Mud Hollow Bridge

                                          Mud Hollow Bridge
                (Won 1st place in the Bards and Sages 2007 Writing Contest)

    In southwestern Wisconsin, nestled among the tree covered rolling hills, lies the village of Mud Hollow. This town was aptly named as it was founded in the crook of a wide bend of the Mud River, which twists its way through the countryside. Beginning at the East end of the village runs a narrow cobblestone street which was originally laid in 1859. This antiquated street meanders in a long, upward sloping semi-circle through the heart of the business section of the village.  This street not only is the path to businesses of Mud Hollow, but is also the life line of the village as it connects to the opposite side of the Mud River via an old, wooden covered bridge. This road and bridge today remain the sole infrastructure connecting this village to the rest of the world.  The villagers of Mud Hollow have maintained the village as closely as they could to its original construction.  In fact, most of the town is registered with the State Historical Society and thereby required to maintain the village as it was originally built, and in an effort to maintain the village as true to original the strict zoning laws of Mud Hollow prohibit the building of any other road out of town.
    Despite Mud Hollow’s isolation, and the fact that there never have been any major highways running by Mud Hollow, the village today finds itself thriving on tourism and art festivals. That the town continues to thrive comes as no surprise to the artists and shop owners who have resided in Mud Hollow. They understood the simple beauty of the village and the surrounding hills and forests, not to mention its quiet lack of hustle and bustle. 
    Originally founded by Swedish and Norwegian immigrants in the early 1800’s, the town grew as lead miners burrowed into the surrounding hills and were able to load ore on barges, which eased along the Mud River to the Mississippi.  Eventually the demand for the ore of this village diminished. Trains began running further west and were able to bring ore to developing cities much more quickly and efficiently. And since no train tracks were laid through Mud Hollow, the mining industry eventually died and most of the miners were forced to leave the village to find work.
    There were a good number of people who refused to leave, however. They worked at area farms and markets, eking out livings as they could, secure in their little quaint, cozy village connected to the rest of the world by only the covered bridge.
    As the story of Mud Hollow goes, during this time of local unemployment some of the villagers began carving statues out of wood.  Before long an annual contest bloomed allowing the unemployed miners to display their other talents of Scandinavian heritage. Many of them carved creatures of folklore, trolls in particular. The winner of the contest would have his troll statue on permanent display in the village.  This contest became an annual event and to this day this contest continues to be held annually on Labor Day weekend, drawing a crowd of thousands from around the country.  Over the years one hundred, fifty-three winners have had their statues placed on what has become a rather statue crowded main street of Mud Hollow.
    But I have learned first hand this story goes much deeper than its superficial cover of the festival the residents would have you believe.  I first went to Mud Hollow four years ago after learning about the festival in a newspaper article.  And since I am not one for large crowds and wished to stroll the troll-lined streets and visit the art galleries and antique shops without the distraction of so many other visitors to this picturesque village, I arrived a week after the contest had been decided and the large crowds had left until the following year.  It was a late morning in early September when I arrived at the Mud Hollow Bridge.  The bridge, a narrow single-lane structure, stood as if a sentinel greeting all who were to cross the wide, deep Mud River, subtly announcing one was about to enter a place of rare beauty and antiquity.
    I pulled off to the side of the road to take a couple of pictures of the old wooden bridge.  Large trees, a mixture of hardwoods and softwoods, bordered the river and encroached upon the bridge along the riverbanks.  A sweet aroma of wild flowers lingered in the air as the late morning sun streamed through the rich green leaves reaching from the trees that lined the Mud River.  As I strode forward I could not help but notice a rather large opening in what was otherwise a solid line of trees.  Curiosity of this apparent anomaly compelled me to walk forward along the road to the north corner of the bridge.  From there I could see a massive stump jutting out of the ground, standing about a yard high.  I was astonished by the sheer size of the massive stump and cautiously crept along the moist, spongy top of the Mud River embankment for a closer inspection.  The shrill chirping of frogs scorched the swampy mud odor that permeated the air along the rivers edge.  The stump was truly colossal.  I estimated it to be over six feet in diameter and was certain I could lie upon it and comfortably stretch out.  The stump reached out over the embankment and dropped off like a cliff wall reaching down to the cattail crowded shore.  As I stood atop the stump an eerie silence befell my surroundings and a stifling anxiety crowded my chest.  My breath quickened as my ears reached for any unexpected sound.  I felt like a mischievous child who had been caught trespassing.  I could find no sound reason for this feeling; however, I quickly descended from the stump and retreated to the bridge.
    After having taken several pictures of the bridge and impressive stump I slowly drove on to the single lane of wooden planks which lined the floor of the covered bridge.  The mouth of the bridge was plenty large enough for a car, but it looked like a hazardously tight squeeze for trucks delivering goods to the village.  I held my breath and made a wish as I crossed; a silly superstition I learned from my grandparents many years ago.  Upon creeping through the other side I found myself entering on to the main street of the village.  The old cobblestone street was encroached by many well maintained shops, and of course the troll statues, which surprisingly gave the street more of a cozy than crowded feeling.  I followed the street as it curved up hill to a large round-about on top where I found the Mud Hollow Hotel.  Surprisingly, there was ample space for parking in front of the hotel.  After having parked, I grabbed my duffle bag and took my first steps in Mud Hollow. 
    Perhaps it was only my anticipation of exploring this unique village, but a festive energy seemed to linger in the air as I entered the hotel lobby. 
    “Velkommen,” greeted a smiling, grey-haired man who stood behind the rich, dark old, hand-carved wooden counter.  I told him of my reservation.  In response he opened a laptop computer and checked the ledger.  After typing a quick note he produced my key and proceeded to lead me up the incredibly ornate stairs to my room.  Everything in the hotel seemed to be made of intricately carved wood.  I had never seen so much painstaking craftsmanship like it before. 
    The room was warm and cozy with a decorative wooden dresser and a full size bed complete with hand carved head and footboards.  After assuring him the room was very much to my liking I inquired of the best restaurant for lunch.  He directed me to the tavern across the street.  Eager to begin exploring the village I dropped my duffle bag on an overstuffed chair in a corner and followed the grey-haired man back down to the lobby. 
    From the hotel I crossed the quiet cobblestone street to the tavern.  On the steps next to the entrance stood a statue of a short, fat troll with a cartoonish, smiling face.  The troll held a sign reading ‘The Thirsty Troll’.  I grinned as I pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the dim, artificial light of the tavern. 
    I found the interior of the tavern, like the interior of the hotel, to be made of intricately carved wood.  There were several patrons scattered about the tables having lunch.  At the far end of the bar were four men speaking in low voices with the bartender.  They ceased their discussion and watched me as I pulled up a barstool at the opposite end of the bar so as to keep my distance and not to interfere with their talk.  After several moments a subtle anxiety began to mount within me as they continued to quietly watch me.  Finally, they returned to their low mumbling and the bartender walked over to greet me. 
    “Hi,” he said with a smile.  “What can I get for you?”
    I ordered a pint of beer and asked for a menu.  He brought me the beer and the menu and told me he would be back in a bit.  Then he returned to mumbling group of men at the end of the bar.  After a few minutes the men broke up their discussion and began to leave.  The bartender made his way back to me to take my order. 
    “Are you ready,” he asked.
    “I think so,” I replied, but had only narrowed my choices down to a few items.  “What do you recommend?”
    “The fish fry is good,” he replied without hesitation.
    “Great,” I replied, relieved to hear him suggest a meal I was already considering.  “I’ll do that.”
    “Okay,” he said with a smile and took the menu as he went to place the order.
    As I sat at the bar sipping my beer, silently admiring the woodwork surrounding me while I casually debated how I would spend the rest of my afternoon, a few more locals came in and occupied random tables and booths.  The bartender waited on them with casual familiarity, joking with them as he went.  Eventually my food came.  The fish fry was an excellent suggestion as it could very well have been the best I have ever had.  I took my time, savoring each bite of the buttery, beer-battered Perch.  I was about half way done with my meal when another local entered the tavern and clumsily wrestled himself on to a barstool a few seats down from me.  He was unkempt with matted dark-gray hair and a ragged gray beard.
    “What can I do for you, Greg?” the bartender sighed with an air of disgust.
    “I’d like a beer,” the man replied with the slightest of slurs.
    “How ‘bout some coffee?” the bartender countered as he stood before the man with his arms crossed.  “Looks like you’re already half in the bag.”
    “Come on now, Chuck.  I’ve got money this time.”  The disheveled man pulled a crumpled twenty dollar bill from his pant pocket and tossed it on the bar.
The two stared at one another in silence for several moments.
    “You sure you don’t want coffee instead?” the bartender suggested again.  They stared silently at one another for a few moments more.  “Christ,” the bartender muttered and shook his head.  “Alright,” the bartender finally conceded.  “One beer and then you go.  And don’t cause any trouble.”
    “I won’t cause no trouble Chuck.”
    The bartender brought him a pint and change.  The man crumpled the bills and shoved them into his pocket, and then he fervently chugged a couple of mouthfuls from his pint.  I tried to mind my own business as I continued with my meal, but the disheveled man kept looking curiously at me as he quaffed his beer.  His inquisitive stare was rather unsettling and finally I had to set the last of my meal aside and looked back at him.
    “Are you an investigator or reporter?” he asked in a low voice with a slight slur as his eyes shifted from side to side.
    “Neither,” I replied tentatively, not feeling very eager to engage this man in conversation.  “I’m just here to see the sights.”
    With raised eyebrows he nodded.  “You came at the right time, friend.”
    I am not certain it was what he said; most likely it was the way he said it, with open, truthful eyes trying to keep a particular knowledge silent, but a minute curiosity stirred within me.  “What’s that?” I encouraged him to expand upon his statement.
    The bartender approached quickly with a wrinkled brow and angry eyes.  “Is he bothering you?” he asked me while pointing at the disheveled man.
    “No,” I shrugged and shook my head slightly.  I was a bit startled by the bartender’s aggressiveness and was at a loss for further words.
    “The trolls have taken another baby,” the bearded man said loudly and quickly.  There was a distinct air of desperation in his voice.  He clumsily took a big gulp of beer which rushed to his mouth like an ocean wave crashing against his lips and splashed down his beard. 
    “That’s enough, Greg!” the bartender scolded loudly as he stood before the disheveled man with his arms folded across his chest.
    “Bullshit!” the unkempt man yelled and hopped off his barstool and swayed for a moment before catching his balance.  He pointed across the bar.  “There’s footprints all over down by the bridge!” he yelled and then gulped down the rest of his beer.
    “That’s it, get out!” the bartender yelled and ran out from behind the bar.
    “No one admits it happened on the twenty-fifth anniversary!” the bearded man yelled as he stumbled out the door before the bartender could catch him.
    The bartender came to a stop next to me and watched the door for a moment.  “Sorry about that,” he apologized.
    “That’s okay,” I said.  “What’s his deal?”
    The bartender sighed and looked over his shoulder as if to make certain no one was watching him.  He turned back to me and spoke in a near whisper.  “Twenty-five years ago his baby daughter went missing.  Who knows what the hell happened.  She was probably kidnapped.  There was a big investigation.  I was young when it happened, but I remember helping search for her.  The whole town searched.  We searched for weeks, but never found her.  The police tried to link him and his wife to the disappearance but they could never prove anything.  It was about a year after that his wife killed herself.  The innuendo around the village finally drove her to it.  Small towns can be terribly cruel sometimes, ya know.  He, uh….”  The bartender paused for a moment as he glanced over his shoulder as if he were concerned others were paying attention before continuing in a low voice.  “The poor bastard hasn’t been the same since.  But who would be?”  He fell silent again and looked about.
    “What about the trolls?” I asked in a soft and rather timid voice.
    “What?” the bartender quickly shot back.
    I gulped in response to his reaction.  “He said the trolls took the baby.”
    The bartender forced out a soft laugh.  “That’s nothing,” he said as he shook his head and glanced to his side.  “He’s just drank himself crazy, that’s all.”  He fell silent again and looked around the room.  Once more I distinctly felt I was trespassing as tense, quiet moments lingered.  Finally the bartender asked, “Can I get you anything else?”
    “I guess not,” I replied.  “Just the check please.”
    After I settled my tab I walked out into the bright, warm and humid air of the early afternoon.  I took my time wandering along the main street and stopped occasionally to window shop at the quaint stores and galleries.  The troll statues were placed along the side of the street about every ten feet or so, and every time I passed one I was reminded of the peculiar encounter at the tavern.  But these memories were short lived as they would be purged from my mind by my fascination with some item I would find the window of a shop.
    The afternoon passed as I meandered along.  Finally I found myself entering an antique shop.  The bells on the door jingled, announcing my arrival, but no one was there to greet me.  The store was strangely quiescent.  I moved about slowly and quietly as though I were moving about a library or church and I felt surprisingly self-conscious when my steps pressed out grinding squeaks and moans from the wood floor beneath me.  I browsed the isles of dinnerware, knickknacks and other random household items until I came to an isle lined with bookcases loaded full with old leather hardcover books.  I stopped and let my eye slowly scan the long wall of books before me.  Some of the spines were badly damaged and the titles were nearly unreadable.  However, most of the books appeared to be in good repair and many of them seemed to pertain to farming and mining practices of a century ago.
    Suddenly the door to the entrance of the shop swung open and from my vantage point I caught a glimpse of two young blonde women hastily entering the shop.
    “You’re crazy,” said the second woman as she followed her shorter friend through the door.
    “No I’m not.  And I’m not the town drunk either,” said the first.
    “He’s probably the one who’s doing all this.  He’s probably a pedophile and made this up to try to throw us off his tracks,” the second woman replied with disgust dripping from her words.
    From their brief exchange I knew they had to be referring to Greg, the disheveled man I encountered earlier at the tavern.  The memory of his wild-eyed ranting of the missing baby and trolls flashed through my mind.  Intrigue further sparked my curiosity, and as the young ladies had moved out of sight, I stealthily moved from behind the bookcase to a table out in the open and pretended to be interested in the knickknacks it held as I continued to eavesdrop.
    They paid no attention to me and moved to a counter at the back of the shop.  The first woman rang a bell on the counter.  She turned to her friend.  “I know what I saw,” she said nervously.
    “It was probably just an animal or something,” the second woman replied.
    “How do explain the footprints?  They’re all over town, especially down by the bridge and that damn stump.”   
    “I don’t know,” the second woman replied as she slowly shook her head.  “If it wasn’t Greg, then maybe somebody did it for last week’s festival.  But I certainly don’t believe….”
    Suddenly a white haired man with wire-rimmed glasses came through a doorway behind the counter.  I recognized him as one of the men from the foursome of the tavern.   
    “Hi Mary, Trisha, what brings you in?” he asked as he wiped his hands with a towel.
    “We need to talk with Paul,” said the first.
    Silence ensued as the clerk assessed his pensive neighbors.  Then he looked over the top of his wire-rim glasses at me and then looked back at the two ladies.  “Sure,” he nodded.  “Why don’t you come on back?”  The two walked around the counter and followed him into the back room.
    I stood silently at the table and cocked my ear toward the doorway and concentrated on any noise that came from the back room.  Frustration began to set in my chest as a thick, heavy silence settled through the shop.  At this point I had to learn more.  Certainly I did not believe any trolls existed, as Greg, the unkempt man at the bar did.  Still, a missing baby, a man with a tragic history of having lost a child of his own twenty-five years ago to the day, and the villagers seemingly reluctant to discuss these matters with outsiders, left far too much intrigue for me to ignore.  I stood at the table listening to silence until I finally decided to inspect the footprints down by the bridge that I heard the blonde woman mention when she and her friend entered the shop.
    Thick beads of perspiration collected on my forehead and above my lip as I strode through the muggy afternoon to the bridge.  White, puffy clouds hung motionless in the azure sky above the trees lining the river.  I stood off to the side of the road at the corner of the bridge.  The shrill chirping of frogs hiding in the tall grass and reeds along the riverbank near the bridge ceased upon my arrival but resumed after I stood motionless for a few moments.  The pungent aroma of swamp mud permeated the air and filled my nostrils as I gazed over the wide, dark river at the massive stump across the way.  I noticed a foot path was worn into the ground to my left and followed along the top of the riverbank through the tall grass.  I walked several feet along the path to gain a better view of the stump as I vainly tried to wave away the thin swarm of gnats that had gathered before my face. 
    From my new vantage point I could more clearly see the massive stump across the river.  The wide stump had three enormous, gnarled roots that arched from its seat on the embankment down to the river’s edge where they were dug in to the muddy shore.  The arches stood three to four feet tall and appeared to be the mouths of dark tunnels that stretched back into the embankment under the stump.  Unlike the rest of the river’s edge, which was thick with grass and cattails, the mud before the arch openings was cleared and roughly tamped down.  I stood in wonder, studying the stump across the river, and finally decided to take closer inspection. 
    I made my way back along the path to the bridge, and cautiously stepped from the cobblestone street to the wood floor.  Even with sneakers on the bridge seemed to amplify each step I took and echoed every soft tread off its dark walls.  A sudden discomfort descended upon me.  I was a bit light headed and I felt like a child who was encroaching on taboo knowledge.  I stopped and was about to turn back when a car from the village slowly entered on to the bridge behind me.  I pushed any anxiety about crossing the bridge to the side and jogged ahead to get out of the way.  A moment later I found myself back out in the sun off to the side of the road.  The driver waved as he passed.    I stood there and watched the car drive off into the distance.  By the time the car was nearly out of sight, I was determined to ignore any feeling of discomfort that had accompanied me across the bridge and I had abandoned any idea of returning to the other side of the bridge until I had inspected the massive stump just a couple of yards from me.
    As I began to make my way toward the stump, I came across an overgrown, narrow path which seemed to lead down the steeply inclined side of the embankment.  Thinking this would perhaps lead me down to the clear area before the arched roots, I carefully stepped forward onto the narrow, muddy path.  I was about half way down the embankment when on a forward step of my left foot, my right foot slipped and I skidded down the side of the embankment and splashed into the Mud River.  I stood in knee-deep water, gasping and wiping the water from my eyes.  I could feel my feet starting to sink into the soft river floor.  Quickly, and with a considerable amount of effort, I pulled them out.  The clinging mud floor made slurping sounds with each step as I struggled and staggered toward the muddy clearing before the giant stump.  I collapsed forward on to my hands and knees on the firmer mud beach.  As I knelt there catching my breath I noticed the mud was covered with short, wide footprints.  I studied them for a minute or so, and concluded the footsteps were unusually wide for their short length, but could have been left by a toddler.  I followed footprints to where they led in and out of the tunnels that stretched back from the arching roots.  I leaned forward positioning my head at the tunnel’s threshold and peered back into the dark tunnel.  Pungent aromas of the swampy earth were thick and heavy and laced with a putrid stench.  The disgusting odor churned my stomach, so I held my breath and continued to stare back into the tunnel.  There was no way for me to tell exactly how deep the tunnel ran, it was far too dark to see any detail.  However, the tunnel did appear to narrow a short ways in. 
    I pulled my head out from the tunnel and knelt on the mud.  The pungent aroma of the Mud River dripped off of me as I convinced myself the footprints must have been left by children playing around the stump.  After all, the tunnels made for a wonderful retreat for mischievous boys who needed to hide out for awhile.  Besides, the idea of trolls running rampant through the town stealing babies now seemed ludicrous to me, not that I really believed it in the first place.  I chuckled out loud as I stood up and realized the whole troll story was probably part of some kind of publicity stunt for the previous week’s festival.  Certainly there may have been a missing baby, but as I climbed the embankment I was more convinced the only victim of the trolls was Greg, the village drunk. 
    I passed through the cool shade of the bridge leaving a trail of wet, muddy footprints in my wake.  Back on the cobblestone street of the village a swarm of gnats was waiting for me.  I did not even bother swatting at them.  They were relentless pests that had proven I was powerless to frighten them away.  So, I continued on my way back to the hotel, dripping and stinking of the marshy Mud River, with my swarming entourage flitting about my head and shoulders. 
    I entered the hotel lobby to find the gray-haired man still behind the desk.  His eyes widened and the smile slowly slipped from his face when he saw me.  “Oh, my,” he began slowly.  “What happened to you?”
    “I fell in the river,” I replied sheepishly as I shook my head.
    A smile of stark amusement slowly spread across his face.  “We don’t call it the ‘Big Stinky’ for nothing,” he joked as he sniffed at the air.  I smiled sourly and nodded as I started up the stairs.  “Once you’re cleaned up, bring your dirty clothes down and we’ll get ‘em laundered for ya,” he called after me.
    “Okay,” I replied over my shoulder as I continued up stairs to my room.
    After bagging up my swamp-drenched clothes, I stood under the warm shower washing away the fermented mud of the river.  Waves of embarrassment and foolishness I felt for having fallen into the village ‘secret’ and consequently the river seemed to wash away with the mud.  By the time I had finished cleaning up I was able to laugh at myself for being such a chump to have fallen into both.
By the time I was dried and dressed, pangs of hunger began to rumble through my stomach.  The bedside clock told me the early evening was upon us. I picked up the plastic bag containing my mud soaked clothes and took them down to the hotel lobby.
    “So,” the gray-haired man behind the desk said with a mischievous smile as I handed him the bag of wet, muddy clothes, “I have to ask.  How exactly did you manage to fall into the water?”
    After a moment of hesitation I decided not to divulge the fact that I had been drawn into investigating the stump after first overhearing Greg and then the women at the antique shop.  I said with soft embarrassment, “I went for a walk down by the bridge and saw the giant stump on the other side of the river.  I crossed the bridge to get a better look at it and when I was stepping down the embankment I lost my footing and fell into the river.”
    The mischievous smile slid from the old man’s face and he assumed a serious demeanor for several moments before he forced an unconvincing smile back across his face.
    “Well,” he began as he set the bag of muddy clothes behind the counter, “I guess some things are better off left alone, huh.”
    “What do you mean?” I asked with intrigue as the innuendo had instantly rekindled itself.
    The gray haired man leaned forward on the counter and glanced over his shoulders as if to make certain our conversation was not being overheard.  His brow furled and deep lines stretched from the outer corners of his eyes as he squinted.  The cool seriousness of his blue-gray eyes behind those wire rimmed glasses was staggering.  “It is best to stay away from that stump,” he said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.  “Strange things happen down there.  I won’t say what specifically, but it is a place best left alone.” 
    I stood motionless, as if I were entranced by his icy stare.  I felt as if I were a child being chided for my impulsive investigation of the stump.  Still, something within me wanted to know more specifics of this apparent village secret.  I considered questioning him further, but his steely eyes kept any inquiries at bay.  We stood silently for several moments before I was able to ask, “Where would be the best place for supper?”
    The calm smile gently stretched back across his face and he straightened up behind the counter.  “The Mud River Café would be the place to go.  It’s really a bistro rather than a café, and they usually have live jazz there.”
      “I think I know where you mean.  Is that the place on the right when you first enter the village?”
    “Yep, that’d be it.”
    I thanked him for the information and for taking my laundry and headed out into the warm early evening.  The humid air had cooled enough that mosquitoes were now comfortable to brazenly bite at any unprotected flesh.  This relentless attack hastened my steps to the bistro as I swatted at the blood thirsty pests that flitted about my face and neck.  As I hurried along I was also constantly reminded of the events of the day with each troll statue I passed along the way.    By the time I entered the bistro I was again convinced that there was something more to this town, some deep, dark secret they wanted no outsiders to know about. 
    I stepped into the cool, air conditioned bistro to find it filled with natural light from windows along the top of its high walls.  A chalkboard was posted at the hostess podium with the daily specials scrawled out in bright pink and yellow chalk.  I studied the specials momentarily before a young woman walked up to the podium and welcomed me.  Her long blonde hair hung over her shoulders and covered over the breast of her form hugging black evening gown.  I felt my heart kick in my throat as I momentarily became lost in her cool gray eyes and broad smile. 
    “How many?” she asked.
    “Just me,” I replied and suddenly felt rather self conscious of my solitude as she reached for a menu.  I really did not want to be a spectacle, taking up an entire table to dine alone.  “I could eat at the bar,” I suggested.
    “Oh, sure,” she smiled and handed me the menu.
    I found a seat at the bar and ordered an Old Fashioned and a chicken salad.  I sipped my cocktail and looked around the restaurant.  Along the wall opposite the entrance were wide door panels which had been pulled back exposing an outdoor dining area with a stage set back into a natural outdoor amphitheatre which had formed into the limestone bluff that abutted the rear of the restaurant.  The stage was set for a jazz trio scheduled to start a bit later.  There were only a few tables with patrons and I was alone at the bar.  I sat quietly studying the carvings on the wooden bar while I sipped at my drink.  Before long a steady influx of diners filled the dining area and by the time my food arrived the bar was standing room only. 
    Before I was finished with my meal the band took the stage and opened with “Take Five.”  I contemplated moving outdoors after my meal, but when I was finished I had decided my view from the bar allowed me to see an adequate portion of the stage.  So, I stayed put and ordered another cocktail and another after that.  By the end of the first set it was nearly nine o’clock and I was well on my way to inebriation.  However, the desire not to ruin an enjoyable trip by over imbibing encouraged me to leave when the band took their first break.
    Outside the night air was warm and moist.  A quarter moon ascended from the horizon into a clear sky littered with stars.  The street lamps glowed along the sidewalk as I cheerily began walking back to the hotel taking my time as I went.  The good spirits which had filled my chest seemed to vanish as if blown out with a single long sigh as I approached the statue of a short, squat troll under a street lamp.  I stopped and studied it for a moment.  His long crooked nose jutted out from his grotesque, grimacing face.  His repulsive appearance in the pale, dim light forced a geyser of bitter sour up into my throat.  A subtle anxiety began to stir in my chest.  With a dismayed grunt I dismissed myself and started off again.
    “Psssst! Over here,” a whispering voice startled me.
    I stopped as my head snapped to the direction of the voice.  A dark form crept out from the shadows of an alley between two shops and cautiously stepped into the pale light of the street lamp.  An incomplete relief washed over me as I saw Greg, the disheveled man from the tavern, stopping just short of entering the full light of the sidewalk.  With quick, sloppy hand gestures he motioned for me to come over to him.  I hesitated, uncertain of his intentions, until he waved me over again in a more animated manner.  Again I hesitated before cautiously walking over to him.  He stepped back into the shadow of the alley encouraging me to follow him.  I stopped just at the edge of the dark alley refusing to leave the little comfort of pale light provided by the street lamp. 
    “I’ve kept my eye on you,” he slurred and reached for his back pocket.  “I saw you down at the river,” I could see the yellow teeth of his foul grin glowing in the dark as he pulled a pint bottle from his pocket.  After taking a quick pull from the bottle he continued in a whisper, “You’ve come to see the trolls?”
    “I don’t really believe….”
    “Shhhh!  Keep your voice down!” He whispered his scolding.
    “I don’t really believe there are any trolls,” I whispered back as an avalanche of sorrow for this man cascaded through me.  Sorrow for his losses, for what unfortunate events had brought upon him. 
    He grinned and chuckled softly.  “I saw you down by the stump.  I know you’ve seen their footprints.  You want to know.  You have to know.”
    “Look,” I began uncertainly.  I felt trapped.  The morbid curiosity lingered within me and could not be denied.  “I know about your daughter, and I’m sorry for what happened….”
    “You don’t know the half of it!” he spat back.  He took a deep breath and another deep pull from the bottle. 
    Fear of his quick, angry escalation forced me to step back.  “Perhaps I should be going,” I suggested and turned toward the sidewalk. 
    With alarming speed his hand shot out and grabbed my shoulder.  I turned back to him recoiling to defend myself.  Keeping his hand on my shoulder, he closed his eyes and shook his head.  “I’m sorry,” he began and looked intently at me.  I could see the sincerity in his eyes.  “Let me try this again,” he chuckled sheepishly and took another gulp from the bottle.  “My name is Greg.  What’s yours?”
    “Don,” I replied cautiously.
    “Nice to meet you Don,” Greg continued in whispers.  “I know you probably think I’m crazy.  I know most everyone does.  But I promise you I’m telling the truth.”  He took another swig from his bottle and nodded.  “This is the unwritten history of Mud Hollow.  I learned of it from my father and grandfather,” he began.  “Back in the early 1800’s Norwegian and Swedish immigrants settled here.  This village, which started as a mining camp, soon became a happy and profitable community and thrived for several years before the railroad was laid to the south of here, and investors turned to villages, like Mineral Point, near the railroad to better increase their profits.  It was about that time the villagers of Mud Hollow discovered trolls had taken up residence under the giant oak tree on the opposite side of the river by the bridge.  No one was certain when the trolls arrived.  Perhaps a doppelganger came with the immigrants.  Or, maybe the trolls were here all along.  No one really knows.  But the villagers considered the trolls lair to be an evil omen and blamed their rash of unemployment on the trolls.  The huge oak tree under which the trolls lived had long finger-like branches that hung down toward the ground.  When the wind blew it looked like gnarled fingers trying to dig into the earth.  No one liked the fact that mischievous trolls lived under such a foreboding tree. 
    “One day the men of the village gathered and decided to cut down the mammoth tree in an attempt to drive the trolls from their home.  It took teams of men all day to cut through the massive trunk.  Even though they were able to fell the giant tree, they were unable to pull the massive roots from the ground.  They even hitched every available horse in the village to the stump, but even with all of the horse power the roots held their firm grip in the earth.  One of the unemployed miners suggested dynamiting the stump, but the villagers decided against it because they could not take a chance of accidentally destroying the one bridge connecting them to the rest of the world.  So, the villagers reluctantly gave up and hoped they had done enough to drive the trolls from their lair. 
    “But, as the roots remained, so did the trolls.  Several days later a baby disappeared without a trace.  The villagers searched for days, but never found her.  The trolls made it known that during the villagers’ assault on the tree an infant troll had been killed.  In retribution the trolls promised to take one child from the village every twenty-five years as payment for the villagers’ crimes of cutting down the tree and killing an infant troll.” 
    A chill shot through me as I could feel the sincerity in his voice and eyes and I knew he believed what he told me.  I stood silently before him and processed the events of the day.  Once again I found myself falling under the influence of innuendo and coincidences, and concluded his story warranted further investigation of the stump.  And I think I believed what he told me, if not, I wanted to believe.  I wanted there to be some redemption for this poor man who had suffered for so long.  Still, there seemed to be no real way to prove any of what he had told me. 
    “Like I said,” he continued in a whisper, “I’ve been watching you.  I saw you down by their lair.  You want to see them?”
    I hesitated for several long moments before whispering back weakly, “Yes.”
    “Good,” his yellow teeth glistened in the pale street light.  “I need someone to help me tonight.”
    “Help you with what?”
    Greg pulled a lump of white putty wrapped in clear plastic from his from his pocket and discretely showed it to me.
    “Is that….?”
    “I’m gonna do what should have been done long ago,” he interrupted with bitter words.
    “Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed.  I could feel sudden anxiety pumping through my gut. “Are you crazy?”
    “Shhh,” he reminded me as a twinkle of madness sparkled in his eyes.  “I’m just gonna collapse the tunnel on the inside of the stump.  But I need someone to keep a look out while I’m doing it.”
    “This is crazy,” I whispered back seriously.  “Think about what you’re doing.”
    “I’ve been thinking about it for the last twenty-five years,” he spat back.  He took a deep breath.  “Look, if you can’t do it for me, do it for the children.  Do it for those the trolls have taken and those they’ll take if we don’t stop them.”
    That was where he got me.  After several moments of silent consideration I nodded slowly.  Certainly I had no desire to be any sort of hero, but I thought this might be a chance to discover the missing baby in a place that had been left undisturbed by other searchers.  And, if Greg were to find the missing child and return him to his mother, it would be the redemption that Greg needed, not just for himself, but also for his wife and daughter.  Based on what I had seen around town, no one would be willing to help him, so the opportunity to help was solely mine.  “What do you need me to do?” I asked.
    With a sneer he took another sip of from his bottle before placing it in his hip pocket.  “Come with me,” he said firmly as he stepped from the shadows of the alley onto the pale lamp lit sidewalk.
    I followed a half step behind as his hasty gait led us weaving through shadows, exposing us to light of the street lamps only when necessary.  Before long we were off to the side of the bridge along the path opposite the stump.  We crouched in the tall grass.  The sickle moon hung barely above the treetops as the night sky glittered off the surface of the black mud river.  Fireflies sparked their yellow illuminations as the frogs and crickets chirped madly. 
    “Be quiet and stay still,” Greg instructed me.  “They won’t let us see them if they know we’re here.”  He pulled the bottle from his pocket and took a swallow.  He offered me the bottle.  The only thing I could think of was his yellow, crooked teeth.  I shook my head in declination. 
    “I’ve been waiting a long time for the trolls.  They took my baby girl twenty-five years ago.  My wife couldn’t stand the town talking about us, so she killed herself.  Everyone talked about how I was probably the one that killed my baby girl.  But I know it was the trolls.”  He took a big mouthful from the bottle.  “I know it’s the trolls that got Doreen’s baby, the baby that we’ve been looking for…look!”  He pointed across the dark river toward the stump where some overgrowth began rustling.  We sat silently as we watched something move through the thick growth under the bridge. 
    “What is it?” I asked as I squinted at the rustling shadows, “an otter?”
    Greg looked at me with wild-eyed disbelief.  “Come on,” he blew through gritted teeth.  “Move cautiously.  We’ll cross the bridge for a better look.”
    We slowly moved up the embankment through thick dew covered grass as silently as possible to the mouth of the covered bridge.  Fat beads of sweat trickled down the side of my face as we stealthily made our way into the tunnel.  The thick aroma of musty, oiled wood hung in the enclosure of the bridge.  Soft echoes of our footsteps resounded off the walls as we moved side-by-side in the dark toward the opposite opening dimly outlined by moonlight. 
    I gasped aloud as a shadowy, short, wide figure quickly waddled across the opening of the bridge toward the side where the stump stood.  The figure was no animal.  It ran on two legs, but stood no more than three to four feet tall.
    “Come on!”  Greg shouted and burst forth in pursuit.  Compelled by thrilling curiosity, I followed behind him.
    We reached the other side of the bridge and he pulled a small flashlight from his pocket.  We moved to the top of the embankment where he paused to shine the light on some uncovered mud revealing several fresh small footprints.  The tracks were exceptionally wide for such a short foot, just like the ones I saw in front of the arching roots of the stump. 
    I followed Greg down the embankment, taking care not to repeat my earlier folly.  Greg, however, moved with swift, reckless abandon and waited for me in front of the massive root arches.  He shined the light on the black, wet earth revealing short, wide foot prints.  I stepped up along his side and could feel my weight sinking ever so slightly into the spongy ground.  Greg bent forward under one of the massive root arches and shined the light into the dark tunnel.  For several long moments I waited pensively behind him. 
    “Can you hear that?” he turned back toward me while still bent over under the arch. 
    I strained my ears for a moment.  “I can’t hear anything but frogs.”
    “It sounds like a baby grunting,” he said with wide eyes.  Then he turned back toward the tunnel.  “I’m going in.”
    Before I could protest he wriggled himself into the hole and began pulling himself forward.  He stopped with his legs hanging out of the hole from about mid-shin.  He was still for a moment then his legs twitched as he struggled.   
    “Don!” he yelled.  His voice was terribly muffled and barely audible.  “Don!  I’m stuck!  Pull me out!” 
    I grabbed hold of his ankles and pulled as hard as I could, but I could not budge him.  I rearranged my feet in the thick mud for better leverage and re-gripped his ankles.  Again I pulled as hard as I could, but to no avail.  The futility of my attempts to free him forced me to call for help.  I opened my cell phone only to find I had no service in the area. 
    “Greg!” I leaned forward and yelled to him.  “I can’t get you out!  I have to go get help!”
    “Don’t go!” yelled his muffled, panic-stricken voice.  “We can get it!  Just try again!”
    “Just try to relax!” I encouraged.  “I’ll be right back!”
    He continued to protest as I ascended the embankment to the bridge.  An overwhelming sense of urgency forced me to run through the humid night air to The Thirsty Troll as I could think of no other place to seek help. 
    I entered the tavern to find it about half full.  Every head at the bar turned in my direction as I walked to the bartender while sucking in deep chunks of air as fat beads of sweat rolled off my face.  As I crossed the room to the bartender, I noticed he was conversing with the same group of men I saw at the corner of the bar earlier that day.
    “What happened?” the bartender asked as he crossed his arms over his chest.
    “Greg is stuck under the stump by the bridge,” I gasped.  “I need some help in getting him out.”
    “What are you talking about?” the bartender inquired further.
    “Greg was planning to blow up the stump,” I said as softly as I could while still trying to catch my breath.  “He needed me to come and keep a look out.  When we got to the stump, he said he heard a baby grunting.  He crawled under it and got stuck.  I can’t get him out.”
    The men at the bar sat silently sharing knowing glances and subtle nods.  After several moments of silence a plump, round faced man with graying sideburns got off his barstool.  “Okay,” he said seriously. 
    With flashlights in hand the group of men followed me to the very place where I left Greg.  But when we got to the riverbank he was nowhere to be found.  I stood before the empty hole below the arching roots, staring in disbelief.
    “But he was here!” I insisted wildly and pointed.  “He was stuck in this opening!”
    “I wouldn’t worry about him, mister,” said a tall thin man with a van dyke and cold, serious eyes.  “He probably got out on his own.” 
    “Oh-ho, I don’t think so,” I insisted.  “He was stuck good.”
    “He’s probably playing a joke on you,” seriously suggested the round faced man with the graying sideburns.  His cold gray eyes seemed to dance in the dim moonlight.  “He was always something of a joker.”
    After a moment of awkward silence a red headed man added, “Yeah.  Yeah, he’s always doin’ stuff like this.”
    “Yeah, he had the whole town goin’ on about trolls,” added the white haired shopkeep.
    I stood dumbfounded before them.  I could tell by the look in their eyes nothing more would be done.  I shook my head and grabbed a flashlight from the man nearest to me.  I cautiously approached the arch and leaned forward into the hole with the light.  The hole looked far too small for any normal sized man to crawl through. 
    “Greg?” I shouted anyway.  There was no response.
    I pulled out from under the arch and found his shoe on the mud among the weeds.  I picked it up and left with the others.  As we started back to the tavern they assured me Greg would be alright. 
    Back at the tavern we drank beer as they discussed the weather, soy bean and corn crops.  I sat silently as they chatted and I privately mulled over the events of the night.  Eventually I could not deny what I knew to be true and went back to my room.  After a sleepless night I left early in the morning.
    To this day I return to Mud Hollow on occasion.  But even in my car I only cross the bridge in daylight.  And I avoid the river where the stump is near.  I am always certain to stop at “The Thirsty Troll” and inquire of Greg and the lost baby.  Of the few who answer me, no one has seen either of them since they disappeared.  The innuendo of the town still exists as some believe Greg was a pedophile who stole away with Doreen’s baby.  But I feel to the point of certainty that after twenty-five years, Greg was finally reunited with his own daughter…somewhere under the stump, next to the Mud Hollow Bridge.