by Chloe Mayer
The other boys at school didn’t think much of me, but Harry – who lived next door to my grandparents in Norfolk – was my friend. I went into his house one Saturday when it was raining and we couldn’t play outside. He was a sporty-looking boy the same age as me. Granny sort of forced us to be friends whenever I went to visit.
And on this rainy day, Harry took me upstairs to his bedroom and we played with his rather impressive train set. His parents had left the door to their bedroom open and I could see it was neat and tidy. Harry’s room smelled clean. His parents were downstairs, laughing and joking with each other.
After a while, Harry’s mother called us down for tea. I knew it was nice of them to let me stay to eat with them, because people were usually funny about their rations. She’d cooked boiled ham and bubble-and-squeak and she made us both wash our hands with soap in the kitchen before we sat at the table. Harry rolled his eyes at me as we stood next to each other with our hands under the tap, and I rolled my eyes back at him but really I was enjoying myself. They all chatted loudly throughout the dinner and Harry’s mother asked me some questions about Bambury. Then Granny came to get me. I was a bit dazed for an hour or so after that visit. I tried to imagine what it would be like if I brought Harry round to my cottage.
Things were a bit messy upstairs and sometimes Mother forgot to get the food in. It was like playing hide-and-seek when I hunted for all the plates and glasses to do the washing-up. Sometimes it seemed like she was very far away, even when she was in the same room. But when I looked to my fairy tales, lots of mothers or stepmothers weren’t very nice to children and that was normal in that world, so I should really count myself lucky to be living with my pretty mother in our little cottage in Bambury.
The night after I discovered the PoW camp was really a magical village for woodcutters, my mother read me the story of Rumpelstiltskin. Her words were soothing, like a lullaby, despite the tale of giving away babies and double-crossing, and I felt myself falling into a deep sleep after she left my room.
Perhaps the story had unsettled me more than I realised though, because a sudden noise pierced my dream and I jerked awake with a kick of my leg. My eyes swivelled round the room as I tried to work out what had woken me. But there was nothing, just stillness, darkness, and the normal night-time sounds of the house. I couldn’t hear the wireless playing downstairs, so Mother must be tucked up in bed.
Then I heard it again; a sort of rattle. It was hard to make out, but I didn’t think it was coming from inside the cottage. I crept over to my window and pulled back my blackout blind so I could look outside. The lane was quiet and still in the moonlight and I looked up and down the street. Perhaps a fox or a cat had knocked something over?
Movement at the corner of my eye made me focus on a cottage a few doors down. A black shape, blacker than the night shadows, was rustling about in the garden. What was it? The shape seemed to be moving and I saw it slowly make its way down the path into the lane and head towards the cottage opposite.
It was when it broke cover by stepping out into the road that the breath caught in my throat. It was the Troll, creeping about on my street in the middle of the night – the witching hour. I leapt back from the window. Was it looking for me? How did it know my father had just left my mother and me alone again? But although I’d begun shaking, I forced myself back to the glass to see what it would do next. This time I pulled back the blind just a tiny bit, so it couldn’t see me if it looked up.
It was snuffling about in the front garden directly across from our cottage now, and I watched in horror as it crept down the little side passage where they kept their bins so that I lost sight of it for a few seconds until it came back. It was smelling the houses to see who was inside each one. It was trying to find me. Or if not me, then someone else who smelled good enough to eat. Trolls like eating children best, but they also like eating beautiful women. I thought of Mother asleep in her bed. That monster better not try to snatch her away. I swallowed down because it felt like something was lodged in my throat.
There was more movement – it was coming back out! Into the lane! I held my breath as its dark shape rolled back across the road – towards our cottage! I felt sick with fear as it carefully prised open the gate into my own front garden. It was coming into our house! I should scream! Wake Mother! But I couldn’t move.
Even my knees were trembling but I was fixed to the spot like a statue as I watched what it was doing below me. I started praying it wouldn’t look up and notice my eyes in the crack in the blind, but I could see it was trying not to be seen and was moving slowly and quietly like an animal. It shuffled to the side of our cottage where the dustbin and pig bin were kept. Because of the angle, I couldn’t see what it did there. But I heard the metal rattle and knew it must have opened the lids for some reason.
After a few seconds, it reappeared and I watched as it left our garden. It went into another few cottages, on both sides of the street, and spent quite a while in one front garden that had been turned into a vegetable patch before it disappeared around the corner. It had a bag slung over its back. Had it taken something from our bins? It must be collecting ingredients for a spell – that was the only possible explanation. And it had been carefully smelling who was inside each cottage.
Something about its secret creeping around made me see it in its other place for a moment, outside the Post Office holding out its empty tin – but what would the Troll want with coins? Or these ingredients? What was it planning?
I ran back to bed and pulled the covers up over my head, but it took a very long time for me to stop shaking. Things were getting out of hand and Mother and I were in more danger than ever before. Something needed to be done and I knew I’d have to make a stand to save us both.
I spent almost the whole night thinking about what to do, before the idea came to me like a little whisper in my ear.
The next morning, before I went to school, I rummaged through the odds-and-ends drawer in the kitchen. I found the weapon I needed easily enough, and I knew it would never be missed.
There was a thickness in my throat throughout the day whenever I thought about the daring Troll attack I was planning later that afternoon. But a funny tingling in my tummy, like the feeling I always got on Christmas Eve, let me know I was filled with excitement as well, not just nerves. So when I was thrown into the outhouse again at lunchtime, it was almost like I couldn’t hear what the others were shouting at me through the cracks of the closed door. And their laughter – this time about how my short trousers were too short – floated away over my head.
I leaned against the wall in the dark. Let them shout! These stupid schoolboys had no idea what they were dealing with – who I really was. Their silly name-calling and even their punches meant nothing to me now. I spent the time carefully going over my plot against the Troll. And then a spring thunderstorm burst over their heads like a punishment, so we spent the rest of lunchtime inside the assembly hall, which meant I was free. I’d escaped with just some minor bumps and a tender spot on my eyebrow. Mr Finlay handed out paper and wax crayons so we could draw to pass the time quietly and I drew a picture of me facing the monster, with its arms up in the air in surrender.
After school, McCarthy and his gang jumped on me to get me back for escaping, so it was much later than I’d planned when I was finally able to run down to the railway line to set up watch. But I was in luck because, just as I arrived, I spotted the Troll climbing up the stairs by the tunnel. I crouched down behind a tree and watched as it disappeared into the woods on the other side.
After a few minutes, I judged it was a fair distance away from its lair. I knew it was the right time. It was now or never.
‘Now or never,’ I said. But I held back.
It could return at any moment. I remembered my suspicion that it could suddenly materialise, like Count Dracula. I wrote another note in my little book:
30th May, approx 5 p.m. (no watch): WARNING: Can possibly appear in thin air? INVE
STIGATE.
I stayed down low and prepared to crawl along the hilltop, military-style, to make my way towards the bridge.
But then I realised it was quite a trek and I wouldn’t be able to cover all the distance like that, so eventually I stood up and ran along in an almost-crouching position instead. Also, it was much, much muddier than I’d thought and I worried about the dirt on my school clothes.
Once I was at the bridge, I got back on my haunches and raised my head over the brick wall just enough to allow a peek over.
Of course there was nothing to see at the entrance to the tunnel because the Troll was long gone.
‘Now or never,’ I muttered again.
I stood for a moment, leaning against the wall, and considered my plan.
But I waited. And waited.
I knew what I had to do, but I was frightened. So I waited a bit longer.
In a panic, I realised how much time had passed. It might be on its way back from wherever it had been. Most likely it had gone into the village to steal a child to eat for its dinner. Or, failing that, it would kill some goats and eat those instead.
I had to do it, and quickly, before it returned.
I didn’t run to the steps on the other side of the bridge, but instead went back across to where I’d been before and used my usual method of clambering down the steep grassy slope to the tracks below. The ground was still wet and my palms became slick with mud and broken blades of grass.
When I reached the tracks, I looked around and up above me, trying to spot the terrible shape of the Troll appearing at the top of the steps. I waited for a minute or so, but couldn’t see anything except the greyish sky turning to dusk.
The moment had come. I had no choice but to enter the tunnel for the second time.
I hesitated before stepping into that dark place, but then I marched right in, as though I was stepping over my fears and leaving them outside as the sun began to set.
I felt braver this time and walked quickly, with a purpose: I was looking for the Troll’s nest.
Eventually, I caught the whiff of its stink. The mound of scraps and bits of wood that marked its revolting home was just ahead.
I could feel my heart hammering away beneath my shirt and with some ceremony I reached into the pocket of my shorts and brought out the little box of matches I’d taken from home that morning, a lifetime ago. There was a picture of the hotel in Densford on the front. They’d been in the kitchen drawer for a long time, so weren’t from the other day; Daddy had probably taken them after having dinner there one evening years ago.
My fingers fumbled as I tried to pull out a match.
Daddy.
Something scuttled over my foot. I saw a dark blur of motion and realised it was a rat. I screamed, but it was already darting away. I forced myself to calm down. I didn’t want the Troll to know I was here. The echo died away and I fumbled again at the box.
The match sparked with a scraping fizz and I held the flame in front of my face to stare into its white heart.
I wasn’t allowed to play with matches.
I slid the box back into my pocket. Then I crouched down low, and – like The Little Match Girl – marvelled at how much light that tiny flame threw into the darkness of the tunnel. It made a bulb of yellow light around my clenched fingers and lit up the filthy nest. I pinched my nose shut with my other hand because the stench was even worse down here. I think it must have wet its bed like a baby; I hadn’t done that for years.
I held the match to the corner of a crusty brown blanket. For a second or two I thought it wasn’t going to work, and I remembered what had happened when Grandpa threw the dregs of his whisky into the fire to watch the explosion in the grate. I should have brought some of Mother’s gin which she used for her special drinks. But then, I could smell a strange, chemical sort of smell, and thought I saw a tuft of smoke. The flame was turning the straight wooden match into a gnarled black flimsy twig. I had to drop it because the burning was almost at my fingertips. And then, with a pfff that sounded like a little breath, the corner of the blanket was alive with small flames licking at the wool.
I imagined how I would look to the Troll if it came back now. The blaze would be reflected in my dark eyes and my face would shine with triumph. I’d done it.
Some of the newspaper caught and the fire grew brighter and stronger. I stood up and stepped back. Some scraps of wood were the next to take and they crackled and hissed and sparked. I had to step back again.
The flames grew higher and hungrier as I watched, sick with delight and terror. Not licking now, but roaring, devouring.
Perhaps there had been spilled whisky on those things. I thought I could smell it the first time I found the nest. It would explain the fierceness of the blaze.
I stepped back again and again – I was on the other side of the tracks now – and it was bright enough to read by.
I should probably run now. The Troll …
But I stood and watched. The popping and crackling of destruction, the warmth on my face, the fire hurting my eyes … I didn’t want to run yet.
This was the burning of a monster’s nest, it was unstoppable now, and I had unleashed the power of it. I was in control of it because it was mine. I wondered if there was anything else I could burn because oh I loved this feeling. I wanted to watch a building burn – I briefly imagined taking a match to my house – I wanted to watch the village burn. I felt like dancing, like Rumpelstiltskin around his blaze.
The smelly smoke was turning the air grey and thick and it was the coughing and my watering eyes that finally drove me away from the blaze. But I became confused in the smoky gloom and started to panic – I couldn’t tell which way was which. I kept running into a wall. It was as though the wall surrounded me, every way I turned, until I thought to bend down and feel for the tracks. I ran like that, in a crouch, the metal line guiding me away until I could see the dim light at the mouth of the tunnel.
I sucked fresh air into my lungs between my retching coughs and rubbed my sore eyes. I looked around frantically for any sign of the Troll. When I was able to climb, I scrambled up the verge, which I was surprised to find was still slippery and cool to the touch. The day looked perfectly normal outside, as though nothing had changed.
When I reached the top of the slope I settled down in my usual hiding spot. I was on my haunches – to stop my bottom getting wet – and I leaned back against a tree to watch and wait for the Troll to return.
I pulled out the hotel matches from my pocket and turned them over and over in my hand. It felt good to hold them. I could see some smoke coming out of the tunnel now, although there wasn’t as much as I would have liked. I had wanted to see thick clouds of swirling blackness, billowing – no, bellowing – out as though it were the chimney of a furious coal-burning factory.
‘Perhaps you’ll think twice now, Troll,’ I said aloud. I clamped a blade of grass between my lips as though I was dangling a cigarette, and I narrowed my eyes. ‘Won’t be messing with me again, will you?’
I laughed quietly to myself.
‘I know how to deal with Trolls, all right.’ I tapped the little packet of matches against my leg. ‘I know your game … and now you know what happens to Trolls around here.’
Eventually, I spat out the grass because it had gone soggy in my mouth. I stood up to relieve the cramp in my legs and I peed against the tree. It was going to get dark soon and I would have to go home eventually.
I risked a run down to the tunnel to see if my fire was spreading along the tracks. I had begun to worry a bit about what would happen if a train came. But I couldn’t see anything in the tunnel. I was frightened of the Troll returning, but curiosity pushed me inside. When I came to the nest there was just a smelly pile of sooty ash and wisps of smoke.
It had burned itself out.
The ground was just gravel and dirt; the fire could never have travelled far from the Troll’s nest. I sighed. Never mind. At least the train wouldn’t have any t
rouble now, and the message would still be loud and clear to the Troll; stay away or else.
I ran all the way back up to my place on the verge. I would wait a while. Yes, I was a bit bored now, but it’d be worth it to see the moment the Troll returned to its destroyed nest.
I began to laugh to myself again. Stupid Troll!
Was that …? Was it …?
It was! I could just make out its shambling form as it made its way along the path towards the steps. It was almost dark now, but enough of the sun was above the horizon because I could see a little way ahead.
I clamped my hands over my mouth to muffle my sudden giggles. It was going to find its nest destroyed! And I’d done it! I crouched down again behind my tree, and peeked around the gnarled old bark. The cramps in my legs were bearable now.
It carefully lowered itself down the steep wooden steps, clinging to the metal railing with both hands. It looked old. That only made it look more horrible.
I couldn’t see any smoke coming from the tunnel at all now. So it probably wouldn’t guess anything had happened from the outside.
At one point it actually stumbled and tripped onto the grassy slope, although it managed to put out a fat sausage-like arm to break its fall. Little mewing, gasping sounds were escaping between the cracks of my fingers.
Must. Be. Quiet. It’ll hear me! Oh it was too much!
It seemed I was waiting for ever before it finally disappeared into the mouth of the tunnel. I realised I was hopping from leg to leg and I needed to pee again. This was the most exciting thing I’d ever done.
Now what? I cautiously stepped away from my hiding tree. How would I know what was going on in there? Should I go down and look into the tunnel? What if it didn’t even care that its nest was burned to ashes?
I had actually taken a couple of steps down the verge when I heard it. A kind of echoing growl came from the tunnel. It was coming out!
I darted back behind the tree.
