It wasn’t his best roar – he was worried the peeples in the farmhouse might hear – and it didn’t have much effect. The nearest goat raised its head and blinked at him, then they all went back to chewing the grass or continued to sleep. His dad signalled to him to try again. He took a deep breath. This time he stamped his feet at the same time as he roared. It made no difference – the goats only turned their backs and went on eating.
Mr Troll came running back. ‘What the bogles are you doing?’ he hissed.
‘Roaring softlys. I didn’t want to wake the peeples.’
‘You won’t even wake the goats like that!’ said Mr Troll. ‘Here – hold the sack. Let me do the roaring.’
His dad flitted off into the dark again, leaving Ulrik holding the empty sack.
He was just wondering whether to close the gate when a fearsome noise broke the stillness.
‘GRAAAAARGHHHH!’
The roar of a hunting troll is a sound to chill the blood. It’s enough to make a giant dive under the covers clutching his teddy bear. To the sleepy, unsuspecting goats it sounded like a tiger on the loose. They pricked up their ears, turned tail and stampeded towards the gate.
Ulrik saw them thundering towards him: a blur of hooves and horns and dust. He held the sack at the ready but it was hopeless. There were fourteen goats and only one of him – he might as well have tried to catch a swarm of bees in a paper bag. The goats were running for their lives and they had seen the open gate. This was their chance of freedom.
In the farmhouse, Mr and Mrs Douglas sat bolt upright in bed. The animals in the yard were making a terrible din – bleating, braying and clucking as if the world was coming to an end.
‘It’s that damn fox! The varmint!’ said Mr Douglas, jumping out of bed. He struggled with his trousers, hopping around the room trying to get both feet into one leg. ‘This time I’ll have him! I’ll blast him!’
Mrs Douglas pulled back the curtains. ‘The goats have got out!’ she cried. ‘They’re in the yard!’
‘What?’ said Mr Douglas. ‘He’s after the goats? The cheeky beggar! I’ll pepper his backside!’ He finally got his trousers on and thumped down the stairs to find his boots. By the back door he reached into the cupboard for his rifle.
In the yard, Ulrik was out of breath. Goats were a lot harder to catch than he’d expected. They bucked and kicked when you caught them by the tail. They left a trail of goat droppings which made the yard as slippery as an ice rink. With all the dashing and crashing around they seemed to have woken every animal in the farm. Dogs barked, pigs squealed and a horse kicked at its stable door.
Ulrik wondered where his dad was. In the confusion he had dropped the sack and now he couldn’t find it.
A head poked out from the corner of a water trough and two bright eyes blinked at him. It was the skinny brown kid he’d noticed before. Ulrik reached into his pocket and brought out a biscuit. ‘Here, little ninny goat,’ he said softly, holding out some crumbs. The kid took half a step towards him. Ulrik squatted down to its level to make himself seem smaller. He began to hum softly. Amazingly, the goat trotted closer and licked the crumbs from his hand. ‘Good girl!’ said Ulrik.
‘DON’T MOVE!’ commanded a voice behind him. He looked round to see the farmer, dressed in a pyjama top and baggy trousers, aiming the barrel of a rifle at him. Ulrik had never seen a rifle before but he knew they weren’t for tickling.
Mr Douglas, for his part, had never seen a troll before and finding one in his yard in the middle of the night scared the life out of him. He was prepared for foxes, but he had never seen anything like this ugly brute with the savage fangs.
The rifle shook in his hands. The hairy creature took a step towards him. ‘Back! Get back!’ warned Mr Douglas. But his next words were lost as everything was plunged into darkness. Someone had jammed a foul-smelling sack over his head.
‘Run!’ bellowed Mr Troll, who had crept up behind the farmer.
Ulrik ran across the yard with his heart pounding and his dad close behind him. When they had crossed three fields, plunged through a ditch and climbed a wall, they came out on a country lane. Mr Troll bent over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath.
‘Uggsome! Is hunting always like that?’ panted Ulrik.
Mr Troll shook his head, too breathless to speak.
‘Did I do OK?’ asked Ulrik. ‘I nearly caught a kiddler but the farmer frighted it off.’
‘Maybe we … need more … roaring practice,’ panted Mr Troll. He broke off and listened. Footsteps were coming down the lane. What now? Maybe they hadn’t given the farmer the slip after all.
Mr Troll looked around wildly for a place to hide and settled for pulling Ulrik down in the long grass by the side of the road.
‘Are we stopping for a rest?’ whispered Ulrik.
‘Shh! Someone’s coming!’
The footsteps drew closer, a light trip trop on the road. They stopped. Mr Troll imagined the farmer with his rifle in his hand, sniffing the air to catch their scent. In future he’d remember to wear a clean vest for hunting.
Once again the footsteps came, nearer and nearer. A shadow appeared above them and two bright eyes blinked in the dark.
‘She followed us!’ said Ulrik, delighted.
‘Well I’ll be bogled!’ said Mr Troll. ‘It’s a goat!’
Hiding Rosemary
Mrs Priddle woke from a lovely dream. She was throwing a Christmas party at her house and all kinds of famous people were there. She was just about to tell the Queen a funny joke when something woke her up. It was the kind of noise Warren made when he ate with his mouth open – chomp, chomp, chomp. She turned to glare at her husband, who was lying on his side with his mouth lolling open.
‘Roger!’ she said.
‘Mmm?’ said her husband, still half asleep.
‘Stop making that noise!’
‘I wasn’t!’ mumbled Mr Priddle.
‘You were chewing in my ear!’
Mr Priddle rolled over, presenting his back to her. ‘Go back to shleep,’ he grunted.
Chomp, chomp, chomp! Mrs Priddle heard it again. She hadn’t dreamed it – she was wide awake now. The chomping, chewing noise wasn’t in the bedroom at all, it was coming from outside the window. ‘It’s those trolls again!’ she said out loud.
Ever since they’d moved in next door the Trolls were always disturbing her sleep. They thumped and clumped around as if they were dragging bodies up and down stairs (something Mrs Priddle thought was quite likely). They roared in the back garden at seven o’ clock in the morning and waved cheerily at her husband when he shouted at them to stop. Now, by the sound of it, they were having a picnic on her front lawn.
Mrs Priddle climbed out of bed and pulled back the curtains.
‘There’s a goat!’ she said in astonishment.
‘Tell him I’m asleep,’ mumbled Mr Priddle.
‘Roger, there’s a goat in our garden eating my winter jasmine!’
Mr Priddle groaned. ‘You’re dreaming,’ he mumbled. But his wife yanked the duvet off him and shook him until he opened his eyes. ‘Come and see for yourself!’
Mr Priddle staggered to the window, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Looking out, he saw a skinny brown goat contentedly munching its way through their shrubbery. At one time, he thought, this was a perfectly normal neighbourhood. You could look out of your window in the morning and see the paper boy passing on his bike. Now it was trolls or goats in your garden.
‘Don’t just stand there!’ said his wife at his shoulder. ‘Go down and shoo him away!’
‘Why me?’ asked Mr Priddle. ‘Why don’t you do the shooing for a change?’
‘I’m not dressed for it!’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘I’m in my nightie!’
Warren poked his head round the bedroom door. ‘Dad! Guess what?’ he said excitedly. ‘There’s a goat in our garden!’
Mr Priddle opened the front door and padded nervously into the garden, wearing his dressing gown and slippe
rs. Warren was watching him with interest from the kitchen window.
‘Hey!’ said Mr Priddle. The goat’s head appeared above one of the bushes. It had horns – small ones, but horns nevertheless. ‘Shoo!’ said Mr Priddle, keeping his distance. ‘Shoo!’
He clapped his hands. The goat seemed to think this was an invitation to get to know each other better. It came trotting eagerly towards him.
‘No! I said shoo! GO AWAY!’ said Mr Priddle, backing towards the door. The belt of his dressing gown was dangling loose and suddenly the goat dipped its head and made a grab for it. It seized the belt in its mouth and began to pull.
‘Let go, you brute!’ said Mr Priddle. It was either an undignified tug of war with a goat or abandon his dressing gown altogether. He hoped that none of the neighbours were watching.
‘Piddle!’ boomed a familiar voice. ‘You found her!’
Two large hairy heads appeared above the front hedge. Mr Priddle groaned—he might have known the trolls were responsible for this.
‘Rosemary!’ scolded Ulrik. ‘Naughty goats! I told you to stay in the garden.’
‘She’s been eating my plants!’ grumbled Mr Priddle. ‘Not to mention my dressing gown.’
‘Goatses eat anything,’ nodded Mr Troll. ‘Grasses, berries, even dressing-gongs.’
‘I don’t care what they eat. I want to know what’s she doing in my garden!’ said Mr Priddle.
‘She got out,’ explained Mr Troll. ‘We tied her to the fence but she bited through the rope.’
‘But what’s she doing here? Where on earth did you get a goat?’
Ulrik was about to explain about the farm, but Mr Troll hastily cut him off. ‘Oh, the post peeples brought her,’ he said.
‘The postman?’ said Mr Priddle. ‘The postman brought you a goat?’
‘Yes. She’s a present,’ said Mr Troll. Rosemary had spotted the holly wreath on the Priddles’ door and was now standing on her hind legs, trying to reach it.
‘Leave that alone!’ said Mr Priddle sharply. ‘You can’t keep a goat round here. You need a licence.’
‘Oh, we’re not going to keep her,’ said Mr Troll.
‘Aren’t we?’ said Ulrik.
‘No, no – goats is for eating. A young kid is tastesome, especially in a pie. We always have goat pie on Trollmas Day.’
Ulrik put his hands over Rosemary’s ears. He thought his dad might at least keep his voice down. ‘Come on, Rosemary – let’s find you some breakfast,’ he said.
Mr Priddle watched them go, re-tying the soggy belt of his dressing gown. ‘And in future kindly keep her out of my garden!’ he called after them.
Back home the Trolls discussed what to do while Rosemary trotted through the downstairs rooms in search of something else to eat. For a young kid she certainly seemed to have a healthy appetite.
‘Why can’t she stay in the garden?’ asked Ulrik. ‘She likes it there.’
‘That’s no good,’ said Mr Troll. ‘She’ll only run off again. And anyway, Grumpa is bound to see her. We don’t want to spoil the surprise.’ They had decided not to tell Grumpa about Rosemary yet. Mr Troll was looking forward to seeing his delighted face on Trollmas Day when he found that goat pie was on the menu.
Mrs Troll glanced over at Rosemary as she licked some dried bean juice off the wall.
‘I suppose we could just … you know …’ she said.
‘What?’ said Mr Troll.
Mrs Troll lowered her voice. ‘Cook her now.’
‘NO!’ protested Ulrik.
‘She’s only a goat, hairling,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘She’s got to be eaten!’
‘Can’t we just keep her until Trollmas?’ pleaded Ulrik.
‘But where, my ugglesome?’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Where can we hide a goat?’
‘I know! The bathroom,’ said Ulrik. ‘Grumpa never goes in there.’
‘That’s true,’ said Mr Troll. ‘He’d rather kiss a goblin than have a wash.’
‘Someone would have to feed her,’ said Mrs Troll doubtfully.
‘I’ll do it, Mum!’ said Ulrik eagerly. ‘I’ll go in every day.’
Mrs Troll considered. ‘Well, she could do with a bit of fattening up,’ she said. ‘We don’t want stringy goat in our pie!’
After supper that evening Ulrik slipped upstairs to the bathroom while no one was paying any attention. Under his jumper he had concealed a bowl of food. His parents and Grumpa were downstairs arguing in the kitchen.
Since his trip into town, Grumpa seemed more ill-tempered than ever. He complained that the cave they lived in was too large and the rooms were too dry and stinkless. The streets were full of pasty-faced peeples and he kept asking when he was going to meet another troll. Most of the time he sulked in his room, appearing only for meals. Ulrik could tell Grumpa was getting on his parents’ nerves, but at least it would be Trollmas soon and everyone would be happy.
He opened the bathroom door. Rosemary got to her feet, pleased to see him. Little bits of the shower curtain littered the floor. He brought out the food he’d carefully prepared. His dad had said goats ate everything, so he’d brought a bit of anything he could find. There was some cold baked bean, a carrot, some broken biscuits and a small mound of Coco Pops. As an afterthought, he’d sprinkled a handful of grass on top.
‘There we are, little kiddler,’ he said, placing the bowl in the bath.
Rosemary sniffed the food and began to eat hungrily. In a couple of minutes the bowl had been licked clean and she was nosing into Ulrik’s pockets.
‘Sorry, that’s all I’ve got,’ said Ulrik, patting her head. ‘Time for bed now.’
Rosemary’s brown eyes blinked back at him. ‘Bed!’ said Ulrik. ‘Sleepy-bogles.’
He climbed into the bath and lay down, closing his eyes to show what he meant. Rosemary bent over and licked his face with her rough warm tongue.
‘No, no!’ giggled Ulrik. ‘You in bath—go sleepy-leepy.’
He picked Rosemary up and set her down, struggling, in the bath. The goat blinked at him puzzled. Ulrik had an idea. When he was small and he couldn’t get to sleep his mum used to sing him an old trollaby3. He began to croon it softly now.
‘Sleep troggler grunting,
Daddy’s gone a-hunting.
Gone to bags a goats’s skin,
To wrap the tiny troggler in.’
Maybe he should have picked a song with better words but the trollaby seemed to do the trick. Rosemary folded her legs under her and lay down in the bath to listen. Her brown eyes began to droop and her head nodded forward. Ulrik went on singing until she was asleep. The door opened and his dad looked in.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Shhh! Singing Rosemary to sleep,’ whispered Ulrik.
Mr Troll closed the door behind him and looked at the goat dozing in the bath. ‘I wish you’d stop calling her Rosemary,’ he said.
‘Why?’ asked Ulrik.
‘Because she’s a goat! Goatses don’t have names.’
‘Why don’t they?’ persisted Ulrik.
‘Because they’re for eating, Ulrik. You can’t cook someone called Rosemary!’
‘Shhh! She’ll hear you!’
He sat down on the side of the bath. Mr Troll could tell that something was bothering him.
‘Dad, how do you … you know … before you put them in the pie?’
‘Swizzle them?’ said Mr Troll. ‘Well, some trolls use their bare hands but, myselves, I’ve always used a rock. A rock does a nice quick jobs. One bash on the head and –’
‘Dad!’ Ulrik had covered his ears.
‘What?’ said Mr Troll. ‘You’ve got to learn sometime. I was thinking you could help me.’
‘No!’ Ulrik shook his head sullenly. ‘Anyway, why do we have to eat goat?’
‘Why?’ Mr Troll couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Because we’re trolls! Trolls eat goatses.’
‘But there are lots of other things we could eat,’ Ulrik argued.
‘Nothing as t
astesome as goat pie. It’s always been your favourite, ever since you were a little troggler.’
Ulrik shrugged. ‘I think I’ve changed my mind. From now on I’m going to be a veggy-tellyum.’
‘A veggy … what the bogles is that?’ asked Mr Troll.
‘Alice Snorley, in my class, is one. It’s when you don’t eat meat.’
‘DON’T EAT MEAT??’ This was too much for Mr Troll. He stormed out of the bathroom, clumped downstairs and burst out of the back door. His roar could be heard halfway down the road.
Goat on the Loose
Mr Troll plodded along the road with his head down, dragging the giant tree by its roots. People coming the other way had to leap off the pavement in order to avoid being swept into the gutter, but Mr Troll hardly noticed because he was thinking about Ulrik.
Grumpa was right, he said to himself. It was his fault that Ulrik wasn’t more trollish. It was hardly surprising. Instead of playing in a forest like any normal troll he had to go to a school and sit in a classroom saying his seven times tables all day. It was bound to get him muddled. Now he was calling goats Rosemary and talking about turning into a veggy-smelly-thing.
It was terrible! Shameful! He never thought he’d see the day when a son of his refused to eat goat. If Grumpa ever found out he would go raving blunkers. ‘WON’T EAT GOAT?’ he’d roar. ‘Is he a troll or a rabbit?’ Grumpa had eaten his first goat as soon as he’d got his baby fangs. In any case, Mr Troll had given it a lot of thought and he’d decided that the truth was Ulrik was missing home. Homesickness did funny things to you—it got you muddled and your eyes started leaking.
That’s why he’d hit on the idea of the tree. Ulrik had been begging them for a tree and Mr Troll had found the perfect one. It was a giant Norway Spruce, green and bushy and smelling like the forest at the foot of Troll Mountain. It had taken him two hours to dig it up. There had been a bit of a tug of war with the park keeper, which Mr Troll had enjoyed, though he won too easily.
Goat Pie Page 4
