by David Lewman
Gristle looked puzzled and a bit concerned. “Pastries, huh? That sounds…filling. By the way, are all your bakers wearing hairnets? There’s been a little concern here in Bergen Town about Trolls getting hair into the food they make.”
From the look on Branch’s face, Gristle could tell he was offended.
“Not that your hair isn’t very…colorful!” Gristle said, trying to make things better. “It’s just that we don’t want to eat it. I mean, we used to want to eat it, but now…we don’t. Not anymore.”
Branch’s eyes widened. He looked stunned.
Gristle sensed that he’d only made things worse. He raised his hands in apology. “Forget it,” he said. “Forget about the hair. I’m sure your pastries will be…basically hair-free.”
Taking a deep breath, Branch chose his words carefully. He was upset but didn’t want to blow up at the king and ruin the picnic. “We Trolls,” he began, “take very good care of our hair, including making sure it never gets into our food. Ever.”
“That’s excellent,” Gristle said quickly, wishing he’d never brought up hair at all.
“How are your preparations coming along?” Branch asked.
King Gristle smiled proudly, happy to have the subject changed. “Very, very, very well!” He nodded, thinking about his trip to Captain Starfunkle’s Roller Rink and Arcade with Bridget. After the pizza, they’d played arcade games for a couple of hours. Gristle had done particularly well at Whack-a-Troll, though he wasn’t going to tell Branch that. In fact, he made a mental note to order Captain Starfunkle to change the game to something else. Whack-a-Striped-Furmunk? That didn’t really have the same ring to it….
Branch waited patiently for Gristle to tell him more. When he didn’t, Branch asked, “What have you done, exactly?”
Gristle hopped down from his throne and walked around the room as he talked, gesturing enthusiastically with his hands. “First, I went into the dark, scary Royal Kitchen and found Chef’s super-secret recipe for her famous pizza, even though it was in a booby-trapped cabinet!”
“I was there for that part,” Branch said drily. “Remember?”
“Oh, right,” Gristle said. “Then Bridget and I picked out a bunch more recipes.” The king described all the savory delights the Bergens planned to cook for the picnic.
Branch managed to not make a face.
“We went to consult with Captain Starfunkle about the preparation of the pizza,” Gristle continued. “He’s a pizza expert.” He excitedly told Branch about the plans to recruit Bergen chefs and stonemasons to build wood-burning pizza ovens near the picnic site. And to get woodsmen to gather the perfect firewood. He also told Branch how eager everyone in Bergen Town was about getting to eat Chef’s famous pizza again.
“When the picnic is over, the stone pizza ovens will be our gift to the Trolls!” Gristle said, having just thought of the idea on the spot. He felt very pleased with himself for being so clever. “Free! No charge!”
Privately, Branch wondered what in the world the Trolls would do with giant stone ovens, but he nodded and said, “Thank you. Very generous of you.”
“You’re welcome!” Gristle said, grinning. “Maybe if this picnic is a success, we’ll make it an annual event! We can use the pizza ovens every year!”
It seemed to Branch that Poppy’s picnic was turning into a pizza party. He kept the thought to himself, though. “And what about the ingredients?” he asked.
“Ingredients?” Gristle echoed.
“Yes, ingredients,” Branch said. “You know, the stuff you use to make the food.”
Now it was Gristle’s turn to look offended. “I know what ingredients are,” he said stuffily.
“Great,” Branch said. “Have you gotten them?”
“Well…no,” Gristle admitted. “Not yet.”
Branch was trying to keep his temper in check, but he snapped. “WHAT!” he shouted. “You haven’t even gotten the ingredients yet? We Trolls have already baked lots and lots of sweet pastries, and you Bergens haven’t even gathered your ingredients? I knew this picnic would be a disaster!”
Gristle thought fast. He could see the little Troll was upset. The truth was Gristle had been so pleased with his trips to the Royal Kitchen and Captain Starfunkle’s Roller Rink and Arcade that he’d forgotten all about getting ingredients.
But he wasn’t about to admit that to Branch.
“Pastries are different,” Gristle said. “You can make them ahead of time. But not pizza! It has to be fresh and hot! We can’t make it until just before the picnic! So there’s no rush about buying the ingredients! You see? Relax!”
Branch hated being told to relax. It reminded him of Creek, and he had never liked Creek. He hadn’t been surprised when Creek turned out to be a traitor, betraying the other Trolls to save his own skin.
He took another deep breath. “May I suggest, King Gristle—”
“You can call me Gristle if you’d like.”
“Gristle, I suggest that you and I gather all your recipes. We’ll go through them and make a shopping list. Then we’ll buy the ingredients.”
“When?” Gristle asked.
“Right now!” Branch said impatiently. “It should have been done already!”
“Okay, okay,” Gristle said, patting the air between them with his hands. “Let’s do this!”
After a bit of searching, Gristle found the stack of recipe cards, a sheet of paper, and a pen. He and Branch put together a long shopping list. As Branch read the recipe for marinated turnips, he felt his stomach turn. At least there’ll be plenty of good sweets, he thought.
When they’d finished making their list, Branch asked, “So where do we buy all this stuff?”
Gristle looked like he was pretending to think about Branch’s question. But this time, he really was thinking about it. In his experience, either you ordered pizza from Captain Starfunkle’s and they delivered it, or you went into the dining hall and ate the food that was already there. He had no idea where it came from.
“There are several possibilities,” he said, stalling. “I suggest we…go ask Bridget.”
They found Bridget in her room, reading a magazine. “Chef always got her ingredients from Grub Grubbington’s Grocery Store. She said they were the best.”
“Right!” Gristle said. “That’s what I was thinking, too, but I just wanted to be sure the best place was still…what was it again?”
“Bridget said Grub Grubbington’s Grocery Store,” said Branch. “Sounds lovely?”
Actually, Grub Grubbington’s Grocery Store was lovely, as Branch was surprised to see when they walked in. He also learned that when you go shopping with a king, you get excellent service. Grub Grubbington himself dashed about the store, filling their shopping cart with all the ingredients on their list.
Except for one…
“I am SO sorry, Your Most Excellent Majesty,” Grub Grubbington said, wringing his hands, “but we seem to be all out of speckled savory salt!”
Gristle looked unconcerned. “That’s all right, Grubbington. Don’t worry about it! When will you be getting another shipment?”
Grub Grubbington consulted his calendar. “Let’s see. Approximately…never.”
“What!” Branch cried. “Never?”
“We haven’t been able to stock speckled savory salt in a long time, sir,” the anguished grocer explained. “It’s very difficult to obtain.”
Gristle took a container of salt from a shelf. “Maybe we can just use regular salt. Which recipe is the speckled savory salt for, anyway?”
Branch checked their list. “Chef’s famous pizza.”
Grub Grubbington and Gristle gasped.
“There can be no substitutions in that recipe!” Grubbington insisted. “To achieve the true delicious flavor, you will have to use genuine speckled savory salt! If you don’t, any Bergen who has tasted Chef’s famous pizza will instantly know the difference!”
“There could be protests! Riots! Looting!” Gri
stle said, looking scared. “It could mean the end of my reign as king of the Bergens!”
“Really?” Branch asked. “Just because the pizza didn’t taste right?”
“You obviously don’t know Bergens,” Gristle said.
Branch heaved a deep sigh. “Okay,” he said, turning to Grub Grubbington. “You said this spotty salt stuff is difficult to obtain. Where would we go to get some?”
“Speckled savory salt can only be found in a crystal cave at the top of Mount Gloom. The cave is guarded by a fierce wing-dingle,” Grubbington explained.
“Oooh, a wing-dingle!” Gristle squealed. “Just like the one on my Troll bi—” He stopped himself. He was about to say “Troll bib,” but then realized Troll bibs—worn by Bergens when eating Trolls—were not the best thing to bring up around Branch. He started whistling a little tune, hoping to hide how awkward he felt.
“Wing-dingle,” Branch scoffed. “That’s just a myth! A bedtime story to scare little kids into being good!”
“It worked on me,” Gristle muttered.
Grub Grubbington drew himself up to his full height and sniffed. “I assure you, sir, that the wing-dingle is real! It guards the crystal cave on Mount Gloom, and that is why no one—I repeat, no one—will be able to sell you speckled savory salt! When Chef made her famous pizza, she must have gone to the cave and braved the fierce wing-dingle herself!”
“I’ll bet the wing-dingle was scared of her,” Gristle said, putting on a positive face. “Well, there’s nothing to be done. We’ll just have to serve something besides Chef’s famous pizza. Maybe we can double up on marinated turnips.”
Branch looked doubtful. “But didn’t you say all the Bergens were super excited about getting to eat this pizza of Chef’s?”
Gristle shrugged. “Well, yes, but after years of being miserable, they’re pretty used to disappointment.”
“You said they’d riot if the pizza came out wrong!” said Branch.
“They’re used to being miserable, but they’re also very critical,” said King Gristle. “And they like rioting.”
Branch thought for a moment. He knew it was important to Poppy for the picnic to be a big success for the Trolls and the Bergens. And if that meant scaling Mount Gloom to get special salt, so be it.
“Gristle,” he said, “it looks like you and I are going to climb a mountain.”
The Bergen king turned pale green.
After getting specific directions from the Royal Cartographer—the king called him the Royal Map Dude—Branch and Gristle set out for Mount Gloom. They wore backpacks to carry the salt in, though Gristle didn’t see how Branch was going to carry much salt in such a tiny backpack. Since they were running out of time before the big picnic, Branch hoped the trip would go swiftly and smoothly.
It didn’t start out that way.
“You know, you should probably ride on my shoulder,” Gristle suggested.
“Why would I want to do that?” Branch asked.
The Bergen hesitated. He started to say “Because your little Troll legs are really short and dinky, so you’re sure to slow us down,” but he had a feeling Branch wouldn’t react well to that. So instead he said, “Oh, I just thought it might work out better.”
“How would it work out better?”
Gristle sighed. There seemed to be no way around just telling Branch the truth. “Because we’ll go faster if I don’t have to wait for you to catch up. Because your legs are, you know, a little shorter than mine.”
Gristle was right. Branch did not react well.
“Oh, so you think my legs are too short, huh?” he said, bristling with anger.
Gristle shook his head rapidly. “Oh, no, no, no. It’s not that. They’re not too short. They’re just…short.”
“Actually,” Branch said, trying to keep his cool, “the problem might be that you’ll have trouble keeping up with me.”
Gristle couldn’t help snorting with laughter. “Me? Have trouble keeping up with a Troll? I seriously doubt—”
Before the king could finish his sentence, Branch whipped his long blue hair around his head three times and shot it forward. WHAP! It wrapped around the branch of a tree. Branch zipped forward! As he passed the branch, he unwrapped his hair and shot it toward a low branch on another tree. He used his long hair to swing from tree to tree, rapidly making his way through the woods.
“WHOOO-HOOOOO!” Branch whooped as he zoomed through the forest, propelled by his own hair power.
Gristle stared. “Huh,” he said to himself. “I wonder if that’s why they call him Branch.” Then he realized if he stood there any longer, Branch would soon swing out of sight. “HEY, WAIT FOR ME!” He broke into a run, pumping his chubby arms and legs. “MY HAIR’S TOO SHORT TO DO THAT! ALSO, I DON’T KNOW HOW!”
With Branch swinging through the trees and Gristle running on his big Bergen legs, the pair made quick progress. But eventually their route to Mount Gloom took them through a dry patch of desert. There were no trees. And that meant no limbs for Branch to wrap his hair around.
Striding on his much longer legs, Gristle soon left Branch behind.
“HEY!” Branch yelled at the Bergen’s back.
Gristle stopped and waited for Branch to catch up. “Now do you want to ride on my shoulder?” the king offered again, grinning.
Branch stubbornly shook his head. “No! I don’t need a ride. I just need you to maybe…slow down a little.”
Gristle shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “But the big picnic will be here before you know it. And if we don’t get back with the speckled savory salt in time…”
“I know!” Branch barked. “C’mon, let’s go!”
Gristle strode off again. Branch ran to keep up with him, dodging desert plants with long thorns and spikes. But he soon fell far behind again. He was panting, and his feet were starting to ache. He paused a moment, bending over and putting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
He felt Gristle’s big finger tapping his back.
“Hey,” Gristle said. “There’s really nothing wrong with hitching a quick ride. You might even enjoy it. Just say the word and I’ll pick you up and put you on my shoulder.”
Branch looked up at the Bergen towering over him. Behind him, the sun was blazing. Gristle’s face was in shadow. Branch realized it made sense for him to accept Gristle’s offer. He’d have to swallow his foolish pride for the sake of Poppy’s big Troll-Bergen picnic.
“Fine,” he said. “But you don’t need to pick me—”
Before he could finish, Gristle had scooped him up in his pudgy hand, set him gently on his shoulder, and headed across the desert.
At first, Branch was worried he’d fall off, bouncing with every step Gristle took. He grasped the fur on Gristle’s cape tightly. But after a while, he got used to the rhythm of the bumps and stopped worrying about falling off. He felt the breeze in his face and enjoyed the view. He felt he could see for miles!
Branch spotted a thicket of green up ahead. “Looks like we’re going into that forest!” he said into Gristle’s ear.
Gristle consulted the map given to him by the Royal Cartographer. “Yup! It’s called the Forest of Fetid Ferns!” He looked up at the woods as they drew nearer. “What’s ‘fetid’ mean?”
“I think it means stinky,” Branch said. As they reached the edge of the forest, he sniffed and made a face. “Yeah, now I’m sure it means stinky!”
Branch was absolutely right. “Fetid” means stinky. And the Forest of Fetid Ferns stank.
It really stank. It was just about the worst stink Branch and Gristle had ever smelled. They covered their noses with their hands, but the odor somehow slipped right through their fingers. They tried pinching their nostrils closed, but that didn’t work, either.
“Do we have to go through the Forest of Fetid Ferns?” Branch asked. “This is horrible!”
Gristle looked at the map again. “Looks like it’s pretty much the only route to Mount Gloom unless we want to go
way, way out of our way.”
“Right now I’d like to go way, way away from here!” Branch said. “I’m not sure how much more of this stink I can take!”
Gristle quickened his pace. “I’ll try to get us through here as fast as I can. In the meantime, maybe we can pinch our noses with clothespins.”
“Did you bring clothespins?” Branch asked.
“No,” Gristle admitted. “Did you?”
“No,” Branch said. “I didn’t think we’d be doing laundry on this journey.”
“Neither did I,” Gristle said gloomily. “Man, I know we already said it, but I just have to say it again: THIS PLACE REALLY STINKS!”
Branch agreed. He took his vest off and tied it around his nose, trying to block the smell of the ferns. Then he buried his face in the soft fur of Gristle’s cape.
Nothing worked.
But then something incredible happened. It started to snow!
“Snow?” Branch said. “But it’s summer!”
“Who cares?” Gristle said, laughing. “At least this snow will cover the stink of the ferns!”
He was right. As the big flakes drifted down, the smell of the forest grew weaker and weaker, until they barely noticed it at all.
“I wonder why it’s snowing at this time of year,” Gristle said as he tramped along, happily kicking snow.
“I think we’ve been gradually climbing higher and higher ever since we entered the desert,” Branch said. “At this elevation, it can snow even in summer!”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” Gristle fibbed.
Gristle began huffing and puffing, putting more effort into every step. The snow fell faster and faster—until it became a blizzard! The wind blew the snow straight into their faces. Gristle leaned into the gale, pressing through the swirling flakes. Branch shivered, trying to stay warm in the cape’s thick fur.
Then the snowfall thickened and began falling so fast, it felt as though someone were dumping buckets of snow right on their heads. Gristle had to use his arms to plow through the deep drifts, digging a tunnel as he went.