The Troll's Gift

[Translator's note: This document is based on a hand-written manuscript found in connection with the renovation of a hospice facility in the southern outskirts of Stockholm. Though it has been speculated that the author was a public figure, this appears unlikely to be the case.]

The only modern thing in the village where I grew up was the schoolhouse. We learned to read, write, do arithmetic and, above all, to pray. The teacher sometimes spoke of railroads and steam ships, but those things might as well live on the far side of the moon. The things that were truly real to us were our sheep and cattle and the wolves and bears that might take them from us at any moment, the rye and barley harvests and all the things that might cause them to fail. Not even the mountains were truly part of our world, though they always loomed above us. That was where the trolls lived. We never went there. We went to the fields and pastures, into the forest for lumber and firewood, to the lake to fish if we ever had the time.

My mother was a pious woman. She refused to ever have anything to do with the trolls. Sometimes she almost seemed to pretend that they didn't exist. Of course, that was what a good christian was supposed to do. The trolls were not creatures of god. Since god was almighty, they could not exist. Yet, they plainly did exist and they were not so different from us. Whenever they came to the village, which they did sometimes to trade wagon loads of barley for tiny pieces of gold, the women wore long skirts and the men wore coats that concealed their tails. It was not because they were ashamed. I got the feeling that it was rather the opposite, that they did not want to shame us by ostentatiously displaying their tails when we had none.

That summer it once again fell on me to herd our sheep to the common pasture. I had been herding sheep and cattle around the village since I was eight and I had gone to the common pasture since I was fifteen. But I was still frightened to go alone. A large portion of what little wealth we had would be in my hands and the terror that this instilled in me had gotten worse, not better, each year. I had grown to understand how easily we could fall from ordinary poverty into outright starvation. My younger sister was supposed to go this year, but since that promise was made she had gotten both married and pregnant. I had not.

The last thing my mother said to me before I left was that if I didn't watch out for the trolls and their magic, I would never get married 'just like that girl'. That made me angry. Josephine, my best friend from school, who she was obviously referring to, had by that time been seeing a troll boy for over a year. It was supposed to be a secret, of course, but everybody knew. Her parents could have put a stop to it but didn't. They probably figured that it was best that she was with someone who wouldn't make her pregnant until they found someone for her to marry. I didn't understand why at the time, but I knew that relationships with troll almost never produced illegitimate offspring.

Most of all, I think I was hurt that my virtue was all that was on my mother's mind. I was convinced that this would be the year in which I would get mauled by a bear, eaten by wolves, raped by brigands or die from exposure -- all of which were things that had happened to herder girls within living memory -- and she was worried that I would have a fling with a troll boy!

It would take two full days to get to the pasture. I brought as much dry flat bread of bread as I could carry as well as barley, cabbage, onions and a piece of cheese in a box made from birch bark. The way led through dense forests with only scattered meadows in shade from the walls of trees. It was tempting to let the sheep graze there so I could go home at night, but the experience of those who came before me told me I could not do that. Those lands were known as 'the starves'. Animals that would graze there would get thinner, not fatter, for winter. The grass was just too meager. We spent the night, my flock and I, in a dilapidated shelter that consisted of three crooked walls and a roof.

It was late but not dark when I arrived to the pasture lands. The first thing that struck me was how beautiful they were; I seemed to forget every winter. I could see the mountains, noticeably closer than from the village, across a sea of green grass and blue lakes interspersed with groves of birch trees. Down the gentle slope of the meadow, next to the lake was the herder's cottage. It was made from rough logs and suitable for habitation only in the summer. No one knew exactly how old it was -- some said hundreds years -- and it was treated as common property of all the surrounding villages. There was also a similar, but even simpler, building that served as a barn for the animals.

A column of smoke rose from the chimney. I approached the cottage carefully and as silently as I could. Though I knew I should expect another herder, I could not get the thought of brigands out of my head. I found a dozen white goats in the barn. I didn't know of anyone who kept white goats, so I got both confused and a bit alarmed. After all, the brigands could have stolen the flock somewhere far away and come here to escape the rightful owner. Just as I was about to open the door I heard sighs and moans that made me suspect that someone inside was in pain. Naturally, I was terrified, but if there was someone injured in the cottage, I had to help them. That was just how things worked: you never asked for help needlessly and never denied it to someone in need.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when I opened the door just an inch and peered inside. The sight is forever etched into my mind though I laid my eyes on it for less than a heartbeat. The light from the roaring fire in the hearth illuminated the naked body of a young woman, lying on her back on a thick blanket. Her eyes were closed and her full, red lips half open. They were the source of the sounds that I now knew that I had completely misapprehended. Her hands were on her breasts, the thumbs and index fingers pinching and rolling the nipples between them. Her legs were spread wide and her tail, for she was a troll, looped back on itself like a hairpin and its tip pumped in and out of her wet, eager pussy.

I closed the door and hurried back to my sheep. Under normal circumstances it was expected that the cottages would be shared, even between strangers, but there was no way that I was going back tonight. Everyone knew that the trolls were at their most dangerous when they were insulted or embarrassed. If the troll woman had opened her eyes and seen me I was sure she would have either cursed me for seven generations or struck me dead right there, with a spell or her bare hands. Maybe she had sensed my presence by magic and bided her time until morning? Maybe she stayed awake to think of a suitable punishment that she would unleash at first light? I ended up spending the night in the barn with my animals and I had little sleep.

When I woke up I was thirsty and needed to pee, and in any case I could not stay in the barn all day. There was no sign of life from the cottage. I said a prayer before I left the barn. Even then, I did not believe in God in the same way as my mother did, but I was still a christian by any reasonable standards. I had some hope that Jesus Christ, my lord and savior, would give me tangible protection against the troll's sorcery. To hedge my bets, I took my knife from its sheath and instead secured against my hip under my dress, right where my belt kept it tight. Everybody knew that you were not vulnerable to magic when you touched iron against naked skin.

I found the troll when I went to the lake to fetch water. She was bathing herself. At first, I saw only the head emerging from behind a bank of reeds. Her face looked like the princess from the book from which I had learned to read in school. There were trolls in that book as well and I was always puzzled why they didn't look at all like the real ones.

The troll woman stood up in the shallow water. Her jet-black hair clung to her tall, slender-yet-curvy, body. Her womanly hips swung as she made her way through the waist deep, then thigh deep, then knee-deep water in forceful but gentle, strides. The little tuft of jet-black pubic hair made her fair skin seem almost pale in comparison. Unlike my own, her complexion was unmarred by freckles. Her breast, in contrast to my own boyish mounds, were in perfect proportion to the rest of her body. The only sign that she was affected at all by the cold of the water was that her nipples were as stiff as they had been last night.

When she saw me, she modestly covered her crotch with her hand and hid her tail behind her back; she seemed to have as much or greater control of it as she had over any other of her other limbs. There was no sign of embarrassment in her face, she was just being polite. I, on the other hand, once again felt as if my cheeks were on fire. She said something that I did not understand, but the tone was mild. I greeted her in Swedish, the only language I knew, and explained why I was there in an unsteady voice. She smiled and made a welcoming gesture to the cottage. Though she didn't seem to understand me, my business was no mystery. No one ever came here for any other reason than to graze animals.

The cottage was furnished only with few broad benches that also served as beds. The stone hearth looked ancient. The troll had left a blanket and goat-skin sack on the bench furthest from the door and closest to the fireplace. I put my own sack, made from burlap, on the bench diagonal across the room from the troll's. Then I realized that I had forgotten to actually fetch water. Rather than to go back to the lake and make my mistake apparent, I started to chew my bread with nothing to drink.

Soon the troll came in through the door. She now smelled of lavender soap and wore a linen dress with floral patterns that didn't even reach her knees and did almost nothing to hide her tail. She put her hand on her chest and made a sound that seemed to me like a combination of bird song and tiny silver bells. I repeated the sound as best I could, guessing it was her name. The troll laughed and repeated my attempt as 'Sri', like one of the sounds a blackbird makes. Though she seemed satisfied that it was the best I could do, I could detect almost no resemblance with the original sound. I gestured to myself and said my name, 'Alva', which she flawlessly repeated back to me.

Sri opened her sack and produced a three-legged coffee pot made from copper. "Khavia?" she asked. I didn't realize then that she was speaking Finish, but she must have correctly guessed that any human language would be easier to understand for me than the language of the trolls. Since I didn't have anything of comparable value to offer back, I shook my head.

"Khavia?" she asked again with a disappointed note in her voice.

I was about to shake my head again and show her my palms to symbolize that my hands were empty, that I had nothing, when I realized that I actually did have something. I dug out the birch-bark box and offered the cheese inside to Sri. I watched in horror as she broke off almost half and put it in her mouth. I did not actually want to part with it, especially not in exchange for bitter coffee. She chewed and smiled politely, though not enthusiastically.

"Khavia?" she asked for a third time.

This time I nodded and Sri measured coffee grounds and water and put the pot on the fire. She produced two copper mugs with their insides covered in tin from her bag and then a pot of butter, which she offered to me. I eagerly reached for my knife. At home, I got to eat butter only on Sundays. Just then I felt the blade chafe against my hip and retracted my hand from the empty sheath. I blushed as badly as last night. Sri just laughed and handed me a wooden butter knife. It felt obvious to me at the time that she realized where my knife was, but I nevertheless buttered my hard, dry bread, broke it in half and gave one of the pieces to Sri. With enough goat's milk, even the coffee tasted good.

At home, I almost never got to experience idleness. Here, there was practically nothing for me to do but worry. The sheep could manage their grazing mostly by themselves. Sri sat down under a tree and started playing her flute. To my surprise, I recognized the melody. It was not a troll song but a human one. A mournful lullaby for which I knew the words. I started singing and before I knew it, Sri was teaching me how to play the flute. In the beginning she guided my fingers with hers. At some point my anxiety turned into exhilaration. I noticed even at the time that it felt like falling in love, though I knew that could not be what was happening between us.

When it was time to bring the sheep and goats back into the barn, I could actually play a simple songs well enough for her to dance barefoot to in the green grass. She whirled so swiftly that the skirt of her dress in some moments became a disk centered on her waist. My heart skipped a beat every time that happened and I saw her butt, all the way up to the root of her tail, and the dark tuft of hair in front. Yet I could not say that she was acting indecently. We were both women, weren't we? A loon cried out from the lake's rippling surface when we finally went to collect our respective animals. I caught myself wondering if it had been disturbed by the unfamiliar sounds, though I knew that a loon would not care about such banalities as my clumsy attempts to play the flute.

After dinner, to which I had contributed barley and onion and she had contributed a smoked meat that tasted so good that I wanted to cry, she put some extra logs on the fire. She poured water into the tree-legged copper cauldron and placed it so the flames would lick it. Then she smiled at me in a way that I will never forget, like she knew a secret about me that I didn't know myself. From her leather bag she produced what looked like a slightly flattened and elongated egg made from painted and glazed clay, small enough to fit in her palm. She held it out to me so I could get a good view o it in the fire light.

"Vittu." she said in Finish and pointed to the item.

"Fitta." I replied in Swedish. That was one of the few Finnish words I did know. Finland had not been ruled by the king in Stockholm for a hundred years at that point, but the schoolteacher talked about the Finns as a brother people and taught us a few words in Finnish. This one I had learned in a whispered conversation at recess, though.

[Translators note: Both words mean 'vagina' and are considered somewhat crude.]

The front of clay figure really looked like a vagina with the labia spread apart and the glossy surface gave the impression that it was slick with juices. The hole was genuinely an opening that revealed that the figure was hollow. There were also two rows of a total of six smaller holes, expertly hidden in the fold between the inner and outer labia. I understood then that this item, too, was a musical instrument.

My heart started beating faster when I realized the implication: music was a powerful way to weave spells. There was no great mystery what kind of spells were contained in this particular item. Just like the water spirit could use his fiddle to lure women and children into the deep to drown, Sri could use the lewd flute to lure me into sin. It was commonly said that trolls couldn't go more than a day without seeking sexual gratification. I had always thought that it was just malicious libel, but now I found myself hoping it was true. The image of how I had seen her last night came back to my minds eye and filled with an emotion akin to envy.

"Ei rautaa." Sri said and gestured to the empty knife-sheath hanging from my belt.

I stared back at her stupidly; I should have guessed what she meant but didn't.

"Rauta." she said and pointed to one of the iron hinges on the door. "Ei rauta." she repeated and shook her head.

I reached under my dress and took out the knife that had chafed my hip all day and put it back in the sheath. Then I took off my belt and put it on my bench next to my sack. Now I was susceptible, vulnerable, to her spells. I don't know why I submitted so easily. Maybe Sri had already put an insidious spell on me. Maybe I felt obligated just because she had been nice to me. Maybe I wanted to defy my mother for the sake of it. Maybe I was frustrated that I had to herd sheep for another summer, though I had reached an age by which I had expected to be married. The simplest explanation, and the one that I now believe to be true, is that I was just horny.

I also took of my necklace and hid it in my sack. It was not made from iron, but silver. By far my most valuable possession then; I still have it. But it was a cross and I didn't want Sri to see it. I didn't want to offend her, or scare her away. Years later, when I had my crisis of faith and left the church, I imbued the memory this act with great significance. Now, much later still, I don't think that was warranted. At the time, I was preparing to commit a sin, not to reject my faith.

Now that I am an educated woman, I am not supposed to believe that she actually did put a spell on me. The truth is that I am not sure; it really felt like she did. Then again, it would feel that way, wouldn't it? Up until that time I had only masturbated a few times and never reached orgasm, never even been close, only received cryptic hints that such a thing was even possible. I had touched a penis exactly once. It was not a terrible experience, but I lost interest in the man it belonged to before I had wiped the semen from my fingers. Of course the things Sri did with me would seem like magic. I apologize to any reader who may be scandalized by what I am about to tell you, but this account would be pointless if I hid the very heart of the matter in metaphor and purple prose.

Sri griped the flute with both hands and put the larger hole against her mouth. As soon as she started playing, the same simple song that she had taught me, I was gripped by an overwhelming desire to be close to her. I lay down on the bench on which she sat and put my head in her lap with my face against her belly. I inhaled her scent. Fresh sweat and pussy, the same smell as a human pussy. I gently stroked her side and back. She tickled my cheek and I turned my head. The tip of her tail, which had been soaking wet the previous two times I had seen it, had a tuft of hair as soft as eider down. I stroked it with my index finger and there was a shudder throughout Sri's body, though there was no break in the music.

Sri tickled my neck with her tail-tip and slowly moved it down towards my chest and under my dress onto my breasts. She stopped just short of my nipples. Maybe she genuinely didn't reach, but I got the impression that she hinted that I should take my dress off. I stood up and pulled it over my head, then I went to my knees in front of her and lifted her skirt. The scent of her pussy drew me in. I had never heard of cunnilingus, but it felt like the right thing to do. Maybe I was inspired by how Sri handled the flute. She scooted forward on the bench to give me unimpeded access and at the same time she felt her way to my nipples with the tip of her tail. I could not have done a good job with my lips and tongue her pussy. What I tried to do was to kiss it like I would kiss her on the mouth, which felt to me like the most profoundly erotic thing imaginable. But Sri was patient with me.

The tip of her tail found it's way to my crotch and homed in on my clitoris. Sri started tickling it, excruciatingly slowly and with great precision. I moaned into her crotch and all but forgot to move my tongue. She moved her tail with the music. I buried my face deeper in her crotch to muffle my moans, which I now had lost all semblance of control over. When the music reached a crescendo it seemed to grow without bounds and I arced my back and the sensation in my vagina reverberated throughout my body. It was an orgasm, of course, but in the moment I really though what was happening to me was truly supernatural. Maybe it was; I still to this day have not had another orgasm like that.