Stoick finished the porridge with a great
71
smacking of the lips and threw the cauldron into the
fireplace with cheery violence.
‘Is Fisheggs your odd little friend with the face
like a depressed haddock?’ boomed Stoick, grabbing a
mackerel off the table and swallowing it, tail and head and
eyes and all, in one gulp like a sword-swallower swallowing
swords.
‘That’s right,’ said Hiccup, ‘and his name isn’t
Fisheggs, it’s Fishlegs…’
‘Well, there’s a coinci-thingummy,’ bellowed
Stoick.
‘Do you mean coincidence?’ asked Hiccup politely.
‘Whatever!’ roared Stoick. ‘I’VE been worrying
about Fisheggs too.’
‘You have?’ asked Hiccup, in surprise. It wasn’t
like Stoick to worry about anything.
‘I have,’ said Stoick solemnly. ‘And I need to talk
to you about something VERY SERIOUSLY. Come
here, Hiccup.’
Hiccup went and stood in front of his father. Chief
Stoick put his hands on his son’s shoulders and looked
into his eyes very seriously. Hiccup tried to look serious
too, but it is quite hard to take your father totally seriously
when he seems to have a beard made entirely out of
porridge.
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‘Son,’ said Stoick the Vast, ‘you are the son of
a Chief, and the Heir to the Hooligan Tribe. A man is
judged by the company he keeps, and I am sorry to have
to tell you, but Fisheggs is the weirdest little weirdo I
have ever seen. You must give him up, Hiccup, give
him up…’
‘But, Father,’ protested Hiccup. ‘Fishlegs is
my friend.’
‘SILENCE!’ roared Stoick. And then more
gently, ‘I know it is hard, son, but a Chief is a public
figure. We Hooligans need to be FEARED by the other
Tribes, so they don’t start thinking they can sneak along
and invade us… Fisheggs is a… well, let’s face it, son,
he’s a bit ODD. You stand too near Fisheggs, son, and
the Meatheads, and the Visithugs, and the Bog-Burglars
and the Hysterics will start thinking YOU’RE a bit odd
too… a bit soft, a bit WEAK, and then you’re putting
the whole Tribe in peril.’
‘Yes, Father,’ said Hiccup miserably.
‘You need to start working on being
TERRIFYING, Hiccup.’ Stoick patted his son on the
shoulder, peering sympathetically at his sad face. This
was hard, but it was for Hiccup’s own good. ‘And
Fisheggs isn’t helping. Give him up, son. Your cousin,
Snotlout, now, there’s a suitable friend for you. Got an air
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of terrible danger about him. You stand shoulder to
shoulder with Snotlout and you’ll be feared throughout
the Archipelago. Does that answer your question?’
‘Yes, Father,’ said Hiccup, very sadly.
Stoick the Vast clapped his son heartily on
the back. ‘Good boy,’ roared Stoick. ‘I knew you’d
see sense. And now, we’d better get ready for the
Freya’sday Fete… we don’t want to be late now, do we?
Old Wrinkly has given me a tip for the Young Heroes
Smashsticks-on-Ice Competition… he’s done some
soothsaying,* and he tells me us Hooligans are going
to win ten to two so I’ve put a bit of a bet on. Run and
fetch your stick and skates, quick, boy.’
Slowly, Hiccup went and fetched his Smash stick.
Sadly, he picked up his ice-skates.
‘Old Wrinkly isn’t very good at looking into the
future,’ he warned his father, but Stoick wasn’t listening.
Stoick rarely listened.
75
LEARNING TO SPEAK DRAGONESE
TOILET TRAINING
You: Toothless, ta COGLET me wantee ta
cack-cack in di greenclaw crapspot…
Toothless, you KNOW I want you to poo in the
dragon toilets…
Dragon: O yessee yessee, me coglet…
Yes, yes, I know…
You: (pointing at large poo in the middle of
Stoick’s bed) Erg… questa SA?
So what, then, is THIS? PAUSE
Dragon (hopefully): Ummm… un chocklush
snik-snak?
Er… a chocolate biscuit?
You: Snotta chocklush snik-snak, issa
CACK-CACK, issa cack-cack di Toothless
NA in di greenclaw crapspot, may oopla
bang splosh in di middling di sleepy-slab
di pappa.
This isn’t a chocolate biscuit, it’s
a POO, it’s one of YOUR poos,
Toothless, and it ISN’T in
the dragon toilets, it’s
right bang splat in the
middle of my father’s
bed.
77
5. SMASHSTICKS-ON-ICE
The Freya’sday Fete took place every year on Freya’sday
Eve, which was the Viking holiday celebrating the end of
winter and the coming of spring.
This year the Fete was being held out in the
middle of the frozen sea in Hooligan Harbour. It was
strange to think that only six months before the Harbour
had been filled with a grey, surly ocean. Now there were
red and white stripy tents pitched higgledy-piggledy all
over the ice. Roaring fires burned high, grilling Semi-
Spotted Snowpeckers for the Vikings to munch on as
they wandered round stalls selling octopus lollipops, or
listened to story-tellers telling tall stories, or watched
open-mouthed as the giants on skates balanced dwarves
on their heads.
There was a big pitch marked out for the
Smashsticks-on-Ice Competitions. Smashsticks-on-Ice
was a very rough and complicated game played with
bats, balls and ice-skates. Nobody was quite
sure of the rules, which meant that
people tended to make them up as
they went along, and then anybody
who complained would start a fight.
The Young Heroes were
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supposed to go first, followed later on by the Adult
Warriors. They would be playing against another Tribe,
the Bog-Burglars, who had been invited over to join in
the Celebrations for the day.
The Bog-Burglars were a Tribe of fearsome
female Warriors who lived on an island some way to the
west. Their Chief, Big-Boobied Bertha, stood nearby,
80
gulping down mugs of beer
and scratching her chin
stubble.
Her daughter,
Camicazi, a very small girl
with a swagger and the
tangliest hair in the Inner
Isles, was practising swinging her
Smashstick.
Camicazi was a friend of
Hiccup’s, and he wandered over to
ask her if she had seen Fishlegs that morning.
‘Nope,’ said Camicazi cheerily. ‘But I hope you
Hooligan boys are feeling lucky. Us Bog-Burglars are
going to MURDER you weedy little BOYS in the
Smashsticks. I bet you Hooligans are hopeless at it –
apart from you, of course, Hiccup,’ she added. Camicazi
had a great admiration for Hiccup
, ever since he had
rescued her from being eaten by Sharkworms in Fort
Sinister.*
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Snotlout happened to be skating past at that
moment and he nearly fell over, he laughed so much
at this. ‘Hiccup???’ jeered Snotlout. ‘Hiccup will get
as many goals as he shot Semi-Spotted Snowpeckers
yesterday. I shot more than two hundred. How many did
you shoot, again, Hiccup? What was it – none??’
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Hiccup blushed. Camicazi looked very surprised.
‘P-P-ARP! The Young Heroes Smashsticks-on-
Ice Match is about to begin! Please could both teams
make their way to the Pitch…’ shouted Gobber the
Belch from the centre of the ice.
Gobber had changed into his shortest shorts to
be the referee. The Bog-Burglars (apart from Camicazi
of course) were big, rough, mean-looking girls with
wonky plaits, broken noses, and thighs like tree-trunks.
Fishlegs staggered on to the pitch at the last
minute. He looked even more terrible than the last time
Hiccup saw him. He was sneezing and shivering hard,
and he could hardly stand, and was using his Smashstick
to hold himself up. He had put his ice-skates on the
wrong feet.
Hiccup put up his hand to try and get Gobber’s
attention. ‘Sir, I think Fishlegs isn’t well,’ he said.
‘NONSENSE!’ roared Gobber. ‘Vikings don’t
get SICK! Flu is for softies! Colds are for babies!
Plagues are for girlies! I’VE never had a day’s sickness in
all my life, not even a sore throat. I don’t want to hear
ANOTHER WORD.’
Hiccup and Fishlegs skated out on to the pitch,
Hiccup supporting Fishlegs, who could hardly put one
skate in front of another.
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‘You ought to be at home,’ worried Hiccup. ‘You
look awful.’
Fishlegs laughed sarcastically. ‘Didn’t you hear
Gobber? Vikings don’t get SICK… I’m not ill, I’m just
shivering with EXCITEMENT to be out here on this
frost-bitingly cold day…’
Gobber blew the whistle, threw the puck into
the Smashstick Scrum and all hell broke loose.
Ten boys and girls fell on top of each other in
an untidy hairy mess, clonking each other on the head
with their wooden sticks. Within two minutes Wartihog,
Clueless, Lovethug and Deadly Doris were lying
stretched out on the ice, and Camicazi had somehow
broken free of the scrum and was skating towards
Hiccup and Fishlegs at breakneck speed. Fishlegs moved
in to tackle her, and she pulled his helmet over his eyes
so he couldn’t see anything, before skilfully shooting the
puck between the goalposts.
And as the Bog-Burglars merrily cried out,
an extraordinary change came over Fishlegs.
He tore off his helmet and he snorted like a bull
about to charge.
‘Uh oh,’ said Hiccup. He had seen that look
somewhere before. ‘Now hang on a second, Fishlegs,
don’t do anything rash…’
‘FOUL!’ bellowed Fishlegs.
Fishlegs skated towards the gigantic figure of the
referee, Gobber the Belch, like a crab slipping on soap.
‘GOBBER, YOU BIG, STUPID, BARBARIAN
BABOON, ARE YOU BLIND? SHE FOULED ME!’
Gobber started, as surprised as if a small pink
prawn on a plate had suddenly leapt up and bit him.
‘WHAT did you say, Fishlegs????’ roared
Gobber in astonishment.
‘SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOUR
EARS AS WELL AS YOUR EYES?’
screamed Fishlegs. ‘I’VE MET SHEEP MORE
INTELLIGENT THAN YOU ARE! I’VE MET
JELLYFISH WHO COULD OUTPLAY YOU IN A
GAME OF CHESS!’
Gobber swelled up like a balloon about to
explode.
‘I’LL DEAL WITH THIS, BELCH!’ yelled
Stoick the Vast, skating ponderously over to this
extraordinary scene.
Stoick the Vast looked down at Fishlegs from
the giant height of six-and-a-half-feet. ‘YOUNG MAN,’
he roared, ‘YOUR CHIEFTAIN IS SPEAKING
TO YOU. THIS IS A SPECIAL OCCASION…
THERE ARE BOG-BURGLARS PRESENT.’ Stoick
pointed to the Bog-Burglars, who were killing themselves
laughing.
Fishlegs was silent for a second, looking up at his
86
Chieftain. And then…
‘FATTY!’ shrieked Fishlegs.
Stoick the Vast stared.
‘LARDY-BUM!’ shouted Fishlegs.
‘WHO’S BEEN HAVING TOO
MANY SECOND HELPINGS, CHIEF
GREEDIGUTS OF THE JELLY-BELLIES??’
Stoick the Vast turned as red as a lobster.
‘HOW DARE YOU TALK TO YOUR CHIEF IN
THIS RUDE AND IMPERTINENT MANNER?’
Fishlegs opened his mouth to scream some more
insults, but Hiccup interrupted.
‘He’s not well, Father,’ whispered Hiccup
urgently. ‘I think his Berserk thingy has gone wrong…
please, Father… I’ll take him home, he’s not well…’
‘Take him home, then,’ growled Stoick to
Hiccup. ‘But I’m warning you, son, that boy isn’t fit to
be a Hooligan, let alone a friend to the son of the Chief.’
At first Fishlegs didn’t want to be dragged away,
but while he was struggling, he fell over, and the cold
shock of landing in the snow brought him back to his
senses again.
Hiccup was really worried now, and he decided
to take Fishlegs to Old Wrinkly, to see whether HE
knew what was wrong…
87
6. WHAT OLD WRINKLY SAID
Old Wrinkly was Hiccup’s grandfather on his mother’s
side. He lived in a large untidy house on the beach. He
was delighted to see them, and he fed them all porridge.
Toothless snoozed in front of the blazing fire in his
fireplace, while the snowy clothes of Hiccup and Fishlegs
dripped dry on chairs.
‘What can I do for you, little Hiccup?’ wheezed Old
Wrinkly, lighting a big fat pipe.
‘It’s my friend, Fishlegs,’ explained Hiccup. ‘He’s
not very well.’
Old Wrinkly looked at Fishlegs, who was shaking
like a leaf in a high wind.
‘Oh come on, Hiccup,’ said Fishlegs irritably. ‘I keep
telling you, it’s just a NASTY COLD…’
Old Wrinkly tut-tutted.
Old Wrinkly was the wise man and soothsayer of
the Hooligan Tribe. If you were ill, you would go to Old
Wrinkly and he would examine you, consult the gods,
and then give you some perfectly disgusting medicine like
rabbits’ droppings in limpet goo that might or might not
make you better. (Doctoring and looking into the future are
complicated businesses – to tell the truth, Old Wrinkly did
not always get them right.)
89
Old Wrinkly put his ancient old hand on
Fishlegs’s forehead, and tut-tutted again. ‘Very hot, very
hot,’ he muttered to himself, ‘and sweaty.’ He listened
to Fishlegs’s heart with a strange trumpet-like instrument
>
and tut-tutted some more.
And then he threw some twigs on to the fire, and
poked the flames with a long metal stick.
‘Oh dearie me!’ gasped Old Wrinkly as he stared
at the red embers.
‘That sounds cheerful,’ shivered Fishlegs.
‘The fire seems to be telling me that your
friend has VORPENTITIS, caused by the sting of a
VENOMOUS VORPENT,’ said Old Wrinkly sadly.
‘Have you met any Venomous Vorpents recently?’
There was a nasty cold feeling in the bottom of
Hiccup’s stomach.
‘We did meet a Venomous Vorpent…’ Hiccup
said slowly. ‘A couple of months ago… a Vorpent fell
on to Fishlegs’s hand when we were escaping from Fort
Sinister…’
‘But it didn’t sting me!’ Fishlegs said eagerly. ‘I
didn’t feel anything sting me!’
Old Wrinkly shook his head. ‘The Vorpent numbs
the skin before it stings. It’s very clever really. You
wouldn’t have felt a thing. And then nothing happens,
90
until a couple of months later, when you fall ill with
Vorpentitis.’
‘What are the symptoms of Vorpentitis?’ asked
Hiccup.
‘Fever… runny nose… episodes of madness…’
replied Old Wrinkly gloomily.
Hiccup’s stomach was now as cold as ice, but he
tried to sound cheerful. ‘And how do we get him better?’
Old Wrinkly sounded gloomier still. ‘Weeeell…’
he croaked, ‘that’s the tricky part… The sting of the
Venomous Vorpent is pretty much always FATAL.’
There was a nasty silence.
‘The good news is,’ continued Old Wrinkly,
‘we have until ten in the morning tomorrow to find the
antidote* before your friend dies.’
‘Oh good,’ said Hiccup, hugely relieved. ‘So there
IS an antidote…’
Fishlegs had been listening with an open mouth.
‘But all I’ve got is a NASTY COLD!’ he protested. ‘A
nasty cold – and you tell me I’ve only got one day to
live!’
Hiccup ignored him. ‘What’s the antidote?’ asked
How to Train Your Dragon: How to Cheat a Dragon's Curse Page 4
