Goat Pie (6 page)

‘Where did he go?' asked Mrs Troll.

‘I don't know! He just tromped off down the road,' replied Ulrik.

‘Well, is he coming back?'

‘He didn't say.' Ulrik propped his chin in his hands. It was partly his fault. He should have got Grumpa out of the house before the Priddles arrived. But it was difficult to persuade Grumpa to do anything – he was as stubborn as a mule and now he'd stormed off in a terrible sulk.

He looked at his mum. ‘He will be all right, won't he?'

‘Of course he will, my ugglesome. He's a grown troll. He's just in a bit of a temper, that's all.'

Mr Troll shook his head sadly. ‘I don't blame him.'

‘Oh, and who do
you
blame?' replied Mrs Troll irritably.

‘Well, you,' said Mr Troll.

‘ME?'

‘Yes, you wrote him the letters!' said Mr Troll. ‘You're the one telling all the fibwoppers!'

Mrs Troll snorted in disbelief. ‘And have you ever stopped to think why?'

Mr Troll shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea.

‘Because I wanted him to be proud of you!' said
Mrs Troll. ‘I wanted him to think we live in a stinksome cave with nice trolls next door. I wanted him to imagine we have forests and mountains to look at and roast goat on the table every night.'

‘But we don't!' said Mr Troll, puzzled.

‘No, we don't,' replied Mrs Troll, her voice rising. ‘We don't because we had to leave home. Because you, Egbert, got frighted by a billy goat on a bridge!'

‘I was never frighted,' said Mr Troll indignantly.

‘All right, beated, butted, whatever you want to call it.'

‘GRARGH!' roared Mr Troll, standing up and kicking over his chair.

‘Grargh yourself!' replied Mrs Troll.

Mr Troll stormed out of the room and slammed the door so hard that the clock fell off the wall.

Ulrik sighed. There was a long silence. It was always the same when his mum brought up the bridge thing. It ended with roaring and door-slamming.

His mum had gone to the window and was looking anxiously along the road. Ulrik tried to think of something to cheer her up. It was only five days until Trollmas. He was looking forward to that.

‘Mum,' he said, ‘can we have a tree?'

‘What, my hairling?' said Mrs Troll absently.

‘A tree. For Trollmas.'

‘What do you want with a tree?'

‘Peeples have trees in their houses. The Priddles have got one.'

‘Really? What do you do with them?'

‘You hang things on them,' explained Ulrik. ‘Lights and shiny balls and socks.'

‘Socks? You mean to dry them?'

‘Maybe,' said Ulrik, who was a little hazy about the details. ‘I think Warren said socks. You hang them on a tree and then you go to bed. And in the night, Father Trollmas comes and leaves you a sack.'

Mrs Troll looked bewildered. The strange habits of peeples never ceased to amaze her. ‘But can we have one, Mum? A tree?' begged Ulrik.

‘If you really want, my ugglesome. But just now we've got to find your grumpa.'

Ulrik nodded. ‘Is he still staying for Trollmas?'

‘Of course he is,' said Mrs Troll. She hoped he hadn't got into any trouble. He didn't know his way round and he had no experience of towns like Biddlesden. What if he wandered into the middle of the road or got arrested? Maybe Egbert ought to go and look for him.

‘I know what would put Grumpa in a gladful mood,' said Ulrik.

‘What?'

‘A nice goat pie.'

Mrs Troll smiled. ‘I wish I had one. It's nearly Trollmas and I still don't know where we're going to find a goat.'

Ulrik rested his chin on the table. ‘It's a pity that farm can't give us one,' he said.

‘What farm?'

‘You know, the one I went to with school.'

Mrs Troll's eyes widened. She had forgotten all about Ulrik's trip to the farm last term. ‘They had goats?' she said.

‘I told you! There was one called Victor.'

‘But lots of goats? A whole herd?'

‘I think so.'

Mrs Troll clasped him by the cheeks and planted a wet kiss on his snout.

‘You are my big, clever ugglesome!' she said. ‘Wait till your dad hears this!'

‘What are we going to do?' asked Ulrik.

‘Do?' said Mrs Troll. ‘You're going goat hunting – that's what you're going to do!'

Meanwhile Grumpa found himself lost in Biddlesden shopping arcade. He wasn't quite sure how he came to be there. After the shock of discovering there were peeples living next door, he had tromped off down the road in a temper, without the faintest idea where he was going. Somehow he had ended up on the high street and stumbled into the arcade.

Looking about him, he saw bright Christmas lights and crowds of shoppers bustling past. He wasn't used to peeples and he had never seen so many. They stared at him strangely and the smell of them made him sick and dizzy. He longed to see the handsome face of another troll.

Plunging on past shops, he didn't notice the sign saying ‘Santa's Grotto', or hear the woman
calling to him that he needed a ticket. Unexpectedly he found himself in the middle of a forest. It was made up of tall fir trees, all of them exactly the same and all glistening with snow. Magical music was playing somewhere. Maybe this was the forest his family had spoken about.

Following a path, he was startled to come on a group of rosy-cheeked, grinning goblins under a tree. They stood still as statues, their arms full of presents. Hoping to frighten them off, Grumpa growled. They didn't blink an eye. It was plain
they were under the spell of a witch or a wizard. Lost and anxious now, he hurried on, convinced he had stumbled into some enchanted forest by mistake. Round the bend he came upon a little log house, lit with fairy lights. Maybe whoever lived there could tell him the way out.

He passed through a silver bead curtain and came face to face with a fat peeples sitting in a chair. He was wearing a bright red suit and cap. A flowing white beard hung over his round belly.

‘Ho ho!' boomed Father Christmas. ‘And what
do you … ?' He broke off. Instead of the eager children he was expecting, an ugly, wild-eyed troll stood before him. Its lips parted, revealing sharp fangs. Father Christmas raised his hands to show he meant no harm.

Grumpa stepped back—the fat wizard was about to cast a spell! He backed away, stumbling over a mound of presents. ‘Please! I won't tell anybodies,' he mumbled.

In a second he was back through the bead curtain and running through the forest. If he ever made it back to Mountain View, he vowed he would shut the door and stay in his room. Biddlesden was a far more dangerous place than he could have imagined.

Later that night Ulrik and Mr Troll stole across a field under the cover of darkness. Ulrik had already trodden in a cow-pattie because it was hard to see where you were going in the dark. He felt very nervous and excited. It was long past his bedtime, but here he was on a dangerous hunting trip with his dad. His only worry was that they might meet one of the farm peeples. A single light shone from a top window of Longbottom Farm.

Ulrik pulled down the goatskin hat his grumpa
had given him. Grumpa would be asleep now, back at the house.

To tell the truth, Ulrik was a bit worried about him. Earlier that evening he had turned up, looking pale and exhausted. He had babbled something about a hairy-faced wizard who had tried to put a spell on him. Ulrik thought he must have been watching TV. Still, a nice goat pie would cheer him up. Ulrik sniffed the air—the goats were not far away.

They stole along the side of a long, rust-coloured barn. Mr Troll put a finger to his lips and
they listened for a moment. From inside the barn came animal sounds of shuffling and grunting.

‘Goatses,' said Mr Troll, baring his fangs in a smile. ‘You wait here, Ulrik.'

‘But Dad –'

‘Just do as I say …' Mr Troll was already creeping forward to the corner of the barn. A moment later he was swallowed by the dark.