I ask you: "Has there ever been a child who has never looked under his bed for the Boogyman, or other fearful beings, before drifting into the land of Alice and lollipops?" Well, listen, my friend while I tell you about the Troll under MY bed...
When I was wee, my parents always put me to bed early and turned out the light. Even today, I am unable to sleep in any other than a darkened room. I never liked it then, but at least I was not alone--there WAS someone with whom I could talk. My parents thought I was alone, but I was not. For you see, there lived, under my bed, a Troll.
When it was dark and quiet he opened a small trap door and crept out, ever so gently, so as not to startle me. The first time I met the Troll, he told me he did not like lights, and he never allowed one to be turned on. He also told me that [bigtroll.jpg] he did not like my Daddy. This made me laugh, because when I was naughty, and he put me to bed even earlier, I did not like him either.
The home of the Troll was in the floor, though exactly where, I was not sure, because the living room was directly below my bedroom. I was quite sure he did not live in the living room or he would have been seen.
The first time the Troll appeared, I thought there were mice under my bed. Jumping up, I started to run, but the Troll called to me in such a kindly manner that I stopped and listened to him, though he could not be seen.
"By the stars in the sky, and my life for a skittle, you nearly scared the life out of me, miss little. What is your name?"
While he was sitting there huffing and puffing, I told him that he could call me Lee. My name was Virginia Lee, but I did not like Virginia then, nor do I now. And that is how our friendship began.
In subsequent nights, after my parents turned off the lights, I would stay very quiet, then slowly make my way to the edge of the bed, and leaning over, almost onto my head, I would lift the dust ruffle and gingerly look underneath. If I did not hear the Troll, I lay on the floor with my face cradled in my hands. I knew he was there because I could hear him moving around. After a space of time, the trap door opened with a creak, and Mr. Troll emerged and sat down under the bed.
"I'm on your side, you know. What do you want to talk about?" Then we talked for the longest about games, and fairies, and things I liked to do, and things that I did not like--like spinach, and carrots, and Cod-Liver-Oil, and carrying on a conversation in the dark.
In time, the Troll became my best friend, like Jean Jackson used to be before my family moved from Charlotte, North Carolina, and made me go with them. I could talk to Mr. Troll about anything, and he really understood me, from a child's point of view, because, you see, I have come to believe that not all parents really understand children. They were never children themselves. At least, that is what the Troll confided to me. Well, he DID seem smart, and quite wise--at the time, that is.
Like some friendships, after a while one of the parties is taken for granted and things become strained. This happened once between the Troll and me.
Having never seen him, one night before he opened the hatch, I imagined him lying beneath the floor on his back with his hands behind his head, staring up at the bottom of my bed like it was the blue sky with white puffy clouds drifting across it. I invisioned him as a Teddy Bear Tom Sawyer wearing torn jeans, and a floppy straw hat over a face strewn with cute brown freckles, and holding a fishing rod.
Even though he told me he did not look like that, I was determined to see him in that light. One night I took a flashlight to bed with me. I lay on the floor waiting for the trap door to open. When it did, I turned on the flashlight and shone it on the opening. He saw the light before I saw all of him, and quickly closed the hatch with a great deal of noise, but I did see that he was NOT wearing a straw hat, and that he did not have any hair, and he looked wrinkled like an old hag. Daddy must have heard the commotion, because he came in and took the flashlight away.
It was two weeks before the Troll came to see me again. I realized how lonely it was in the dark without my friend. I slept with the covers pulled up tightly around my head, because I did not like being in the dark without him, even if he did not look like Tom Sawyer.
But, the night he came back, he was dressed like Tom Sawyer. We sat on the floor, in the light, and he told me stories, and we laughed and joked, and drank apple juice. Then, he told me he would not be back, but showed me where the trap door was. He told me how to open it if ever I was afraid.
I was never lonely, or afraid of the dark again, and the trap door was never opened out of need.
Suddenly, new, and deadly monsters are lurking under my bed--Aids, Ebola, Mad Cow, Anthrax, Smallpox, Sarin, and Botulism. Captain Trips is vying to replace my harmless Troll. They, ALL of them, have invaded that secure place under my bed, which my childhood promised to me. Their indwelling, and exit is without thought, mercy, or compassion as they threaten to become my constant tormenter in today's ugly day of darkness, where flashlights are of no use.
"Oh, Mr. Troll, will I ever see you again?"
And there in the darkness, which he always favored, I saw him wearing a burgonet, and tightly holding closed the swelling hatch door on my tormenters, as he answered, "Perhaps again next year--then, perhaps never."
This is a work of fiction by Virginia Marin. It may not be copied, altered in any way, or used elsewhere without my written permission. Please respect my individuality and hard work.
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