Beware the Bridges Not Guarded by Trolls

A folktale for children.

The bridge-folk can be reasoned with, bargained with, and convinced. A bridge with a troll is a good thing, my child. Though their knuckles are gnarled, and their eyes see things in the shadows that we cannot, they are not a danger to you. Not if you mind your customs.

But the bridges that have been abandoned are to be avoided at all costs. Wade through the river downstream (never upstream). Cross at another bridge, be it a few hours or a few days away. Turn around. 

Only do not step foot on the bridges not guarded by trolls.

There is nothing on the other side of that crossing as precious as your soul. I can promise you that. 

What guards these bridges if not the trolls, you wonder?

Your grandmother could have told you. 

She minded the trolls and obeyed the traditions, but she was a bridge-builder, and she put more stock in the wood and stone than she did the beings that guarded these crossings. When the eastern bridge was abandoned, and the people stopped traversing it, the ivy made its move - among other things - to reclaim the way. Your grandfather warned her.

He stood with her where the dirt became stone, and he held her elbow, pointing to the darkness beneath the arch.

“The troll is gone. It isn’t safe,” he said.

“It’s wood and stone,” she assured him. “And the vines will eventually bring it all down if someone doesn’t take care. I am not afraid.”

And so she walked to the center of the bridge and tended to it. Your grandfather will say that she disappeared just then, never to be seen. But that’s a lie. It’s a pretty lie to mask an uglier truth.

He told me what really happened, once, before the ache of her loss altered his story.

Your grandmother walked out to the center of the bridge and began her work. She pulled at the vines. All seemed well. She smiled at your grandfather and waved him back home, but he wouldn’t leave. 

Your grandfather could see that she was shivering. First, her hands shook as she ripped the vines from the stone. Then, her shoulders. It wasn’t long before she had to stop and rub her arms. She called for your grandfather but didn’t appear as though she knew which side of the bridge he was on. 

Bless your grandfather. He tried to step onto the bridge, but everything happened so fast, and he was too shocked. Too slow.

A pale and bony creature with pain in its eyes and mud in its hair crawled out of the darkness and up onto the bridge. While embracing your grandmother, the creature whispered something in her ear.

It told her which way to go. It lied.

And then, while the confusion cleared from your grandmother’s eyes and the shivering ceased, it led her over the edge, down into the knee-high water, and under the bridge.

Beware the bridges not guarded by trolls, my child. Where guardians have abandoned us, others will pretend to know the way.