The following was written for a tabletop role-playing game I wrote for a contest before, called "Troll Lands". In this game, lands are comprised, literally, of "trolls", colossal beings, and the tribes that live on top of them. This story, and the one that'd follow, are an exercise in writing mythic storytelling in the form of Rudyard Kipling's "Just So" stories. Enjoy.
You can read the first piece, about the nature of stars, here.
After an especially loud thunder coming out of a clear sky, Little Grasshopper made his way to his grandfather’s tent, its flaps black and drawn down, hiding its occupant from those who did not make their way to see him.
Little Grasshopper did make his way to see his grandfather, and see him he did. Eyes both white and blind to the world, which meant he was communicating with the spirit world, perhaps even with their patron Troll, he thought. He sat down and waited, there was nothing else he dared to do, lest he’d interrupt the venerable Shaman.
The Shaman opened his eyes, eventually, and regarded his grandson. One eye still white, forever blind.
“So, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, and spirit of all my ancestors, you were troubled by the noise and wondered about its significance?”
Little Grasshopper nodded, and for once remained quiet, listening attentively to the old man.
“A new Troll is being born, or rather, a new Troll is coming up from under the skin of the land, to become the land itself.”
The little child gasped, but the older man kept talking, for it was important this knowledge was passed on.
“In the core of our land, as I had told you once before, the Trolls are one, in the form of lava. When a great earthquake occurs, or a new mountain of lava grows from the ground like a tree does in a child’s years, or when the waves come to shore at the height of treetops, it is a sign. A sign that from the flows of molten flame a new Troll had come to shore, to be the land, to be of the land.”
“Then why are Stupid as a Skunk and his wife leaving?”
“Who?” asked Golden Strand Weaver, his brow creased.
“Brown Oak, that’s how everyone calls him.”
“Then perhaps he’s leaving because he doesn’t appreciate being called a skunk, or being called stupid”, shaking his head, he kept talking, “No, you can stop worrying. You are not why they left.”
“As we have our Troll, our Troll has us. When a new Troll comes forth, there are people who go and become its tribe. Those people often don’t find their place in their original tribes, because they were always destined to go and become a new people. But, that is not always the case, some prominent leaders had also gone away when the call was made."
"Remember, we have family amongst the other tribes, but our first allegiance is to the Troll, and if it is required of us, we will cut down those who stand in our path, be they of other tribes, be they previously of our tribe, or be they still of our tribe.
We are a proud people, and we have rules, remember that, for if you will not, it may cost you your life.”
Looking at the child, the old man coughed and gestured towards the tent’s exit, “Off you go, to play with your friends, and to bid Brown Oak farewell.”
And as his grandson left, the old man chewed on some dried meat, considering.
He considered the time when he still had two eyes, his time as a hunter, young and lean, perfect of body, perfectly happy.
He remembered the day the old Shaman had died, impaled by a wild boar, his guts on the ground and all over the leaves of the forest.
He did not want to become the tribe’s new Shaman, but in the night, as a wild cat with eyes that had burnt red came to him, he knew that he had no choice. The tribe was life - the Troll was law. It’s not that he did not want to become the Shaman. It’s not that he considered running away and joining another tribe.
He never did any of those things. The course was set and he knew he was to become the new Shaman. The old laws could not be flaunted. The old laws were life, and to ignore life was to invite disaster, to him and his, and once he became the new Shaman, they were all his.
He went outside that day, and the tribe’s men, women, and children had all followed him. He went to the place where the boar had killed the old Shaman. He knelt and smeared the still wet bloody mud on his forehead, and as he rose up he had seen the spirit cat before him.
He knelt again, his eyes closed, and after a time that seemed like eternity, he knew it was time to rise.
He rose and opened his eyes, and he was disoriented. The material world has lost its depth. He raised his fingers to his left eye, and he knew it was blind.
Check out my latest posts:
- The Essence of Love - A poem.
- Depression Reality - A poem.
- We Are Called Legion, for We Are Many - Fiction.
Art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics
The image used is Skogtroll (The Forest Troll) by Theodor Kittelsen, 1904, and is public domain.
© Guy Shalev 2007.