His dad carried a bundle of soggy sheets from the caravan and began to peg them on a washing line.
‘I wonder where they are,’ he pondered.
‘Who?’ asked his wife.
‘The Trolls. They’ve been gone hours. You think they’re all right?’
‘All right?’ snorted Mrs Priddle. ‘They’re trolls, Roger, not children!’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Priddle. ‘That’s what worries me.’
Mr and Mrs Troll’s search for somewhere to stay was not going well. As soon as the villagers saw them coming down the hill they scurried into their houses and locked their doors. Mrs Troll spotted a sign in the window of a tall white house offering ‘Bed and Breakfast’, but when she knocked on the door a hand appeared and turned the sign around so that it said ‘No Vacancies’.
‘Now what?’ she asked her husband.
Mr Troll pointed down the hill to a van parked by a playground.
‘Look! There’s a caravan just like the Piddles’.’
When they got closer they found the caravan was empty. It was bright pink, and for reasons Mr Troll didn’t fully grasp it had a giant ice-cream cornet parked on the roof. People’s strange ideas never ceased to amaze him. He peered in through the window. ‘It’s a bit tiddly,’ he said, ‘but we could all squish up on the floor.’
‘I don’t know, Eggy,’ said Mrs Troll doubtfully. ‘Doesn’t it belong to someone? Maybe we should ask.’
Mr Troll looked up and down the deserted village street. ‘Who can we ask? Come on, they won’t mind if we take a look. Give me a legs-up.’
Mrs Troll panted and pushed him from behind while her husband struggled to squeeze his bulky frame through the narrow window.
‘Push harder!’ said Mr Troll. ‘My bottoms are stuck!’
‘I am pushing harder! You’ve put on weight!’
‘One more shove!’
Mrs Troll summoned all her strength and gave one last shove. It did the trick and Mr Troll fell head-first into the van, grabbing at a lever to try and break his fall. A large blob of ice cream oozed from a nozzle. It hung for a moment and then landed neatly on top of his head. He scrambled to his feet.
Mrs Troll stared at him. ‘A bird’s plopped on your head.’
Mr Troll dabbed at the blob with a finger and tasted it. ‘That’s not bird-plop, it’s nice cream,’ he said. ‘Ulrik will love this – a caravan with its own nice cream.’
He set about heaving his wife in through the window and the two of them inspected their new lodgings.
‘It’s much tiddlier than the Piddles’,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Where’s the folding bed?’
She opened a door. A blast of cold air hit her in the face and mist billowed out. ‘It’s full of lollies,’ she said.
‘’Scuse me!’
A shrill voice brought Mr Troll to the window. A small, curly-haired girl was staring up at him, holding out a coin.
‘A Ninety-nine, please, mister,’ she said.
‘Pardon?’ replied Mr Troll.
‘A Ninety-nine. With a chocolate flake.’
Mr Troll turned to his wife. ‘She wants ninety-nine chocolate cakes.’
‘We haven’t got any cakes.’
‘I know. Maybe she’ll take a nice cream instead.’
‘Wait there,’ he told the little girl. He examined the ice-cream machine and pulled down the lever. A large blob of whipped vanilla plopped on to the floor between his feet. Mr Troll tried again and managed to catch the next blob on his right foot. He looked around for a bowl or plate but there didn’t seem to be any. Instead he raised his foot and propped it carefully on the counter. ‘There we are. One nice cream,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to lick it off.’ The little girl frowned back at him.
Just then a voice made them look up. A man was running down the hill towards them at high speed, his white coat flapping behind him.
‘Hoi!’ he shouted crossly. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Bogles!’ muttered Mr Troll.
‘I told you we should have asked,’ said Mrs Troll.
‘That’s my van! Get out of there!’ bellowed the man.
‘I think it’s his caravan,’ sighed Mr Troll.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘And it doesn’t look like he wants us to stay.’
Half an hour later the Trolls arrived back at the farm. By now the sun was low in the sky and the shadows were lengthening. They had spent most of the day tramping the road between the village and Sunny Bay. Now they were returning, weary and homeless. ‘What are we going to tell Ulrik?’ asked Mrs Troll gloomily.
Mr Troll shrugged. ‘Maybe the Piddles will have changed their mind. Maybe they’ll let us sleep with them tonight.’
Mrs Troll shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Mrs Piddle was having a big temper.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Troll. ‘Peeples look funny when they’re having a temper. Their faces go red as tomatoes. Does mine do that?’
‘No my lugly, it stays green.’
They found the Priddles by their caravan. Mr Priddle had dragged all the mattresses outside and was attempting to dry off the damp patches with a hairdryer. Mrs Priddle watched him with her arms folded and an impatient expression on her face. She didn’t seem overjoyed to see the Trolls back again.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘We tried everywhere,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘No one wants us to stay.’
‘I can’t say I blame them,’ said Mrs Priddle.
Mrs Troll looked around. ‘Where’s Ulrik?’
‘Ulrik?’ Mr Priddle blinked in surprise. ‘I thought he was with you.’
‘No,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘We left him with you. He was playing with Warren.’
They all turned to look at Warren, whose cheeks had gone so red that Mr Troll wondered if he was having a temper.
‘Warren? Have you seen Ulrik?’ asked Mrs Priddle.
‘Um … well, I saw him a while ago,’ admitted Warren. ‘But then he went off.’
‘Off? Off where, for uggness’ sake?’ demanded Mr Troll.
Warren avoided his gaze. ‘I don’t know. He didn’t really say.’
Mrs Troll looked at Mr Troll. ‘Oh Eggy! That’s not like Ulrik to go off without telling anyone. What if he’s lost? What if something’s happened?’
‘Now, now, let’s all try to stay calm,’ said Mr Troll, tromping up and down and looking anything but calm.
Mrs Priddle turned to her son. ‘Warren, try to remember. This is important. Which way did Ulrik go?’
Warren bit his lip. If he said the woods, they would find Ulrik trapped in the hole and everyone would blame him. Better to put them off the scent. He frowned, pretending to think, then pointed up the hill.
‘That way.’
Mrs Troll clasped a hand to her mouth. ‘Eggy! The moor! He’s out on the moor!’
Troll in the Hole
Ulrick hugged his knees and shivered. Darkness was closing in and he could see the moon pale as a ghost overhead. He’d lost track of how long he’d been trapped in the hole. At first he’d thought it was only a matter of time before his mum or dad would come and find him, but hours had passed and no rescue had come. Surely by now Warren would have told them what had happened?
He’d given up trying to escape – the hole was too deep and the sides too muddy and slippery to climb out. His voice was hoarse from shouting for help. All he could do was wait and hope that someone would find him. He hummed to himself, trying to remember a trollaby1 his mum used to sing to him as a troggler. Mrs Evans had said the beast came out after dark. Surely it wouldn’t want to eat a plump young troll? Sheeps were much more tastesome. Abruptly he stopped humming. Had he imagined it? That awful howl carried on the wind. He listened. A second howl split the night air, this time longer and louder than the first.
Ulrik tried not to panic. If he stayed where he was maybe the beast would pass by. But what if it didn’t? What if it smelt him out? Dogs could pick up your smell and maybe beasts were the same. He reac
hed up, making one last desperate attempt to escape. His fingers touched something hard and he grabbed at it. Warren’s stick fell into the hole at his feet.
Half a mile away, Mr Troll climbed on top of a rock and cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘ULRIK!’ he roared. ‘Ul-rik!’
There was no answer. Mr Priddle shone his torch into the dark.
‘It’s no use,’ he said. ‘We’ll never find him out here.’
The moor seemed to be endless. Craggy rocks loomed in the dark like giants and solid ground gave way to boggy marsh that squelched under their feet. Mrs Troll blew her snout loudly on her hanky. ‘My poor little Ulrik!’ she sniffed.
Warren dug his hands in his pockets and shivered. ‘Can’t we go back now?’ he begged. ‘There’s nothing out here.’
‘You go back if you’re frighted,’ said Mr Troll. ‘I’m not giving up till I find him.’
‘Nor me,’ said Mrs Troll. But before they could go on they heard a sound that chilled them to the bone. It was the same blood-curdling howl that Ulrik had heard in the woods.
‘Jumping goblins!’ said Mr Troll.
‘That’s not a goblin,’ said Mr Priddle. ‘It’s some kind of animal. It came from the woods.’
A low moan escaped Warren.
Mr Priddle shone his torch on his son’s face, which had gone deathly white.
‘It was only a joke,’ Warren stammered. ‘I thought he’d be all right. I never meant …’
‘What the bogles is he blethering about?’ growled Mr Troll.
‘Ulrik …’ babbled Warren. ‘He fell down a hole in the woods. It was an accident!’
‘What?’ said Mr Priddle. ‘Why on earth didn’t you say this before?’
Warren whimpered. ‘I thought you’d be cross!’
‘I am cross!’ shouted Mr Priddle.
‘I’m double cross!’ roared Mr Troll. ‘I’m cross as a hot cross bun!’
Before anyone could stop him he seized Warren and dangled him upside down by one leg.
‘Arghhhhh!’ shrieked Warren. ‘Daaad!’
‘For uggness’ sake, Eggy, put him down!’ scolded Mrs Troll. ‘It’s Ulrik we need to worry about. He’s all alone in that wood with a scaresome beast!’
‘By the bogles, you’re right!’ said Mr Troll, dropping Warren in a puddle. ‘We’ve got to find Ulrik before it’s too late! Come on!’
He set off, bounding towards the woods at great speed with the others trying to keep up.
Beastly!
Back in the hole, Ulrik was certain the beast could smell him. Just now he’d glimpsed a pair of huge yellow eyes moving through the trees like searchlights. A menacing growl made his hair stand on end and reminded him that he wanted to go to the toilet. He gripped his stick tightly. If the beast came at him, he decided, he’d poke it in the eye. Or maybe it would be better to throw the stick and shout ‘Fetch!’ – he’d seen that work on a dog once.
A rustle in the trees told him the beast was approaching. He shrank back in the shadows of the hole. Heavy footsteps came closer. Whatever it was, it was big enough to make the ground shake. A shadow loomed over him and a bright light dazzled his eyes. Ulrik jabbed upwards with his stick.
‘Owwww!’ yelped Mr Priddle.
‘Ulrik?’ said a familiar voice. ‘Is that you?’
‘Dad!’ cried Ulrik.
Mr Troll’s strong arms reached down and caught hold of him, lifting him out.
His mum wiped away a tear and hugged him so tightly he could hardly breathe.
‘Thank uggness! Are you all right, my ugglesome?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Ulrik.
‘He poked me in the eye!’ complained Mr Priddle.
‘Sorry, I thought you were the beast,’ said Ulrik. ‘I heard it!’
As if on cue another growl came from the moor.
‘Good gravy!’ gasped Mr Priddle, forgetting his sore eye. ‘That sounded close!’
Warren tugged at his dad’s sleeve.
‘Let’s go back!’ he begged. ‘Mum will be getting worried.’
Ulrik held up a hand for silence. ‘Listen!’ he said.
They all heard it – a faint bleating carried on the wind.
‘Sheeps,’ said Mr Troll.
Warren panicked. ‘It’s coming for them!’ he trembled. ‘It’s after the sheeps – I mean sheep.’
‘But Dad,’ said Ulrik, ‘we can’t just leave them. They’ll be eaten by the beast.’
‘They won’t be the only ones if we don’t get out of here,’ muttered Mr Priddle.
But he was talking to himself – the trolls were already creeping forward through the trees towards the moor and whatever was out there.
Ulrik peered out from behind a tree at the edge of the woods. He could see the beast’s dark head over the top of a stone wall. His mum and dad stole forward to join him.
‘Ready?’ whispered Mr Troll.
Ulrik and Mrs Troll nodded.
‘No roaring,’ hissed Mr Troll. ‘Let’s take it by surprises.’
‘You’re the one who’s always roaring,’ said Mrs Troll sniffily.
‘Shhh!’ said Ulrik, gripping his stick.
‘After three,’ said Mr Troll. ‘One, two, three …’
The Trolls came running and bounding out of the wood and threw themselves on top of the beast. Ulrik leapt on its back and grabbed it around the neck. It toppled over limply. Something funny had happened to its growls, which sounded like someone gargling underwater. Ulrik let go and sat up, staring in surprise.
‘Good goblins!’ said Mr Troll. ‘It’s just a dog.’
The black Labrador lay on its side, staring ahead with glassy eyes. It had been stuffed and mounted on wheels like a pull-along toy. Under the dog’s belly were two speakers from which came the deafening growls and howls they’d heard earlier. Someone, it seemed, had been playing a trick.
A hundred yards down the slope, the headlights of a truck lit up the moor. Ulrik recognised the pair of yellow eyes he thought he’d seen from the woods. The driver turned off the engine and got out, closing the door. Even from this distance Ulrik recognised the baggy trousers and shabby coat.
‘Look! It’s Ogwen!’ he whispered.
‘Good Gravy! So it is!’ Now the fighting was over, the Priddles had crept forward to join them. The five of them crouched in the dark to watch. Ogwen put his fingers to his mouth and whistled to his dogs. Fang and Claw were rounding up a small flock of confused-looking sheep and chasing them towards the back of the truck. In a few minutes the farmer had them all inside and the tailgate bolted shut. Ogwen gave another shrill whistle, calling in his dogs.
‘I don’t believe it,’ hissed Mr Priddle. ‘He’s a rustler!’
‘A wrestler?’ Mr Troll looked puzzled.
‘He’s stealing them, Dad. They’re not his sheep,’ explained Ulrik.
‘Great goblins! You mean he’s a robber?’
‘Yes!’
Mr Troll bunched his fists and rose to his feet. There was nothing he hated more than robbers. ‘Wait till I catch him!’ he threatened. ‘I’ll tromp on his bellies. I’ll swing him by the uncles!’
Ulrik pulled him back. ‘Wait, Dad. I’ve got a better idea.’
‘Better than tromping?’
‘Yes. Let’s see how he likes getting a fright.’
Ogwen closed the door of his truck and grinned toothlessly.
He was pleased with his night’s work. Twenty-three more sheep to add to his growing flock. At this rate he’d soon be the richest farmer in Aberduffy.
He returned to the edge of the woods, where he’d left Bessie. It was amazing what you could do with a stuffed dog and a few sound effects. At the edge of the woods he stopped and looked around, baffled. The dog had gone! Vanished! But that was impossible – how could it walk off by itself?
‘Grarrgghh!’ A loud roar from the darkness startled him. It wasn’t like the growls and howls on the tape – this sounded all too real and alive.
‘Who’s there?’
he asked, trying to steady his quavering voice.
The reply was close to a second roar, this time the truck. His escape was cut off. Ogwen backed away towards the trees, trembling. There was more than one of them – maybe a whole pack of wolves or bears closing in on him.
‘GRARRGH!’ The next roar was so loud he yelped and crashed through the woods, ducking under branches. Scratched and panting, he came out into a clearing. Something was standing there waiting for him. When he got closer he saw it was Bessie, her glassy eyes shining in the dark.
‘Bessie?’ he said uncertainly.
‘Grrrrrr!’ replied the dog. Ogwen’s mouth gaped open.
‘Bessie? Is that you, girl?’
‘Grrrrrr – robber – grrrrr!’
Ogwen pinched himself. Was he dreaming? The dog had spoken to him, calling him a robber. But Bessie had died five years ago. Maybe it was her ghost come back to haunt him.
‘Bessie, it’s me, Olwen! It’s master!’
He reached out a hand cautiously …
‘GRARGHHH!’ roared Ulrik, leaping out from behind the dog.
‘Arghhhhhh!’ yelled Ogwen as the ground gave way and he fell back into the deep muddy hole.
When he came to his senses, he saw three hairy trolls grinning down at him from above.
‘We’ll done, Ulrik!’ said Mr Troll. ‘That was fun!’
‘Did I make a good dog? Grrrr!’ said Ulrik, showing his fangs.
Mrs Troll patted him proudly on the head. ‘You were scaresome, my hairling.’
A short time afterwards Sergeant Morgan arrived from the local police station.
‘Hello?’ he said, shining his torch. ‘I heard there was some trouble. We had a call from a Mrs Puddle.’
‘Priddle,’ said Mr Priddle wearily.
‘Pardon?’
‘Priddle. That’s my name.’
‘Oh. Who’s this in the hole then?’ He shone his torch on the miserable face of Ogwen.
‘Olwen Ogwen. Well, well! What are you doing down there?’
‘He’s a robber,’ Mr Troll informed the sergeant. ‘He’s been wrestling sheep.’
Trolls on Hols Page 5
