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“Aeinne! Aeinne!”
The inn's door opened with a bang, and a fat, sweaty bastard rushed inside. He staggered and leaned against the door frame at the last moment. Gaspar, bent over a sticky porridge-like mush, straightened abruptly.
“Aeinne, babe, come back to daddy…”
“Get out of here, Gorgen!” The innkeeper moved towards him.
“Aeinneee…”
The bastard was driven out to the yard. The uncomfortable silence fell for a moment.
“Oh,” said the innkeeper sarcastically. “Mr poet, you are, pardon me, fucked.”
“Have you seen her this morning?” asked Gaspar. “While she was leaving?”
“Well, I have seen her. But I have no clue where her feet took her.”
The poet sighed mournfully. He was about to take another bite of the pulp, but he eventually decided to go without its dubious taste.
He wondered whether the girl had left him because of remorse about the whole situation, or she had been disappointed by the time they had spent together… No, he was able to believe in anything, but certainly not that any woman would leave his bed dissatisfied.
He chose to accept the innkeeper's offer, even though it left much to be desired, and stay in the village a little longer and make evenings more pleasant for the Galdrians. Although there was no trace of the penny earned during the New Year's performances, the host agreed that skald could cover the costs of the accommodation, pulp, and piss with payment in the form of beautiful ballads. For a while, at least.
The Skald decided to give Galdra and the local population the last chance, hoping that perhaps Aeinne was not the only perfect human being living here, as he used to call in mind the pretty ladies. He thanked the innkeeper politely for the porridge he hadn't finished, then threw his lute over his shoulder and went outside in search of new impressions.
He never imagined that they would catch him just beyond the inn's doorstep. Not only that, but he felt someone pulling him behind the building, pinning him against the wall, then kissing him, quickly and passionately, groaning shamelessly.
“Here you are, my poet!” He looked into Aeinne's grey, feverish eyes. “I've been waiting for you until that fool… until daddy…”
“Where have you been?” Gaspar, even if he took the undoubted pleasure in kissing her, delicately pushed the girl away. “You left so early, I thought…”
“The day was still young, barely dawn,” she announced vigorously. “And I was the change, Gaspar. Oh, what a change I had become!” The poet looked at her enquiringly, with a hint of concern. “I was at Joe's, then Bjorne's, then…”
“Wait,” he interrupted, confused. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve flown around and humped every man in the village?”496Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDbXxfyUoAL
“Are you kidding, of course not!” She pushed him lightly. “ If you could have seen their faces… And could you believe that even before dusk I groaned at the sight of them like that peasant who sees a naked woman for the first time?” She cackled, running her hand through the hastily braided hair. “They were obedient, they did everything that I…”
“All right,” the skald interrupted, not very curious about the details. “Look, I spent a wonderful night with you and…”
“Oh, we must do it again, absolutely.” Gaspar opened his eyes wide. “Gods, what have I done with her?”
“Once, twice, preferably every day! How long are you staying in Galdra?”
“Listen, Aeinne,” he pushed her small hands away. “What's done is done, but I'm not going to get involved any more. I'm not used to…”
“Who's talking about engaging here?” she giggled. “I'll have you all! Bjorne might be in the morning, Joe at noon…”
“I don't like this idea.” The seriousness in the poet's voice surprised her. “I like and respect you, but I'm not going to be part of this. Just… pick one, Aeinne. Choose the one you like the most, marry him, and for god’s sake, hump him as much as you like. That is a good change, my dear.”
“You're boring, busker.” His words didn’t make the slightest impression on her, “You're boring like my father, who my mother can't stand under the same roof.” Stop preaching because it doesn't suit you at all.” She looked at him more carefully. “What’s wrong, you don't like me any more?”
“I'm not talking about that, Aeinne…”
“Oh, I’m not going to beg you, I’ll easily find guys who can take your place,” she responded indifferently. “Bye, then, you and your cold bed. You've just discouraged me completely.”
He wanted to add something, but she left as quickly as she had appeared. The poet smoothed out his crumpled shirt and, when he had recovered from his momentary confusion, set off where his legs had carried him.
The village, dotted mostly with wooden, somewhere only brick buildings, seemed peaceful to him, as if from a landscape that had emerged from the charming hands of queen Dæna. For a moment he recalled her shiny honey-coloured hair and lips as thin as a lute string. He remembered her smile with which… No, he shouldn't think about her, because the memories would come back, the past would return, Leidha… “After all, that's why I'm here”, he realised. The queen knows he’s come, she noticed him in Frosk. His talent shone through that night, he saw it in her eyes. She still loved his music.
A group of kids sitting in a circle on the grass pulled him out of his thoughts. A dark-haired boy without one front tooth pointed his finger at the next person, pronouncing the words of the rhyme.
One two three
You're out of the game!
Three, two, one
It's your time!496Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYXsUOxOaU0
The skald didn't know the rules of this game, but they must have been quite strict, since the plump girl burst into tears after the toothless boy had pointed triumphantly at her.
Four, five
Mercy save!
Seven, six
Let him eat!
The poet didn't find out whether the subsequent parts of the counting were equally reproachful, or whether they were a blind chance, as his attention was distracted, of course, by beautiful ladies – both feeding hens and working in the backyard beds. When one of them had looked at him, he bowed with the most gallant smile kept for the special occasion. Galdran women paid him back with an equally kind bow.
As he walked down the main street, he could see more and more clearly, less than eight stenkasts – or stone's throws, as they used to say in Leidha – a tall stone tower surmounting a green hill. Gaspar immediately thought it would be an excellent place to rest and compose a ballad. He decided that at the earliest opportunity, he would ask the innkeeper about its story, perhaps romantic enough to be worthy of being celebrated in a poetic song.
The spot turned out to be very calm and cosy, indeed. Around the tower, covered with a layer of moss here and there, grew a flowery meadow, unusually lush for late summer. Gaspar stood at the foot of the building and craned up his head to see its top, nearly fifty cubits away. His eyes wandered over the old, solid walls, along the windows marking the successive storeys, boarded up from the inside. It did not seem that the tower served any purpose now, although it probably had defensive functions back then.
The poet sat down, leaned against the cold stone, and picked up his lute. He strummed the strings, grimaced, and then adjusted two pegs. The sound rang out again, but it was still, to the skald's mind, imperfect. Gaspar twisted the next pegs until he got the desired effect. He started to play a random melody, slow and quiet. The free and easy strumming always had a soothing effect on him and stimulated his imagination.
He remembered Aeinne and laughed to himself, even though in his heart he was genuinely apprehensive about her new way of life. He turned his thoughts back to Dæna, and almost felt the touch of her honey-coloured hair. Meanwhile, the fingers seemed to wander spontaneously on the strings back and forth, obtaining a regular sequence of notes. A verse, he thought, or a chorus.
“Her hair… from the weave of bees…” he hummed, then spat with contempt. “A cliché, damn it, a cliché…”
The queen. What else could he add to the description of the fairness of the most beautiful woman he knew? What hadn't someone else already come up with, what was far from obvious? The queen with honey hair. The queen with a heart of gold. The queen loved a hundred times more than a king. The queen…
His mind flashed back to last night. The queen of cards, he had utterly forgotten her. “How did they call her? A she-man?”
He smiled at the memory of the whole situation. He was wondering what this human being, supposedly not having much in common with either femininity or masculinity, might look like.
“It can't be true,” he concluded. “Yes, women can be beautiful or unbeautiful, but they are always considered women. And if they are not, it's completely wrong. Another nonsense, a topic for tavern disputes and rumours. A sensation for bored simpletons.”
“No,” he decided, "I won't write until I see her with my own eyes. How much truth was there in her disability since childhood? In her remarkable card successes? In the lack of beauty and adventurous nature?”
“Her story,” he said, getting into a singing tone, "I'd like to know like few only know…damn it.” The wrong sound annoyed him, but he quickly found a more suitable one. “Evil…” he almost whispered, returning to the melody. "To mess with her is evil…”
He played the newly created passage at least a dozen times, humming to himself and counting the syllables. This activity absorbed him totally, so it took him a few moments to realise that his playing and singing were not the only sounds to be heard.
He paused suddenly and with him, but with a slight delay, a voice replicating the melody. He looked around nervously, expecting to see some mischievous kid or wench. Eventually, he forced himself to admit that his imagination had gone too far. He went back to composing a ballad.
The second time, however, he couldn't mishear. Even before he began to sing, someone else had picked up the melody, wailing loudly.
“Who are you?!” Gaspar jumped to his feet and looked around again. He had even checked behind the tower, but found no one there. "Who are you?!"
It was the silence which answered him. He decided to entice a singing man, or rather a woman – for the voice was undoubtedly female – by intoning the composed motif again. This time, however, he didn't hear a song but a pearly laugh coming from…. "Oh gods," he sighed, "the tower itself is now laughing at my confusion, malicious and triumphant." Gaspar stared at it, searching for a suggestion, an open window, a hole… yes, there were gaps here and there in the wall, but even a finger would not fit in them. Someone, or rather something, had to sit inside. There was its den there, and no one knew for how long.
Skald took a deep breath. "Don't let your imagination fool you. Don't get deceived."
"Who are you?" he repeated the question, this time without complaint.
His own melody answered him, but slightly different, as if she had not remembered it exactly. Gaspar put his ear to the crack located at the height of his head and then pressed his mouth against it to amplify the sound.
"Who are you?!" he called out, hoping this time the question would be heard.
It was only after a long moment a familiar giggle sounded, followed immediately by a voice, loud and echoing through the thick stone walls.
"I am." There was a long pause. "I am where I am. I am what I am. I am…"
"I asked a question, creature," he stormed, and immediately shuddered at the last word. While it seemed the most accurate to him, it sounded at least idiotically.
"Creature," giggled the stranger again. "Nobody's ever called me that before!" O poetry, how beautiful is your fan…"
"Why are you mocking my music?" he asked firmly. "What are you doing in this tower?"
"Beware of the dour tower, which devours with its power every hour." Gaspar was getting more and more irritated by a disrespectful laugh. "And whoever runs towards the tower, that one…"
"I asked you questions, crea…" He bit his tongue. "Stop being silly, it is neither funny nor smart."
"The poet!" The creature didn't change its tone. "He's neither funny nor smart!"
"Stop," he growled, this time leaving out the courtesy. "I have no idea what demons sent you here, but…"
"You don't know?" He was surprised finally hear a voice without a stupid cackle. "They didn't tell you in the village, they didn't warn you, did they?"
"About what? Who are you?"
"They didn't warn you, they forgot," she sighed resentfully. "Oh, magicians of Gal Andra!"
"Eh," he grunted. "Has everyone gone crazy with the magic?" No more turning it on its head, talk to me now! Who are you?"
"Ask, they'll tell you," she said with an assumed reproach. "They will tell you about a witch waiting in the tower for a prince or a knight to tear down the eternal walls of the Goat Tower and free the magician. Ask! Or maybe you are going to set me free?"
"No, thank you," he replied indifferently. "You're talking rubbish! Stop telling me stupid village tales. What are you doing in this tower? Did someone lock you up in there?"
"Don't you want a witch for your wife?" She grunted irritatingly. "Her magical abilities, her gold, and her kingdom in distant Hugrakkur?"
"Stop talking nonsense, for god's sake." He started losing his temper. "I don't think you're getting enough air and sunlight through the cracks in the windows. Step outside, let's talk like humans."
"Like people!" she howled nervously. "It means decently and on your terms. Am I to understand it that way?"
"Wait… why ours?" He was surprised. "You're not a human?!"
"Ha, you won't believe me anyway!" Gaspar clutched his head as the unbearable giggle returned. "You won't believe me anyway!"
"Let's find out!" he cried resolutely. "I'll try to believe, just for god's sake, stop twirling and cackling!"
"Isn't that funny or smart?" One could hear she was barely holding back her viciousness. "Well then, Mr Poet, who has absolutely no romantic nature." Gaspar fought down a stinging comment with difficulty. "Let's start from the outset because I see you are ignorant."
"Well, my loss," he replied as politely as possible.
"There is a legend associated with the Goat Tower," she began passionately. "About a witch locked up inside it, who…"
"Who will be freed by the most handsome, the most brilliant and the bravest prince in the world? I already know that, let's move on."
"As I said, it's just a legend," she continued, not discouraged by the interruption. “But I believed, oh, I believed strongly for a long time, I looked for the prince day and night. And then one year passed, then the second, and there was no trace of the saviour.”
"Wait," Gaspar broke in again, this time without a hint of irony. "How did you end up in this tower anyway?"
“How… oh, that's right, it was supposed to be from the beginning. So, at the beginning…” Gaspar sighed ostentatiously. ”Well, I locked myself here when I escaped from the Immeasurable Mountains.
“Just like that? Your family must have given you a hard time.”
“They ordered everyone to stay in the mountains, stay away from human settlements. And I was drawn to life, to your boys and girls, because trolls are just…”
“Trolls?” Gaspar raised his voice again. "It was supposed to be without rubbish."
"But I'm telling the truth!" Never heard of trolls? Grey people, mountain… creatures?” she giggled as she said the last word.
"Maybe I have, but in bedtime stories told to children," he replied reproachfully. “Even if they had ever existed, the world forgot them a long time ago.”
"It'll remember again!" She thundered unexpectedly. "You were meant to listen, then listen. As you are so familiar with folktales, you should know that trolls only walk at night, because the light of the day quickly turns them into stone.”
"And that's why you're in this tower?" he asked mockingly.
"That's why," she said coldly. “And since every legend hides a trace of truth, I wait for someone to understand and love me. Until he lifts the curse.”
"Nonsense," muttered the skald. "There's no such thing as a curse." And all the more not the one which affects trolls, who, what’s obvious, can't stand the sun.”
“You know nothing!” she replied. "If you don't even believe in trolls, let alone… phi!" She spat.
"What about gold and kingdom?" he reminded himself. "Do you deceive every fool who comes across this place?"
"I have gold," she announced sternly. “The Hugrakkur hides many treasures, which I will promise to whoever frees me. And the kingdom…” She pondered. “Troll standards, of course.”
“So, a turf house” Gaspar guessed.
“And how come, no one has been tempted by gold so far?” he asked with a hint of mockery.
"Oh, yes, they always want gold, but they don't want to love me," she replied sadly. “Neither do they want to listen nor understand… They only ask, "How much?", "Is there enough money for a horse?", "For a castle?"… Well, then I promise the best steeds from our vast troll meadows, jewels from the deepest recesses of the mountains… And my eternal, unconditional love. But they are only: gold and gold, and plot how to trick and deceive me. I can tell by their voice who is honest and who is not, though.”
“ And how about me?” the Skald became even more interested. "Am I trustworthy?"
"Hm…" she murmured, thinking for a moment. “You don't care much about gold, I hear. And you listen to my story with interest.” She paused for a moment. “There was one who didn't want gold, but… He called me a lousy creature, polluted with magic. And it was him, none other, who called me a witch for the first time and gave me a bad reputation. But I am not looking for anyone's harm, only understanding.”
"I don't believe," said Gaspar gravely, after a moment's thought, "that there is actually any gold waiting in the mountains, a bit of copper at most. The troll girl didn't say anything, listening with attention to his words. “And you, um… I'd love to help, but I really don’t know how.”
"I told you so," she replied firmly. “Who will lose his heart for a troll princess…”
"I remember, I remember," he said tetchily. "Do you have some… troll customs, how would such love look like?
A long chuckle answered him.
"Oh, poet!” the troll girl tried to control herself. "Our habits are the same! First, the girl and the boy meet for talks, then…”
“Fair enough.” He didn't let her finish. "Anyway, I'm sorry, but I won’t be able to help you. Meanwhile…”
“Do not go!” she cried anxiously. “Your ballad… I enjoyed listening to it. Stay, play something else.”
Gaspar admitted he had actually nothing to lose. So he sat down again under Gal Andra and played the beginning of the piece he was composing.
“I know this story… as hardly anyone…” he intoned.
"Would you sing about me?" the creature interjected to Gaspar's displeasure. “No one has ever sung about a troll girl locked up in a tower.”
"You want me to make you famous, don't you?" the poet remained patient. "So that a lot of peasants who have not been lucky in love come here all at once?"
"Don't mock me, musician," she pretended to be offended. "Come on, what story are you trying to sing about?"
"About the Queen of Cards," he replied, not believing the troll girl had any idea about this person. “A woman skilled in card games.”
“Phi, boring!” she snorted. “People would rather hear about Huldara and her treasure, I mean about her heart and gold.”
"I'll think about it," he said sincerely. There was a lot of truth in what the troll girl said.
"Now play," she ordered firmly. ”I am going to learn this song.”
And so, until late evening Gaspar was composing a ballad, and Huldara repeated the melody, beautifully and loudly. She sang what he played for her, and he played what she sang for him. They didn't talk any more that day. With music, they told each other everything worth saying.496Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDeCthmoe8S
