Early Man

by Aardman Animation Ltd

  Still in character, the bird gave Nooth’s nose a painful twist. Then, with another Squawk!, it hopped onto the windowsill, its message complete.

  “Silly old bat,” muttered Nooth, rubbing his sore nose. “How dare she talk to me like that?”

  “Silly old bat. How dare she talk to me like that?” echoed the bird, in Nooth’s voice. “Delivering message!” it squawked, and flew off before Nooth could stop it.

  Nooth scowled after the bird, wishing he had held his tongue. Queen Oofeefa’s threatening words had spoiled his good mood. They had not, however, shaken his faith in his plan. Let the cavemen do their worst, he thought. They were no match for the mighty Real Bronzio.

  Back in the Badlands, the Tribe were indeed doing their worst.

  Passing practice was going no better than shooting had. No matter how often Dug told them not to, his friends insisted on running around in one big pack, chasing the ball. It didn’t help that Grubup kept trying to capture and eat it.

  By the end of the first day’s training, the Tribe had made no progress whatsoever, and had lost all their enthusiasm. Even Dug was feeling flat.

  It was not in Dug’s nature, however, to stay down for long. It was bound to take a little time for things to come together, he told himself. By the next morning, he was back to his usual upbeat self.

  “Rise and shine!” he told the others cheerily, as he woke them early with a bucketful of cold water. “Training time!”

  The second training session went as badly as the first.

  So did the third.

  And the fourth.

  As the days went by, and the moon grew fuller, the Tribe remained as hopeless at soccer as ever. It was all Dug could do to hold on to his belief that they would, eventually, get the hang of it.

  Not everybody had his faith. When Bobnar came to see how things were going at the umpteenth session, his heart sank.

  “Stop bunching! Less bunching,” Dug yelled at the others, who were lumbering about after the ball in one big rabble. “To him! To her! Kick it to each other more!”

  Barry was sitting out the session in a sulk. Soccer, as far as he was concerned, was simply too hard.

  Hognob, on the other hand, kept trying to sneak in on the action, despite repeated reminders of the no-hogs-allowed rule.

  “My toe hurts!” whined Gravelle, who had complained of more injuries in recent days than Bobnar could count.

  Eemak, meanwhile, had suffered a genuine injury. Purple-faced, he clutched the vulnerable area that Magma had just kicked.

  “When I said ‘free kick,’” Dug told Magma wearily, “I meant of the ball!”

  Elsewhere, Treebor was cowering and trembling. Several of the line marker crabs were closing in on him. He gave a scream of terror and fled.

  Bobnar took it all in with a grim expression. It was a shambles.

  And what happened next put an end to training altogether.

  Grubup had gone wandering off moments earlier, looking for something to eat, as always. He had spotted a tasty-looking wild duck nearby. It was only when he hurled a rock at it that he realized it was much, much bigger than he had first thought. Like most Badlands wildlife it was, in fact, monstrous.

  The tyrannosaur-sized duck came stomping angrily after Grubup, who ran for his life, back toward the training ground.

  “DUCK!” he screamed to the Tribe in warning.

  His friends ducked down, looking up anxiously for the danger.

  “No!” yelled the wide-eyed Grubup, pointing. “DUCK!”

  The others saw the monstrous mallard charging their way, and fled.

  In the chase that followed, the rampaging creature wrecked the training ground. Worst of all, it stomped on the soccer ball, bursting it. Without a ball to play with, further practices were impossible.

  It was a glum, battered, and weary group who slumped around the campfire that night. Dug sat alone, a little way off, looking out over the Valley below. Bobnar came to talk to him.

  “Dug, it’s time to give up this soccer fantasy,” said Bobnar quietly. He gestured to the others. “For their sake. They’re just not capable of it.”

  Dug continued to gaze wistfully at his old home. “Don’t you miss the Valley, Chief?” he asked.

  “The Valley’s gone now,” replied Bobnar. “And we’re better off here in the Badlands than slaving down in some mine. At least we’re still together. We’re still a tribe.”

  Dug, however, was not ready to quit. “But our ancestors played soccer. We know they did!” he insisted. “I still believe we can do this!”

  “With what?” For once, Bobnar ran out of patience. “You don’t even have a ball to play with!” he said hotly. “It’s over!”

  As Bobnar returned to the campfire, Dug looked up at the night sky. It would be a few days until the moon was full.

  “It isn’t over,” he told himself. “There’s still time.”

  He just needed to get his hands on another ball, so that the Tribe could get back to training. And Dug knew exactly where to find one.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GOONA HITS THE SPOT

  Breaking into the Bronze City at night wasn’t easy. The city was well protected. Armed guards manned its main gateway and patrolled its perimeter fence. Dug had to use all his stealth and agility, not to mention a rope with a hook made of elk antlers, to get past its defenses.

  Hognob, his faithful friend, had of course come with him. He sneaked in with rather less fuss, thanks to a handy cat flap.

  Once inside the city, the two friends crept silently through its dark, deserted streets. When they reached the mighty temple-like stadium, they found its entrance locked and guarded. High on one of its looming sides, however, a small window was ajar.

  A way in.

  “Okay, Hognob,” whispered Dug, as he prepared to use his antler grappling hook once more. “Let’s go get some balls!” This was what they had made the moonlit trek from the Badlands for. Inside the soccer stadium they would find what they needed, Dug was sure.

  After a good deal of scrabbling and hauling, they tumbled in through the high window, into a plush, luxuriously furnished room. They were in Lord Nooth’s private apartment! An opening in the far wall led out onto a balcony—Nooth’s VIP box, overlooking the great arena itself.

  “You stay here, Hognob,” whispered Dug. He hurried to the balcony and out into the stands. He glanced back as he began making his way down the tiers of seating. “I don’t want to attract attention . . . wooaaah!”

  Dug had failed to notice a bright yellow CAUTION sign perched on a damaged step. He tripped over it, and went tumbling down the rows of seats. He clattered and crashed all the way down to the ground level, where he landed in a messy heap. As he sat up, dazed, the sign came bouncing down the stands after him and clonked him hard on his head.

  It took Dug a moment or two to recover from his tumble. He was suddenly aware that he was not alone in the arena. There was someone moving around on the unlit field. Dug hurriedly took cover behind a stand. Peering out cautiously, he watched the stranger out on the grass.

  As the figure moved from shadow into moonlight, Dug saw to his surprise that it was the blonde-haired girl from the market stall, the one who had told him off for bumping into her pans. She was kicking a ball around, alone. She was muttering her own running commentary as she played.

  “And the exciting new signing picks the ball up in the center circle. She beats one, nutmegs another . . .”

  Dug watched, fascinated, as the girl dribbled the soccer ball skillfully across the grass. Her ball control was superb. She looped the ball into the air with a clever flick, then controlled it beautifully as it came back down.

  “She lobs it neatly over the big fullback. She’s going all the way . . . She shoots . . .”

  Her fierce, curling shot went rocketing into the back of the net.

  “She scores! Yeah! The crowd goes wild! GOOOAL!”

  Dug was spellbound by the Bronze Age girl and her ext
raordinary skill. He moved to get a better view and trod on the CAUTION sign. It made a loud crunching noise.

  The girl froze. Dug ducked out of sight as she turned sharply to stare in his direction. A few seconds passed in silence. Nothing happened. Dug took a cautious peek.

  Thwapp!

  A perfectly aimed soccer ball hit him hard on the forehead. The blow knocked him flat on his back, out cold.

  When he came to a few seconds later, he found the Bronze girl standing over him. She had a look of surprise on her face.

  “Hey, you’re that crazy caveman guy!” she said.

  “The angry . . . pan . . . girl,” murmured Dug blearily.

  “What are you doing here, caveman?” demanded the girl, keeping her voice low. “This is the Sacred Turf! No one’s allowed!”

  “Balls,” said Dug, trying to clear his head. “I need balls.”

  The girl raised her eyebrows. “You came all this way and broke into the stadium just to find some balls?” She looked almost impressed. “Wow. You’re pretty brave, caveman. And stupid. Actually more stupid than brave, really.”

  “Thanks,” said Dug, uncertainly.

  The girl grinned at him. “I’m Goona, by the way,” she said.

  Her smile’s pretty, thought Dug and immediately he felt his face redden.

  “Dug,” he said, grinning back bashfully.

  Goona grabbed his hand to help him up.

  “If it’s balls you’re after, I can help,” she hissed. “Come on!”

  She quickly led Dug to a door at one side of the darkened arena and along a gloomy corridor. Moments later, they were inside the home team’s clubhouse. Its storage room was crammed with soccer equipment.

  Goona found a ball net. Together, she and Dug hastily began filling it with soccer balls.

  “I envy you,” Goona told Dug as she shoved another ball into the net.

  “Me?” frowned Dug.

  “Having the chance to play on that field,” said Goona with a dreamy look in her eyes. “The Sacred Turf. In front of thousands of fans . . .”

  “Maybe you will one day,” said Dug encour-agingly. From what he had seen of Goona’s skills, she was certainly good enough.

  Goona gave him a look.

  “You think they let girls play for Real Bronzio?” She shook her head. “You really are crazy. Why do you think I sneak in here?”

  Before Dug could reply, a beam of light suddenly shone along the corridor. Dug and Goona froze at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Who is that?” called a suspicious voice. “Who’s there?”

  It was Dino, Lord Nooth’s right-hand man.

  “Run!” cried Goona to Dug.

  They ran for it, Dug dragging the bulging ball net behind him. Dino came after them, yelling.

  “Stop! Thieves!”

  Goona found a way to slow Dino down. As she and Dug fled, she tugged loose a net crammed with giant-sized foam fingers. They spilled out, burying Dino. By the time he managed to escape the pile, his head was firmly stuck inside one of the huge hands.

  Arena guards came rushing, drawn by Dino’s yells. “They went that way!” Dino told them urgently, in a muffled voice.

  The puzzled guards looked straight upward, following the giant pointing finger on Dino’s head.

  “NO!” raged Dino. He bent over to aim the finger in the direction of the fleeing intruders. “That way!”

  By now, Dug and Goona had made it back out into the arena. But as they sprinted across the pitch, the guards came after them.

  “Wait!” Goona told Dug. “Give me those, quick!” She snatched the ball net, and emptied out several balls. Turning to face the pursuing guards, she quickly struck each ball in turn, free-kick style.

  Every kick found its target. One by one, the guards went down, flat on their backs, as Goona’s soccer ball missiles took them out. Dug watched, amazed, as she floored the last two guards with a single ball.

  “You’re really good!” he told her warmly.

  Goona smiled. “Thanks. I do a lot of practice.”

  Dug’s mind was racing. He thought of Goona’s impressive soccer skills, and of how she dreamed of playing on the Sacred Turf, and of how badly the Tribe’s training had been going . . .

  His eyes shone as he beamed at Goona.

  “I think I’ve just had a great idea,” he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PIG TROUBLE

  While Dug and Goona were stealing balls and dodging guards, Hognob was having an adventure of his own.

  Dug’s clumsy tumble down the stadium seating had left his best friend in a rather sticky situation. The noise of his fall had drawn unwelcome attention. Before Hognob could go to Dug’s aid, he froze at the sound of a suspicious voice.

  “What’s all that crashing around out there?”

  The voice came from a room next to the one Hognob and Dug had broken into. Hognob recognized it at once. It belonged to the man who had led the attack on his beloved valley home.

  “Is that you, Stefano?” demanded Nooth impatiently. “Stop messing around and get in here with those firm hands of yours!”

  Hognob’s hoggy mind raced. If he made a run for it, Lord Nooth was sure to realize there were intruders at large, and call for the guards. Dug would almost certainly be captured.

  There was only one answer. Hognob had to bluff, and buy his best friend some time. He trotted over to the door to the next room, and cautiously slipped through.

  The room beyond was Lord Nooth’s private spa. It was clouded with steam and a luxurious bronze bath stood at its center. Nooth was relaxing in the bubble-frothed water, reading a newspaper. He had his back to the door. Hearing someone enter, he barked another impatient command.

  “Come on, Stefano! It’s time for my massage.”

  The word “massage” meant little to Hognob. His idea of pampering was a good old roll in the mud. He was, however, far smarter than the average hog. He noticed a table full of creams and lotions, and remembered Nooth’s talk of “firm hands.” He put two and two together.

  Nervously fumbling with one of the bottles, he managed to smear his trotters with massage oil, after squirting a fair bit in his eye.

  “Come on, chop-chop!” snapped Nooth. “I haven’t got all day.”

  Hognob took the plunge. Approaching from behind, he laid his oily trotters on Nooth’s bare shoulders. He began to rub and squeeze them, hoping he had more or less the right idea. From Nooth’s reaction, it seemed he had.

  “Aaaaahhhh, yesssss . . .” sighed the Bronze leader in satisfaction. “That’s good! I need this, Stefano. Don’t go easy on me. My tendons are like ropes. You can go the whole hog.”

  Hognob tensed. For a moment, he feared he had been discovered. But Nooth seemed more than happy for him to continue.

  The truth was that Lord Nooth was feeling especially in need of a little stress relief. The angry message that Queen Oofeefa had sent him had left him rather anxious and annoyed.

  Now, however, as Hognob’s trotters did their soothing work, Nooth’s cares dissolved away. He felt only smug satisfaction with the cleverness of his latest scheme. The match against the primitives would really bring in the bronze. His coin chests would soon be brimming with beautiful schnookels.

  “Mmmmm . . .” he sighed contentedly. “I don’t know what the queen is worrying about. I mean, we all know what losers cavemen are. Those Stone Age dolts couldn’t beat their own grandmothers.”

  These words did not go down well with Hognob. Thinking of Dug, he tried to keep his temper. His kneading and slapping of Nooth’s flesh, however, became rather more enthusiastic.

  “Brainless goons,” Nooth went on. “Gormless half-wits. Ignorant—Owwww!” Nooth gave a cry of pain as Hognob’s increasingly furious massaging become too rough to bear. “Stefano! Not so ham-fisted!” Nooth shrugged Hognob’s trotters away irritably. “In fact, enough massage. How about some relaxing music instead?” He gestured over his shoulder to a corner of the room wh
ere a large bronze harp stood.

  Hognob looked at the harp in dismay. Now what? He didn’t seem to have much choice. He had to keep up the deception, for Dug’s sake.

  He trotted quickly over to the harp and, after a brief hesitation, tried a few experimental plucks at its strings.

  Twang-twoing-twing!

  It sounded awful. Trotters weren’t made for harp-plucking.

  Suddenly, Hognob caught the sound of yelling. It was coming from the stadium. It sounded like angry guards. Hognob knew he must prevent Lord Nooth from hearing. He hastily began making as much noise as possible. Strumming wildly on the harp, he howled a tuneless, ear-splitting “melody.”

  Nooth winced and covered his ears. “Agghhh! What on earth’s gotten into you tonight, Stefano?” He turned angrily to scowl at his man.

  Only it wasn’t his man. It wasn’t a man at all.

  “Stefano?”

  As Nooth stared at Hognob, the real Stefano came striding into the spa room, a towel over his arm.

  “Yes, sire?” he said. Then his eyes, too, fixed on Hognob.

  Nooth’s brain finally grasped the alarming truth. He let out a horrified shriek. Stefano shrieked louder. Hognob joined in for good measure.

  Nooth was silenced a moment later. A soccer ball crashed through one of the spa room’s windows. It hit Nooth hard on the head, knocking him over. He disappeared beneath his bathwater.

  To Hognob’s surprise and relief, Dug burst in through the broken window. A blonde-haired girl was right behind him.

  “Hognob!” cried Dug, hurriedly grabbing his best friend. “Hognob, meet Goona!” he beamed. “Goona, Hognob.”

  The girl smiled. “Hi, Hognob!”

  Stefano looked on in bewilderment. Before he knew what was happening, the three strangers were making their escape. With Dug clutching the end of an unraveling toilet paper roll, they leaped from another window and swung down to the ground outside. Within seconds, they had vanished into the night.

  Lord Nooth resurfaced from his bathwater, spluttering and gasping for air. Stefano hurried to his aid.

  “Sire, are you all right?”

  The fuming, foam-covered Governor glared at his servant in pure fury.