Trolls on Hols (10 page)

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.'

‘Wrestling them?'

‘He means rustling,' explained Mr Priddle. ‘If you look on the moor you'll find his truck. The stolen sheep are in the back.'

‘And this, said Ulrik, ‘is the beast of Boggy Moor.' He trundled Bessie forward so that the policeman could see her and switched on the tape. Growls and howls came from the two speakers. Sergeant Morgan took off his cap and scratched his head.

‘Well I'll be jiggered! So that's what it was! The chief's going to be pleased about this. Very pleased. We've been trying to get to the bottom of this for months. Of course I never believed in all this beast nonsense myself.'

‘Didn't you?' asked Mr Priddle.

‘Oh no, not for a moment. “Someone's leading us a merry dance” – that's what I said to the chief. But fancy it turning out to be Olwen Ogwen all the time! There'll be a reward for this, you know.'

Mr Priddle's face brightened. ‘A reward? Goodness! I had no idea.'

He felt a large hairy hand on his shoulder. ‘Ahem!' growled Mr Troll.

‘Oh well, yes,' said Mr Priddle hastily. ‘Strictly speaking it was Ulrik who did most of the work.'

Ulrik smiled shyly as the Sergeant shook him firmly by the hand.

‘Good work, young Ulrik. You come by the station and we'll see about that five hundred pounds, shall we?'

‘Uggsome!' said Ulrik.

A loud groan made them all look round. ‘Are you OK, Warren?' asked Ulrik. ‘You've gone a bit green.'

Mrs Priddle lay on her sunbed and sipped her fruit cocktail through a straw. The ice cubes clinked soothingly against the glass. Below her balcony she could hear children laughing and playing happily in the hotel swimming pool. Warren's shrill voice rang out above the hubbub. ‘Mum! Watch me!'

Mrs Priddle waved back at him. ‘Lovely, darling! Well done!'

She sighed deeply – at last a proper holiday! The strange events of the previous night seemed
like a dream. In any case, everything had worked out well. After hours of tramping the moor, Mr Priddle was ready to abandon his damp caravan and move into a comfortable hotel. She glanced at him now, lying on the sunbed next to hers.

‘So there never was any beast at all?' she said.

‘Mmm? No. I told you, Ogwen invented the whole thing just to keep people off the moor at night.'

‘But what about the story in the paper? People claimed they saw it.'

Mr Priddle chuckled. ‘It just shows you the power of the imagination. Tell people there's a savage beast on the moor and that's what they believe. Actually, it was nothing more than a stuffed dog – Ogwen's favourite Labrador, Bessie. It seems he couldn't bear to be parted from her.'

‘Heavens! He sounds a total fruitcake,' remarked Mrs Priddle.

‘I'm afraid so. I heard him tell the police the dog had come back to haunt him.'

Mrs Priddle shook her head. She had never trusted the farmer from the start – you could tell he didn't clean his teeth properly.

‘Well, thank goodness it's all over,' she said. ‘No more sleepless nights, no more caravans, and best of all, no more trolls.'

‘Bliss!' agreed Mr Priddle.

Mrs Priddle closed her eyes, hoping to doze off. She could hear seagulls calling and the
put-put
of a car coming slowly along the road. In fact it wasn't a car, it was more like …

‘Oh good gravy!' said Mr Priddle, sitting bolt upright.

‘What?'

‘That's our caravan!'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Roger. We left it back at the farm.'

‘It is, and it's turning in here!'

Mrs Priddle's eyes snapped open and she jumped to her feet. Below her balcony she could see a large red tractor turning into the drive. At the wheel was Mr Troll, who had never driven a tractor before but was obviously enjoying the experience. He was towing the Priddles' battered old caravan behind and Ulrik and Mrs Troll could be seen hanging out of the windows.

‘Oh no!' groaned Mrs Priddle. She tried to hide
but it was too late – Mr Troll had spotted them and waved excitedly.

‘Piddle! Look what I've got. We've cleaned it up for you!'

‘Cleaned it up?' Mrs Priddle turned pale. She dared not think what that meant.

Mr Priddle waved his arms. ‘No! We don't want it! Go away!'

‘What?' asked Mr Troll, putting a hand to his ear and forgetting to steer. The tractor swerved violently to the left.

‘I said … look out!' shouted Mr Priddle.

The tractor ploughed straight across the Hotel Majestic's lawn, leaving deep muddy tracks in its wake. It was heading directly for the swimming pool. Sunbathers ran for cover, scattering in all directions. A waiter dropped his tray of drinks and vaulted a sunbed faster than an Olympic hurdler. The pool was emptying fast.

‘Brakes!' bellowed Mr Priddle. ‘Use the brakes!'

‘Which one is brakes?' Mr Troll called back. He had only just learned how to make the tractor go forward – stopping it was another matter. He chose a lever at random and pushed it, jamming
his foot down on one of the pedals. The tractor leapt forward like a startled kangaroo. The Priddles shut their eyes, unable to watch. When it came, the splash was so enormous it drenched them five floors up.