Trolls on Hols (6 page)

‘What article was that?' asked Mr Priddle, pouring his wife some tea.

‘You haven't read it?' asked Mrs Evans.

‘No.'

‘But surely you must have heard?'

‘Heard what?' said Mrs Priddle.

‘Well … about the beast.' Mrs Evans picked up
the
Aberduffy Herald
from the next table and held up the front page for them to see.

‘BEAST STRIKES AGAIN!' ran the headline in big bold letters.

Mr Priddle took the paper and started to read. ‘Good gravy!' he said, and a moment later, ‘Good gracious!'

‘For heaven's sake, Roger, what does it say?' cried his wife impatiently.

Mr Priddle read the article out loud. ‘
Late last night the Beast of Boggy Moor struck again. Eyewitnesses report hearing ‘strange sounds' coming from the moor after midnight. A dozen sheep have gone missing bringing the number of attacks this month to four
.'

‘Attacks?' gasped Mrs Priddle.

‘
Police have appealed for calm,
' her husband went on. ‘“
We are following a number of lines of inquiry,” said Sergeant Morgan of Aberduffy police. “Anyone with any information should remember there is a £500 reward for the capture of this beast.”'

‘Wow! Five hundred pounds!' repeated Warren. He exchanged looks with Ulrik, remembering their puzzling conversation with Farmer Ogwen.
No wonder he'd warned them to keep off the moor.

Mrs Priddle had set down her teacup. ‘What do you mean by beast?' she asked, nervously. ‘What kind of beast?'

‘Ah, that nobody knows,' said Mrs Evans, drawing up a chair to sit down. ‘No one's ever got close enough to say. There's been several sightings in the last month. All late at night, and all on the moor.'

She lowered her voice and they all leaned closer to listen. ‘Mrs Price saw it one night when her car broke down on her way back from Advanced Yoga. There's an evening class in the village hall on–'

‘Never mind that! What did she see?' interrupted Mr Priddle.

‘Oh yes. Terrified she was. Really shaken up. It passed by not a hundred yards from her car.'

‘What was it like?' asked Warren.

‘Like a wolf, she said. Or maybe a werewolf – with burning eyes and savage teeth.' She turned to look at Mr Troll. ‘In fact a bit like you.'

‘Me?'

‘Yes,' said Mrs Evans. ‘You weren't out on the moor late last night?'

‘Don't be silly,' said Mrs Troll. ‘We only arrived yesterday and Eggy was asleep with me.'

‘That's true. We heard him snoring,' said Mr Priddle.

‘Still,' said Mrs Priddle, ‘It explains a lot.'

‘How do you mean?' asked Mrs Troll.

‘Well, that's why people run away when they see you. They think you're this dreadful beast creature.'

‘But what about the sheeps?' Ulrik wanted to know.

Mrs Evans looked at him. ‘That's the strangest part. You'd think there'd be blood and bones, wouldn't you. But there's never any trace. It's like they've been swallowed whole. A hundred sheep in the last month. I ask you, what kind of beast has that kind of an appetite?' She sat back and smiled pleasantly. ‘So how's the tea? Shall I bring you another slice of apple pie?'

Mrs Priddle shook her head. ‘Actually,' she said, ‘I'm not feeling all that hungry.'

That evening the two families sat in the caravan, talking. It was past eleven o'clock but nobody had mentioned going to bed. The truth was they felt safer in one room. The lamp cast long shadows and the gas fire hissed softly. Steam rose from their mugs of hot chocolate.

‘Why didn't Ogwen warn us? That's what I'd like to know,' said Mrs Priddle.

‘Maybe he didn't want to alarm us,' suggested her husband.

Ulrik had been thinking back to the morning. ‘He did sort of warn us. He told us to keep off the moor, didn't he, Warren?'

‘Yes,' agreed Warren, eager to have an opinion. ‘But he didn't tell us why. I thought he was just trying to scare us.'

‘Huh! He managed that all right,' said Mrs Priddle, bitterly. ‘No wonder there are no other caravans. It's hardly a tourist attraction – a wild beast prowling the moor, devouring sheep.'

Mr Troll hadn't spoken for a while. He was staring intently out of the window. Suddenly he held up a finger. ‘Shhh!'

Everyone fell silent.

‘What?' whispered Mr Priddle.

‘That noise. Can you hear it?'

They listened again. The caravan rocked slightly. Nobody moved for a full minute.

‘What kind of noise?' whispered Mr Priddle at last.

‘That strange moaning noise. Like “Ooooooooh! Ooooooooh!”'

‘You mean like the wind moaning?'

Mr Troll listened again and his expression relaxed. ‘Oh yes, it's only the wind.'

Everyone let out a groan. ‘Please don't do that!' said Mrs Priddle, irritably. ‘My nerves are on edge as it is. Maybe we should all get to bed.'

Warren shook his head. Now it was dark he wasn't feeling quite so brave.

‘What if it comes in the night?' he said. ‘What if it tries to get in?'

‘I'm sure it won't, Warren. We'll lock the door.'

‘But maybe it's a ghost. Ghosts can walk through doors.'

‘That's true,' said Mr Troll. ‘I once heard of a headless goblin –'

‘PLEASE! Don't start on goblins!' shouted Mrs Priddle, banging her mug down on the table.

‘Sorry,' said Mr Troll. ‘I was only going to say I've got an idea.'

‘Oh Lord!' groaned Mr Priddle.

‘But I was thinking, why doesn't one of us stay on guard? Then we'll all be safe as mouses.'

‘Actually, it's not a bad idea,' admitted Mr Priddle. ‘But who's going to stand out there in the dark?' They all looked at each other.

‘I will,' said Mr Troll. ‘I'm not frighted of hairy beasts.'

Mrs Troll leaned over and gave him a kiss. ‘You're my big hairy beast,' she said.

‘Well, that's settled then,' said Mrs Priddle. ‘Egbert can stay on guard while the rest of us try to get some sleep.'

Ulrik turned to his dad, as the others got ready for bed.

‘Dad, can I be on guard with you? I won't be frighted,' he said.

Mr Troll smiled and ruffled his son's hairy head. ‘Of course you can, my ugglesome.'

Outside, Mr Troll stamped his feet and blew into his hands to keep warm.

‘You stay here, Ulrik, while I go and look for some firewood. A nice roaring fire will keep us warm.'

‘Can't I come with you?' asked Ulrik.

‘No, somebody's got to stay on guard. I won't be long.'

Ulrik nodded doubtfully.

‘Remember, what are trolls?' asked Mr Troll.

‘Fierce and scaresome.'

‘That's right. And what do trolls do?'

‘They roar. Rarrgghh!' growled Ulrik, pulling his fiercest face.

‘Not bad,' said Mr Troll, patting him on the head. ‘If you hear anything, give a roar and I'll be here in two shakes of a goat's tail. All right?'

Ulrik nodded again. His dad strode off into the darkness in the direction of the woods, leaving him alone. He hugged himself and tromped up and down to keep warm. It was a cold, blustery night with inky clouds racing across the moon. Actually he hadn't told the truth about not feeling scared. With his dad around he felt safe, but he hadn't expected to be left by himself in the dark. Trolls weren't scared of the dark of course but it wasn't the dark that worried him, it was what was
out there
in the dark.

The light in the caravan suddenly went out,
leaving him with only the moon and stars for company. He wished his dad would hurry up with that firewood. How long had he been gone now? The wind gusted and the caravan shuddered on the steep hill. Ulrik tried to think of something to take his mind off being scared. Maybe he could start building the fire. That would impress his dad. He knew the first thing to do was to make a circle of stones or rocks, so the flames wouldn't set light to trees or caravans. Luckily he found just what he needed close at hand. Propped against the wheels of the caravan, he found four heavy rocks. It was almost as if someone had left them there on purpose. Surely no one would mind if he borrowed them for a bit? He began to drag them out one at a time. When he was almost finished something made him look up – the soft thud of footsteps in the dark. They were coming closer.

‘Dad?' Ulrik croaked. ‘Da-aaad?'

‘Baaaa!' said the something. A fat sheep trotted out of the dark, followed a moment later by Mr Troll clutching an armful of sticks.

Before long Ulrik was warming himself in front of a crackling fire. The wood was a little damp, but it soon caught and started to burn. Mr Troll was impressed with the rock circle he'd made.

‘Just the jobs,' he said. ‘Where did you find them?'

‘Under the caravan. Someone must have left them there.'

‘I didn't know Piddle collected rocks.'

‘Nor did I,' said Ulrik. The gusting wind blew the smoke in his eyes so he had to look away. The caravan groaned and rocked on the hill. It gave a sudden lurch.

‘I used to collect rocks when I was your age,' Mr Troll was saying.

‘Dad!' said Ulrik, grabbing his arm.

‘Me and Snorvik used to swap them –'

‘Dad!' interrupted Ulrik. ‘The caravan!'

Mr Troll turned round just in time to see the caravan slip past him. It was parked at the top of a steep hill and the slope was taking effect. Slowly at first – like an ocean liner putting out to sea – the caravan began to drift downhill. It swayed and bumped over the grass and picked up a little speed.

Ulrik and Mr Troll chased behind, shouting useful advice like, ‘Stop! Come back!' but the caravan took no notice. Even when Ulrik caught up and tried to hang on to the back, it dragged him along until he lost his grip and fell over.

Inside, Mr Priddle had woken with the first sudden jolt. At first he couldn't think where he was, then he remembered he was warm and safe in his caravan. Except that something was wrong. The caravan was bumping and rattling as if it was caught in a force ten gale. Sitting up, he saw the
farmhouse drift past the side window. Strange, he thought – farmhouses don't usually do that. Unless …