesh!”
“Just as he was pondering so, blowing warm air into his fists, the stone that he was leaning against seemed to move! Incredulous, the man lost his footing and fell on all four in the snow when – crash! - a boulder rolled over his leg. For the large rock was, of course, none other than the massive stone-skinned body of Kljufa the Troll.”
“The slave let out a desperate cry. To his good fortune, however, the snow beneath him was deep and, although frozen enough to be stepped on, it was soft underneath. Thus, it allowed his leg to sink into it without being mangled beyond repair under the weight of Kljufa's fist. Whimpering, he struggled to push it away with his free leg, but the Troll was too strong and too determined to catch the easy prey that had stumbled unaware into his arms.”
“The Troll was, however, rather stiff from his long hibernation in his stony disguise. He wanted to strike again, so he turned and raised his other fist; but he did so slowly, his joints grumbling and cracking. And the human, vulnerable as he was, proved quite resourceful: he used the softness of the snow and the movement of the beast to quickly slide from under the Troll’s fist and release his leg.”
“With a grunt of pain, he stood up and staggered away, dragging his sore leg and disappearing through the dense brush where Kljufa could not follow.”
“The leg injured by Kljufa’s fist made a deep path into the snow behind the runaway man. But, scared out of his wits as he was, the man barely felt anything else than an urge to run and run. Where to, he knew not. The pain and cold had been forgotten. Besides, it had begun to snow, so the imprints of his steps were slowly filling up, disappearing without a trace. One thing, though, was making him uneasy: in the tenseness of the run and the curtain of snow settling on everything around him, he had lost all sense of direction. In trying to cross the forest through its less dense area, it seemed to him that he had come deeper and deeper into the thicket. He stopped into some bushes to get his bearings.”
“But there was someone who did not need footprints to find a stray creature in the woods. The third Troll, the one called Svelga, had sensed the entire struggle that was going on: the hunger and frustration of his fellows, the agitation of the critters disturbed by the intruder, the fear of the fugitive. He could sense it, because he had eyes and ears everywhere and nothing escaped his attention: for his spirit was one with that of those Northern woods.”
“Perhaps Svelga had admired the human for having escaped the tremendous beings that had tried to catch him, so he allowed him a few moments of respite. Or, perhaps, it was pity: he knew that a lost man in the heart of nature on a freezing winter night could not last long, so he wanted to chase him no longer and catch him quickly and cleanly. Or, possible still, Svelga had been watching from a distance - with the interest of men trapping beasts and watching them cower or fight each other -, but had grown weary of the spectacle and had decided to step in. Like a feline that plays with its prey and only then eats it.”
”He whispered: Stand still, human, and his voice was like the wind, whistling through the branches of the trees and echoing amid the stones.”
“The fugitive felt the wind on his skin and shivered. Sensing some strange presence, he stood up and began to dart away again. But Svelga could slide, smoothly like a leaf in the air, forceful like a blizzard, slippery like a log on an icy slope, unseen like a shadow, and reached him in the blink of an eye, right in front of him! For wherever the trees and plants were spreading their veins underneath the earth, there could Svelga rise from the ground at will – for his body was made of roots, coiling around each other to form a mighty shape!”
“So Svelga the Troll barred the slave's path. Before he could make another move, roots began to rise from the snow, grasping his limbs, so that he lay immobilised to watch the creature profiled against the sky splattered with fiery green.”
“And Svelga crouched above him and spoke:”
“Be still, human. You think yourself mighty, you imagine yourself master of the Earth and all living things, but you forget how weak you truly are. How frail your body is, how short your life. Tell me, how many like you have lived and died since we’ve inhabited these woods? How many more will live and die, still? So, quit your struggle, human, because it is in vain: Nature is far too strong for Man!”
“The slave understood; it was in his eyes. He could not understand the language of Trolls, but he could grasp enough to know resistance was futile. So Svelga’s fingers clenched around his throat and - just like the roots of plants absorb water from the earth - returned the human’s life force back into the nature that had sustained him.”
With a cracking screech, Asvald drew his chair back and stood up, disappearing from the play of light and shade cast by the oil-lamp. The empty space left by him revealed - to the slave’s vision, narrowed and dimmed by his blindfolds - dark shapes of game critters hung from the beams in the ceiling. The limp bodies of grey rabbits and squirrels, the long neck and fanned out tail of a black wood grouse, the wide wings of a wild goose pointed as if ready to dive into the ground.
From a half-opened door at the slave's back a chill crept inside, and the slave trembled in expectation of the faintest sound of returning footsteps. And the sound soon came. Thump, thump, thump, thump, came louder and nearer until Asvald’s hands came back into his view.
“Yes, come in, my dears! Come!” sounded Asvald’s voice, sweeter than the slave had heard it before.
He tapped his finger into the table and, at his call, five large cats brushed by, taking their seat upon it, on Asvald's lap or around his neck. He caressed their thick fluffy furs lovingly and placed a little package of linen cloth onto the table. The cats gathered around it.
“Here’s a gift, my dears, from me and my two friends, Gnaga and Kljufa: a little something for you to feast on!”
And, under the slave’s eyes, the linen was unwrapped to reveal a pile of meaty bones among the folds. But no! the slave whimpered in shock, they were not mere bones, but fingers – five human fingers!
“Well, what say you now, slave?” asked Asvald. “Is freedom the most important thing?”
And, by the apple core still resting on the table, the man placed a pendant tied with a string. A cross pendant.
For a moment - a brief moment only, as he shifted in his chair to do this - Asvald’s face shone in the light of the lamp. Though distorted by shadows, it showed a subtle smile; and, above it, a pair of keen, watchful, glimmering green eyes trained upon his helpless interlocutor.
Like those of a feline playing with its prey.