“Of course I’m not all right, you harp-playing herbert!” he roared. “I’ve just been massaged by a pig!”
CHAPTER NINE
BALL SKILLS, BADLANDS STYLE!
When Dug woke the Tribe early the next morning, with the usual bucketful of water, he was a different caveman from the evening before. The sparkle was back in his eyes.
“Wake up, everyone!” he said eagerly. “I want you all to meet someone!”
The others rose and followed him reluctantly, still half asleep. Out on the duck-wrecked training ground, a stranger was playing with a soccer ball. It was a girl. From her strange clothing, it was clear she was from the same Bronze tribe as the Valley’s invaders.
Her ball skills were amazing. The Tribe had never seen keepy-uppy before. They watched, spellbound, as the girl juggled the ball with expert touches of her feet, knees, and head. She caught it on the back of her neck, flicked it high, then cooly kept it in the air as she came over to join them.
“This is Goona,” Dug told his friends. “She’s a real soccer player. She’s going to help us win the game!”
Goona trapped the ball skilfully under one foot. “Hi!” she said, with a cheery smile. “Glad to be on board.”
This was Dug’s great idea. He had persuaded Goona to come back to the Badlands with him, to help his struggling team, by promising that she could join it. That way, she could live out her own dream. She could play on the Sacred Turf, in front of thousands of yelling fans.
Goona wasted no time in getting down to business.
“So, what formation do you normally play?” she asked.
“Formation?” said Dug.
“Four-four-two or four-three-three?” said Goona. “Who’s your sweeper? Do you man-mark, or play zonally?”
There were blank looks all around.
“We just kick the ball and chase it,” said Treebor.
Goona was quickly realizing just what she had taken on. “You think you can beat Real Bronzio by chasing a ball around?” she said. She shook her head. “You guys need to know what you’re up against!”
So the Tribe’s training began afresh with an introduction to their rivals. Goona had brought her own soccer card collection with her. With its help, she took the Tribe through the Real Bronzio players one by one.
The first card she laid down showed the handsome golden-haired striker who had given Dug a hard time. “That’s Jurgund, the captain,” said Goona. “Best goalscorer in the known world. Knows it, too.”
Dug also recognized the player on the second card. “Their winger, Lightning Hammer,” said Goona. “Never strikes twice in the same place.”
She displayed another card, and another.
“Midfield dynamo, Qwik Wun Tu. He can kick faster than you can think . . . Finally, their fullback. No one gets past his tackle . . .”
By the time the complete Real Bronzio squad was laid out before them, the Tribe looked thoroughly disheartened.
“They’re like ginormous, giant, soccer-playing . . . giants!” said Asbo.
“The best players bronze can buy,” agreed Goona.
“There’s no way we can beat such a great team!” groaned Gravelle.
Goona gave her a feisty look. “Well, not if you talk like that, there isn’t!” she said. “If you think like losers, then you’ve already lost.”
Dug knew she was right. “What Goona’s saying . . .” he told the others, “is that we need to believe in ourselves.”
Barry’s face lit up. “I believe in my shelves!” he cried, getting entirely the wrong end of the stick, as usual. He had recently built himself a (rather wonky) shelving unit out of dinosaur bones. It was for displaying his collection of stones, and his (badly drawn) portrait of Mr. Rock, his late best friend. He was very proud of it.
“We’ve got a lot of hard work to do,” Goona pressed on. She looked around the Tribe, taking a quick headcount. The others plus her made ten. “We don’t even have a full team. We need one more.”
Hognob’s ears pricked up. For a moment, he thought he was in luck. His hopes were crushed, however, by the sudden arrival of Bobnar.
“What’s going on?” asked the old chief, who had been asleep in his cave. He looked suspiciously at Goona, and at the ball she was holding. “I thought we were done with soccer.”
In no time at all, Goona had been introduced to Bobnar, and had appointed him, despite his protests, as the team’s final member. In the light of his extreme old age, nearly thirty-two, she assigned him the role of goalkeeper.
“Right, that’s settled then!” said Goona, to whom taking charge came naturally. “Now, where are your training facilities?”
“Training facilities?” said Dug. He remembered the impressive range of equipment back in the Real Bronzio clubhouse. He looked glum. “All we’ve got is . . .” suddenly, a smile lit his face, “. . . the Badlands!” he cried. Dug’s eyes shone as they met Goona’s.
He had just had another great idea.
As a soccer training facility, the Badlands had it all. It just took a little imagination, which both Dug and Goona had plenty of, to see it.
Who needed cones to practice dribbling around when you had spouting geysers to weave between? What could be more ideal for doing quick-steps across than the giant ribcage of a dinosaur skeleton? What better way was there to make the Tribe move and think fast than by having them do their pass-and-go exercises with a giant man-eating duck on their tail?
In the days that followed Goona’s arrival, she and Dug found many ingenious ways to turn the deadly hazards of the Badlands into first-class training activities. Under Goona’s expert guidance, the Tribe’s soccer skills slowly began to improve. In breaks between exercises, she explained rules and tactics with the help of pebble-players and chalk-drawn diagrams.
Bobnar was doubtful at first. He watched anxiously as the others practiced their passing accuracy perched on floating rock islands in a river of lava. But he could not deny the progress they were making. Before very long, he was joining in as enthusiastically as the others.
As their skills went from strength to strength, the Tribe began to enjoy themselves. When, for the first time, Dug’s friends woke him with an early soaking, eager to get started, he knew things were well and truly on the up.
Working together, the Tribe and Goona pre-pared for the challenge ahead. Dug came up with footwear. Since being driven out into the Badlands, the Tribe had survived largely on giant, just-about-edible caterpillars. The tough, leathery caterpillar skins made ideal soccer cleats. Soon they had made themselves matching uniforms, too. Thongo took on the job of dyeing their shirts red with berry juice.
Even Hognob played his part. His new-found massage skills helped soothe his friends’ aching muscles at the end of a hard day’s training.
Everything was coming together at last.
After a particularly successful day of training, the Tribe celebrated with a noisy party back at camp. By now, Goona was one of the gang. Thongo had even made her a caveman disguise so that she would look the part at the soccer match. She and the Tribe danced happily around the campfire, playing keepy-uppy even as they partied. Bobnar could hardly believe the progress they had made over such a short period of time.
While the others danced, Dug practiced his overhead kick. He was determined to master it. He gave it another try, but once again he failed to strike the ball cleanly. With a sigh, he hurried off, away from the firelight, to retrieve it.
The ball had come to rest against the foot of the invaders’ fence. As Dug approached, he looked out over his much-loved valley below. The moon shining down on it was almost full.
“We’ll soon be home!” Dug told himself, happily.
Then his face clouded. He had spotted something down in the Valley. There were lights moving. Lots of flaming torches bobbed and moved near the entrance to Bobnar’s cave. What was going on down there?
Dug was too distracted to hear the rustle of movement behind him.
Sud
denly, he was plunged into darkness. Someone had slipped a hood over his head. A rough hand stifled his attempt to cry out. Other hands seized hold of him.
Struggle as he might, there was nothing Dug could do to stop himself from being dragged away into the night.
CHAPTER TEN
THE AWFUL TRUTH
Dug had no idea where he was being taken. He stumbled blindly along, guided by the shoving and tugging of rough hands.
“What are you doing?” he protested. “Let me go!”
The hood over his head muffled his cries. His mystery kidnappers only bundled him onward, without a word.
Then, at last, they came to a halt. Dug’s hood was whipped off, and he could see once more.
What he saw made his blood boil.
His kidnappers, two Bronze guards, had brought him to the Valley cave that used to belong to Bobnar. Dug looked around in horror. The chief’s old home had been wrecked. It was now the main entrance to Lord Nooth’s freshly dug bronze mine.
What maddened Dug most was the sight of Nooth himself. He was relaxing in Bobnar’s hammock, grinning smugly. Dug glared at him, struggling to get free of his guards’ grip.
“Calm down, caveman!” said Nooth mockingly. He swung himself out of Bobnar’s bed. “I thought you might like to see our new mine. After all, you will soon be digging lots of bronze out of it.”
Dug was defiant. He thought of how much the Tribe’s soccer had improved, thanks to Goona. They would soon wipe the smug smile off Nooth’s face.
“We’re not going down any mine, mammoth-mouth!” growled Dug.
“Ah, yes,” said Nooth, still smirking. “Because the skills of your ancestors are in your blood. Is that right?”
Dug looked taken aback. “You . . . you know about them?” he stammered.
Dug had assumed Nooth had no idea about the Tribe’s soccer-playing ancestry. They had only just discovered it themselves.
Lord Nooth’s unpleasant grin widened. “Bronze isn’t all we found down here,” he said slyly.
Nooth meant the ancient paintings, Dug supposed. But if Nooth had discovered that the Tribe had soccer in their blood, why did he not seem concerned?
In fact, when Nooth’s mining team had first told him of the cave paintings, he had been very concerned. The revelation that the cavemen’s ancestors had played the Sacred Game had come as a nasty shock. It suggested a Stone Age team might, after all, be a match for Real Bronzio. To make matters worse, Queen Oofeefa had somehow learned of the worrying discovery. She had sent her royal message-bird to speak to Nooth again. Her angry recorded message made it all too clear that his neck was on the line.
Then, to Nooth’s great relief, his miners had brought fresh news. As they dug deeper, they had made another discovery. This time, what they had found washed all his worries away . . .
Lord Nooth crossed to one wall of Bobnar’s cave, in which an opening had been newly mined. It was sealed with a heavy bronze door. Nooth pulled a lever, and the door ground slowly open. Beyond it, a dark tunnel led steeply downward. Nooth took a blazing torch from a bracket on the cave wall. Then, to Dug’s surprise, he signaled for the guards to release him.
“Come with me, caveman,” said Nooth, with another sly smile. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”
Nooth’s “something” was a dark, damp cavern deep underground.
Dug cautiously followed his enemy down into the great, gloomy chamber. He could see by the flickering light of Nooth’s torch that its rock walls were decorated with primitive pictures.
“More cave paintings?” said Dug, frowning.
“Yes,” replied Nooth. “But these ones tell the whole story.”
He held his torch close to the arching cave wall. These paintings, unlike the ones Dug had looked at many times before, were vivid and unfaded. The ones nearest the cave entrance showed a group of hairy primitives kicking around what looked like a ball of rock.
“You see, your ancestors didn’t just play soccer,” said Nooth. “They invented the game!”
As Nooth moved along the wall, further into the cave, his torch illuminated the story told by the paintings. The next images showed groups of figures arriving to take on Dug’s soccer player ancestors.
“You even taught other tribes how to play,” Nooth went on. “But you had one problem . . .”
The torchlight fell on a picture of the ancient tribal team looking glum, holding their heads in shame.
“No matter how hard you tried . . .” Nooth smiled nastily, “. . . you just always ended up losing.”
Dug looked at the paintings in dismay. One after another showed his ancestors conceding goal after goal, losing match after match.
“In fact, in the end,” smirked Nooth, “you just gave up altogether! It was all too painful for you!”
The final painting showed a despairing player booting the rock ball far away, across a sea, to another land.
“You see,” said Nooth, thoroughly enjoying himself, “it turns out your tribe was totally trash at soccer!”
“No!” gasped Dug. He stared at the cave walls in horror. “No! It can’t be true.”
The Tribe’s hopes were built on the belief that they were descended from soccer heroes. Not losers.
Dug struggled to hold onto his faith in his friends. “Well, I still believe we can win!” he told Nooth defiantly, trying to sound like he meant it.
Nooth sneered at him. “Do you really, caveman? Because if you’re wrong, there won’t be any Tribe. These paintings will be all that’s left of you.”
Dug, looking miserable, didn’t reply.
The torchlight flickered across Nooth’s gloating face. He put an arm around Dug’s shoulders, as if to reassure him. “But I’m willing to offer you a deal,” he said slyly. “A way out.”
Given what he now knew, Dug couldn’t help being tempted. He listened, with a sinking heart, as Nooth spelled out his “deal.”
Meanwhile, Hognob was proving once again just why he was early man’s best friend. When Dug didn’t return to the campfire party, Hognob had gone looking for him. The clever hog had sniffed out Dug’s scent. Sneaking past Bronze guards, he followed the trail to Bobnar’s cave, and down into the mine. It led him, at last, to the painted cavern, and his missing friend.
Dug was alone in the gloom. Nooth had left him to think over his offer. Brooding on his grim options, Dug had become lost in dark thoughts. Visions of the Tribe slaving down in the mine tormented him.
“I’m so sorry, Chief!” Dug told the ghostly apparition of Bobnar that shimmered before him. “I didn’t mean for this to happen!”
As he tried to grab his old friend by the shoulders, his nightmare dissolved . . .
. . . and he found himself clinging instead to Hognob, whose urgent nuzzling had brought Dug back to reality.
“Hognob!” cried Dug. He had never been happier to see his faithful pal. “My dear old hoggy friend!” He gave Hognob a big hug. But as they separated, Dug’s smile quickly faded.
“Listen,” he told Hognob gravely. “I need you to go back.”
Hognob looked dismayed. He whined in protest, shaking his snout.
“Yes!” said Dug sadly. “Your place is with the others now. Forgive me, Hognob, but I’ve got a deal to make . . .”
Dug had made up his mind. The fateful soccer match had been his idea. If the Tribe lost, and his friends were forced to live out their lives down in Nooth’s mine, it would be his fault. He couldn’t let that happen.
“I’ve got to save the Tribe!” he told Hognob, with a resolute look.
As Dug turned and hurried away, his best friend’s howls echoed around the great gloomy cavern behind him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DUG’S CHOICE
In the Bronze City, the atmosphere was electric. The day of the big match had arrived at last, and the place was buzzing.
Excited citizens, making their way to the match, thronged the street that led to the great central stadium. The cri
es of the officials at its entrance rang out over the general hubbub.
“One hundred schnookels! One hundred schnookels!”
“Voluntary contribution! Everyone has to pay!”
Lord Nooth had not hesitated in doubling the ticket price. He was confident his people would pay handsomely to watch this unique match, and he was right. There was a good deal of grumbling among the fans lining up, but none were prepared to miss their famous home team taking on an unknown Stone Age squad. They all dug deep to find the necessary bronze.
Nooth was already reveling in the riches the match was bringing in. He was up in his private box with his assistant, Dino, drooling over an overflowing coin chest.
“Ah, it’s all going to plan, Dino!” he sighed happily, letting a handful of coins run through his fingers.
Nooth was so entranced by his beloved bronze that he failed to notice the Taran-Tara! of a fanfare from the street outside the stadium.
He took a schnookel from the chest and pressed it to his lips. “Mmwa! I love you, little bronze coin!” he slobbered. Eyes shining, he caressed several more coins, kissing each in turn. “And you . . . Mmwa! And you!”
His smile faded at the sound of a familiar voice nearby.
“What a mammoth journey!” it declared regally. “Where’s Nooth?”
Lord Nooth rolled his eyes in irritation. “Not that stupid old bird again?” he groaned. Queen Oofeefa had evidently sent her annoying bird with another nagging message. Nooth did not intend to listen to it. “Tell Chef to boil it up in a cassoulet!” he ordered Dino, continuing to admire his coins.
There was no reply. Nooth glanced around to check Dino had understood . . .
. . . and got a rather nasty shock.
It was not Queen Oofeefa’s talking bird he had heard. It was the queen herself. She was glaring at Nooth from her magnificent royal carriage. It had pulled up inside the stadium, right in front of his box.
“Stupid old bird?” echoed the Bronze monarch. There was an icy look in her narrowed eyes. “Cassoulet?”
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