There once lived a troll by the name of Wiggabee Perkins. He was a retired old troll, through with the days of hiding under bridges and scaring little children. No, this troll was quite tame and gentle. However, there was one thing that was quite peculiar about Wiggabee. Wiggabee Perkins detested company. He neither openly solicited nor quietly hinted at anyone visiting him. In fact, nobody had ever visited with him for quite a many years. He was a hermit of sorts. Of course, there were often strangers seeking shelter from storms and other maladies, who in the course of an unfortunate dark night maychance knock upon Wiggabee's front door. Wiggabee, before you could say "Excuse me sir," would holler and protest and make his face ugly, a trick he had learned from his under-bridge days. And the stranger would make like the northern winds and blow, more often than not, thinking perchance that a bout with pneumonia would be favorable compared to a night with Wiggabee. Wiggabee lived in what at first glance you might call a mound of dirt, tightly compressed and covered with a rich, green moss. There were little miniature windows painted a baby blue and lined with tiny planters of miniature strawberries. His front door was perfectly round and made of bark, finished with a secret peephole to view any unsuspecting and unfavored guests. The shades were always pulled down. The only time that you would know that someone lived in that mound of dirt, was on Fridays, when Wiggabee picked his strawberries and made strawberry tarts. A light waft of smoke would come out of the stove pipes, carrying the wonderful fragrance of cinnamon and sugar and baking berries to the neighboring homes. On these days children would hide in the bushes near Wiggabee's home, often daring each other to knock on his tiny round door and ask for a tart. Nobody had ever tasted one of Wiggabee's strawberry tarts. Since Wiggabee was not prone to visitation, he was also not prone to sharing. And every Friday, one of the children would take up on the dare, and Wiggabee would wing open the door, look the poor, unsuspecting child square up in the eye, and make a most horrendous face, growling and steaming. Even though he was one-third the size of any small child, he was quite menacing. The child would more often than not scream and run, crying, home. The other children would laugh loudly and go their way, and most of the time, little Wiggabee would have a quiet chuckle of his own, in the privacy of his home. He enjoyed the children's games, too. One day, a witch flew overhead, minding her own business, when she heard one of the children scream below. She looked down, and saw a tiny green man-thing growling at a small child, and waving his long, skinny, clawed arms in the air. The child dropped a bucket of milk he was carrying and ran as other children ran following, laughing. The witch was intrigued, and swooped down, as the small man-thing picked up the bucket of milk and carried it inside. Was that a wry smile on the man-thing's face? Why, it was a troll. . . . She decided at that moment that she would teach the troll a lesson. She would disguise herself as a little girl, and when Wiggabee tried to scare her, she would make the ugliest and scariest face HE had ever seen, and that would put a stop to that! Why, only she was allowed to scare the little ones! She set her broom down beside a tree, and disguised herself. She strolled up cautiously to his door, making sure that he could not see her through his secret peephole, and knocked on his bark door. Wiggabee had chuckled deeply while he had taken the bucket of milk inside. What a sight that child had made! He didn't know that a child could open his little eyes so wide without losing them completely! And what a scream! That was a beauty! Not since his under-bridge days had he heard a good, healthy scream such as that! He was quite proud of himself. He put some clover tobacco in his pipe, which was his custom on every Friday afternoon, and began to settle on his favorite oak chair for a smoke, when there was another knock on his door. Now that was strange, thought Wiggabee. Never in all his days had the children dared to bother him twice on a Friday. This would have to stop, for it would become bothersome and annoying. He decided he would have to not only scare the child, but also humiliate him. Instantly he knew what he would do. The witch-disguised-as-a-girl peered closer as the door began to open, first a crack, than a larger crack. An eye looked around the edge for a moment, and she peered closer. She was just about ready to match any face he could make, when the door flew open, and a large amount of cold milk flew out, splashing her face, her dress, and her hair. She was soaked from head to toe. The door then slammed shut again, and a loud bray of laughter came from both inside the house and behind the bushes. She turned around, growing very red in the face. The children had once again assembled behind the bushes, and had seen the whole event. They were rolling in the dirt and pointing at her, laughing as loudly as they possibly could. The witch grew very angry. She had never been humiliated before, and was not ready to start. She screamed, and instantly her disguise fell away. She was no longer a wet girl. She was a very, angry, wet witch. She grabbed her broom, and children scattered, frightened and fearful for their lives. Up she flew into the sky, spittering and sputtering, milk raining upon the roofs of the houses below. Wiggabee began to wonder what all of the racket was about. Perhaps he had been too harsh upon the children. He opened the door to see if everything was alright. There was silence around his house, but above, in the sky, thunder began to roll and the clouds began to cast a reddish glow overhead. He looked up, and heard an incredibly mad-sounding voice holler. TROLL! (Is that witch I see, he wondered?) YOU DARE TO MOCK ME! (Why is she dripping milk over the town?) YOU STAY IN YOUR HOME ALL DAY, SCARING POOR INNOCENT CHILDREN. (What does she mean, it was only a joke, only a joke, only. . .) YOU WANT NO PART OF THE WORLD AROUND YOU? I WILL MAKE YOU TOO SLOW TO CHASE ANYONE, (No, please no) TOO SILENT TO SPEAK TO ANYONE (No sorry no, Wiggabee thought to himself.) AND TOO HUMOROUS TO SCARE ANYONE AGAIN!! Wiggabee began to shake and quiver, slamming his door, and hiding under his oak chair. The children all hid in the forest, shaking and crying. Poor, poor Wiggabee, they thought. They were sorry for bothering him so often. TROLL!, screamed the witch again, swooping lower towards his house as the sky grew darker and the air began to become misty and wet with milk droplets. YOU WISH TO HIDE INSIDE YOUR HOME? THEN STAY THERE FOREVER! And with that, a great bolt of lightning struck the roof of the hump of dirt which was once Wiggabee's fine home. And the home began to shrink. Wiggabee spread himself on the floor, begging, pleading, wishing he had never stayed in all of the time, wishing he could say he was sorry, wanting to allow visitors to come, to stay, please just stop this from happening! When the house stopped shrinking, Wiggabee's little head was sticking out of the door, and his arms and legs were sticking out of the windows, and when he tried to get up, he found that he could not. His house had become a shell, and he was trapped within it. He had to walk on all fours now. He walked, wearily and shamefully, into the forest. And to this day, the descendants of Wiggabee the troll, now tortoises or turtles to all the children who see and know them, look to find the witch who had caused all of this, in order to apologize and to ask to be released from her spell, which continues to this day. But tortoises cannot look up into the sky very well, and cannot speak a single word. And they have never scared a child since. copyright 1997, Steven Woods Why Tortoises Are
--A parable, of sorts
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