Sunday 17 August 2014

11) The Trouble with Trolls

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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