food or shelter. He had refused the meager payment the villagers had tried to offer, and so they provided him food instead, and arranged to have him sleep at a small barn at the end of the day.
But as the months rolled by, the Mountain began spending more and more nights at the abandoned house underneath the stone bridge, rather than at the lodgings the people provided. While he was grateful for the villagers for their hospitality, he had never been one to rely on other people before, and had always felt uncomfortable. The house had not been lived in for many years, but the structure remained intact all this time. A few days was all he needed to make it livable again, and he spent most of his time here after his work was done for the day, adding small furnishings he carved and built with his own hands. A comfortable bed first, then a small table, then a chair, and a few more, until it began to feel like home.
He was patient and unyielding, rising at the break of dawn and working for hours on end, stopping only to eat or bathe or sleep, and in eight months he had finished the stone bridge. Now the people could barter with other villages and cities with their precious wine. Slowly but surely, they prospered.
His work was done, but the Mountain felt no inclination to leave. He liked his little stone house, liked having a place he had repaired with his own hands - a place he could call his own. He continued to refuse payment, so the villagers had come up with a new proposition. They needed someone to maintain the bridge, they said, who would collect toll fees from everyone seeking to cross. He would hold their payments until the annual village meetings where they would then decide what to do with the money, to benefit all. They would also need someone to stand guard for bandits and robbers. The Mountain could do this, they said. He could continue to live in the stone house, and he would be paid a certain stipend each year, and they would call it the Trollsson bridge, in his honor.
The Mountain agreed to this proposal, pleased that he could stay on. So, at a grizzled age of twenty-seven, he became the stone bridge’s tollkeeper. Whenever anyone chose to cross the bridge, they would ring a small bell on one end, and the Mountain would emerge from his house to unlock the gate and allow them to pass, for the price of a few coins.
One clear night, that small bell jangled, and the Mountain went up the granite steps to look. There was a small wagon, small and rickety and not as well-maintained as the others that had gone before. One scrawny-looking horse pulled it, and stood by the gate. As the Mountain approached, he was surprised to see that its driver was a beautiful young girl of perhaps eighteen or nineteen, a faint look of apprehension on her pretty face as she watched him draw nearer. He had never seen her before, and it was obvious from the way she drew back from him, her eyes taking in his largeness and heavy build, that she had never seen him before, either.
“My grandfather and I would like to go to the fair,” she said softly, voice trembling, “for we have wine and a bit of vegetables to sell.”
The Olyta Fair happened once every month, and it had the reputation of being the best marketplaces to sell one’s wares within the kingdom. It had began soon after the stone bridge was repaired, and was hosted at a small town past the bridge called Olyta, only some miles away. Most of the caravans from the other villages had left earlier that night, and the Mountain was surprised that the young woman had started out so late.
“My grandfather wanted to come along,” the girl said, as if reading his mind, “and it took awhile for him to… well, we had never been out of the village before.” The older man was already nodding off beside her.
“Toll?” He inquired, unable to look away. She was a lovely thing, and his lust, muted for so many years, returned with an intensity that astounded him. He had not had a woman
But as the months rolled by, the Mountain began spending more and more nights at the abandoned house underneath the stone bridge, rather than at the lodgings the people provided. While he was grateful for the villagers for their hospitality, he had never been one to rely on other people before, and had always felt uncomfortable. The house had not been lived in for many years, but the structure remained intact all this time. A few days was all he needed to make it livable again, and he spent most of his time here after his work was done for the day, adding small furnishings he carved and built with his own hands. A comfortable bed first, then a small table, then a chair, and a few more, until it began to feel like home.
He was patient and unyielding, rising at the break of dawn and working for hours on end, stopping only to eat or bathe or sleep, and in eight months he had finished the stone bridge. Now the people could barter with other villages and cities with their precious wine. Slowly but surely, they prospered.
His work was done, but the Mountain felt no inclination to leave. He liked his little stone house, liked having a place he had repaired with his own hands - a place he could call his own. He continued to refuse payment, so the villagers had come up with a new proposition. They needed someone to maintain the bridge, they said, who would collect toll fees from everyone seeking to cross. He would hold their payments until the annual village meetings where they would then decide what to do with the money, to benefit all. They would also need someone to stand guard for bandits and robbers. The Mountain could do this, they said. He could continue to live in the stone house, and he would be paid a certain stipend each year, and they would call it the Trollsson bridge, in his honor.
The Mountain agreed to this proposal, pleased that he could stay on. So, at a grizzled age of twenty-seven, he became the stone bridge’s tollkeeper. Whenever anyone chose to cross the bridge, they would ring a small bell on one end, and the Mountain would emerge from his house to unlock the gate and allow them to pass, for the price of a few coins.
One clear night, that small bell jangled, and the Mountain went up the granite steps to look. There was a small wagon, small and rickety and not as well-maintained as the others that had gone before. One scrawny-looking horse pulled it, and stood by the gate. As the Mountain approached, he was surprised to see that its driver was a beautiful young girl of perhaps eighteen or nineteen, a faint look of apprehension on her pretty face as she watched him draw nearer. He had never seen her before, and it was obvious from the way she drew back from him, her eyes taking in his largeness and heavy build, that she had never seen him before, either.
“My grandfather and I would like to go to the fair,” she said softly, voice trembling, “for we have wine and a bit of vegetables to sell.”
The Olyta Fair happened once every month, and it had the reputation of being the best marketplaces to sell one’s wares within the kingdom. It had began soon after the stone bridge was repaired, and was hosted at a small town past the bridge called Olyta, only some miles away. Most of the caravans from the other villages had left earlier that night, and the Mountain was surprised that the young woman had started out so late.
“My grandfather wanted to come along,” the girl said, as if reading his mind, “and it took awhile for him to… well, we had never been out of the village before.” The older man was already nodding off beside her.
“Toll?” He inquired, unable to look away. She was a lovely thing, and his lust, muted for so many years, returned with an intensity that astounded him. He had not had a woman
Similar Books
