B is for Bridge
The builders knew what they were doing, when they mixed the mortar that would hold the keystone in place. They added a splash of rich red wine, and then dropped in a silver coin and an iron nail. The congratulated each other on a job well done, and fitted the last stones, and went back to their offices on the high street, in the capital.

The bridge was a new project, paid for by the king in the faraway capital, to facilitate trade in his realm, since his citizens had a tendency to be clannish and isolated, journeying only when it was absolutely necessary, and no farther than the next town, whenever they could get away with it. The bridge would span the muddy river – too fast-moving for boats or easy fording, too shallow to dig out canals – and it would let traders, tinkers, and travelers move themselves and their goods from town to town, village to village. The king’s ministers had planned a whole network of bridges, canals, and roadworks, and they all hoped that their efforts would ensure them their place in history.

They hadn’t expected, of course, that the bridge wouldn’t be used.

***

A man and a woman, middle-aged, and clearly familiar with each other, stood at the edge of the bridge where it met the deeply-rutted dirt road. Already the dandelions and columbine, and other hearty wildflowers had begun to sprout around the bridge’s stones, such flowers having no interest either in bridges, or stones. The woman said to the man “Well, I don’t care who hears it, but you won’t get me across that damned thing.” The man just nodded his assent.

“Everyone knows,” the woman continued, “the first person across a new bridge might as well have walked right into church and spit on the altar. There’s no recovering from a sin like that one!” The man nodded again. His views on the permanence of sin difference somewhat from his female companion, but her meaning was true enough: the first one to cross a new bridge was damned, and that was the way it was. Three months since the mortar had set, and three months the bridge stood there, with nobody using it but local foxes, who had quickly discovered that they could get close enough to the village to snap up a hen or two, and then run right across the bridge without being followed.

“I don’t know why they built that bloody thing anyways,” she said. “Peddlers just take the long way ‘round anyhow, and always have. They don’t need some shortcut to get here any sooner. The bridge down by Nettleton serves just fine, and it’s not like we need more strangers.” The man, growing bored with the conversation, watched some rabbits chasing each other through the grass about a stone’s throw away, and wished he’d brought a sling.

“Well, if we were down south a ways, maybe it wouldn’t matter so much. People down there, they can always find a sinner or two in the village, someone who wouldn’t be losing much by inviting the Devil’s gaze like that. But us? Up here?” She looked both shocked and mightily offended. “We’re good honest folk in these parts! Not one of us enough of a black soul to be so bold and impious!”

The man broke his silence: “Why do you think it attracts the Devil anyway, to walk across a new bridge?” he asked. “I mean, is it because building bridges is unnatural? Goes against the laws of nature, maybe?” The woman gave him a foul look, like he was a moon-brain, and shook her head.

***

One morning in late summer, as autumn was just starting to sniff around to see if the time was right, a little girl was chasing frogs by the river. The frogs, not eager to be caught, hopped away into deeper water whenever they could. The summer had been hot and dry, and the river was shallower even than usual, and so the frogs were able to splash from puddle to pool, and the girl hopped rock to rock to pursue. She chased one of the frogs all the way across the river, and up the bank on the far side.

She reached the top of the bank, and lost the frog in the deep grass. Dejected and pouting the way only small children can, with her bottom lip stuck far out and her wild hair sticking out in all directions, the girl began to plod back towards the village. Perhaps if she asked, her mother might give her an apple dipped in honey. The thought of a honey-dipped apple made the girl smile, and she picked up her pace, heading as quickly as her short legs would carry her towards the still-uncrossed bridge, now grown over with ivy and with thick grass and wildflowers growing in any bit of loose earth.

The girl’s foot had not yet had time to set down on the first stone of the bridge when she was snatched into the air and whirled around. There were voices from the village, people shouting in fear and surprise, and more than one person stood mouth-wide, or eyes closed and heads lowered in prayer. The girl’s mother was one of those who saw what had happened, and she ran from her work, screaming and wailing.

For she knew her daughter was going to be the first to cross the bridge, and give her young soul over to evil.

But that is not what happened.

An older boy, named Barnabas, had seen the girl’s game, and had watched it take the child up the far side of the bridge, and then he had watched the little one turn about and come back towards the village. Barnabas had run then, though he was far across the village green, digging a stone out of an ungrateful goat’s hoof. He had crossed the green, and down the road, and then, without another moment’s though, he had rushed across the bridge, scooped the girl into the air, and spun her back to safety.

The bridge had been crossed, and Barnabas had been the first one to cross it.

Barnabas and the girl stood on the road on the far side of the bridge, and the villagers were all running out towards them. Even though the bridge had been crossed, the people were still nervous, and many of them milled about at the edge reluctantly. Barnabas began to cross back over, holding the little girl’s hand in his own. The little girl was confused, and had been thinking hard about crying, but had decided otherwise.

Barnabas saw the eyes of the villagers, and where once he had been able to meet the eyes of everyone in the village with a smile and a “good morning!” he now looked away, ashamed and dejected. The villagers averted their eyes from him as well, save those who glared at him cruelly. A few forked their fingers at him, a sign to ward off evil, and a few others made the sign of the cross. They were clustering across the bridge, now, although none would pass the halfway point onto Barnabas’ side. He guided the little girl across, and as soon as the girl had passed the bridge’s midpoint, she was snatched up into the arms of a villager, who shushed her and pulled her back away from Barnabas.

Without any words, the villagers let Barnabas know he was no longer welcome. They continued glaring at him, as he stood, silently, on the bridge, and as the more timid villagers backed away, the braver ones hefted farming tools and loose stones, and Barnabas could see that if he tried to cross back into the village, they would feel no regrets about using them on him. He hung his head, understanding, and then, resignedly, raised it again and looked everyone in the eyes one last time before he turned away and followed the road away from the village.

***

Barnabas didn’t go far. He didn’t know much beyond the village. He had been to the nearest town a few times when his family would bring their wheat in to the mill, or for markets, but nothing beyond that. He wasn’t at all prepared for the life of an exile. After a week, and one horrible night in an autumn thunderstorm, Barnabas came back to the village.

He came skulking like a wolf in the night, crossing the bridge with the sliver of a silvery moon glinting from the surface of the now-fuller-and-faster river. He slipped into the town like a breeze through a crack in the wall, and began gathering what supplies he thought he might need. Blankets, dried fruit, whatever he could carry. He even got so bold as to steal a chicken, breaking its little neck so that its noise wouldn’t wake anyone. The village dogs all knew Barnabas by smell, and so didn’t raise a fuss.

Bundling his gains together, Barnabas carried them all back to the bridge. Another storm was coming in, and he did not relish the idea of sleeping under the open sky again, so he dropped down the hill above the river and found some high ground tucked deep under the bridge. There, he could weather the storm, even cook his purloined hen on a small fire, and he could not be seen from the village.

Sleeping more comfortably than he had in a week, Barnabas slept right on into the day, and then through that as well, not waking until dusk the following eve. Barnabas took that as a lucky sign, since going about in the daytime would have quickly revealed him to the village, who would’ve driven him away again, and this time they would not simply have let him walk away.
It didn’t take long before someone began to suspect something was amiss, however. Barnabas could not sneak eggs and apples forever, and by the end of summer, the village knew that there was a curse upon them. They sent to the priest in the town to perform an exorcism, but before he could arrive, Barnabas was discovered.

Just before dawn, as autumn was slowly fading into winter, he was creeping back towards the shelter of the bridge when he heard a girl’s voice. “You’re the boy that crossed the bridge,” she said. He paused, unsure of what to do, but then he turned slowly to face her. When he looked into her eyes, he realized that she looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite identify her. What he could identify, though, was the expression on her face. It wasn’t quite terror, and it wasn’t quite surprise, but it was something very much like both of those together, with just a dash of pity. Barnabas cocked up one eyebrow and asked: “What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”

The girl was wordless, but she pointed at his face. Barnabas reached up and touched his face all around, but felt nothing unusual. “What is it?” he hissed, trying to raise his voice without making too much noise.

“You…” she forced herself. “You’re a troll!”

Now this should not come as a surprise to any of you. What else would become of a cursed individual who lived under a bridge? Becoming a troll was the only natural step. Of course, it takes a long time to become a troll, but sleeping under bridges can do strange things to one’s perception of time, and since Barnabas only knew his face as his face, he didn’t notice the bony protrusions, the broad jaw, or the wickedly curved teeth. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d stopped cooking his meat, or that the cold dampness beneath the bridge no longer bothered him. All of this came to Barnabas all at once, and he was nearly overwhelmed by the surprise of it. He found it surprising, but surprisingly, not upsetting. With the ugliness and the savagery, Barnabas realized, had come speed and power that he just hadn’t had time to take stock of before. He thought he had been moving rather swiftly through the darkness, and he had suspected that his arms had been stronger than ever before, but he had just been too busy living night to night to consider it.

In the act of realizing all these things, Barnabas also realized why he had not recognized the girl right away: the last time he had seen her, she had been much younger, and had been chasing frogs on the far side of the bridge.

“How long has it been?” Barnabas asked her.

“Nearly twelve years,” the girl replied, “and yet you’ve barely aged. Though time has… changed you, you still look as young as you did that day.”

“Twelve years?” Barnabas asked, shocked. He thought it was the same year, only a few seasons later! And yet it seemed that for every week that he spent under the bridge, more than a year passed in the world above. Time indeed flowed strangely in the lands beneath the bridge. “I must go,” he said, and turned away from her again.

“Wait!” she said, and Barnabas peered his head back over his shoulder. “I’ve not even told you my name.”

He did not speak, but snuffed the air, indicating that she should continue.

“It’s Rowan,” she told him. “Like the tree.”

With that, Barnabas the troll went back to his lair beneath the bridge, and he slept.

***

Two more times Barnabas woke and slept, and the priest came from town, performed his little exorcism, and went, and Barnabas slept through it. Then, on the third waking, Barnabas found that Rowan had left him gifts: food, blankets, and little locks of her hair so that he would know it was from her. She had hidden the gifts so deeply in the space under the bridge that he was surprised she had not stumbled upon him sleeping, and yet she had not. It was as if a troll hiding beneath a bridge was not just well-hidden, but invisible to the outside world.

Barnabas took a moment to gulp down the fruit and bread she had left him, much of it now stale or dry or rotten. He cared little for the taste, for his hunger was overwhelming when he first woke. As he was shovelling the food into his mouth, he noticed that his hands had become large, broad, spadelike things, with flat, thick nails, nearly claws. He also noticed that at the bottom of the pile of food was a small bit of hammered metal that glinted in the moonlight: a mirror.

He propped the tiny thing in his paw and angled it to observe himself. No wonder Rowan had been so afraid of him when she had seen him: he was a troll indeed. His hair had fallen out, to be replaced by bony spines, and he had a pair of curving ram’s horns growing above his ears, which were themselves grown long and pointed, like an ox’s. His jaw was undershot, and from his thick lips protruded a set of teeth not unlike a boar’s. His nose was his own, but rounder and heavier, and his eyes were deep-set in a ridged brow. And yet somehow, despite all the changes to his features, he was still unmistakably Barnabas; some essence of his appearance remained, through all the trollishness.

The troll began to move out from under his bridge when he saw Rowan, standing before him with a basket under her arm. She was surprised by his sudden appearance: “Where did you come from?” she demanded.

“I was right here all along,” he told her. “I was just coming out to stretch my legs. I’ve been here since the last time you saw me.”

“Oh no you have not,” she told him. “I’ve been here twice a week since and not seen you once.”

Neither of them knew about the land of that exists under bridges and hills and fallen logs, the magical land that can only be reached by certain roads, like walking widdershins in a fairy ring, or drinking cool mead beneath a full moon. But even without knowing of the land, Barnabas had been going there every night. It kept him safe, but like so many others, it took him out-of-step with the passage of time. And now he realized that, for he noticed that Rowan looked older still than she had on their previous visit.

He told her this, and she told him it had been a year and a day since they had last spoken. He nodded his mighty head, and the spines rattled.

They sat the rest of the night and spoke. She told him of the village, and their trials and troubles, and he spoke of the strange dreams he had, of a faraway land ruled by a mighty king and queen who were both brilliantly beautiful and frighteningly cruel, and how he would wander that place and build mighty bridges from stone, and sing troll songs with other trolls, and when the light began to grow on the eastern horizon, Barnabas looked at Rowan and smiled, and she smiled back.

They did their best to meet whenever they could after that, though Barnabas was never sure what night he would rise to Rowan’s world. Sometimes, they would walk together in the woods, and sometimes they would sit in the grass, and once, when there was snow on the ground, they built a small fire and snuggled together under the shelter of the bridge. Sometimes, if he woke and Rowan was not there, Barnabas would wander around the village and sculpt stone into useful shapes, patching the walls of the village buildings, or repairing the well. He had found that as large as his hands were, they were well-suited to carving stone as nimbly and perfectly as anyone ever had. The little favours he did for the village were attributed to angels – or occasionally brownies, for whom the people left out bowls of milk. Barnabas let the cats of the village drink the milk.

And all the while, Rowan grew older, and Barnabas did not.

***

One night, Rowan took Barnabas atop his bridge, a place he had not been since he had first crossed the stones so many years ago. The stones were worn smooth with traffic now, though the ivy and columbine still stubbornly grew from the rocks. Barnabas had grown huge and trollish, but he still smiled with the same face he had always had.

“I love you,” she said simply. “I know you are a troll, and probably damned, but for all that, I love you.”

Barnabas nodded, and his spines made a tinkling noise as they rustled together. Some of them had little silver bells attached, which Rowan had fastened there on one of their nights. “I love you,” he told her. “Which I suppose means trolls can love, which comes as a bit of a surprise to me.”

“Not to me,” she said, and kissed him.

He did not suddenly change then. He was not restored to his rightful shape, nor were they suddenly whisked away to a magical land where they could be together. But they didn’t care, and she rested her head on his shoulder and they stood there together, gazing out over the water, and they were happy.

“I have learned something,” Barnabas told Rowan. “I have learned that the land I go when I dream is not a dream at all, but a real place. The bridge is the gateway, but it is only open to trolls.” And then after a moment of reflection, he added: “And wizards, maybe.”

“I thought it might be,” she said, “for there could be no other reason why you are nowhere to be found if I come looking for you and you aren’t awake.

They stood a little longer together, and then they kissed again, and they held each other’s hands for a moment, looking into one another’s eyes. Then they said their goodbyes, and Rowan walked back towards the town. Barnabas watched her go, and then when she was safely back in her home, he made his way back beneath his bridge to sleep.

Somewhere, deep in the heartstone of the bridge, an iron nail, a silver coin, and a splash of wine tingled with a bit of magic. Silver coins grant prosperity, and so it was with Rowan, for her fortunes would grow and multiply throughout the rest of her life. Iron nails drive off foul creatures, and yet this one had let Barnabas stay beneath his bridge; iron nails also cure disease, however, and they granted Barnabas respite and peace. Wine is for good health and wellbeing, and this came to both of them, for they were robust, and strong, and at peace, having known that they loved each other.

But sadly, they parted ways on a bridge, and it is known in every corner of the world that two people who part ways on a bridge will never meet again.

When Barnabas slept that night, he drifted back into the other world, where trolls lived among elves and goblins and other things, and some say he became a great hero there, saving entire kingdoms from monsters, and never asking for reward. Rowan returned to the bridge, night after night, and never found her troll again. Eventually, she found her love, though undiminished, no longer hurt so much, she found a human man, and together they lived a happy life.

And she taught her children not to be afraid of trolls, and together, they would go down to the bridge at sunset with little treasures and bits of food.

And sometimes, in the morning, the gifts would be gone.