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Once upon a time there lived a troll by the name of Standforth. This Standforth was one who had been much maligned in the press, the reasons for which I will lay out at a point a little farther on in my tale. He was quiet and reserved, and lived with his little troll wife in a small earthen cottage the pair had built into the bank of a lazy flowing river. His wife was known by the name of Sallyforth, and she was as lovely a troll wife as ever a troll could hope to be wed to.

He was the proprietor of a generous yet modest parcel of land which spanned the river, over which he had constructed an elegant stone bridge, of the type one might see in a story of lands far away, with knights on white horses tramping across to save their maiden fair.

His purpose in constructing the bridge was that he might carry wheat he grew more easily from his western parcel eastward over the stream and into a small barn which he had also built himself. He then would sell the wheat to a local miller, thus creating for himself a life of simple abundance and modest comforts.

His quaint little home was situated to take full advantage of the sound of the gurgling water, and was so near the intersection of the river and the bridge that the people of the land knew him as “the troll under the bridge”.

He had spent many years constructing his little hamlet, and was quite pleased with the work he had accomplished. His days were filled with the satisfaction of honest labor, and his evenings were filled with the simple joys associated with a day’s work well done.

During the summer days, when the gentle breeze would carry refreshing cool air from the grand mountains which fed the stream, Standforth would sit on his veranda overlooking the water and smoke his pipe. Sallyforth would share the evening with him as their dog lazed at the top of the steps, which led in a circular pattern down to the water’s edge.

The winter months were spent in similar fashion, Standforth and Sallyforth living comfortably and warm, enjoying the heat from the grand stone fireplace which filled the entire northern wall of the small cottage while the entire country was adorned in a deep coat of white snow.

He had designed the fireplace wall in such an ingenious manner that the stones just nearest the fire itself were hot to the touch, with the heat dissipating wonderfully throughout the whole of the stones, giving radiant warmth to the entire house. Many were the days when the aromas of fine breads would permeate the air, Sallyforth being excellent at baking finely ground wheat into the most delicious of creations in the stone oven which was built into the fireplace wall.

The couple was, unfortunately, without children. There was no reason for this other than children had simply not come to them, though Standforth and his wife had wanted them which much eagerness. And yet, the pair lived happily from year to year, working the land which had blessed them so abundantly and drawing water and fishes from the life-giving waters of the river.

And yet, there often are times in the lives of simple people when difficulties arise. Not difficulties due to the elements or the hardships of working for one’s sustenance, but an ominous, evil difficulty which arises within the hearts of others. And the clutches of these difficulties did not bypass the simple troll and his wife.

In the late morning hours of a fine spring day Standforth and his wife were working their field of wheat, preparing the earth for the planting of a new crop of their fine wheat. As they worked, their dog began to growl, her ears lay low on her head and her tail tucked sheepishly between her legs as she was not a dog known for her bravery. Standforth looked over his field toward the bridge where the dog had fastened her gaze.

Coming confidently and in a prancing manner over the stones of the bridge was a small goat. The goat seemed to pay little attention to the sign Standforth had posted which labeled the property as private. To the couple’s great astonishment, the little goat proceeded directly through the portion of the field which had been seeded the previous day, tramping and tripping and scattering seeds in all directions.

He continued on his path, ignoring the attempts by the couple to gain his attention, a slight smirk gracing his pudgy face, and proceeded directly through the field and into a meadow beyond. When he had reached the meadow he began to chomp voraciously on the fresh tender grasses which grew there.

Standforth and Sallyforth stood speechless, looking at one another and wondering at the sight. Immediately Standforth determined to converse with the goat to discover the reason for the intrusion. He walked the distance to the meadow and greeted the goat in a pleasant manner.

“Hello there, good fellow,” Standforth said in a troll-ish sort of tone. “May I ask the purpose of your excursion this fine day?”

“You may not,” quipped the goat. “My business is my own, and you need not ask of it”.

“I simply wish to inquire as to the reason for your trespass upon my property,” Standforth returned, a bit dismayed at the abruptness of the little goat. “My wife and I have worked quite diligently to seed that portion of ground over which you have tramped, and we are somewhat alarmed that our efforts have been trampled.”

“Well,” the goat retorted, a look of contempt in his eyes, “you can simply replant, can you not? The path I trod is not large, and will not affect your harvest, to be sure.”

At this the goat turned his back to Standforth and continued his munching in the grass.

“Now see here, my good man, that is not quite right,” Standforth’s voice was raised a notch so as to be sure the goat was listening. “I and my good wife own this field you have tramped, and we do not care to see our labors destroyed. I ask that you please do not in the future travel over my bridge and through my field. You may travel to this meadow just as well over the public bridge to the west of the village, and need not disturb my property.”

The goat looked up from his lunch, eying Standforth with derision. “The public bridge is too far for me to walk, and I do not care to do so. Your bridge is much more convenient, and I think I shall continue to use it, now that I have discovered its convenient location. And if you care to challenge me in the matter, my brother will be coming shortly, and he is much bigger than I. And there he is now, just coming to your bridge.”

The little goat bleated out the words with emphasis, wanting to make sure that Standforth, who was indeed far larger than the goat, was sure to understand.

“Well,” replied Standforth, now fully dismayed, “I should indeed like to speak with your brother. Perhaps he is a bit more reasonable than you.”

With this Standforth hurried to the bridge, meeting the bigger goat as he stepped from the bridge to the western portion of the property.

“Hallo there!” Standforth said, measuring the size of the goat before him, “are you come to join your fellow in the meadow beyond?”

The larger goat was twice the size of his younger brother, yet still half as big as Standforth himself. He was distinguished from his smaller brother only by his size, a small beard that hung in a matted ball from his chin, and a slightly pungent odor that hung about him.

“I am,” the goat retorted in a huffing, coarse voice. “I am indeed, and I think that this bridge is a fine route to it”.

“Now I wish to inform you, good sir, this bridge and the property over which you have passed from the gate eastward are my property, and I do not care to have strangers using it for a public access.” Standforth spoke with a light tone, hoping the newest goat would be reasonable in his conversation.

“Is that a fact?” queried the goat, his head cocked to one side, a look of surprise on his face. “Well, I should think this is a much more reasonable route to take. It is much more convenient to town, and I’m much pleased to know of its existence. Surely you will not mind that my brother and I use it to travel to the meadow.”

“I do not mind this once, but I will appreciate in the future that you and your brother use the public route. I am working the land here and cannot have the public tramping my wheat field.”

“If you say so,” the goat replied. “But you will need to take the matter up with my brother. He is coming soon also, and he is much bigger than I. In fact, he is on the council of the village elders. Surely he will be able to reason more with you. But now I must be on my way. I am quite in the mood for the fresh grasses in the meadow.”

The goat had given his final reply with an increased look of contempt which made Standforth uneasy. To Standforth’s great dismay, the goat turned and tramped directly through the portion of wheat planted the day before, just as his brother before, scattering seeds as he tramped.

The good troll returned to his wife who had been watching from her work. “What have you discovered of our guests?” she asked, a look of concern on her face.

“I do not know what to make of them,” Standforth responded. “They both seem to have no concern that our labor is destroyed by their trespass. And they both have deferred responsibility for their acts to their larger brother, who they say is a member of the village council and is coming shortly. I am eager to speak to him and have this violation redressed, for surely that is the purpose of the council, to provide protection from all manner of trespass.”

“Yes, indeed,” Sallyforth added. “It will be good for you to speak with him.”

The couple returned to their work, tilling the soil and planting the wheat which would bring another year of comfort and nourishment to them. They worked through the morning, pausing for lunch at their home.

Sallyforth prepared a simple meal of toadstool and trout sandwiches, lovingly slicing the bread which the couple had produced from their labors, laying trout fillets over the slices, sprinkling it with fresh toadstool stems from the little patch under the bridge, and finishing it with sweet cream-of-salamander dressing and ground black pepper from her herb garden. These she placed on a serving tray of intricate silver work. The tray had been acquired in an exchange between Standforth and the local blacksmith, with the blacksmith receiving five bushels of wheat in return. It was decorated around the edges with fine tracings of vines and grapes and was symbolic of the abundance which the couple enjoyed.

She carried the tray to a small wooden table which Standforth had manufactured with his own hands and which had been placed on the veranda. She attended it with two large wooden mugs of gooseberry juice and two finely woven handkerchiefs of exquisite needlework, of course made by Sallyforth herself. The handkerchiefs were brilliantly colored with fine threads woven into patterns indicative of the landscape which surrounded the small hamlet.

Standforth was already sitting in one of the hand-hewn chairs made of hard maple wood he had harvested from his property when Sallyforth placed the tray on the table. He thanked her kindly, and his gaze stayed a few moments longer on her gentle face, watching as she seated herself opposite in the second maple chair, his thoughts reminding him of the many joyous years they had spent together, working, laughing, and crying through the times they had shared.

After seating herself Sallyforth lovingly accepted as her husband took her hands in his and, as was their tradition, they bowed their heads in thanks for the meal and the plenty which were theirs. Upon completion of the giving of thanks the couple always looked each other in the eye, and repeated a phrase they had practiced since their wedding night many years before: “I love you, wife.” “I love you, husband.”

They sat eating the delicious homemade meal, talking of their plans for a new root cellar to hold the many potatoes they would have at season end, and which would help sustain them through the long winter ahead. They spoke of the good fortune with which they had been blessed, of the rains which had given their wheat an excellent start, and of the strange goats which had so alarmingly trampled their work.

“I’m sure the third brother will agree with our position,” Standforth said as he wiped some salamander dressing from his lips. “As a member of the council he has sworn an oath to support the freedoms of the citizens, and what more sacred freedom do we possess than the right and control of property?”

“To be sure,” Sallyforth responded with a subtle hint of doubt in her voice. “I just hope he does not place his family interests above those of the community.”

The pair was just finishing the meal when Standforth noticed a small cloud of dust to the east of the property. Presently he saw two large rams’ horns bobbing rhythmically along the horizon of the small hill which bordered his land.

“Here comes the eldest brother now,” he informed his wife, coming to his feet. “I will go speak to him and have this issue resolved shortly.”

The large troll stepped off the veranda onto the hand laid stone path which led to the cobblestone road and over the bridge. He met the goat midway, and the two paused, sizing each other up.

“Lo, there, friend,” Standforth greeted him in a warm tone. “I would like to speak with you a moment concerning your younger brothers and my property here.”

The goat stood toe to toe with the troll, each as tall as the other, but the goat having an unnaturally large stature for a goat, and thus the bulk of his mass extended out behind him. He was therefore slightly larger than Standforth, and carried himself as if he knew himself to be.

“I am a busy person,” The goat replied, a jovial tone in his voice, “but I can spare a few moments for a constituent.”

The goat smiled a broad, political smile, as if campaigning were a part of his character and he could not resist the chance to engage a potential voter.

“It seems your two brothers have taken upon themselves to trespass unwanted upon my property. They are yonder in the western field filling themselves on the fresh grass. I do not begrudge them the opportunity, but they have trampled my wheat field, and have done so in a most disrespectful manner. I spoke with both, and I was glad to hear you would be coming. I would like you to speak with them and let them know this path is not available for commuting to the meadow.”

The big billy goat sat back on his haunches, raising an eyebrow and looking at Standforth, the large smile still painted on his long face. “I suppose I could speak to them,” the goat smiled, “but I do not know what the fuss is about. This path is an excellent way from the village, and I myself find it quite more accessible than the public route. I’m sure once the council has final approval of its appropriation you will agree to the benefits for the public in general, and not just for yourself alone.”

Standforth listened in amazement, a look of dumbfounded disbelief growing quickly on his broad, troll face as he took a few incredulous steps backward.

“The public committee on public recreation has been analyzing this bridge of yours and has come to a consensus. They have decided to acquire your bridge for the public use to better assist the community in accessing the many recreational benefits of the meadow. The community will be most grateful for your contribution.”

Standforth’s look of disbelief turned to a look of mild rage as he stood fuming on the bridge, his naturally green face turning a deep shade of beetroot red, as trolls faces often do when upset. “You can’t do that!” he declared in a barely controlled rage, “I’ve spent my whole life building this bridge, this home, this farm,” he turned and gestured to the landscape around them, “and I’ve always been free to do so. It is a violation of every principle in the community’s founding charter! I will fight this, don’t you think I won’t! I am a free troll!”

The goat’s smile didn’t change, but the look of political friendliness in his eyes had changed to a fire of political superiority. “You can try,” the goat huffed nonchalantly, “but you and I both know you don’t have the resources to challenge the council. You can’t afford to hire a representative from the judicial committees.”

Sallyforth, upon noticing the steam rising from her husbands ears as it often does when trolls are angry, had just come to the bridge when Standforth rushed forward to argue more heatedly with the big goat. In a flash the massive animal leaped to his feet, lowered his big ram’s horns, and lunged at the troll, tossing him expertly over the stone wall of the bridge and into the icy waters below.

“No!” screamed Sallyforth, rushing to the edge of the bridge to see her husband floating swiftly down the muddy waters of the river which had been swollen by the melting snows of the mountains. And as she bent over the edge, she felt a sharp blow to her back-end which sent her tumbling headlong into the swirling water below and swept helplessly away with her husband.

And they never were seen by the goats again.

The end…?