The Tale of Billy Gruff

I dawned my suit at midnight. There was likely none outside to see my freshly shined shoes or golden cuffs. It did not matter. I would not risk being last seen as uncleanly.

As I made my way to the abandoned stone bridge, my mind was quieter than I expected it to be. The stream flowing down the mountainside and below the bridge was louder. Its sounds were inconsequential. I merely hoped to see the sunrise one last time, if I could. The spot was rather well-known. The first reason for this was the view it provided. Standing there at the crack of dawn, the sun would softly climb the horizon till it was nestled between the mountain peaks. The second reason was my main purpose of visiting it tonight: Its height.

Yet, I did not think to consider the smells.

Her stench reached me before my eyes found her. I had first thought it was from river rot or yellowed stone. Then I saw its source and knew there was no other place the putrid stink could be coming from.

There was a woman blocking the way to the center of the bridge. The dozen or so rags she had draped across her body had matted together into a single tattered lump. She wore no shoes, revealing foul looking nails and hardened skin. Her lumpy face looked almost greyish in the moonlit night. She opened her mouth, revealing sharp yellowed teeth and snarled, “That makes three.”

There were often young lovers at the old bridge, but never this late. No one wished to speak to the damned. Frankly, I was a bit flustered and fell back on manners, ignoring her awful odor and strange appearance. “I’m sorry, what?”

I made my way closer to better hear her, but quickly paused. At this distance, I could see that her face truly was as gray and porous as granite.

She did not take notice of my hesitation and spat at my feet, grumbling, “Means you’re the third, this week.”

I had not excepted company tonight and did not quite know what to say. After a moment, I asked, “Erm. Please may I pass? I assure you I won’t be a bother for long.”

The grey woman merely glared, “Oh, yes. You won’t be a bother. Tell that to the two down there!”

‘Ah, she was here to deter any others.’ I attempted to turn her away gently. “Ma’am, I appreciate your consideration. But there is nothing you can say that will-”

“Oh, shut it. I don’t care where you things get your final rest! Just do it elsewhere!” She interrupted with a hiss, “None of the tasty young things come here anymore, thanks to your lot!”

‘Not a Samaritan, but a pervert, then.’ The fact that this foolish interaction would be my last stirred a feeling in me. Not bright enough to spark anger, but it was there. The feeling prodded at me to defend myself.

I straightened up a bit before speaking, “I imagine it to be like a lush green meadow. Fresh spring winds and soft grass at my feet. There won’t be any pain, nor hurt, or ache. A paradise of rest, away from those like you.”

The woman cocked her head, mocking, “So, how is it, then? Does it feel like a meadow?”

I paused in my righteous feeling, confused, “Whatever do you mean?”

She waved her hand dismissively and scoffed, “Oh, don’t be insulted. You should be glad, in fact. I don’t care for eating dead things.”

Her casual disregard for my intentions fanned the spark of anger into an ember. “Excuse me, ma’am. But I am very much alive,” I protested.

“What? Wiggling about like that won’t trick me. I pride myself in eating fresh!

It’s all in the eyes, see? When Life leaves, she takes their shining brine, too. Dries them right out! Makes them utterly awful to suck on. And yours look duller than a washed-up trout’s,” she said with a put-out sigh.

I must have visibly tensed, as the woman threw back her balding head and crackled.

“I’m your first Troll, I see. Relax! Even if their little head jellies were plump, the dead make awful game. Half of the fun is in the chase. But they don’t bother with it. Not that I blame ’em.” She fixed me with those crazed eyes.

“Why run when you’re already there?”

Perhaps she saw what I had felt. Perhaps it was a change in scent or stance. I still do not know. She saw it all and split her face in a wretched smile.

“Oh, guess you weren’t all that gone.”

I ran.

My feet pounded against the stone. Each sounding strike jolted my weight’s worth back up my legs and through my heart. I could not remember the last time I heard my own breath. It was wet and gasping but, God, it was mine. I was alive!

Her hurried manic scrambling nipped briskly at my heels. I would never forget that haunting laughter.

I did not know Death, when I so foolishly sought it out. I could not die before. To die, one must have lived. Had I jumped, my fall would have been like falling asleep. The same state of being, just stilled and at rest.

Now, with every burst of energy propelling me towards the end of the bridge, I was given back Life. And in the wake of my newfound mortality, I did what the living do when we’re reminded of our fragile state. I was afraid.

As the sun rose through and warmed the clouds, the stone bridge seemed to glow. I had long outrun the troll. Perhaps she did not give chase to begin with. Whichever it may be, I did not stop running. It was only when I crossed the bridge fully and into the forest that noticed my feet were bare. The short spring grass caressed my cuts and left a slight sting with each step.

I ran all the way home.