The Troll of Ballykillduff Bridge
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Everyone in Ballykillduff knew the bridge, though nobody quite agreed on how long it had been there. Some said it had grown out of the river one night like a thought nobody remembered thinking. Others claimed Jimmy McGroggan once tried to repair it and the bridge repaired him instead.
But what everyone did agree on was this:
there was a troll living underneath it.
His name was Mosskin O’Grumble, and he was a very polite troll with extremely poor manners.
Mosskin lived in a snug hollow beneath the bridge, furnished with a teapot that never stopped dripping, three boots that were not a pair between them, and a chair that sighed whenever anyone sat on it. His beard was thick with moss, his coat smelled faintly of river stones, and his hat had once been a kettle before it decided it preferred being worn.
Each morning, Mosskin poked his head out of the shadows and called in his loudest, trolliest voice,
“WHO GOES OVER MY BRIDGE?”
This caused mild inconvenience, as the people of Ballykillduff went over the bridge all the time.
“Morning, Mosskin,” called Bridget, carrying her shopping.
“It’s only me,” said Seamus, for the third time that day.
“Oh,” Mosskin muttered, disappointed. “I was hoping for someone new.”
You see, Mosskin was meant to demand tolls. That was the rule. Troll rules were very old and written in ink that smelled of damp. Unfortunately, nobody in Ballykillduff ever had the right sort of toll.
One offered him a button.
Another offered a joke that didn’t quite work.
Once, Father Donnelly accidentally gave him a blessing, which caused Mosskin to glow faintly and hum hymns whenever it rained.
Mosskin accepted everything solemnly and stored it all in a jam jar labelled TOLLS (IMPORTANT).
The trouble began on a Tuesday, which in Ballykillduff is widely considered an unreliable day.
That morning, the river stopped.
It did not freeze. It did not dry up. It simply decided it had gone far enough and sat still, like a sulking child.
The bridge creaked uneasily.
“This will not do,” the bridge murmured.
Mosskin poked the river with a stick.
“Have you tried moving?” he asked.
The river refused to answer.
By lunchtime, the village had gathered. Jimmy McGroggan arrived with a machine involving springs, levers, and optimism. Bridget brought sandwiches. Someone suggested asking the bridge nicely.
At last, Mosskin climbed up onto the bridge itself, clearing his throat in a way that startled several beetles.
“I am the Troll of Ballykillduff Bridge,” he announced, surprised by how important it sounded. “And I declare that something is wrong.”
“I am tired,” said the bridge. “People cross me without noticing. The river forgets to sing. Everyone rushes.”
Mosskin thought very hard. This caused a small puff of steam to rise from his ears.
“Well,” he said slowly, “perhaps you need a proper toll.”
“But we haven’t any money,” Seamus said.
“Good,” Mosskin replied. “Money is rarely the right thing.”
That evening, the villagers lined up at the bridge. One by one, they crossed more slowly than usual.
They offered small, strange things.
A promise, spoken carefully.
A regret, folded neatly.
A story remembered from childhood.
A song hummed badly but honestly.
Mosskin collected each offering and, instead of placing them in his jam jar, gently set them into the river.
And the river began to move again.
Not quickly. Not sensibly.
But with the soft, happy sound of something remembering itself.
As dusk settled, the villagers drifted home. Mosskin remained beneath the bridge, listening.
The water flowed. The stones no longer sighed. The bridge stood a little taller, pleased in the quiet way old things prefer.
Mosskin sat on his sighing chair and looked at his jam jar. It felt lighter now, though it was fuller than it had ever been.
Only then did he understand.
Nobody had crossed the bridge in a hurry. They had slowed. They had looked down at the water. They had touched the stone. Some had even spoken to the bridge itself, which made it warm all through.
“All this time,” Mosskin murmured, “I thought I was guarding the bridge.”
But the bridge had never needed guarding.
It had only wanted to be noticed.
So now, when someone crosses the bridge at dusk and pauses without knowing why, they may hear a voice from below, warm and grateful, carried gently by the water.
“Thank you,” it says.
“Thank you for noticing.”
And the bridge, the river, and the village of Ballykillduff go on working properly again, as they always do, once someone remembers to pay attention.
Merry Christmas to every single soul on Earth!
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 