“Tommi the Troll”

He didn’t want to go to school. But as usual, he couldn’t tell his mother why. It would hurt her too much. He dreaded the walk into town, the winding pathway that brought him closer and closer to the site of his daily humiliation. The children there could be so unkind. He wondered if all parents forgot memories of their own childhood. Perhaps that was why they sent their offspring off to school, oblivious to their fate. Like cows for the slaughter. But not everyone was like him, and maybe not every parent remembered the cruelties that came hand in hand with primary school. Not everyone was stared at on the walk to school, or instantly disliked. Not everyone was teased and laughed at for how they looked. Not everyone was twice as tall as his or her classmates, and not everyone had lots more hair than a human eight year-old should have. No one was as ugly as Tommi. His mother told him time and time again, that he wasn’t ugly, he was just a little bit different and that was what made him special. But the children at school said otherwise. He was her special boy, and she had waited for him for a long, long time. She told him, that sometimes people were slow to see good qualities in others, especially those who were a little bit different from them.

“Have a good day my lovely boy.” His mother said giving him a hug. “Do you have your packed lunch?” Tommi nodded, and instinctively patted his little rucksack. Every morning, his mom made him a quail egg sandwich with berry leaves. It was Tommi’s favorite. And everyday Tommi sat alone at lunchtime. He tried to keep out of sight, sitting on a rock under a tall oak tree in the corner of the playground. But his height and broad shoulders made it very difficult to hide. His classmates would stand a short distance away and taunt him. One boy with blond curly hair was their leader and he would hurl remarks that brought howls of laughter from the crowd. To Tommi, they sounded like a pack of loud and hungry wolves. Later that same day, while Tommi sat alone in the shade as usual, the blond boy yelled out, “How’s your baby sandwich, you filthy troll! Did you roast the baby or barbeque it this time!?” The boy’s words and the children’s vicious grins would cut Tommi like knifes. Tommi didn’t eat human babies. He didn’t know why people thought that. He wanted to be human more than anything else in the world. His mother was a kind human lady, with no children of her own, who had found Tommi as a baby, alone and abandoned in the woodlands behind her house. She had raised him as her son and named him after her late husband, who had been well liked and highly respected in town. Not that it mattered to the children in their treatment of Tommi, or their parents who stared at him as he walked to school.

Just then the bell rang, and the crowd of children dispersed as the boys and girls ran back towards the school building. As usual, Tommi waited until the rest of the children were a little bit ahead, before he got up from his rock. The boy with the blond curly hair was running ahead of the pack. He was sprinting, trying to make it to the heavy wooden doors first. Tommi could see what was about to happen. Tommi watched the blond boy gleefully look over his shoulder, to take pleasure in his lead ahead of everybody else. Tommi saw the little bunch of weeds in the grass that the blond boy was running straight towards without watching where he was going, and because of his great speed, their was no time to warn the boy or for him to change direction. The blond boy tripped on the weeds and went sailing through the air, landing with a loud thud. His leg was splayed out at a funny angle and the boy started to wail. Hot tears flooded down his angelic face that was twisted into a look of sheer agony. All the other children stopped, unsure of what to do. No one moved forward to try and help him. At that moment, Tommi bolted across the grassy playground, three times faster than the little blond boy. None of the children had ever seen him run, because he moved slowly to avoid bringing attention to himself. In truth, he was much quicker than any human child, and was at the injured boy’s side in a matter of seconds. The blond boy looked up at Tommi who knelt over the injured child. The boy’s look of agony was replaced with a look of sheer terror and he covered his face with his arms in a pitiful effort to shield himself from the troll child that towered over him. Tommi rested his hands on the boy’s injured leg, and in seconds it shifted back into a more natural position. The blond boy looked up at Tommi in disbelief, who using the rumored magic of the trolls had healed his tormentor’s leg.

From that day forward, Tommi never dreaded walking to school. His walk down the winding path was met with smiles from the townspeople, whose children included him in every schoolyard gathering. And despite his naturally quick speed, Tommi often let the other children win the games they played together.

—Julie O’Connell

“Fergus Forest Troll”

The tale of Fergus forest troll, is a fearsome one. A mere mention of his name has rendered even the most brave and bold into cowards and fools.

A vicious, heartless creature is Fergus forest troll. With great sharp teeth, beastly eyes and gnarled limbs adorned in tangled thorns. A great many men, sheep, women, goats, babies, cows and perfectly good rose bushes have fallen victim to the wretched wrongs of Fergus forest troll. Though none have spied him for generations, his tale still haunts the villages near the Great forest.

A young girl, Flora, once lived in a village to the east of the Great forest. Tales of Fergus forest troll, hung around the schoolyard as they had for years and years. But none were so brave enough to explore beyond the village wall to sneak a glimpse of the mangled, malicious, dark and deadly Fergus. To Flora, fearsome Fergus was fiction, a fraud, and nothing to halt a fair flower picking over. So, one Tuesday mid-morning, Flora ventured through the village fields, over the village wall, and into the Great forest.

It was just as she was picking precious pink peonies that she spied, just beyond a small stream, a quaint creature, a dumpling of sorts, with squat legs and the floppiest of ears atop terribly pinch-able cheeks. She failed to see him before, what with his mossy coat sprouting dainty buds of dandelions and his marbled grey stone skin. A suitable amount of pleasantries and delightful, yet slightly awkward small talk was exchanged before at last the tiny troll introduced himself as Fergus XIV, the youngest Fergus in the Fjergusson clan. Flora did not wish to be rude, however, she politely proposed that he positively could not be the Fergus forest troll, of the hateful and horrid Fergus forest troll tales.

Alas, he was not, that terrible title belonged to his great grandfather, a rancid reputation which Fergus relentlessly rejects. The fearsome family of Fjergusson had long passed, leaving Fergus to his lonesome, quiet hobbies of stone skipping, flower foraging and wood whittling. Centuries of solo soul searching had made Fergus Fjergusson quite the crafty troll.

Following a lovely lunch of fresh figs and lily leaves, Flora fondly bid farewell to friendly Fergus forest troll and fervently set off on a mission to free Fergus from the sordid slew of rotten rumours.

As years and years passed, Flora, having putting an end to the petty, pernicious tales of “fearsome Fergus”, was now making considerable efforts in the tracing and rehabilitation of abandoned, forlorn and dejected forest trolls.

Whilst Fergus forest troll received tremendous tribute for his debut artistic exhibition: “Forest forms: A sculpted series of winter whittling.”

—Kristian Martin

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It was a long, long time ago when trolls moved in great numbers across vast Norwegian plains that Nora was only a small child, and was warned about their dangers. The youngest in a family of boys, Nora was a curious child, and enjoyed exploring the forests around her village.

One particularly shadowy night, Nora’s curiosity led her into the forest just behind the soft lights of her village. She didn’t dare tell any of the elders, as there were recent whispers of evil mountain trolls moving closer to the human villages, and she was forbidden from exploring at that hour. She innocently clutched a simple doll, made of straw, and braved into the mysterious dark woods. Mesmerized by giant canopy trees and the faint murmur of woodland creatures, Nora became easily disoriented. She was suddenly aware of her surroundings and how unfamiliar they looked as the light began to grow dimmer. Panic struck, and she grasped on to a thorny branch, scraping her palm, then stepped onto a slippery stone. Thud. She fell, onto the moist forest floor. Her head hit a larger stone, and she could feel the wind being sucked out of her. She looked to the forest ceiling just as her eyelids closed, one last glimpse the dark night sky before everything was black.

Hours later, Nora’s eyelids were heavy and it seemed that everything around her was spinning. Struggling, her eyes half opened to see watch a blurry, dark, forest rushing past her. Confusion swept over as she noticed that a large, bark-skinned creature appeared to be carrying her. With thoughts of trolls flashing through her head, Nora again slipped into a blackened consciousness.

Startled again, Nora awoke to two creatures that seemed to be arguing over her. One was large, stout, with blackened bark-skin and menacing yellow eyes, carried a sharply angled stone. Arguing with the creature was another, shorter companion, with dim purple eyes and a soft brown colored bark coat. She turned to Nora, cradled her in her arms, and with gentle eyes, whispered a spell in strange tongue that caused Nora to, again, slip into her dreamy state of darkness.

This time, when Nora opened her eyes, things were clearer. She felt better, her senses coming back to her, forming the familiar sight of a house hole in the dark night. As she slowly came back to consciousness, Nora realized she had been lost, deep in the unknown forest. But how had she gotten here, safely, back home? Confused, Nora turned just in time to catch the glint of two purple eyes watching over her at the edge of the woods. Quickly, the creature that they belonged to turned and disappeared back into the dark.

Nora, now one of the elders of her village, to this day believes that it was a mountain troll that saved her life that day, through her faint memories. Once a month, she leaves out an offering to them – three ripe figs and a dandelion – a troll’s favorite meal, along with her little straw doll. And every so often, just for a second, there will be the glimpse of those familiar purple eyes.

—Chloe Jung

“Trollrydning”

Far into the woodlands that border Millifjord, it is said, there is a glade where trees grow no more. The glade is bordered by peculiar rock formations covered in smelly moss and shrubs and mildews. Townspeople called this glade Trollrydning, as legend told that the strange boulders had once been ancient trolls—now petrified by the sun. But these were children’s tales, and brave boys like Kili did not believe in them. So it happened, that one chilly autumn evening, right before dusk, Kili went out looking for dry bark. At the borders of the woodlands, he heard a rustle amongst the leaves. He gazed into the thick green foliage and squinted, but could not see a thing; he could, however, hear a strange crunching and crackling. Curious, as all young boys are, Kili followed the sound into the far deeps of the forest, into Trollrydning; he hesitated and thought of going back, but then, as clouds moved and the last ray of moonlight hit the glade, Kili saw a gigantic dead crunched-over tree in its midst. Happy to have found some dry bark, the boy ran with his little hatchet. As he approached the tree, however, he noticed that it was an odd one, which had the same smelly shrubs and moss growing all over its curved trunk. The boy climbed the warped tree trunk, but the tree screeched and rustled and lift a big deformed head up to reveal a huge troll who had been sluggishly napping and scratching in the midst of the gale! The troll grabbed Kili with its warty shrubby hand and examined the boy with its large slimy eye. Kili was as petrified as the boulders that surrounded the gale; then the troll huffed and slowly put Kili down and thought of him no more. Relieved Kili ran home, but as he ran, he thought that the troll seemed rather sad. So, Kili walked back slowly to where the troll stood moping in the midst of the glade. The boy asked the troll why he was so sad, and the troll, slowly and lethargically looked down to the boy and told him a long story.

The troll said that he and his family were cave trolls, and as such, had always lived within the mountains that surrounded Milifjorn and never knew sunshine nor wind. One day, his seven children, curious as all young trolls are, ventured out into the woodlands, and never came back. The troll searched for them in and out, through every tunnel in every mountain, until it found a little crack, only about the size of an oak, and thought perhaps its children had gone out. It looked far and wide in this strange woodland area, until it found the glade where his petrified children stood. He told Kili they were lazy and would not be woken up and so it came back every night to scratch their noses (since everyone knew that nose-shrugs were very itchy). The troll’s story prolonged throughout the night, as trolls spoke slow and sluggish, but Kili listened patiently. And so it happened, that by the time it finished its story, the sun came out and petrified the huge troll into stone as well. Kili felt sad about the troll, but then realized it would now be with his family for many years to come. So Kili came back to Trollrydning now and them, to scratch the trolls’ noses, until he grew up and thought it children’s stories and forgot all about it.

—Katia Fernández

“The Misjudged Tromsø Troll and the Helpful Norwegian Boy”

Axel, a small boy who lived in Tromsø, Northern Norway, had just had his 16th birthday. He was well built for a young man of his age, and his crystal blue eyes glistened even in the darkest of winter nights. His mother and father owned a small bit of land tucked away at the foot of a large mountain facing the vast, mysterious Norwegian Sea. Axel would climb the mountain during much of his childhood, and look out across the empty waters in search of sea-battered Vikings on their exciting and eventful journeys. He dreamed of joining them one day.

But he knew his duty lay at his family’s home. He had to stay and help with the fields and cattle – his mother and father wouldn’t be able to do it alone. He could only day-dream of the far away places those ships could take him to. He could only dream of the lush, green forests, and freshwater springs that may be found on the other side of the mountain. His golden locks blew in the wind as he sat atop a small ledge protruding from the mountain. He looked across the sea and said thought to himself aloud, “One day, I will leave Tromsø and go on some great adventure.”

The rock beneath him began to tremble. Axel jumped up in surprise. He braced himself for the possibility of a bear or monstrous creature lurking behind him. No such creature appeared. He began to drop his hands at his sides, when the trembling started up again – this time much more significantly than before. The slab of rock that Axel was sitting on began to lift itself. Axel nimbly hopped into a near-by tree, frightened that a bear might be coming out from under the ledge.

The rock kept lifting itself up until it was standing vertically. A face, dotted with small boulders and shrubs, extended from the other side of the rock slab – the truly and utterly ugly face of a mountain troll. It had a large, drooping nose, and sad, half-closed eyes that seemed to have never seen the sunlight. Its mouth gnawed on a few falling sticks from the shaken trees above. Axel, still perched in the nearby tree, observed with awe-struck eyes. A gasp escaped from his small lips. The troll turned slowly to where the sound had come from. He brought a large tree-trunk arm up to his rock-slab forehead and scratched with his root-like fingers. He spoke with a deep, rumbling voice that shook the trees and gravel around him.

“Yes, I too would like to travel. To leave this desolate mountain in Tromsø and be one with the southern sea winds.” He looked Axel straight in the eyes and continued to gnaw on the branches and leaves protruding from his mouth, lazily and sleepily he slowed the circular motion of his jaw. Axel, still frozen with fright and surprise, only managed a muttered reply.

“Your-you’re… You’re a troll! You’re a Tromsø Troll! The beast – the beast that wanders the Tromsø hills in search for children and livestock!” His eyes widened and he gripped a nearby branch in case he needed a weapon.

“Alas, dear boy, I am not said creature. Your people seem to tell tales of enchantment and exaggeration. I am the Tromsø Troll, but I do not wander nor do I eat children and livestock. That would be rude and unhealthy. No, no. You are mistaken.” The Troll gave an exasperated sigh and turned to face the now-calm Norwegian Sea.

“If you are not the monstrous troll I’ve heard a great deal about, then who are you?” Axel crept down from his perch and approached the Troll, climbed up his rock-slab back and sat near a small shrub on the Troll’s left shoulder.

“I am the Troll of the Tromsø Hills, forever confined to this region because of my duty to the Bodojonk Trolls. It is my task to guard and protect these mountains from harm and danger. I must sit here and keep a watchful eye on the seas, take notice of any suspicious rustle in the leaves of my trees or the movement of the pebbles beneath my feet. I protect you and your family, your cattle and crops, from the Trondersky Trolls, of the Southern region. They hunt these lands. And they destroy anything and everything in their path on their search for food.” The Tromsø Troll spat out his chewed debris and sat back against the weight of the mountain behind him. Axel had to grab onto the Troll’s large tree ears so that he didn’t fall to his death.

“So you are misjudged? My people have thought you to be dangerous and harmful. We send out our best men to hunt for signs of you, for signs of trolls that may come and destroy our seaside village. I must tell them that these are lies!”

“You can tell them what you want, dear boy, but it will not free me of this duty. I must wait here. I am sworn to this mountain. I cannot leave as you one day dream to do.” He let out another long sign, and they weight of his breathe bent all the trees in the valley below.

“Then I, too, shall wait with you, friendly Troll,” Axel said, with a nod of his head.

“Do you really mean it?” The Troll stood up so suddenly that Axel fell to the ground, nearly landing on the jagged rocks below. The Troll swooped his large root-like hands and caught the boy just in time. He scooped him up towards his large, ugly face and spoke softly as to not blow him over with his powerful wind-breathe.

“You would stay here and keep me company during my watch? I am very lonely up here.”

“I will come up once a day, after I’ve herded my cattle, and keep you company until sundown,” Axel promised, with his right hand over his heart.

And this marked the beginning of an unusual – but beautiful – friendship between a small Norwegian boy, and a friendly Tromsø Troll. Today, you can see the Troll’s silhouette in the Tromsø mountains – a slab of grey rock protruding from the face of the cliff and a small human-like rock figure sitting on his left shoulder. Together, they watch the mysterious waters of the Norwegian Sea for unfriendly faces who may threaten their sweet, small town of Tromsø.

—Zoe Arthur