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TALES IN PARTS
To Boil a Manchild — Part Seven
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Trolls have much patience. Mother likes to remind me of that. They have the patience of trees, she says, and often and mostly for my benefit I think. I was not given the full measure of it, she says and I think she is right, for I find it hard to stand by this tree and look at these houses and not itch to do something else.
The little red engine is cold now and the door to the house has stayed shut for many, many breaths. I can hear the murmur of manspeak inside, none of which I understand.
There is no sign of a manchild. I have mentioned this to Hulgur one time too many, I think, for she no longer looks my way now and then.
Then I hear movement on the road. It is a small crushing sound moving this way along with soft manspeak voices that now come into view and it’s an old shefolk and a manchild on one of their rolling rides. The old shefolk is steering and walking on it and the manchild sits behind holding her around the waist.
They reach the house and stop by the door and the manchild jumps off and then says something to the old shefolk who smiles but shakes her head and turns her rolling ride around and starts walking on it again to make it move back to where it came from. The manchild stands for some breaths watching the old shefolk move away then she turns and walks up the small steps and into the house.
I turn to look at Hulgur who is looking at me again and now with that look that shefolk can put on when they know that you have wronged them and they want to let you know that they know that you have.
“I said I did not doubt you,” I say.
She does not answer me.
Britt was not sure whether to tell them or not.
“How is Mrs. Falk?” her mother wondered as Britt stepped into the kitchen, closing the door behind her against the cooling evening air.
“She’s fine.”
“So the old girl’s still alive and kicking, huh?” said her dad.
“Yes, Dad. She sure is.”
