The trolls you probably imagine are the ones in Harry
Potter; TROLL, IN THE DUNGEON. Daunting in size and lacking in hygiene, yes,
but with a little wit they can be beaten. The trolls to be scared of are the
little trolls. Not the ones with long pink hair and goofy features, but tiny,
grey, hunched creatures. Imagine Gollum, but smaller, darker and more garbled
language. Got an idea of what I’m talking about?
The problem with these trolls is that they’re very elusive.
When you’re mother jokes about the washing up fairy cleaning your dishes, be
aware that she might be making an excuse because she too doesn’t know how the
wishes got cleaned. Trolls like to do things. Sometimes, they are helpful
things like housework, but then they can do wild things.
I discovered the first and only troll I’ve ever met at the bottom
of my garden. He had been playing in the bird bath, spooking pigeons when he
must have taken a nasty fall and knocked himself out. I sat with the poor thing
until it woke up. Its eyes were black and beady without a hint of
consciousness. It revealed its jaggy teeth and shook my hand; it understood
human greetings. It tried talking to me but our languages differed. While I
spoke with a civilised tongue his speech was a mixture of blowing raspberries
and puffing his cheeks. I gave him some bread and water and then left him to go
on his merry way.
The next day he was back in the bird bath, using the bread I
had given him to feed a blackbird. He spluttered supposed words while the bird
chirped back until my dog, a beastly bulldog with a red studded collar, rushed
into the garden. My bulldog only roars at things; birds, Grandma, itself in the
mirror. Yet as he arrived in the garden, he sat patiently by the bird bath and
then called to the troll in a controlled manner. The troll bowed before my
bulldog and jumped onto his back. He peeled back my bulldog’s ear and whispered
something while drenching his fur in saliva. The bulldog rocked onto its hind
legs like a horse and sprinted off out of the garden, leaping over the fence. I
went to look for him, but the pair were long gone.
As aggressive as my bulldog was, I did love him and did want
him to come back. I sat in the garden until evening when eventually the troll
came home. His body was bruised all over and in his hand was a red studded
collar. His eyes were like wet marbles. He tried to explain what had happened,
but his words turned to sniffs and blubbers. The troll thrust the collar into
my hand and ran off.
I never saw either the troll. My dog was found in a ditch by
the side of the road over a mile away. It had been hit by a car. The police
questioned how the dog had managed to get so far. I didn’t tell them about the
troll, and eventually the questions stopped and life went on.
Sometimes at night, just before I go to bed, I can hear the
bushes rustle and what sounds like rubbish bin caught in the wind. It reminds
me of the troll’s blubbers when he told me what had happened to my dog. At
first I hated that creature. Now I only hope the little guy can forgive himself.
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