Troll and Bear: The rosebush

In a peaceful, deep green stretch of forest along the lone road, there grew a rosebush.

It was not a tame rosebush, pruned into shapes and stripped of thorns, as might be found in a noble's garden, although the roses were as lush and fine as any gardener's pride, velvet red and enormous.  The lower branches were in places thick as a tree, with thorns like knives, and the extremities of the bush were all in a tangle, wild and sweet and forming mad angles and patterns against the thick dark that the forest around it faded into.  

The rosebush lined the road to one side for several yards, kept in check at the bottom by lines of stones and the way the earth was hard packed on the path.  It did encroach on the road's airspace, however, and travelers had to veer to the other side of the road to pass it unscathed.  Bees and butterflies hummed and bumbled and flailed in and out of the thorns, lighting on roses delicately.  The scent, especially in summer, hung thick and seeping in the air, more fragrant than any perfume.

In the shadows beneath the leaves, creeping in between the thick lower branches and thorns, a lithe form lurked.  A flicker of gold as a pair of eyes caught the light, and then silence and stillness, as though nothing had ever been there.

Clatter clatter, up the road, came the sound of a lone merchant and his cart.  He was hunched over, hat slouched low over his eyes, giving him the impression of someone shiftless, although the truth of the matter is that he is over forty and quite well-respected.  But now, even though he had made good profit on this journey, he was not happy.

Before he left home, as was expected of him, he had asked his three daughters what he might bring them from the city.  The elder and middle, they had asked for trinkets, ribbons, scarves, baubles.  The youngest had asked for a rose.

The merchant had been skeptical, but agreed to get her such a thing anyway.  In the stories, that sort of thing never worked out well, did it?  But stories were just stories.

Rather than buying a rose in town, where he would be overcharged grievously, the merchant had recalled the wild rosebush on the road back to his home.

He pulled to a stop in the road by the brambles, and climbed out of the cart, patting the horse absentmindedly.  Pulling out his pocketknife, he approached the rosebush, searching for the best-looking bloom.

In the shadows below the roses, something rustled, and a pair of ears sharper than the merchant's might have been able to hear someone exclaim quite softly, "Ah!"

The merchant reached up, and pulled down one of the biggest, most vibrant blooms.  It was a few seconds work with his pocketknife to cut it- it was a sharp knife- and then he held the rose in his hand.

A shadow fell across him.

"Are you a thief?" a low, grumbling, rumbling voice.  The merchant looked up, and up… and up.

An enormous brown bear, standing on his hind legs, stood next to the merchant.  The merchant blinked up at him, fear writhing down his throat and twining around his innards.  And yet… this was not entirely unexpected.

"I am no thief," said the merchant, his voice quivering in spite of himself.  "This rosebush grows along a public road."

"But not on public land," said the bear, snuffling, his bright black eyes pinning down the merchant.  "It is my rosebush."

"Is it now," said the merchant, feeling his mouth go dry.  He looked down at the rose, and then back up again, and held it out to the bear.  The bear snorted, and shook his weighty head.

"Is too late," he said.  "Can't put it back on bush.  Now, you pay me."

"…Pay you," repeated the merchant.  "What…"

"I eat you," said the bear quite calmly.  The merchant scrambled back, a high-pitched whine in the back of his throat.

"No!  Please!  I'll give you anything!" he pleaded.

"Anything?" pressed the bear.

The merchant swallowed.

That was always the catch.  

You tell a magic bear that you will give him anything, and he asks for your youngest daughter.  That's how it goes.  Promise a thing to a fae and you have to deliver, or you will wish you'd let them eat you.

"Anything," repeated the merchant.

"Good," said the bear, satisfied, leaning back a little.  "Give me your youngest daughter.  Bring her here in three days, or I will come and find you.  And eat you," he added, a little unnecessarily.

"I-I will," said the merchant.  "I will, I promise."

But the bear had already turned away, and was shuffling back into the rosebush.  He disappeared into it entirely and mysteriously, and left not a single branch so much as bent, when he had passed.

The merchant, moving very slowly, heaved himself back into the seat of his wagon, and whipped up the horses.  Why had they not run at the sight of the bear, he wondered?

When he was entirely gone, the rosebush stirred a little.

On the other side of it, the bear sat on his haunches, next to a little stump laid with a napkin and tea service.  There were two cups.

"I think that went well," said the troll, from his seat opposite the bear.  

The troll was a strange creature, made on longer, stringier lines than a human, although in the same basic shape.  His feet were long and angular and clawed, and his hands were spindly.  His pointy ears had fur the same color as his shaggy dark hair growing out of them, and a matching tuft was on the end of his tail.  Snaggletoothed tusks grew out of his lower jaw, making it a little difficult to sip his tea.

His eyes were a bright, glittering gold, wide and slit-pupiled, with no visible sclera.  He fixed the bear with them.

"It went," said the bear, holding the teacup delicately in his claws.  

"Oh, come now.  He went for it.  He'll be back in three days, all right," said the troll, leaning back, smug.

"He did not believe it.  He will do it, but he did not believe it," said the bear, hollowly.

"What's that matter?  We're in.  We'll get the girl, and she'll come and live with us, and we get a free housekeeper and cook until she catches on," grinned the troll.

"I suppose," agreed the bear.  "And that will be good.  I do not wish to look at your dirty dishes any longer."

"It's your turn to do them!" protested the troll.

"It is not," snorted the bear.  He set down his teacup.  "Come.  We go home now."

The troll set his cup down as well, and they disappeared into the forest, leaving behind the china tea set.

After a few minutes, the tea service faded, and then finally, dissolved, as though it had never even been there.