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Returning to the inn before dark, Gaspar couldn't resist the quizzical looks of the locals. They must have heard the music, he thought, they saw where I have been and where I am coming from. Gal Andra was deeply rooted in the local legends, which fact the skald soon learned from the innkeeper.
"Lord, you must have a death wish!" he grunted handing a beer to one of the peasants. "The tower is haunted, that's all you need to know."
"This girl…" The poet did not give up. "Has anyone ever seen her? Is she really a tro…?"
The innkeeper interrupted him with a nervous murmur.
"They say," he whispered with a hint of drama, "that she goes around taverns after dark and steals food."
"That would make sense," Gaspar replied lightly. "But tell me…"
"They tried to allure her," continued the innkeeper, ignoring the poet's words, "to expose her to the sun, but she didn't give in. The vixen didn't poke her nose out."
"So, you haven't seen her." The poet eyed the innkeeper suspiciously. "You don't even know what's in that tower?"
"And what is it supposed to be if not a troll? It talks like a human, and doesn't get out when the sun is shining. Magic, if you please!"
"Don't you have any medic or sage in the village?" he asked, fiddling with the pendants. "Who can have a look and judge with a professional eye?"
"Oh lord, how can the sage be helpful here!" he waved his hand. "Well, magic, it seemed, only remained in the legends, so to summon the sage is for nothing. But here you go, one troll stepped down from the mountains, and I dread to think what will happen if more of them crash a party. A brothel, nothing else!"
"She doesn't seem dangerous," stated the poet. "Rather mad."
"Indeed," admitted the innkeeper eagerly. "But we must be vigilant because she is a woman, a troll and a witch, and this means nasty and tricky evil!"
"Well…" Gaspar scratched his head. He might have nodded at the innkeeper's words in the end didn't, though.
"And I heard the wench's eaten a mouldy cheese."
Next to the poet appeared a slightly tipsy, not much older than him, skinny man who had walked away with an ale just a moment earlier and was waving an empty mug at that moment.
"You're talking nonsense," the innkeeper grimaced, either at the peasant's words or at the thought of the obligation to move and pour him another drink.
"Did you know they eat something like this in Leida?" continued the thin man. "That supposedly rotten is better than normal, ugh! Even a mouse would die from it!"
"Wait a minute…" Gaspar straightened up abruptly, irritated by the insult to his homeland. "You don't mean to say…"
"The stench," interrupted the peasant, "is the foulness so revolting, no one can resist it. And the wench ate the cheese and asked for more!"
Skald hid his face in his hands while the innkeeper with an expression of impatience placed a mug in front of the thin man. The man took a huge gulp and wiped the foam from his moustache. It didn't look like he was going to leave anytime soon.
"Gal Andra," the poet recalled. "Goat Tower. Is there a legend associated with it? Or rather with a goat?"
"I will tell, I will!" called the skinny man, not allowing the innkeeper, who was even more irritated than before, to speak. "So you could immortalise it in your ballads and make Galdra famous!"
The innkeeper pretended to have some urgent business, which he was in a great hurry to do, in the back of the tavern. Gaspar crossed his legs and wished he had ordered an ale earlier.
"Once upon a time," the villager began, playing the role of a wandering storyteller, "when the tower had been built to doom the clan and all the enemies prowling around at that time, a great feast was ordered to be held, even the king himself appeared. Many cooks were invited, and a newbie was among them, named Peder, who'd just been trained in the art of brewing food…"
"Skip the details," Gaspar interjected, who had just realised he had been starving.
"This Peder," the skinny man went on tirelessly, "was supposed to be in charge of the fire pit. But he stared at the tower, and having praised its mastery, did not take care of the ox. And the feast could not take place without the main food!" He coughed dryly and wet his throat with the liquor. "So Peder set off to the pasture where the goats were grazing to see if the shepherd was around by any chance, and then, biff!" Gaspar jumped back as the villager slammed his open palm against the tabletop. "One goat under one arm, another under the second and off he goes, to the kitchen! He'd just put one on the table and took a swipe on it with an axe, and suddenly, boom!"
"Huh?" the poet looked questioningly.
"The second goat, waiting for its turn, hit him with its horns and boom, to the ground! Hardly did the boy recover, for two furious goats nudged it, drove him from the kitchen, and urged him to the tower. When they got there…"
"How about a beer, Mr Poet?" the innkeeper appeared unnoticed at the bar and glanced at the skinny man suspiciously. Gaspar nodded with a pleading face.
"When they climbed up," continued the peasant, "and chased Peder to the top, it seemed as if they were about to beat him to death or throw him off the tower. And the crowd, alarmed by crackling and wailing managed to gather, and they started to call Peder. It seemed that the burial mound would be needed for Peder, and out of nowhere the youngster emerged from the tower gates! Only a little battered, but quite happy in the face."
"And the goats?" Gaspar was impatient. "What about them?"
"Let me finish," grunted the thin man. "What did I… oh, yes, people asked, how he'd come out from under the goats' horns, how he'd beaten one and another, how he'd escaped. Peder, however, couldn't understand it or didn't want to reveal it. He only said that the goats had begun bumping against each other, as if for fun, for it was indeed heard that the horn was brushing against the horn, that the beasts were wailing like two little kids. And since no one was tempted to know how the goats had abandoned the severe revenge on Peder, what kind of curse had been cast on them, no one except Peder saw this strange event."
The peasant finished his ale and nodded to instruct the innkeeper to refill his mug. Gaspar, meanwhile, didn't take a sip of his.
"It is said," finished the skinny man, "that to the present day the goats are clashing, so you can hear the rustle from the tower, crackling and wailing."
"All right." Gaspar clutched his chin. "But what do the goats have in common with a troll girl?"
"The legend," answered the peasant without hesitation, "says nothing about the shepherd, only that after dark Peder went to take the goats. They say it might have been trolls' game, as nobody had been watching it."
"It's all a bit far-fetched." Gaspar snorted, not surprised by folktales anymore. But thank you for this moving story."
"So, as you see, we must do away with the wench." The peasant resumed, waiting for the reluctant innkeeper to finally serve him. "Because it's brought bad air to Galdra, it scares children and the elderly…"
"She steals food," the innkeeper joined in. "And stealing is a foul thing."
"But she sings beautifully," said Gaspar. "I know because I've heard it."
The innkeeper and the peasant looked at each other knowingly.
"Mr Poet!" the spindly slapped the skald on the back. "You fell from the sky!"
"We haven't tried that yet," the innkeeper shared his approval. "Sing her, enchant her with a ballad!"
"Have you gone mad?" Gaspar grimaced. "Is she so terrible to you that you want to drive her away by deceit?"
"We need peace, not magic," the innkeeper said firmly.
"All right, I'll try," sighed the skald unconfidently. He actually liked Huldara and didn't think she could harm anyone.
"We knew we could count on you." The peasant moved suspiciously towards the poet and, to his displeasure, put his arm around his shoulders. "We were chatting for so long, but, to be honest, I didn't really want to talk about the wench." He suddenly lowered his voice, which drew Gaspar's attention. "At least not about the troll one."
Before the poet answered, a clink in the peasant's pocket had caught his eye. Gaspar saw a tiny but tightly packed with a small coin pouch.
"You're a dab hand at rhyming, as I've heard," asked the skinny man, and the skald replied with a nod. "And at love art not worse." He smiled at the surprised face of the poet. "Well, we wonder what trick, rhymed or sung, the musician used to turn the beautiful Aeinne into a woman!"
Gaspar eyed the peasant with a menacing look.
"You're one of them," he guessed, gathering his thoughts. "Joe or Bjorne?"
"It's irrelevant to you." The thin man's smile turned comically ominous. "The point is that you are skilful in rhymes, so you can help a man in need. I must write a letter to enchant a learned girl with worthy rhymes."
"If I get it well, the beautiful Aeinne is to choose a romantic lover over a simpleton?" Gaspar sighed with undisguised boredom. What intrigued him at the same time was the new attribute of the girl, unknown so far.
"So, do we have a deal?" the peasant extended his hand, covered with scars.
"How do I know," the skald decided to banter a little, "that you are a more worthy one?"
"Because I am the one," he grinned, "I look out for myself in advance."
Gaspar shook the offered hand, not because he had taken the peasant's side but because he needed money equivalent urgently. He had practised love letters for many years and might even consider himself an expert in this field. Usually, however, he did not make much effort to write them, for he knew that simpletons, as their name suggests, are simple people, so they value the plainness of the message and don't appreciate any complexity or sophistication.
He looked at the still-untouched mug. He sighed loudly and moved it towards Joe or Bjorne or whoever else had just provided him financial support.
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He called out several times, but in the beginning, there was no response. The tower looked like it had been abandoned for centuries, nobody in their right mind would have thought that anyone or anything but rats could live in it.
He shouted again, wondering if his conversation with the troll girl had been one of his poetic fantasies. He sat down in the same place as last time, placed his lute beside him, and looked into the leather bag holding an ink, a pen, and manuscripts. He took out a pile of papers filled with sweeping handwriting, placed them on his bent legs, and began to fish for something that would allow him to wrap up the love correspondence even faster.
"Do not believe the words of the maiden and the woman." He smiled to himself under his breath. "Because their hearts like a wheel turn…"
It was one of several sentences rewritten from legends, philosophical works and monastic textbooks. Skald also collected catchy phrases taken from books about medicines and herbs, geographical lexicons or advertisements hung on poles. From between the manuscripts, he extracted, among other things, a message he'd found in one of the Jordanian villages: The left-handed barber has been found. If your hand is the reason for evil, don't make the same mistake, a folk saying: I know secrets that I will tell no one, that is ways to keep my lover's affection, as well as charming names of plants and herbs, including the amorphophallus trollicus used for burns, the parasitic morningus eveningis and the uncommon viper's bugloss to prevent it, and the crop-destroying weed wulpia goat's horn. Gaspar scribbled down all catchy phrases, hoping that they would serve him for poetry or other works that he did not yet know whether they would ever be written.
He had finally found what he'd been searching for, but immediately he wanted to lose the manuscripts again, not expose them to the light of day. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry over the letters written years ago to the high-ranking lady he still had feelings for, but he'd never dared address the message. "Parting with them," he said, "will be the end of a certain stage, a break with the cloying longing at last."
Let them go to Aeinne. He decided though the thought made him feel a little awkward. Not that she didn't deserve heartfelt words. After all, she would credit Joe, Bjornd, or some other yokel. He did it for the girl, to make it easier for her to choose so that she would not give herself left and right, making up for her virtuous years. He struggled to push aside the pathetic judgments that he was putting an eternal love up for sale, giving away his feelings poured onto paper for a penny, a pint and some porridge.
"Oh, lady…" he crooned suddenly, then put down the stack of manuscripts, picked up the lute, and ran his fingers over the strings. "How sweet is the honey on your temple…"
He didn't think he'd summon a wolf from the woods so quickly, or rather a troll from the tower, for the melody was picked up like an echo. A girl's voice hummed behind the skald, even intoned something of its own, softly at first, then sonorous and wailing.
"I already thought you had left," he said warmly.
"I already thought you wouldn't sing," Huldara giggled.
"So you heard me calling you!" he replied with fake pretension, at which the troll girl laughed again as usual.
"I need to be summoned like that, with an instrument," she announced playfully.
Gaspar suddenly remembered the request of the innkeeper and the peasant. He swallowed loudly.
"I wish I could sing with you. So that there are no walls between us."
"You're so quick!" she shrilled. "What are you in such a hurry for, my horses or gold?"
"For the goats," he said firmly. "It is said that you can still hear them butting each other."
Huldara burst out laughing as if she'd just heard a joke. Gaspar waited patiently for an answer.
"You flatter me, poet," she calmed down a bit, though the chuckle still rang out in her voice. "If you know the legend of Gal Andra, then you asked about me!"
"Oh, yes, I did," he admitted. "You must know they don't like you here."
"They want gold, gold without love!" she screamed fiercely, but quickly toned down a bit. "They consider me a witch, suspect me of witchcraft… have you ever seen a troll dabble in magic?"
"To be honest," Gaspar replied calmly, "I haven't seen any troll so far. And I don't believe in witchcraft."
The grey woman laughed again, even louder than before.
"Oh, how little you know, Gaspar of Leidha," she said pitifully, "how little your eyes have seen, how little your ears have heard, and how little your heart has experienced…"
"Who told you where I come from?" he started up astonished.
"You'd be surprised how well I know you." There was a seriousness in her voice again. "How many stories the birds have told me, how many rumours float over the village in the evenings."
"They complain that they are running out of food."
"That's why they feed me themselves!" she said with irony. "And they believe I'll die from the smell of cheese. But time doesn't heal stupidity, as they say!"
Gaspar was silent, not sure what he should answer. The silence was broken only by the rustle of feet treading on the ground.
"Why aren't you playing?" she asked grudgingly but with tears in her eyes. "I want to hear about honey-coloured hair and the queen of cards. Play, and I'll sing!"
"I'll sing about you," he replied softly. "If you tell me what'd really happened here." She didn't answer, so he continued. "How long have you been in this tower? What happened to the goats, and why they released Peder?"
"So you do believe after all?" the tearful tone gave way to determination. "You believe in the legends you've only heard about, but you don't want to believe the one standing right in front of you."
"Tell me, Huldara," he said firmly yet warmly. "Tell me, and I'll believe."
She was silent for a long moment. Even the rustle of footsteps ceased.
"I'll sing," she said finally. "You will play, and I will sing."
Gaspar sat down, leaned against the cold walls of the tower, and began tuning his lute. He stopped, however, when he heard murmurs of disapproval.
"No, no," she said, "you didn't want us to be separated by walls."
He jumped up in fright as a terrible creaking sounded. He threw the lute over his back, then glanced timidly in the direction from which the noise was coming. On one side of the tower, he saw a door spread in two wings, about five cubits high. He waited for a moment, deluding himself that perhaps the tale of the troll woman was just an invention and that Huldara would come out to meet him. But nothing of the sort happened.
He stood in front of the entrance. The sunlight and the torch lit in the tower revealed only a piece of the dark interior - grey and a winding staircase that stood out in it. As he got closer, he noticed something abandoned on the bare ground, something white and oblong.
"They were here before I'd come." A voice from the depth of the tower was supposed to calm him down, but of course, it didn't.
He still had a chance to turn back, but curiosity took over. After all, he was probably the only person Huldara had let into Gal Andra. I'm going to be a part of the legend, he thought to reassure himself. Such a legend can only happen once.
As he crossed the threshold, the floor creaked under the pressure of his feet. The door howled again, and Gaspar jumped in horror and stepped aside to keep his leg or shirt sleeve from getting caught. The sun had stayed out, and the tower was now illuminated only by the dim glow of the torches.
"I can't see you," he said, then added half-jokingly. "Or are you just a voice?"
He didn't have to wait long for an answer. A thin, short shadow began to emerge from behind the wall. It dragged its owner behind, a small creature barely two cubits tall, pale as a bone lying in the vestibule. Straight, straw-light strands reached her hips, and a pair of large glassy eyes stood out on her face. Everything else about her was tiny – the nose, not-too-beautiful, the round mouth, the skinny hands, the breasts barely visible under the airy, semi-transparent robe. She looked like a child, a teenager at best, but her eyes betrayed her, piercing and disturbing, belonging to a mature woman.
Gaspar wanted to say something, but he was speechless. The troll girl seemed unreal, imagined in a dream mirage. A living legend.
She guessed that she had impressed him, cunning smile gave her away. She advanced towards the poet, who did not even move a muscle as she stood on her bare toes. Only after she summoned him with the gesture, did he lean down and feel her breath close to his ear, followed by a delicate touch of frighteningly cold, blue lips.
"Play for me," she whispered in a high, squeaky voice. "Play and sing about me."
Gaspar met her eyes again. They seemed transparent, impenetrable. He suddenly doubted whether he really saw her or whether the tower had created an illusion too fantastical to be true.
"Why are you so surprised?" she smiled cheekily. She giggled as the skald's only response was the horror painted on his face. "Sit down and play," she ordered with astonishing kindness. "I'll sing."
Gaspar looked awkwardly around for a suitable spot. Finding nothing in the cramped room except an ebony chest of drawers, barely visible in the dim light, showing signs of years of decay. So, he was left to sit on the cold, uncomfortable floor.
"I will sing," she repeated harshly, "but my song will never end."
A pillow, grey from a thick layer of dust, suddenly flew towards Gaspar. Huldara placed the other opposite the poet and sat on it, crossing her legs gracefully. The torchlight suddenly fell on her left cheek, which turned out not to be as flawless as Gaspar had thought at first. It was marked by a grey, dry, irregular spot. It was impolite to look over her like that, but the skald couldn't take his eyes off her, even while settling himself on the pillow. Huldara noticed his glance and lowered her eyes, still holding proudly her head high, though.
"Play."
He didn't ask questions. He began to create melodies that came to his mind without much thought. He was spinning a musical story unknown to anyone, even to himself, and Huldara half humming, half whispering was telling her story. A true story about the grey people born of volcanic rock who once roamed the Jord and built settlements, and then fled into the mountains from the alfars – the flowers of the Gharis, Mother Earth, a race more beautiful and clever than they. She was humming about how from the south came people stronger than the dignified alfars and little trolls, stronger but not more perfect; how, after brief years of peace, they exiled the flowers of Gharis east, to Soir, where they could feel safe. Huldara sang of magic the new people did not understand, which had withered with the alfars and congealed with the trolls. Mother Earth put her to sleep so that she could return one day and make the world more beautiful.
And lo and behold it arrived, the first grey man came to life from the rock. And with the reappearance of the trolls, hope ignited that also concord would come, that time had reversed its course, and that the first alfar would bloom again, and that foreign people would board their ships and sail back to where they had come from. But it didn't happen, the past was still the past, and the future was painted in grey colours.
"I got stuck in the tower before the last alphar'd been expelled east." Huldara continued humming as Gaspar continued strumming. "I was brought here by the flame of hope, human settlements so unlike anything we've known. I followed the tower that grew bigger every day. It was my guide, my destination. The goats found me, the goats from our village, and with them Peder… if that was really his name. He was the first whom I promised gold and horses for even a crumb of love, but he…" Huldara bravely held back tears, though Gaspar noticed it was hard for her. "He couldn't do that to me. 'You are the troll's daughter,' he said, 'you don't belong to us.' And he left."
The skald stopped his hand for a moment but noticed that the story hadn't been over yet. He picked up the soft, lazy tune again.
"I searched for him at nights," she went on, seemingly unfazed, "but I had to stay away. And they're all… you're all so alike." Gaspar heard the sorrow in her voice. "There was crying and loneliness, and then sleep. Long as the night of an eclipse, dreamless sleep, empty as death. But I woke up, and so much had changed in the world that in the beginning, I didn't want to leave. I was afraid of the truth that those had been only legends that you could but didn't have to believe. That I was just an illusion." She wiped away a tear but didn't let herself cry. "But I'm still alive and waiting for someone… for Peder to come back to lull me to sleep, to play and sing for me all day, and wander the meadows and villages at night…"
"Why didn't you come back?" Gaspar spoke for the first time in a very long time. "Your loved ones may be waiting for you in the mountains."
"I don't know," she replied sadly. "The only thing I'm aware of… once the day comes, there'll be no turning back."
He plucked a string one last time, and then the deafening, penetrating silence fell.
"Darkness falls," she murmured.
"It's time for me to go." Gaspar rose and groaned, feeling his muscles go numb.
"Time," she giggled softly, "doesn't run backwards. You didn't listen carefully, poet."
He looked at her questioningly. Suddenly, a shudder of anxiety ran through him.
"You will play, and I will sing," she said sweetly. For my song never ends.255Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeNmwVG87qc
