The Great Troll War

‘Go and ask at Penzance International Airport,’ said Colin. ‘They’ve been flying refugees in all day. I heard there were so many light aircraft they’re pushing them into the sea to make room for new arrivals.’

‘Planes are too noisy,’ I said, ‘and we need to be able to land on a ha’penny.’

But the Dragons weren’t really listening.

‘Besides,’ said Feldspar, ‘how do you know you won’t fall off? All that “diving down to rescue you” stuff is only in the movies. If I try to pull steeply out of a dive the G-force would snap my wings like Twiglets, and all I’d be is a very large hole in the ground.’

‘What’s a Twiglet?’ said the Princess.

‘Honestly,’ said Once Magnificent Boo, ‘you two are such a bunch of fusspots.’

‘You try being the last of your kind,’ said Colin. ‘I didn’t ask to be a Dragon. I’d rather be a house painter, making people’s homes bright and cheery.’

‘And I want to run a restaurant,’ said Feldspar, ‘and say things like: “Good evening, madam, dinner or the bar?”’

And they then stared at the tablecloth in a sulky mood.

‘If we leave now in your car,’ said Tiger, ‘we could be in Dartmoor by—’

‘Oh, so now you don’t want us?’ said Colin. ‘Well, that’s really, really nice. A hazardous mission that could have far-reaching consequences and we get to sit on the sidelines?’

‘I thought you didn’t want to do it?’

‘We do want to do it,’ said Feldspar. ‘It’s just we don’t want to be expected to do it.’

And they both got up and went off, grumbling as they went.

‘What was that massive hissy fit all about?’ said the Princess.

‘They’re still young,’ I said. ‘Dragons can live over eight hundred years, so they’re toddlers for at least three decades. They’ll fly us to the HENRY, and risk themselves to do so.’

‘Good,’ said the Princess. ‘Let’s go and talk to that Troll of yours.’

Moll the Troll

The Troll was being held in the hotel garage, which was situated a couple of streets away. The main door was guarded by one of the worriers, who apologised profusely about something trivial, then chewed his knuckles anxiously. We opened the door carefully and walked in, the Princess, myself and Tiger. The interior was large enough to hold about twenty cars, but these days was used as a storeroom for hundreds of extra chairs, hotel furniture and obsolete catering machines. The Mini was in the centre of the concrete floor, and table and chairs had been set up next to it.

We were all wearing neckerchiefs over our mouths and dark glasses so she wouldn’t be able to send our likenesses into the Hive Memory, and I laid Exhorbitus on the table lest she try anything – although since she was still stuffed inside the Mini, it was difficult to see what she could do in a hurry. I then sat down, while Tiger and the Princess stood near the door, arms folded, leaning on some stacked furniture.

The Troll stared at me for a moment, then at the garage that surrounded us. She looked at the walls, the ceiling, then the large double doors.

‘Will they open without warning?’ she asked.

‘Locked and guarded.’

She nodded, then carefully unlatched the car door and climbed out in a single unhurried movement that was peculiarly elegant. The car’s suspension rose as she did so, and once out of the car she could stand up to her full height, which although not substantial for a Troll was still at least ten feet. Despite this, she wasn’t as frightening as any of the other Trolls I’d come across: she was not armed with the usual assortment of clubs or knives hanging from her waist, just a potato peeler and a runner bean slicer. Her leathery skin was liberally covered with tattoos, and aside from the geometric patterns and the customary Troll history on her right leg – the events surrounding Troll War II, I think – the tattoos were mostly of vegetables. On top of her head was the customary small leather cap, but in this instance it was not decorated with a dead goat, but a rope bag containing rotten cabbage heads and blighted carrots that were slimy with age.

She stretched out on to her tiptoes, twisted left and right, then smiled broadly.

‘Hello!’ she said brightly. ‘The name’s Molly. Easy to remember. “Moll the Troll”, that’s me.’

‘You can call me Truman,’ I said. ‘Truman … the human. And that’s Roy,’ I added, pointing at Tiger. ‘Roy … the boy.’

‘What about the scrawny one?’ asked Molly, pointing towards the Princess.

‘Pearl,’ said the Princess. ‘Pearl the Girl.’

The Troll narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

‘I think these are all made-up names.’

I decided not to answer.

‘Roy?’ I said instead. ‘The dinner.’

Tiger placed the large bowl he’d been carrying on the table and took off the tea towel to reveal a quintuple portion of macaroni cheese.

‘For me?’ asked Molly, and I nodded.

Most Trolls eat with their hands – they pride themselves on their lack of manners, in fact – but this one used a large wooden spoon, which looked out of place, like a poodle wearing a monocle.

‘How did you get to be vegetarian?’ asked the Princess.

‘Does it show?’ asked the Troll guiltily.