Chapter 13: Chapter Six – Of Trolls and Trollops

A moment of heavy silence hung in the air between the two men, until finally, Guileless shook his head slowly and confessed with a depressed sigh, “My heart breaks for you, sir. Be sure it does, but here in these parts, we’re not but simple folk, and we, as a whole, take great pains to steer clear of Miremurk and her deep shadows!”

The young farmer caught himself. “Beg… Begging your pardon, sir. I… I don’t mean to weaken your resolve. It’s just that I’ve heard frightfully awful noises coming out of that bog. I don’t know what stories you’ve heard, but if any spoke of a Troll living there, I assure you, those are nothing but true! And not just any Troll, mind you, but a Trollop. And everyone knows she-Trolls are far worse than their man-folk.”

The bard looked confused. “Why are Trollops worse?”

Guileless swallowed his fear and answered in a hushed voice. “They say, a Troll is full of wrath and rage, but he quickly forgets why he was mad in the first place. A Trollop, on the other hand, never fails to remember. She hoards her grudges like precious treasure, and all the while, she waits for a chance to repay hurt for hurt.”

“Come man!” Curesoon scoffed. “Surely you don’t believe there are still such things as Trolls in the world?!? After all, didn’t Eversave slay the very last of that foul race over a thousand years ago?”

“Da… Don’t… Don’t speak so, my lord!” Guileless stammered in a strained whisper. “She might be listening!” He glanced warily at the bog. Its black silhouette against the early morning sky seemed to loom over them.

The bard considered the farmer for a moment and then shook his head with disbelief. “Have you actually ever seen this ‘Trollop?’”

“No, sir, and I mean not to!” the young man answered without any hesitation. “I’m altogether content with not knowing for sure whether she’s true or no.”

A careworn look passed over Curesoon’s bearded face. “Well, honestly, I don’t wish to enter Miremurk either, and for that very reason, I’ve put it off until last. But, now that I’ve looked everywhere else, there’s nothing for it but to search there next.”

Guileless glanced down at his boots feeling a little ashamed of his own lack of courage. “I can see your reasoning, and if there’s anything I can do to give you aid, please don’t leave off without asking.”

The bard’s expression brightened. “I’m glad to hear that because I actually can use your help.”

A sudden look of dread overshadowed the farmer’s freckled face. “What… What service would you require of me, sir?” When he had offered his help, he hadn’t thought of what those hastily spoken words might mean. “Surely you don’t want me to go in… There,” he added in a hushed whisper as if the black swamp might be listening to his every word.

Curesoon let out a quick chuckle. “No, friend, I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

Guileless gave a sigh of relief as his sudden anxiety fell away like a heavy yoke.

The bard continued. “The truth is, I’ve been trying to work out what I could do with my pony. I don’t want to take her into the bog – she’s far too old for that. But look here! You just may be the remedy for my dilemma. Would I be demanding too much of our newly kindled friendship if I asked you to keep her fed and stabled until I return?”

 Guileless was so happy that he did not have to enter Miremurk that he quickly agreed to care for Curesoon’s pony.

“And, if I should not return…” the bard began to add.

“Don’t you speak of such things, sir!” Guileless insisted with the newly found courage that came with the knowledge that he didn’t have to go into the bog. “All will be well, you’ll see. I’ve a feeling about that.”

Curesoon nodded and patted the farmer’s shoulder. “I shall not quickly forget your kindness, Farmer Guileless son of Chaffer.”

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After a moment of studying the younger man, he turned and went to retrieve his pony from where he had hobbled her to graze. She was a sturdy chestnut with a flaxen mane and tail. A blaze of white was upon her brow, and flaxen-colored feathering grew upon all her forelegs.

“She’s a pleasant pony.” Curesoon remarked as he stroked the animal’s neck. “I call her Homeward, for when I rode her as a boy and found myself lost in the countryside, I’d simply lose her reins. Once free to go wherever she wished, she always took me home.” His eyes brightened faintly as he thought of the carefree days of his early youth before he ever entered Blackthorn Forest.

“Don’t you worry, sir! I’ll take good care of her, so she’ll be ready to take you home when out from Miremurk’s shadows you come.” Guileless assured him with a warm grin and a quick confident nod.

The bard reluctantly handed him the reins and smiled sadly in return. “Thank you, friend!”

“You’re most welcome, sir.” Guileless answered and then slowly led the pony back toward his house, but after only a few steps, he turned again and called out: “May the King of Heaven keep you well and in health, Lord Curesoon, Bard of Eagle’s Peak!”

Curesoon waved as he answered the other in a lowered tone more to himself than to the young farmer. “And may He keep you also, Farmer Guileless, and give you a household full of strapping sons and fair daughters!”

As the bard continued to watch, the young man came to his wife while leading the chestnut pony. With the approach of dawn, Curesoon could now make out the young woman’s features. Indeed, she was a pretty girl with a pleasantly plump face.

As her husband neared, the young wife began wagging her finger in his face and pointing irritably at Curesoon. When she had finished her complaint, her hands went back to her hips while she listened to her husband give his excuses. Though Curesoon could not hear what was being said, he could easily guess at the conversation, for Guileless began to act as though he were drawing out a sword.

During more than a few minutes of flurried movements, the young woman’s lovely mouth slowly dropped open with astonishment, and her hands gradually slipped from her hips. Her pale arms fell loose at her sides as a look of perplexity came over her round face, and her frown of annoyance slowly grew into a nervous smile.

When Guileless had finished gesturing with his hands, the young wife looked past her husband and waved to Curesoon with strained friendliness. The bard returned her wave with a slight grin guessing that he had been named, noticed, and his errand described.

Slowly, the way-worn bard turned from this amusing scene and doused his campfire with water. With that task done, he went to his cart and began to fill his pack with supplies. He also made sure that he was carrying both of his swords, his shield emblazoned with his family’s coat of arms, and his lute slung over his shoulder, he soon had all that he could carry, and so, he reluctantly turned to walk toward the tree line of Miremurk.

When Curesoon came to the edge of the forest, he paused and listened to the creaking limbs and branches of the bog’s foul looking trees. As he peered into its darkness, a prickling shudder of dread ran over his skin.

“Wait!” the young farmer suddenly shouted causing Curesoon’s heart to flinch with fright.

The bard spun around to find Guileless running back to where he stood. While speaking between gasps for air, he handed Curesoon a bundle wrapped in waxcloth. “My dear wife… She wanted you to… To have this small cake to… To give you cheer and encouragement during your search. She feels awful sad for… For your hard luck… To be sure.”

“Tell her I said, ‘Thank you very much.’” Curesoon smiled faintly and offered his hand once more.

The farmer eyed the lord for a moment, and then with a bright grin, he shook his hand enthusiastically.

Once the two men had released each other, Curesoon took a deep breath and turned to enter Miremurk.

For a long time, Guileless stood watching the bard, but after the shadows of the bog had swallowed his new friend, it was far too parlous to linger any longer at the edge of Miremurk. With eager feet, he ran home as quick as he could, and bursting into the house, he hugged his wife tightly thanking the King of Heaven that he had her home and safe.

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