Troll Bridge by Jane Yolen

to—
    He felt a heavy stone in his chest.
    Stop it! he scolded himself, or you’ll bring on a real panic attack , a can’t-move-blinding-throw-up-no-breath attack. He forced himself to breathe slowly until he was calm again. You aren’t a troll, and you have a brain. He just had to use it.
    Turning in a slow circle once more, staring into the blackness, he thought: What good is a brain, if you’ve nothing to feed it with?
    He almost shouted out, “I can’t see anything!” but caught himself before making any noise. He certainly didn’t want Botvi to hear him and come back.
    That’s it! Jakob thought. Hearing. He closed his eyes—not that he could see anything anyway—and shut out everything so he could concentrate on sound alone, letting his ears do their work. After all, he could tune a guitar to open C without an electric tuner. He could guide multitudes of backup singers through three- and four-part harmonies. He could hear missed notes in string sections that even the top producers in L.A. didn’t notice. Listen! he told himself. What do you hear?
    He stood motionless.
    There’s the buzzing of insects. The sigh of the wind. And rushing water? Yes, rushing water, but a long way away.
    Cocking his head to one side, he tried to listen harder. His brothers’ lives depended on it. And, like eyes adjusted to the dark, after a few moments it was if Jakob’s ears adjusted to the silence. He heard not just the pick-buzz of insects, but the dozens of different songs and calls they made. The wind didn’t just sigh, it thrummed and whistled and whirred, rustling through the leaves of nearby trees and the thatch of the roof.
    There! A barely audible sound, off to his right, that wasn’t insects or wind or water. A metallic swish, not natural. But something he’d heard before. Jakob opened his eyes and began moving even as he tried to place the sound. For some reason, it made him think of Thanksgiving.
    Thanksgiving, he thought. Why Thanksgiving?
    Jakob suddenly pictured his father in the kitchen, a turkey set out on a carving platter next to him. In his hands, a big knife and a metal stick for …
    For sharpening the knife!
    Hands held out in front of him, Jakob burst into a sprint despite the darkness. He knew what that sound meant. It was doom. Aenmarr the Troll was in the larder of his second wife’s house and he was sharpening his knives.
    â€œOh God, oh God, oh God!” Jakob prayed, whether silently or out loud he couldn’t tell. He suddenly knew it had to be less than moments before one of his brothers would be dead.
    If he wasn’t already.

3 · Music to Their Ears
    Long pig, sweet meat,
    Strong swig, fleet treat,
    I don’t want to be hung up.
    For dinner.
    Short tale, long death,
    Quart ale, wrong breath,
    I don’t want to be hung up.
    For dinner.
    Give me a choice of meat or soy,
    Give me a choice of girl or boy,
    Give me a choice or give me chance,
    A great big meal or a real romance.
    Slow boil, quick take,
    Low oil, thick steak,
    I don’t want to be hung up.
    For dinner.
    Â 
    Hot ice, cold drink,
    Caught twice, old stink,
    I don’t want to be hung up.
    Over dinner.
    Â 
    â€”Words and music by Jakob and Erik Griffson, from Troll Bridge
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    Radio WMSP: 10:00 A.M.
    â€œAnd now, here’s Jim Johnson with our continuing coverage of the ‘Disappearing Dairy Darlings.’ Jim?”
    â€œThanks, Katie. After three days, police have still come up empty in their search for the whereabouts of this year’s twelve Dairy Princesses. There just seems to be no evidence whatsoever. It’s as if the twelve young ladies have fallen off the face of the earth, leaving behind only the butter sculptures of their heads back at the State Fair grounds refrigerators.”
    â€œHow are their parents holding up, Jim?”
    â€œThey’ve offered rewards of fifty thousand dollars for each