The Swivel-Eyed Ogre-Thing

by Barry Hutchison

  “But if he says anything about trolls,” added Paradise, “he’s a filthy liar.”

  With that, she followed Ben up the spiral staircase, dragging Scumbo along behind her. The troll gave Tavish a friendly wave. “Kids, eh?” he said, then he vanished through the hole leading to Ben’s bedroom and the hatch closed over with a slam.

  “Right, now spill,” said Paradise. “How did we save your life?”

  “And what are you so scared of?” added Ben.

  Ben’s bedroom was tucked up in the attic of the house, right below the thatched roof. There were no windows, but Scumbo still glanced in all directions before he started to speak.

  “Someone’s been taking trolls,” he said, his voice hushed.

  “Who would do that?” asked Ben.

  “And why?” said Paradise. “Why would anyone choose to be around a troll if they didn’t have to be?”

  “Dunno,” Scumbo admitted. “It’s a puzzler all right. But it’s happenin’. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

  “What exactly did you see?” said Ben.

  Scumbo leaned in. “No trolls, that’s what I seen,” he said. “No trolls nowhere.’Cept me.”

  “Maybe they’ve gone on holiday,” suggested Paradise. Her nose crinkled as she caught a whiff of Scumbo. “Or for a bath, with a bit of luck.”

  Scumbo shook his hairy head. “They been pinched,” he said. “Snatched away by some ’orrible troll-taker. Swiped right out from under their bridges the lot of ’em.”

  “Why weren’t you taken then?” Ben asked.

  “Well, ’cos I don’t got a bridge no more, do I? You lot broke it. And if you hadn’t done … well, who knows where I’d be now?”

  Scumbo plonked himself down on the end of Ben’s bed. It shuddered violently and gave a loud creak of protest.

  “Let’s just say you’re right, and that someone really is kidnapping trolls,” said Paradise. “How is that our problem? If you ask me they deserve a medal.”

  “Paradise!” said Ben. “That’s a bit harsh.”

  “No it isn’t,” Paradise insisted. “Trolls eat people.”

  “No we don’t,” Scumbo said.

  Paradise frowned. “You do so! Back at the bridge you said—”

  Scumbo stood up. The bed gave a squeak of relief. “Oh yeah, I mean we say we eat people. We say it all right, but how many people do you know what’ve ever actually been eaten by a troll?”

  “Mr Asquith the baker had his arm bitten off by one,” Paradise said.

  “Oh yeah, I mean – granted – we partly eat people. We partly eat ’em, yeah. I mean who doesn’t partly eat—”

  “And both legs.”

  “We mostly eat people, I’ll give you,” Scumbo said, after just a moment’s hesitation. “We gobble up most of ’em, of course, but we don’t fully eat ’em, that’s the point I’m trying to make here. Beside, we provides a valuable public service, we do.”

  “Oh, don’t talk rubbish,” Paradise said. “What public service?”

  “How many wild goats you had come trip-trappin’ into town before tonight? Tearing the place up and scaring all the little kiddly-winks? Hmm? How many?”

  Ben and Paradise exchanged a glance. “Well … none,” Ben admitted.

  “That’s ’cos of all us trolls guarding all them bridges,” Scumbo said. “Stopping them goats getting past. Stopping other things, too. Worse things. Things so nasty they’ll make your eyes burst just looking at ’em.”

  “What, like Paradise you mean?” asked Ben, then he jumped back to avoid a slap. “I’m kidding!”

  “Yeah, you laugh while you can,” said Scumbo, in a voice as solemn as the grave. “But without no trolls to guard them bridges, this whole place is gonna be neck-deep in nastiness before you can say ‘I wish we’d helped out that nice Scumbo fella when we had the chance. He knew a thing or two, he did’.”

  “Help you?” Paradise said.

  “How?” said Ben.

  “That mayor what you went looking for,” said Scumbo. “Find him, did you?”

  Ben nodded. “We did.” He jabbed a thumb in Paradise’s direction. “She can find anything.”

  “Then find them trolls. Find ’em, and find out who took ’em.” The troll looked from Ben to Paradise and back again. “Or else one little angry goat is gonna be the least of your problems.”

  The cogs inside Tavish’s mechanical arm whirred quietly as he reached up to scratch his head. Now he was really confused.

  “So … he is a troll?”

  “Yes,” said Ben.

  “It came as a real surprise to all of us,” said Paradise.

  “’Cept me,” Scumbo added.

  “Yes. Except him.”

  “And you want to go with him to find some other trolls who’ve all been…?”

  “Taken,” said Ben.

  “By…?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “For…?”

  “We don’t know that either.”

  Tavish frowned. “So … let me get this straight. You want to go out in the dark with a man-eating creature to track down some other man-eating creatures who’ve all been kidnapped by someone—”

  “Or something,” added Scumbo.

  “Thank you, yes. Or something which by default must be even worse than they are, for reasons currently unknown.” He leaned in to give the next part extra emphasis. “On a school night.”

  “That sounds about right,” said Ben.

  “It sounds a bit dangerous.”

  A voice from the doorway interjected before Ben could reply.

  “Oh come now, Mr Tavish. It’s nothing the great Benjamin Blank can’t handle!”

  They all turned to find the Mayor of Loosh filling the doorway.

  He flashed them his polished smile and closed the gap between them with three determined strides. The mayor ruffled Paradise’s hair. “Sorry I didn’t wait for you when that goat attacked, my dear,” he said. “I knew my safety would be your number one concern. And, of course, I knew you’d be perfectly fine.”

  “She was almost trampled,” Ben said. The mayor turned his smile on him, and Ben felt his skin crawl. He might be the closest thing Paradise had to a dad, but there was something about the mayor that made Ben uneasy.

  “Almost trampled is merely another way of saying not trampled,” the mayor said. “And for that I’m eternally grateful.”

  “Who’s the fatso?” asked Scumbo, peering up at the newcomer.

  “He’s not a fasto, he’s the Mayor of Loosh,” explained Tavish.

  “Looks like a fatso to me.” Scumbo’s nostrils flared. “An’ he smells funny.”

  “Ahaha. Charming,” said the mayor, brushing off the insults. “Did I hear correctly, Mr … Troll thing? Were you asking for young Benjamin’s assistance?”

  “He was, but it sounds dangerous,” said Tavish.

  The mayor rested a hand on Ben’s shoulder. Ben tried to pull away, but the mayor was stronger than his flabby frame suggested. “Dangerous? For the boy who defeated the Shark-Headed Bear-Things and saved me from a fate worse than death? Nonsense! It’s nothing he can’t handle.” He placed his other hand on Paradise’s shoulder. “Besides, he’d have my Paradise to help him find his way home.”

  Tavish didn’t look convinced, but Ben could see it wouldn’t take much to tip things in his favour. “Remember what the Soothsayer High Council told you?” he said. “This stuff – battling monsters – it’s my destiny.”

  “Yes,” said Tavish. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” He looked down at Ben and smiled sadly. “If I say no, will you go anyway?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Tell me the truth, Benjamin.”

  “Yes,” Ben admitted. “Probably. Those trolls could be in trouble and, well, someone’s got to help them, right? It’s like you always told me. There’s the easy thing to do and there’s the right thing to do, and they aren’t always the same. This is the right thing to do, Uncle Tavish. I can feel
it.”

  “Oh, this boy,” said the mayor, wiping an invisible tear from the corner of one eye. “This boy!”

  Tavish sighed. Ben held his breath. Scumbo farted loudly.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Been hanging on to that for ages.”

  “Good grief,” yelped Paradise, recoiling. “That’s disgusting.”

  The smell hit Tavish and he stepped back. Even though an old cooking injury meant the blacksmith’s nose was made almost entirely out of wood, the smell somehow still managed to find a way through.

  “Right, go, go,” he urged. “Go do what you have to do, and take that thing with you. Just please … be careful.”

  “I will,” Ben promised. He turned to Paradise and Scumbo. “You two go wait outside.”

  “Good. Fresh air!” wheezed Paradise, her voice muffled by a handkerchief she had pressed over her nose and mouth. She made a move towards the door, then stopped. “Wait, what about you?”

  “I’d imagine Benjamin is going to get that wonderful glove of his,” said the mayor. He smiled, showing too many teeth. “Isn’t that right, Ben?”

  “Uh … yeah. That’s right,” said Ben, and he headed for a small door at the back of the room, with the mayor’s gaze following him every step of the way.

  Ben tiptoed down the rough stone stairs leading into the dark depths of the basement. It had only been a few weeks since he’d been running up them, a Shark-Headed Bear-Thing snapping at his heels. Since then he’d only been back once, and as the flickering torch in his hand sent shadows scurrying across the walls, he felt his heart begin to beat a little faster.

  At last, he reached the bottom and stepped down on to the hard-packed soil floor. The torchlight picked out two shapes tucked against one wall – a box, and something hidden beneath a faded old blanket. Beside them, a large hole in the wall had been barricaded with boulders and bits of scrap metal. Ben checked the barrier to make sure it was still secure, then made his way over to the box.

  He opened the lid and there, just where he’d left it, was the metal gauntlet. Tavish had given it to him before his encounter with the Bear-Things, but insisted Ben put it back after the adventure was over. It wasn’t a toy, Tavish had said, but Ben wouldn’t have dreamed of playing with it anyway. It had been one of two items found with Ben in the wreckage of an old wagon, back when Ben was just a baby, and that meant it was something much more important than a toy.

  It was a clue. A clue to his past, and to what had happened to his parents.

  He slipped the metal glove over his right hand and felt a brief tingle travel along his fingertips. According to Tavish’s Automated Magic Detecting Device, the gauntlet was packed with magical power. Unfortunately, Ben hadn’t quite figured out how to use it properly. Still, just by wearing it he felt braver somehow, like there was no challenge he couldn’t face.

  And speaking of challenges…

  Ben turned to the blanket. He pulled it away, revealing the second object that had been found alongside him in that wreckage. The handle of a sword stuck up from a lump of heavy rock. The blade was buried deep in the stone, with only a few centimetres of the polished steel showing. A symbol in the shape of a clawed creature was embossed on the weapon’s hilt. Its eyes seemed to follow Ben as he reached out and took hold of the handle.

  “I’m ready,” he whispered into the darkness. “This is my sword, and I’m ready.”

  He pulled. His grip slipped off the handle. He took hold and tried again.

  “I’m ready,” he said, more loudly this time. “Come … out!”

  But the sword stayed stuck in the stone, no matter how hard he pulled.

  Releasing his grip, Ben let out a sigh. “Oh well,” he said, looking down at the wooden sword stuck in the belt of his tunic. “Looks like you’re just going to have to do.”

  Wesley hit the ground with a thud. He bounced to his feet, the robe still tangled above his head. For a moment he just ran in circles screaming at the top of his voice, then he turned too sharply and smacked straight into the side of his hut.

  “Oof!” he yelped. He wrestled his clothing back into place, saw a troll smiling at him, then tried to run away again. Paradise caught him by the back of the robe and spun him around to face her.

  “Wesley,” she snapped. “Calm down.”

  “Troll!” Wesley cried, pointing frantically in case Paradise had somehow missed the hairy monster standing beside her. “The t-troll’s here.”

  “I know,” Paradise said. “Don’t worry about it. We’re going to help him.”

  “Help him? Are you mad?”

  Paradise shrugged. “Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.”

  Wesley’s mouth dropped open. His eyes went wide as he gawped at the troll, then back to Paradise. “Ben?”

  “Ben,” she confirmed.

  “What about me?” asked Ben, trotting up to join them.

  “They said you’re a maniac,” Scumbo explained.

  “No we didn’t,” spluttered Wesley.

  “Well, not in so many words, maybe,” admitted Scumbo. “But that was the general idea. They don’t reckon you should be helping me. They’s a couple of troll haters.”

  “I don’t hate trolls,” Wesley said. “I’m terrified of them.”

  Scumbo smiled knowingly. “Aha! You’s only scared because you don’t understand us.”

  “And because you might eat me!”

  “Mostly eat you,” Scumbo corrected. “Not all the way. An’ I’m not going to eat no one.” He winked in Wesley’s direction. “Not right now, anyway.”

  “Someone’s kidnapping trolls,” Ben explained. “We’re going to help find them.”

  “I’m not coming!” Wesley said, a little more high-pitched than he’d intended. He cleared his throat. “I mean, you know … fun as it sounds. I’ll just stay here and, um, keep an eye on things. Just you go on without me.”

  Ben nodded. “Good idea.”

  This took Wesley by surprise. “Is it?”

  “Yeah,” said Ben. “You can help defend the village. Without the trolls to guard the bridges there’s no saying what might be on its way here even now. More goats, maybe.”

  “Or goblins,” said Scumbo. “Nasty little bleeders, goblins.”

  “G-goblins?”

  “Don’t forget the ogres. You do know how to fight an ogre, don’t you?” Paradise said. “Don’t let it rip your legs off. That’s step one.”

  Wesley’s face had turned a grim shade of grey. He peered into the gloom surrounding the village and his whole body spasmed with fear.

  “On s-second thoughts,” he said, “you might need my assistance. With magic and information and whatnot.”

  Ben stroked his chin. “I dunno…”

  “Please let me come!” Wesley squeaked. “Don’t leave me here with the ogres.”

  “And goblins,” Scumbo reminded him.

  Wesley whimpered. “Or them.”

  “Well … OK,” said Ben. “You’ve twisted my arm. You can come.”

  “Oh, thank you!” said Wesley. He glanced nervously at every shadow, as if something might lunge out at any moment. “I suggest we leave right away.”

  “Good idea.” Ben turned to Paradise. “Right then, do your stuff.”

  Paradise frowned. “What?”

  “Your findy thing. Find us a troll.”

  Paradise extended an arm and pointed in Scumbo’s direction. “Found one.”

  Ben folded his arms. “Very funny.”

  “I’m not joking,” replied Paradise. “My power doesn’t work like that. You can’t just say ‘find a troll’ and then expect me to find one.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s a troll there!” said Paradise, pointing to Scumbo again. “If I try to find a troll, I’m just going to keep finding him. I need something connected to one of the missing ones. Something specific.”

  She turned to Scumbo. “Do you have a picture of one of the lost trolls?”

  “No.”


  “Do you have anything belonging to them?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have, I don’t know, a lock of their back hair or something?”

  “Yes!” said Scumbo.

  “That’s great!” said Paradise. “And completely revolting.”

  “Actually wait … I don’t,” said the troll. “Misunderstood the question. Sorry.”

  Paradise tutted. “Then I can’t find them.”

  Ben frowned. “I don’t get it. You didn’t have anything of mine. How did you find me?”

  “Unlucky, I guess,” Paradise said with a smirk. “With you I was looking for someone who could help. Had some big brave hero type been standing next to me, I’d have found him. There wasn’t, so I found you.”

  Ben’s frown deepened. “I don’t get it.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Paradise sighed. “If I look for a hero, I’ll find the closest hero – in that case, you. If I look for a troll, I’ll find the closest troll – in this case, him.”

  She jabbed a thumb in Scumbo’s direction.

  He gave a little wave.

  “If you want me to find a particular troll, then you have to give me something to work with, otherwise I’m going to keep coming back to the stinkbeast here.”

  Wesley let out a yelp. “Wait! That’s it!”

  He reached a hand up inside one of his baggy sleeves and fished out a large leather-bound book.

  He hurriedly flipped through the pages. “Lunt Bingwood wrote something…”

  “What’s a Lunt Bingwood?” asked Scumbo.

  “He’s the greatest adventurer who ever lived,” replied Ben. He had only heard about Lunt Bingwood recently, but already the tales of the adventurer-turned-author had made a big impression. It was a shame he had mysteriously disappeared shortly after writing his book. Ben would have loved to have met him and swapped adventure stories.

  “He wrote this monster guide book,” said Wesley, holding up the hefty tome. “Who’s Who, What’s What, and Why They Do Such Horrible Things to One Another.” Wesley flicked on a few more pages then stopped. “Aha, here it is! According to Lunt Bingwood, all trolls have their own unique scent.”