Olaf and The Three Billy Goats Gruff

‘Trip trap trip trap trip trap went the sound of the middle Billy Goat Gruff’s hooves on the wooden bridge. Immediately there was the sound of thunder beneath the bridge great flashes of lightning came up through the gorge and there was the smell of fire and brimstone. The middle……….’

‘Dad’,

‘Midddle Billy Goat trembled with fear and even his long curly horns began to shake……….’

‘Dad’.

‘What? Let me get on with the story. Where was I? Even his long curly horns began to shake……’

‘Dad.’

‘What is it Olaf? Why don’t you let me get on with the story? I’m reaching my favourite part. You know……….’

‘Dad. Why isn’t the troll ever on holiday?

‘What?’

‘Why isn’t the troll ever on holiday?’

Dad looked away from the brightly coloured picture book towards his son tucked up under his batman duvet.

‘What do you mean? On holiday? Why isn’t the troll on holiday? What kind of question is that? I’m just supposed to be reading you a bedtime story. Your favourite.’ This was untrue.

 It was a long time since this had been Olaf’s favourite story but he knew dad always enjoyed reading it.

‘I know,’ said Olaf suddenly sitting up in bed. ‘But why is the troll always there underneath the bridge when the Billy Goats Gruff go over? He’s always there. It must be boring. Why doesn’t he go on holiday sometimes. Like we do in the summer and at Christmas when we go to Gran’s?’

‘Well it’s a story. It’s part of the story. When the Billy Goats Gruff go over the bridge he’s got to be there otherwise there couldn’t be a story.’

Olaf lay back and thought about this. ‘So he’s there all the time waiting for the Billy Goats Gruff?’

‘Paul, its time Olaf went to sleep he’s got a busy day tomorrow’ His mother was shouting up the stairs.

His dad looked at him and shrugged, disappointed, ‘Well we don’t even have time to finish the story tonight so it will be an extra long wait for the old troll. Goodnight.’  He gave his son a hug and switched off the light.

Olaf snuggled under his duvet still thinking what a boring time trolls had most of the time. Everybody seemed frightened to travel over the bridge except for that biggest goat.  But it must be fun for the troll even if he seemed to get the worst of it every time. Being knocked over the bridge by those huge horns must hurt. Trolls didn’t seem to have very happy lives!

The next day at school there was five a side football on the astro-turf pitch. This was Olaf’s favourite lesson of the week. He was a good player and he enjoyed the fresh air and movement of the game.

Soon both sides were rushing up and down the pitch trying their utmost to get the ball into their opponent’s goal under the expert eye of the referee Mr. Gardener

 the sports teacher from the comprehensive up the road. The ball came over in a high awkward lob to Olaf out on the wing. Calculating the bounce and trapping it he pushed the ball easily around an opponent and raced towards the goal. Looking up he saw right in his path Cuthbert a surly heavy boy whom he disliked. He feinted to go to his right then went left, Cuthbert was completely fooled and Olaf pushed the ball around him. A goal now seemed certain. But somehow, amazingly Cuthbert turned and stuck out his leg right in Olaf’s path. He fell heavily and the last thing he heard before his head hit the Astroturf was the shrill sound of the referee’s whistle. Foul!

He seemed to be falling down a deep hole, a very deep hole. Then he hit the ground with a bump. When at last he opened his eyes he saw that he was looking up at grey sky. He sat up. He was on the side of a mountain that was covered by patches of deep snow. An icy wind swirled across the grass. Somehow it all looked strangely familiar but at the same time Olaf was quite certain he had never been here before. Feeling cramped he stood up. His legs felt shaky and his head hurt. There were big mountains all around their bases dark with forests their peaks covered with thick snow. Olaf slowly turned around. He was completely alone. He shivered in his football strip. The slope seemed completely deserted. He walked a little unsteadily towards the edge of the shallow ridge on which he was standing. In front of him was a long stretch of meadow where the grass was turning yellow.

On the far edge of the meadow stretched a long stone wall. He decided to walk towards it. Perhaps on its far side there would be some shelter. He walked awkwardly across the yellow tussocky grass. His football boots didn’t make this any easier. He finally reached the wall and scrambled easily to the top. As he did so there was a snuffling and scrambling and the wall seemed to shiver and tremble a little. He looked to his left and there standing in a line looking very straight at him were three goats. A huge goat who at that moment lowered his head and pawed the ground. Then there was a slightly smaller one who turned round on himself and stepped up beside his big companion. Finally there was a very small goat who went on grazing unconcernedly. Olaf was glad he was on top of the wall. Could goats climb walls? Olaf was at a loss. What should he do? In the event he said. ‘Hello.’

The two biggest goats stood stock still looking at him and the smallest goat suddenly lifted its head.

‘Hello, Three Billy Goats Gruff,’ said Olaf again.

The three goats looked at each other as if astonished and then trotted forward till they were standing directly under the wall where Olaf was standing.

‘ How do you know our names?’ said the biggest goat in a very gruff deep voice.

‘Yes,’ said the smallest goat in a rather bleaty voice, ‘How do you know our names?’

‘Yes,’ said the middle sized billy goat  ‘How do you know our names?’

What a strange lot thought Olaf,before replying. ‘Well it seems obvious to me there are three of you.

A big one, a middle one, and a small one and we are in the mountains so it seemed obvious who you were.’

‘It might be obvious to you but its not to us,’ thundered the biggest goat in a huge voice. ‘That’s why we asked the question.’

Olaf felt a bit afraid now. ‘Well, he stammered you know I’ve read all about you so many times that it seemed obvious  I mean everybody….’

‘Oh that,’ snuffled the middle billy goat.

‘Oh that,’ snuffled the largest billy goat

‘Oh that,’ snuffled the smallest billy goat.

‘So you know about us because of the story?’ continued smallest goat.

‘So you know about us because of the story?’ said the middle goat.

‘So you know about us because of the story?’ said the biggest goat in his big booming voice that seemed to echo around the mountains.

‘Yes,’ said Olaf. ‘Of course. That’s the way everybody knows about you because everybody reads the story of the Three Billy goats Gruff. It’s a favourite story with most children and my dad of course.’

The three goats looked at each other and suddenly seemed quite pleased if not a little embarrassed.

‘Well that’s very nice,’ said the middle billy goat.

‘Well that’s very nice,’ said the biggest billy goat.

‘Well that’s very nice,’ said the smallest billy goat.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Olaf now feeling a little more confident. ‘But why do each of you repeat what the other is saying?’

The goats looked very hard at Olaf and then at each other.

‘What do you mean repeating ourselves?’

‘What do you mean…….’

‘There you go,’ said Olaf, ‘that’s exactly what I mean. Why do you repeat the same sentence three times? It’s not necessary.’

The goats said nothing but again looked at each other questioningly.

‘Repeat ourselves?’ said the biggest goat.

‘Repeat ourselves? said the middle goat.

‘Repeat ourselves,’ said the smallest goat.

‘Yes,’ said Olaf laughing, ‘you repeat yourselves.’

‘You have a point,’ said the middle goat

‘You have a…… Stop,’ said the middle goat to his bigger brother,’ you are repeating what I said.’

The biggest goat stopped and said angrily. ‘Now look here middle brother I don’t want you talking like that to me. Just remember who you are .The middle billy goat.’

‘Please don’t quarrel,’ said Olaf realizing that he was the cause of the problem. ‘It’s just that I thought it was very boring and quite a waste of time to repeat the same sentence three times.’

‘Of course you are righ’t said the middle goat.

‘Of… ‘.The biggest goat stopped himself and snuffled angrily as the smallest goat began.

‘Of…. .’The smallest goat stopped.

‘You see said the middle goat we spend all our time together on this mountain. We never see anybody so we can get into bad habits just like that one.’

‘Just like that one……’ Tailed off the smallest goat and then looked a little shamefaced.

‘I see,’ said Olaf. You never see anyone at all?

‘Not a soul.’ Said the middle goat. He looked quite sad and bored.

‘You are the first one we have seen for how long?’

‘Must be several hundred years.’ Said the biggest goat.

‘At least.’ Said the smallest.

‘You haven’t even seen the troll? said Olaf.

‘The troll,’ all three goats seemed puzzled.

‘The troll.’

Oh my goodness they are all talking together now, thought Olaf.

‘The troll? We don’t count him…he’s not a person he’s a,  he’s a, he’s a Troll.’

‘Well, maybe,’ said Olaf. ‘But it must be exciting when you do see him.’

‘Mmmmmmm,’ said the middle goat, ‘but it only happens twice a year anyway when we cross the bridge in summer to get to these mountains and that lovely lush green grass. Then again when we come back here in the autumn.’

‘Is he always there under the bridge?’

‘Of course,’ said the biggest goat.‘He’s always there. That’s where he lives. And after all that’s his job. He’s a troll, a bridge troll. That’s what they do, bridge trolls. What else would he do? Everyone knows that.’

‘Oh,’ said Olaf rather crestfallen. Perhaps dad was right. It was part of the story the troll was always there.

‘You don’t think that perhaps he goes on holiday sometimes?’

The little billy goat Harold tittered the middle billy Gustaf goat laughed and the biggest billy goat Bengt roared with laughter.

They pranced up and down dashed around in circles and then rolled over and over on the grass.

‘Holiday? Trolls on holiday? The littlest goat kicked up his hind legs and then did a little dance with his front ones.

Olaf began to feel a bit silly and then became cross. Why was a troll on holiday such a silly idea?

‘How do you know he is there now?’ Olaf shouted crossly.

The goats stopped their antics and looked at him.

‘How do you know he is there now?’ repeated Olaf.

‘You see how quickly you get into that habit of repeating yourself,’ said the biggest goat.

‘But he has a point,’ said the middle goat. ‘How do we know?’

‘Well. its obvious bleated the smallest goat. He’s always there.’

‘Why don’t we go and see?’ said the middle goat.

‘But we never go down to the bridge at this time of the year,’ said the biggest goat.

‘Exactly,’ grinned the middle goat. ‘Exactly my point. Perhaps Olaf is right.’

‘Never,’ said the biggest goat. ‘He’ll be there. That’s what bridge trolls do. Live under bridges and frighten the life out of anyone who tries to go over. That’s their job.’

‘But shouldn’t we at least have a look?’ queried the middle goat who Olaf thought was the most intelligent of the three.

‘After all we have nothing else to do.’

‘But its not summer or autumn,’ said the smallest goat. ‘We never cross the bridge except at those times.’

‘That is the point,’ roared his bigger brother. The smaller goat jumped back in fright.

‘All right  all right. But what about you Olaf? The bridge is miles away and there are cliffs and craggy places  to cross. Best to get on my back ,’said the biggest goat. ‘You’ll never keep up with us. Come on Olaf jump on. Hold on to my horns.’

Olaf swallowed hard and his heart pounded. He stepped off the wall onto the biggest goats back. It was warm, so warm! The goats furry coat was thick and comfortable and the great curling horns were something like the handlebars of his mountain bike. They turned and with a terrific bound were off traversing along the mountainside. The speed at which they traveled amazed Olaf. It was much faster than he could have traveled on his bike and the goats never seemed to get tired. For several miles they continued across the rough mountain grass until ahead of them blocking the way were high cliffs of grey rock alongside which plunged a mountain stream.

‘Hold on Olaf,’ boomed the goat. The going is quite difficult here. With one jump he was over the thundering stream and picking his way up through huge boulders and across steep scree slopes. The other goats followed easily until they came to a point where the path ended and a ledge ran around the mountain. It was only inches wide but the goat stepped confidently out onto to it. Olaf looked down to his left and gripped the horns so tight that his hands hurt. The mountain dropped vertically down to a river below. He felt his head spinning and then gasped with fear as the biggest goat with a huge bound jumped from one narrow ledge to another his four feet coming together on the smallest. Just below them his two brothers were picking their way along tiny cracks in the rock. Olaf could hardly breath. They were so high up and the valley so far below them! Did mountain goats ever fall? No sooner had Olaf thought this than the goat stopped on top of a tall pillar of rock.

 Far away Olaf could see a lake shimmering in and out of the clouds and mist. ‘There it is,’ said the goat. ‘The troll bridge.’

Down below in the valley just at the point where the river ran into the lake was a humped stone bridge. It looked very old and sturdily built.

 ‘Hold on its steep now,’ said the goat. They went almost vertically down gullies and rock faces until they reached the meadows where the mountains flattened into the valley. By the time they were down the two other goats were grazing  on the green grass.

‘Come on you two,’ said their elder brother. No time for feasting lets get organized.

‘All right Harold,off you go.’

‘Harold ? said Olaf in surprise. Is that his name?

‘Of course,’ said the biggest goat. ‘What else. I wouldn’t be saying Harold to the wind or the water would I?’

‘No,’ said Ola. ‘I thought you were all the Billy Goats Gruff.’

‘So we are,’said goat rather sternly. But that’s our family name. Isn’t that obvious?’

‘Now you mention it ,’replied Olaf. It’s just I have never thought about it before.’

‘Well, you have now,’ said the big goat crossly.

‘May I ask what your name is then?’ Asked Olaf carefully.

‘Mine? I’m Bengt and that’s Gustaf.’

‘So Its Bengt Gruff, Gustaf Gruff and Harold Gruff?’

‘Quite right,’ said Gustaf coming up.

‘Now where was I ? said Bengt. Ah! Yes, off you go Harold.’

‘Why do I always have to go first? queried Harold the smallest goat.

‘Because you always go first,’ brayed Gustaff with a small laugh. ‘Go on get on with it. You know you are quite safe anyway.  To any troll worth the name you are just not worth eating Go on for goodness sake.’

Olaf felt quite sorry for the small goat who turned rather sadly and began to trot toward the bridge. As he approached it he began to trot faster and the sound of his hooves on the road echoed up through the valley. Trip trap, trip trap, trip trap. He got to the middle of the bridge and then the far end and stopped. There was only the sound of the wind sighing and the roar of the river below as it fell over rocks.

Harold stopped and looked back not quite knowing what to do.  Bengt and Gustaf standing beside Olaf looked at each other. Something was not quite right! Where was the troll?

Bengt yelled across the bridge at Harold.

‘Wait there.’ He turned to Gustaf. ‘All right Gustaf. You try.’

Gustaf bounded off his larger hooves making a deeper sound on the rocky road. Clip clop, clip clop, clip clop, clip clop the sound shivered around the valley. He was soon across the bridge beside Harold his younger brother. Bengt struck the road with his great front hoof.

‘Where is he? That Troll. Where is he? Hop on again Olaf lets see if I can wake him up.’

  With Olaf Astride his back the huge goat thundered across the bridge the whole valley reverberating with the sound of his hooves on the rocky road. He too joined his brothers with out sign of a troll. The three goats chattered amongst themselves in astonishment.

‘Never before. Unheard of. Where was he,? and other such things.

‘He must be here somewhere. Perhaps he’s gone into some kind of hibernation or something although I have never heard of such a thing amongst trolls. Especially bridge trolls. They are supposed to be always on duty. Gustaf have a look down there beneath the bridge.’’

‘ Perhaps you ought to go,’ replied Gustaf nervously. After all you are the one…..’ ‘Oh, alright,’ said Bengt. I am the biggest. When he sees me he knows he’s in for trouble.

‘Can I come,? said Olaf suddenly and then immediately regretted asking.

‘Of course,’ replied Bengt. But you understand there could be trouble. Big trouble. I don’t think anyone has ever been down there into his lair.

‘Horrible places,’ offered Harold.’ I’ve heard they are all slimy and cold and smell of dead fish and even worse things’

‘All right,all right you are letting your imagination run away with you again,’ said his elder brother.

‘Come on Olaf lets have a look for ourselves.’

The goat with Olaf on his back stepped around the wall of the bridge and down away from the road. Immediately the ground descended steeply and was wet with the spray coming off the river as it thundered over a small waterfall. Down, down they went into a dark black cleft where even the sky disappeared and all they could hear was the monstrous sound of the river. They were both soaked with spray as they made their way back towards the bridge. Far, far above through the mist of spray Olaf could just see the outlines of the other two goats as they stood on the wall of the bridge. As the river ran under the bridge it became calmer with a pool beneath the waterfall.The noise of the rushing water receded. They saw a big cave running back into the mountainside with a clean sandy beach in front of it. Stepping onto this beach and looking into the mouth of the cave there were some steps and a large red door with a large brass shiny handle. Getting off Bengt’s back Olaf walked up the steps his feet crunching in the sand.

‘Be careful,’ said Bengt uneasily. ‘This all seems very strange.’

 Olaf took hold of the handle and turned there was a creak that echoed around the cave. He stopped his heart beating fast. From behind the door there was not a sound.

Emboldened Olaf turned the handle further and with a big heave pulled open the heavy door. Inside was pitch black but Olaf saw a lantern hanging on the wall with a box of matches beside it. With some fiddling around he managed to light the lamp and held it up. Its light threw wavering shadows of himself and the big goat across neatly painted walls. There were shelves full of books and big wooden cupboards a table and some chairs and a huge bed with a cover of furs upon it. Olaf caught the a smell of lavender and furniture polish .

‘This can’t be the trolls house can it? said Olaf. The trolls that he had heard of could not possibly live in such a neat and tidy house.

Bengt shook his head his great horns throwing curving shadows in the lantern light.

‘It’s all very, very strange. It doesn’t fit. The horrible troll I know and have fought so many times certainly isn’t here. At least we have established that. Come on Olaf lets get back to the others.’

 They put out the lantern and closed the door. With Olaf again on his back they were soon back on the bridge with Gustaf and Harold.

They were just as astonished as their brother and Olaf. No troll! It seemed impossible. And the neat tidy cave house that certainly was not slimy and smelt of dead fish and even worse things. What on earth was going on?

‘If the troll isn’t here where is he?’ asked Olaf.

‘Where indeed?’ said Bengt.

‘Isn’t that all we need to know?’ said Harold. ‘He isn’t here and people can use the bridge and we don’t need to worry about him.’

‘That’s all very well,’ replied Olaf. ‘But I’d like to know where he is. It’s as I thought. He’s on holiday.’

‘On holiday?’queried Bengt.

‘Where would a troll go on holiday?’ asked Harold.

‘Only one person would know the answer to that.’ said Gustaf. The three goats looked at one another.

‘The old man of the mountains.’said Bengt.

‘The old man of the mountains.’said Harold.

‘The old man of the mountains.’ Said Gustaf.

‘Oh don’t start that again,’ said Olaf laughing. ‘The old man of the mountains? Who is he?’

‘The old man of the mountains is a wise man. He knows everything. But what he doesn’t know he has magic ways of finding out. He will know where the troll is.’ replied Gustaf

‘Where can we find him?’ asked Olaf.

‘Where do you think? replied Harold

‘In the mountains,’ chorused the goats and brayed with laughter kicked up their hind legs and ran round in circles for a few minutes as they always seemed to do when something amused them.

‘Lets go,’ said Bengt. ‘Hop on Olaf.’

 Again astride the great goat’s back Olaf felt a surge of excitement as they climbed back steeply into the mountains. The mist swirled around them but occasionally Olaf caught sight of the valleys far below of forests and far, far, far away range upon range of great peaks that seemed to pierce the very heights of the sky.

The goats traveled on seemingly tireless and a huge moon appeared as the night sky cleared to reveal amidst a sea of stars the northern lights aurora borealis swirling in vivid curtains of green and red across the heavens.  As they traveled the moon sank down and the sun a red ball smeared the dawn across the eastern sky revealing even more high mountains.

‘Not far now,’ grunted Bengt. Olaf was beginning to feel drowsy with the rhythm of the goats legs moving beneath him. They climbed higher and higher into the mountains.  Then they were on a steep ridge that was so high Olaf felt if he could  almost touch the watery blue of the sky above him. On both sides the ground dropped steeply into wide u shaped valleys where long narrow lakes glinted surrounded by huge of forest. They reached a point on the ridge where a massive cwm had been left long ago by retreating ice caught the warmth of the southern sun. Against one side of this bowl was a stone house with a grassy roof smoke came from the chimney. In front of it stood a man shading his eyes against the sun and looking directly towards them as they came down a narrow path off the ridge.

‘He seems to be waiting for us,’ said Olaf to Bengt.

‘He is,’ replied Bengt. ‘He probably knew that we were coming even before we knew it ourselves. He is the old man of the mountains. He knows every thing. 

That’s impossible thought Olaf. He couldn’t possibly know that we were going to come here before we knew it ourselves. But perhaps things weren’t quite as they seemed.

Now they were off the stony mountain side and trotting through the long lush grass of the meadows. As they approached Olaf could see that laid out in front of the house were three piles of sweet smelling grass and three large earthenware pitchers of water. The three goats stopped in a line and did a small bow before strangest man he had ever seen. He was small and stocky. His skin had a silvery sheen that seemed to catch the glow off the grove of old birch trees that circled the house. His halo of uncombed hair took on the green of the meadow grass and his eyes as they turned towards Olaf seemed to glint like the lakes he had seen from the ridge. He wore trousers that seemed to be woven of moss and grass, a jacket of snake skin and fish scales that flashed and glittered in the sunlight. Then he laughed. A laugh that boomed and echoed around the cwm. In it could be heard the sound of thunder the sighing of the wind through the trees and the fall of running water over pebbles. As he laughed the goats ran around in circles of delight.

‘It has been many years, many years,’ boomed the voice. ‘So long since I have seen you of brothers Gruff. You are welcome. Eat Drink. And welcome to you also mannikin from the other world.’

As the goats began to nibble hungrily at the grass laid in sheaves before them Olaf slid off Bengt’s back.

The Old Man of the Mountains beckoned to a log and handed Olaf a large bowl of soup. Suddenly Olaf realised he was ravenous. He didn’t usually like soup but the smell of this was so aromatic so enticing. Smells of forest. Mushrooms, herbs like sage  and thyme of small tender root vegetables. He began to eat hungrily chewing at a large hunk of dark brown bread that was also offered.

Soon his bowl was empty and the goats lay on their stomachs their legs tucked under their eyes closed in complete contentment. Olaf realized that everything was very peaceful.. All that could be heard was the sound of gently running water and the sound of  the gentle breeze playing amidst the trees. Otherwise all was silence. The old man of the mountains rested his back against his log seat the goats nodded. Everyone and everything seemed at ease.

At last Gustaf the middle billy goat spoke.

‘Old man of the mountains. We have a question.’

The old man nodded.

‘The troll. Our bridge troll. He’s gone. Disappeared. Its most disconcerting.

When we went across the bridge not a sound. His house is deserted. Empty. What are we do. Where is he?’

The old man chuckled then threw back his head and laughed and laughed. Olaf had never heard such laughter. Every part of the old man shook and rumbled. But at last he stopped the tears streaming from his eyes whilst Olaf and the goats looked on in astonishment.

‘Why does it matter?’ Said the old man. Wiping his eyes with a very dirty handkerchief .

‘Well,’said Gustaf looking a little puzzled. ‘It matters because, because.’ He then turned around twice as he always did when he was confused.

‘Excuse me,’ said Olaf. It matters because because if the troll insn’t there we don’t have a story. Dad says the troll has to be there otherwise you can’t have a story called the Three Billy Goats Gruff. In that story the Troll is always under the bridge.’

 The old man looked intently at Olaf.

‘Mmmmmm maybe you or rather your dad  has a point. That story….well that’s one story of course but if the troll wasn’t there it would be quite another story which is alright isn’t it?’

Olaf thought about this. Another story? Yes, but it wouldn’t be the Three Billy Goats Gruff and wasn’t that the whole point? But then perhaps it wasn’t. 

‘But my dad loves the story as it is with the troll under the bridge. He wants it to be always the same and I’m sure that most people would agree with him. It would be confusing if the story changed all the time.’

‘Oh would it ? said the old man looking a little surprised.

‘But the Trol,’ said Bengt rubbing vigorously at his forehead with a front hoof. All this was getting too complicated. Where is the troll?

‘On holiday of course,’ replied the old man chewing on a long stalk of grass.

‘On holiday!’ the three goats and Olaf let out a bellow of utter surprise.

Then Olaf realized that he shouldn’t be surprised since this was what he had suggested to dad.

‘On holiday?’ again the three goats bleated loudly.

By this time the old man was again shaking with laughter his eyes alight and his huge halo of hair streaming his belly shaking. His fat stomach seemed to do a little dance all of its own.

‘What’s the surprise? Doesn’t everyone go holiday these days?’ said the old man.

‘We don’t.’

‘We don’t.’

‘We don’t.’

Olaf looked at  the goats sternly and coughed.

Harold looked at his older brothers who shuffled uneasily.

‘Perhaps you should,’ the old man put another log on the fire and stirred up the embers with a long iron poker.

‘Where would a troll be on holiday’? asked Bengt.

‘Soland is trolland. At least in the summer. In the winter spring and autumn they are of course hard at work under bridges, in forests wandering around lonely mountain peaks and so on.’

‘And where is Soland?’ queried Olaf.

The goats and the old man looked hard at him.  It was the kind of look he got from his science teacher when he hadn’t done his homework and couldn’t answer a question.

‘Point your nose at the sun and follow it.’ Murmured the Old man of the Mountains.

The goats stood nose to nose in a circle and chattered so fast that Olaf couldn’t understand a thing they said.Then they suddenly broke off and Bengt said to Olaf. ‘Hop on then. Lets be on our way.’

‘On our way where? asked Olaf.

‘Soland of course. To see the troll. We can’t have this uncertainty. Sometimes he’s under the bridge sometimes he isn’t. We have to know when he’s there and when he’s not, otherwise as you say we don’t have a story.’

‘Nonsense,’ roared the old man. ‘Of course you have a story its just a different story.’

‘But the whole point of a story,’said Harold is it’s a story because it stays the same. What would happen to our story for instance if it changed all the time? We should soon be forgotten. No, its very important that a story stays the same and that’s the long and the short of it.

‘Have it your way if you like. But personally I like a story that always changes. In the old days before they were written down that’s how all the stories were. Everyone remembered it and told it told it slightly differently but the story remained. After all a story is a story. It’s much more interesting that way. All this writing down. The strange old man kicked at a log on the edge of the fire with his big hairy feet. I don’t know.  I can remember…….’

‘That’s as it may be,’ said Bengt rather quickly but we must be off. He knew from past experience long ago as it was that when the old man was in this mood the discussion could go on for days.

Once again comfortably astride Bengt’s back the goats pointed their nose at the sun and set off after thanking the old man for his hospitality and advice. After a while as he looked back Olaf could see the stone house but the old man of the mountains was gone.

Across the meadows the sun was warm and there was the hum of bees and insects in the air. They went west ever west through a gap in the mountains and as the shadows of the mountains left them. It became warmer and warmer.  Now there were even palm trees and far, far away could be seen the glint of a blue blue sea slumbering beneath a cloudless sky.

The goats were sweating in this unaccustomed warmth as they trotted down a wide sandy path. Soon there were white buildings and colourful flowers and there was the sound of music and laughter. They came to a large notice board which stated in large letters ‘Soland is Trolland.’

 The three goats looked at one another and Olaf could hear Bengt muttering something under his breath.

Eventually they came to a very high white wall on top of which ran a riot of orange and purple bougainvillea. From inside came the sounds of laughter, loud  happy music and splashes. On a huge wooden door was a big brass bell and a notice which said ‘Toll for a Troll’! What did that mean?

Olaf approached the door but Bengt called out.

‘Wait Olaf. Wait it might be dangerous. Let me do that. Go back and stand with the others.’

Olaf his hand almost on the bell hesitated. Then there was a loud bellow of laughter inside and other strident noises. He retreated to where Harold and Gustaf were waiting.

Bengt raised his very large and hairy front hoof and rang the bell and then stood back.

‘For a few moments nothing happened and then the door was pulled open with terrific force and a gigantic moon faced troll with a big red nose and a mane of flaming red hair stood astride the entrance. He took one look at Bengt and let out a fierce roar accompanied by a huge jet of flame and smoke that made Olaf and the two younger goats jump back in startled surprise. There was a horrible smell of burnt fish and old rubber tyres in the air. Even the smoke made Olaf cough and splutter. In response to this Bengt had lowered His great head.

 The huge curly horns pointed directly at the troll and his hind legs pawed at the ground.  He stopped suddenly when he realized that the troll was laughing its head hung back howling with laughter.

‘ Hang on.  Just joking,’ burbled the frightening figure as it held its shaking sides.

‘Oh, I must tell your troll Grumbly this one. Hold on Goat Gruff. Yes, I know who you are from the stories our mate Grumbly has told me. But I was just joking don’t you see. Really! Just a bit of fiery to stuff to keep myself in practice on holiday.’

The goats and Olaf looked at each other in amazement. Bengt still pawing the ground ready for anything stopped and looked angrily at the troll.

‘What on earth do you mean,’ he roared. ‘You are a troll. Now on guard . I won’t attack a defenceless troll.’

‘Attack? Don’t be daft sniggered the troll taking an enormous swig from a barrel he carried. We are on holiday! That sort of stuff doesn’t count here. Do you want a drink?

‘A drink? What kind of troll are you. A troll offering one of the Gruff family a drink?  You must be mad. My Gruff ancestors would spin in their graves. Now take guard. At once!’

The troll suddenly looked a little weary and wiped his wet red mouth with a muscular hairy arm.  Now look  here Gruff we are on holiday. Didn’t you see the signs. ‘Soland is Trolland? Any way you want Grumbly. He’s your troll. I’ll go and get him.’ He slammed the door shut so angrily that the bell rang ding dong ding dong..

Bengt came back to the little group looking puzzled.

‘This is not right. Trolls don’t behave like this. There is something wrong.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Gustaf. ‘Maybe we are the ones who have got it wrong. It’s clear that trolls do go on holiday, that they are not always lurking under the bridges and roaming the countryside as we thought. Olaf’s idea seems to be true.’

What an intelligent goat, thought Olaf. He’s right.

 But what about the story of the Billy Goats Gruff? What would happen if there was no troll beneath the bridge? He remembered the Old Man of the Mountains words. ‘Well it would be a different story.’

As he was thinking this the door again opened and a very fat troll wearing a pair of bright blue Bermuda shorts and a red tee shirt that had written on it ‘ I am a troll having a Boll!!!!!!’ He did a perfect cartwheel out through the entrance and stood grinning in front of Bengt.

 ‘Well my word if it isn’t the Gruffs!’ He stuck his hands through the green braces that held up his shorts and twanged them loudly against his powerful chest. ‘And what can I do for you?’

 Again Olaf and the goats looked at one another lost for words.

‘Why, why?’ bleated Harold, ‘Aren’t you beneath the bridge?’

The troll bent down till he was level with Harold and said very slowly. ‘Because because, as even you can see little Harold. I Grumbly troll am on holiday.That’s why I aint beneath the bridge.’

‘But you must be beneath the bridge. It’s part of the story,’ shouted Gustaf indignantly.

‘Who says so?’ smirked Grumbly taking another enormous gulp from a barrel he carried.

‘Well, its always been that way,’ stuttered Olaf.

‘Wrong!’ said the troll. ‘It was that way until us trolls got fed up with waiting for people like you, goats and other nuisances wander across bridges, getting lost in forests or mountains. It was very boring. We were on duty  24/7.

A few years ago we had decided we had, had enough. So we began to take holidays like now. Long holidays summer holidays. Its lovely. its changed our lives.’

‘But what about the story,’ questioned Olaf. ‘My dad for one won’t like it at all. You must be there he says so the story can always be the same. When these goats go across the bridge. You must just must pop up and breathe fire and all that sort of stuff’.

‘No, no, no, no smiled Grumbly revealing very large, white, pointed teeth. That’s not it at all. The story can be the same but only by arrangement. Other times the story will be different and that’s the way it is. We trolls are not going back to those old days just so your dad and his like can have the story the same. No sometimes they will have to be content with a different story. Or perhaps,’ he said looking quite slyly, ‘even no story at all if you don’t use your imagination.’

 ‘But this is monstrous,’ growled Bengt. ‘Are you saying you won’t be beneath the bridge when we go across the bridge?’

‘Not at all,’ said the troll. I am certain we can come to some kind of arrangement.’ He pulled out a small black book from the back pocket of his shorts and took out a card.

‘There are the dates when I’m home beneath the bridge. He handed one card  to Bengt and another to Olaf.’

‘You can trot across it to your hearts content when I’m home and I will always put in an appearance but other times….. well I’m here on holiday. Now, if you are sure you don’t want a drink I’ll be off back to the pool.’

The goats and Olaf shook their heads. The door shut and there was the sound of an enormous splash from the other side of the wall. They stood around not quite knowing what to do.

‘That seems to be it.’ said Gustaf mournfully. ‘Things change. If we want the story to stay the same we will have to stick to those dates when we cross the bridge. I must say in the Spring and Autumn when we usually cross he will always be at home. And the other times? Well, lets face it, we just don’t go down to the bridge. We are up in the mountain meadows.

‘That all very well,’ said Bengt. ‘It’s tradition there is always..’

‘There used to be,’ said Olaf gently, climbing onto the senior goats back. ‘But now it seems that sometimes the story will be the same and sometimes different. Really will we have the best of both worlds.’

The journey back to the bridge and the meadows seemed to take a very long time. Even the usually energetic goats seemed tired and depressed. They argued amongst themselves and wer quite out of sorts. Everything that had seemed normal had been turned upside down and they hadn’t got used to it yet. They journeyed for a day and a night and reached the bridge beneath which snuggled the troll’s neat and tidy cave house.

Harold went first trip trap trip trap but then Gustaf said ‘Harold there is no point. You don’t have to go first. We can go across together. Remember the troll is not here, he is on holiday.’

‘Oh, yes of course bleated the little goat with a  confused smile. Of course, silly me.’

‘It’s not right,’ grumbled Bengt. ’Ever since the Gruffs have lived on these mountains there has been a troll beneath the bridge. I don’t know what things are coming to.’

‘Never mind,’ said Olaf, perhaps its for the best. After all it will be much nicer for all the people who use the bridge to go to market. They will know the days on which they can travel without the troll making all that fuss.’

They wandered slowly over the bridge and up into the green mountain meadows.

Once up there the goats quickly recovered their energy and good spirits. Harold was skipping around and then stopped quite still looking down at the ground.

‘Look here,’ he shouted. Look what I have found.’ He flicked a hind leg and a football flew towards the other goats and Olaf.

Bengt leapt high and with a twist of his horns headed it on to Gustaf who gave it a tremendous kick with both his hind legs to send it curving back to Harold. Olaf looked on in admiration as the goats kept the ball effortlessly in the air with a complicated series of kicks and headers. Harold with a shout lobbed the ball towards Olaf who ran to take it on the volley.

Gustaf yelled, ‘Olaf look out mind the edge of the cliff.’ But it was too late.

Olaf stepped into emptiness with the ball spinning away above him into a mass of dark clouds that gathered over the mountains. As the storm winds caught him he was tossed over and over but the ball still rose above him. He struggled to look back and saw the goats dashing around in a panic. Down in the valley was the the humpbacked bridge getting smaller and smaller.

He felt a sudden sharp sting in his nose and the feel of cold water on his face.

‘Olaf, Olaf are you O.K.? He looked up into the concerned face of Mr.Gardener the referee. ‘How many fingers can you see?’ he said holding up his hand.

‘Two,’ replied Olaf weakly.

‘Can you stand?’ He helped Olaf carefully to his feet.

Olaf’s team mates stood around looking concerned.

‘You O.K. Ol? Really O.K? You sure?’

He did feel better. A little better, but his head hurt and he felt a bit sick.

Cuthbert who had stuck his leg out came over and they shook hands.

‘Sorry Ol, it wasn’t deliberate. I just knew I had to stop you somehow. I didn’t……’

Mr. Gardener blew his whistle and pointed to the penalty spot. You want to take it Ol? asked Rob  the team captain.

Olaf nodded. He shot the ball into the corner of the net and his team cheered as almost immediately the final whistle went. They had won. Just!

‘Shall we finish the Gruffs tonight? Inquired dad. We can go on from where we left off last night.’

Olaf lay back and the sat up again too quickly, his head aching again.

 ‘No dad, Let me tell the story. It’s different to the one in the books. The one you know. This is the real story.

‘Once upon a time there were three Billy Goats called Gruff………….’

This script is awaiting a publisher/illustrator. If you are interested please contact Michael at melsmere@hotmail.com or see contact details.