‘Enormous,’ said Veronica. ‘I think you’ll find the clue’s in his name.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he is,’ said Norbert. ‘Absolutely massive! Twice as tall as me probably and three times as broad. In fact, Engelbert’s bound to be even bigger than my grandfather Umberto the Unfeasibly Large – not to mention Uncle Malcolm Nine-Bellies . . .’
‘Yes, yes, Norbert,’ said Randalf. ‘That’s fascinating.’ He turned back to Joe. ‘The thing is, I don’t expect you to actually fight Engelbert.’
‘You don’t?’ said Joe.
‘Of course not,’ said Randalf. ‘That would be ridiculous.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’ asked Joe.
‘Psychology,’ said Randalf, tapping the side of his head meaningfully. ‘It’s all about psychology.’
‘It is?’ said Joe.
‘You see,’ Randalf continued, stifling a yawn, ‘as everyone knows, ogres are just great big softies. Isn’t that right, Norbert?’
Joe clung on tightly as Norbert nodded in agreement.
‘Really?’ said Joe.
‘Really,’ Randalf confirmed sleepily. ‘All you have to do is stride right up to him in your Wellies of Power, wave your three-pronged Trident of Trickery in his face, fix him with a stare from beneath your Helmet of Sarcasm and tell him to stop being so naughty, or else!’
‘Or else, what?’ said Joe.
‘Or else you’ll smack his bottom. Then you can make a really sarcastic remark about his appearance and he’ll start blubbing like a baby. Simple.’
‘If it’s so simple,’ said Joe, ‘then why do you need me?’
‘Psychology,’ yawned Randalf. ‘You’re a warrior-hero. Ogres are terrified of warrior-heroes. They’re giant-killers, dragon-slayers, troll-bashers – nobody stands a chance against a warrior-hero. It’s a well-known fact!’
‘But I’m not a warrior-hero,’ said Joe. ‘I keep telling you, I’ve never killed a giant or bashed a troll in my life. Honest!’
‘In that costume, my lad,’ said Randalf, shifting into a more comfortable position propped up against Norbert’s right ear, ‘Engelbert the whatever-his-name-is will take one look at you, burst into tears and promise to be a good ogre – especially if you say his eyes are too close together and he smells like a pink stinky hog. Trust me, I’m a . . .’
‘Wizard?’ said Joe. But Randalf was fast asleep. A soft, rasping snore fluttered through the air.
‘That’s him off again,’ said Veronica. ‘I’ve never known anyone sleep as much. Still, at least it shuts him up.’
‘Shut up, Veronica,’ mumbled Randalf in his sleep.
‘Typical!’ said Veronica.
They were returning the way they had come, back along the winding track through the Musty Mountains. Morning drifted slowly past, and soon it was early afternoon.
Boom.
Far far behind them, Mount Boom exploded softly. The hairy squeak-moths huffed to and fro looking for lost socks to eat, the scruff-birds rolled around in the musty dust by the roadside, while a swarm of rotund, antlered beetles buzzed slowly past, in search of killer daisies to pollinate.
‘They look like miniature Horned Barons,’ Joe laughed.
Veronica nodded, crunched her beak and swallowed. ‘Only they taste better,’ she said.
Joe winced and turned away. As he did so, he caught sight of something glinting out of the corner of his eye.
‘What was that?’ he said, looking down.
‘What was what, sir?’ said Norbert.
‘That,’ said Joe, pointing down at Norbert’s left foot. ‘Careful, don’t tread on it.’
Sure enough, down by Norbert’s left foot, glinting in the half-light, a small silver teaspoon was doing what looked like a forlorn little dance in the dust. Round and round it was going, in ever-decreasing circles. Finally, the circles became so small that the teaspoon stopped in one place, did a last twinkling pirouette, and fell to the ground with a soft tinkly sound.
Joe jumped down and picked it up gingerly. As he held it, the teaspoon gave a little sigh.
‘Did you hear that?’ said Joe, holding it up. ‘I think it gave a little sigh.’
‘It’s lonely,’ said Norbert. ‘It must have got separated from the herd in that cutlery stampede.’
‘An enchanted teaspoon,’ said Veronica darkly.
‘Can I keep it?’ said Joe.
‘Finders keepers,’ said Veronica. ‘It’ll go well with your saucepan and toasting fork.’ She ruffled up her neck feathers and raised her beak. ‘You can call it the Teaspoon of Terror – and terrify ogres with it!’
‘Why have we stopped?’ came Randalf’s voice. ‘And did somebody mention tea?’
‘I almost trod on a teaspoon, sir,’ said Norbert. ‘It could have been very nasty. My Auntie Bertha the Big-Footed was always treading on things. Or in things, more like. Why, that time she stepped in a great big dollop of—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Randalf. ‘Thank you, Norbert. Now, if you’re quite ready, Joe, perhaps we should proceed. Our quest awaits us and we’ve still got a long way to go.’
Joe nodded and slipped the spoon into his back pocket. Norbert bent down, pulled him up on to his shoulder and set off once more. Randalf slumped forwards and drifted back to sleep.
It wasn’t long before the road emerged from the highest peaks of the Musty Mountains and began winding its way through the foothills. These were as barren and musty as the mountains, and smelt strongly of old socks. To his right, Joe saw a tall, rounded hill he hadn’t noticed at first. Unlike the other foothills, it was covered with thick grass and giant yellow and white daisies, their sweet scent perfuming the air. Stiltmice scampered through the verdant undergrowth; butterflies fluttered overhead. Joe breathed in the beautiful fresh air. He tapped Norbert on the shoulder.
‘Not so fast, Norbert. Let’s enjoy the view,’ he said. ‘What a lovely place! What’s it called?’
Norbert shuddered anxiously, causing Joe almost to lose his balance.
‘Careful!’ he exclaimed. ‘I nearly fell off just then! Oh, look, Norbert. Over there! How cute!’
A particularly appealing stiltmouse with big blue eyes was stepping daintily through the gently swaying grass, the aromatic breeze ruffling its white fur.
‘That’s Harmless Hill,’ said Norbert.
‘Harmless Hill!’ Randalf woke up with a start. ‘Norbert, my good fellow,’ said the wizard. ‘Why is it that whenever I wake up I find you standing still, gawping?’
‘It’s Joe, sir,’ said Norbert apologetically. ‘He wanted to enjoy the view.’
Just then, the stilt-mouse gave a little cry as a daisy opened its gaping jaws and swallowed it whole. It gave an ugly belch.
‘I thought it was called Harmless Hill!’ said Joe, horrified.
‘Oh, the hill’s harmless enough,’ said Veronica. ‘It’s the killer daisies you have to watch out for.’
Joe shook his head. ‘This place is crazy,’ he muttered. He looked down to check that Henry was still nearby. ‘Here, boy,’ he called. ‘Come up here with me, just in case there’s a “perfectly safe” mountain up ahead, or a “don’t worry, you’ll be fine” meadow just round the corner.’
‘I’ve never heard of those places,’ said Norbert. ‘But they sound terrifying!’
‘Can we please get on,’ said Randalf irritably. ‘Wake me up when we get to Trollbridge.’
Norbert set off once again, this time at a brisk trot. Joe was getting used to ogre-riding by now, and with Henry safely in his lap, he relaxed. Slowly, his eyes grew heavy and his head began to nod.
The next thing he knew, Joe woke up with a mouth full of mud and Henry licking his face. He looked up. Randalf was on his feet, with Norbert fussing about him trying to brush down his robes.
‘No, don’t tell me,’ Randalf was saying. ‘Another pothole! You really should learn to look where you’re going, Norbert.’
‘It wasn’t a pothole,’ said Norbert tearfully.
> ‘No,’ came an angry little voice. ‘It was a kettle hole actually – and my kettle is a complete write-off!’
An elf, who was standing in a small hole in the road, threw a flattened disc of metal, with what appeared to be a spout, down to the ground and marched off in a huff. Joe got to his feet, looked round and gasped. There in front of them was Trollbridge.
Built upon four great arches which crossed the river, the bridge was a solid, yet ornate, stone structure complete with tall pointy-domed turrets and magnificent gate-towers. Only when he looked more closely did Joe see just how neglected Trollbridge actually was.
‘It’s a bit grimy,’ he said. ‘And that tower looks as if it’s about to collapse,’ he added, pointing upwards.
Randalf shrugged. ‘Trollbridge has a certain “lived-in” charm,’ he said. ‘Trolls have many fine qualities, but neatness is not one of them. Now stubbornness is another matter. Trolls can be very stubborn, as you’d know if you’d ever tried to get a troll to tidy its bedroom . . .’
‘And they never throw anything away,’ said Veronica, flapping her wing at the pile of junk at the foot of the gate-towers. ‘I mean, look at all that mess!’
‘Good day,’ came a gruff, yet cheery, voice from the centre of the pile. ‘Can I help you?’
There were bicycle wheels, taps, lengths of wood, screws and nails, nuts and bolts, coils of wire, a mangle, a bird cage, a washing-up bowl . . . and there, perched on a three-legged stool, a squat, bow-legged individual with tufty hair and rather ferocious-looking teeth sticking up from a protruding jaw.
‘You certainly can,’ said Randalf, stepping forwards. ‘We wish to cross your magnificent bridge.’
‘That’ll be one mangel-wurzel,’ said the troll.
‘A mangel-wurzel?’ said Randalf, and made a great show of searching through his robes. ‘I’m afraid I’m fresh out of mangel-wurzels.’
‘A turnip, then,’ said the troll. ‘You must have a turnip.’
‘Not as such,’ said Randalf.
‘Then a carrot,’ said the troll. ‘Any root vegetable will do.’
‘Sorry,’ said Randalf.
‘A potato?’ he suggested. ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s a bit mouldy.’
‘’Fraid not,’ said Randalf.
The troll sighed. ‘An onion? A courgette? A baby sweet-corn? All right then, I’ll settle for a small dried pea.’
Randalf shook his head sadly.
‘What sort of travellers are you?’ said the troll. ‘I mean, you haven’t got a mangetout between you. I don’t know,’ he tutted. ‘So what have you got?’
Randalf turned to Joe. ‘I find myself in a somewhat embarrassing situation,’ he said. ‘I mean I’ve got my warrior-hero-summoning spell and a belligerent budgie, but that’s about it . . .’
‘You’re not trading me!’ squawked Veronica indignantly.
‘Who’d have you?’ snapped Randalf. ‘Now, Joe. I don’t suppose you . . .’
Joe rummaged round in the pockets of his jeans and pulled out an old bus ticket and a lolly stick. He held them out for Randalf’s inspection.
‘A chariot voucher from a far-off land,’ said Randalf holding up the bus ticket.
The troll looked thoughtful. ‘It’s tempting,’ he said. ‘A far-off land, you say? Trouble is, I don’t get out that much . . .’
‘You surprise me,’ said Veronica.
‘Shut up, Veronica,’ said Randalf, and he turned back to the troll. ‘No? All right. Then how about this? A miniature paddle?’
‘Miniature paddle,’ said the troll, eyeing the lolly stick. ‘Very nice, very nice. Lovely workmanship, but a bit – how can I put this? A bit on the small side.’
Randalf turned to Joe questioningly.
Joe pulled his front pockets inside out. ‘Empty,’ he whispered. ‘I haven’t got anything else . . .’ As he spoke, he tried his back pockets, and there, nestling into the corner and stifling a sob, was the small silver teaspoon.
‘There’s this,’ he said uncertainly as he held it up. ‘The Teaspoon of . . . of . . . Terror!’
‘The Teaspoon of Terror!’ said Randalf, taking the spoon with a flourish. The spoon let out a timid little squeak.
Randalf ignored it. ‘Forged by elves. Imbued with magic . . .’
‘The Teaspoon of Terror,’ said the troll, impressed, as Randalf laid it in his large, grubby hand. The teaspoon gave a sigh. ‘Of course, a mangel-wurzel is the generally accepted fee, or a turnip. But you seem like an honest fellow . . . Oh, go on, then. A Teaspoon of Terror it is! Welcome to Trollbridge.’
‘At last,’ Randalf muttered. ‘And thank you, once again,’ he said as the troll opened the gate and waved them through. ‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’
‘As long as you remember, next time it’s a mangel-wurzel or nothing,’ said the troll as he strolled back to his stool.
Joe put Henry on his lead and followed Randalf and the others. It was market day in Trollbridge and the place was buzzing with feverish activity, for though the trolls lived under the bridge, their noisy bargaining, bartering and haggling was conducted up on top. A series of trapdoors sprang open and slammed shut constantly as the trolls hurried between the two. The balustrades on both sides of the bridge were lined with covered stalls and trestle tables, all laden with complete and utter junk, and run by enthusiastic trolls who were politely shouting out what wares they were selling.
‘Old string! Do come and get your old string here! All lengths available.’
‘I’ve the finest odd socks in Trollbridge if you’d care to take a look! Specially unwashed and aged by squeak-moths!’
‘Mangel-wurzels! Please come and inspect my lovely mangel-wurzels!’
Boxes and sacks stood everywhere, each one filled with junk of all shapes and sizes, and the odd root vegetable.
‘The trolls are renowned throughout Muddle Earth for their root vegetables,’ Randalf explained. ‘Especially their mangel-wurzels. They’re passionate about their mangel-wurzels.’
‘You don’t say,’ said Joe, as they passed by a rickety stall weighed down with a great pyramid of the things.
Slowly, they made their way across the great Trollbridge, the sound of the haggling and bartering ringing in their ears.
‘I’ll give you a jam jar of toe-nail clippings and a broken bucket.’
‘Throw in the dried-pea rusk, and it’s a deal.’
‘Who will buy my sweet red gobstoppers? Sucked three times and dropped on the carpet . . .’
‘Bottle tops! Bottle tops!’
‘Bottle bottoms! Bottle bottoms!’
Joe stood, completely bewildered. There was so much to take in.
‘Keep up, everybody!’ Randalf shouted back impatiently from the end of the bridge. ‘Norbert, put down that turnip. This is no time for eating. Come on, Joe. We haven’t got all day.’
‘Sorry,’ Joe called back and, tugging Henry away from a display of amusingly shaped carrots, hurried to catch up.
‘What kept you so long?’ said Randalf.
‘I was just interested,’ said Joe. ‘And everyone here seems so friendly and polite.’ He frowned. ‘But what do they do with all this rubbish?’
‘The ways of the trolls,’ Randalf said, ‘are as mysterious as they are bizarre . . .’
‘In short,’ Veronica butted in, ‘he doesn’t know. But you should see the state of their bedrooms!’
‘Keep your voice down,’ said Randalf, as they passed a second toll keeper at this end of the bridge. ‘Trolls’ feelings are easily hurt.’
The troll was identical in every way to the toll keeper at the other end – apart from his voice, which was high and shrill.
‘Missing you already,’ he squeaked.
With Randalf and Joe back on Norbert’s shoulders, Veronica on Randalf’s head and Henry trotting along behind, they continued on their way. Joe looked round and sighed as Trollbridge disappeared behind him. To his left was a broad and barren plain; to his r
ight, a swampy bog.
All at once, Veronica let out a cry. ‘Ogrehills ahead!’ she shouted, her wing shielding her eyes from the low sun.
‘Excellent news!’ said Randalf with a yawn. ‘We’ll be there before we know it.’ He turned to Joe. ‘And you, Joe the Barbarian, will be able to prove your warrior-hero prowess once and for all.’
‘Fantastic,’ Joe mumbled. ‘I can hardly wait. In fact . . .’ His face suddenly screwed up. ‘Pfwoooar!’ he groaned. ‘What is that horrible pong?’
‘Sorry,’ said Norbert. ‘It must have been something I ate in Trollbridge.’
‘Not you,’ said Joe. ‘I’m talking about that sweet, sickly smell.’ It was like a pungent mixture of his dad’s aftershave, his mum’s aromatherapy oils, and his sister’s cheap perfume, all mixed up with rotting vegetation. He held his nose. ‘It’s worse than the Musty Mountains!’
Veronica flapped her wings in front of her face. Henry whined miserably and rubbed his nose in the dirt.
‘It’s the Perfumed Bog,’ said Randalf. ‘I quite like the smell myself.’
‘You would,’ said Veronica.
‘It reminds me of my beloved Morwenna,’ he said dreamily. ‘Morwenna the Fair, they called her . . .’
‘Not behind her back, they didn’t,’ Veronica muttered. ‘At least, not when she grew that beard.’
‘That was an accident,’ said Randalf defensively. ‘I was practising. Morwenna understood, even if her father didn’t.’
‘Morwenna! Morwenna! Let down your golden beard!’ sniggered Veronica.
‘SHUT UP, VERONICA!’ shouted Randalf, very red in the face.
The further they went, the closer the road came to the Perfumed Bog, until the two were running along side by side, with only a thin line of stones separating them. Joe looked out across the swamp. Shrouded in pink mist, it was vast and flat, with giant lily pads and grassy tussocks, and dark pools of glistening purple mud which plopped and hissed as the perfumed gases bubbled up from below.
‘Come here, Henry,’ he called, waving the lead, as the dog stopped by the side of the road. Head down and tail up, he began sniffing eagerly all round the ground. ‘Henry!’ Joe shouted. ‘Henry come here!’
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