Jasper Fforde - The Great Troll War

‘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.’

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.

We all nodded and the Troll sighed deeply.

‘Troll parents see vegetarianism as a sociopathic eating disorder,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s deeply shaming, and cave prices plummet if a veggie is thought to be in the area. My parents were actually pretty good, for Trolls,’ she said. ‘Barely beat me at all and only left me outside in the winter for a week, not a month, as is normal to toughen us up. They were seen as overindulgent parents, but I still loved them. Dad conducted the Trollvanian Petraphonic orchestra. The sound of twenty per cent of the Troll population tapping rocks together is something to experience. My mother used to solo on river pebbles. She could tap like an angel and often reduced audiences to tears.’

She picked up the bowl and licked out the remains of the macaroni cheese.

‘The thing is, all Trolls were once vegetarian. We were a peaceful race, harming no one. But a Troll named Qurrgg suddenly took a liking to meat, and the usually placid community fell to his power. The veggie trolls were maligned and pushed to the edges of society. We remain hidden these days, frightened to even think about cooking up a creamy mushroom tagliatelle, much less make it. Have you ever had moussaka?’

‘Yes.’

‘We used to clandestinely meet in forest clearings to secretly conjure up a moussaka and other non-meat specialities. We had to smuggle ingredients in. Then, one evening, on ravioli night, we were denounced. I was charged with making pasta “with intent to consume”, and possession of an aubergine, a charge which was dismissed as they couldn’t prove I was going to eat it. I, and by extension all the other vegetarians, were sentenced to a life of unpaid domestic work with no possibility of moussaka.’

She gave a doleful sigh.

‘How did you escape?’ I asked.

‘We were called to the front line to man the mobile food kitchens – a thankless and disgusting job, as you can imagine – and that was when Mr Zambini appeared. He said you would help us out, so I abandoned my post, found somewhere restrictively small to hide and made my way over just before the Button Trench was filled. I guess no one was expecting to see a Troll driving a Mini. Is there any more of that macaroni cheese?’

I nodded to Tiger, who went and fetched another helping.

‘So,’ I said, ‘tell me more about that.’

I pointed at her hand, and the message written in black Sharpie:

Contact Jennifer Strange in Penzance and tell her everything. She will not harm you.

She looked at her hand, then at me.

‘You’re Jennifer Strange, aren’t you?’

‘I am.’

‘Ha!’ she said. ‘I knew you were using made-up names.’

I pulled down the handkerchief that was covering my face. There was no point to the subterfuge now.