The Troll and the Billy Goats Gruff

Once upon a time . . . in a distant mountain vale, there lived three billy goats gruff.

They were soft and tan, and shaggy brown manes grew about their broad shoulders. The youngest, Sven, was still rather small, his horns little more than fledgling nubs poking from his brow. The middle brother, Olle, was medium-sized with medium-sized horns, though one had chipped when he took a tumble as a kid. The oldest, Axel, was quite large and fearsome with thick horns that curved back almost to his shoulders. He was inordinately proud of these, though he’d learned early on to mask his vanity behind a stoic exterior. There's nothing worse than a boastful goat, their grandmother had said on more than one occasion. Nothing worse.

Alas, the valley the three billy goats gruff lived in was suffering from the blight of ongoing climate change, and the streams dried up and the grass became withered and brown. The billy goats had to search further and further afield each day to find patches still worth grazing.

After many weeks of this, at last they came across a mighty river that flowed and gurgled through a steep ravine below. Across the gorge lay a grassy hillside dotted with wildflowers. Tall trees cast shade across the grassy field. Sven was certain that this was a faerie forest, for only a place touched by the fair folk would remain so verdant in a drought.

A narrow wooden bridge spanned the two sides of the ravine, built long ago by some forgotten jarl. The billy goats mistrusted man-made things of any kind, but with the last of their food supply dwindling, Axel made a decision. On a sweltering Tuesday in June, the eldest billy goat told his brothers it was time to cross the old bridge and move on to greener pastures.

So the three billy goats gruff set out. Little did they know, a fearsome and ill-tempered troll had recently taken up occupancy beneath the bridge, setting up his makeshift home on a little ledge that gave way to a small, damp cave.

The troll had fur much the same sandy color as the billy goats, though it was matted and flea-ridden and course to the touch — not that anyone had touched him since he was but a wee lad, though some nights he could still remember his mother’s final tearful embrace as they bid each other farewell, and his father’s look of relief as he stepped out of his childhood cavern for the last time to make his way in the wide world.

Great warts grew like mushrooms from the troll’s arms and up the left side of his back, and from his giant, swollen nose. His knees and elbows were knobby and they ached when it rained, and also most mornings, and his wide feet were webbed. Long ears stuck back from his misshapen head like knives. Heavy loopy earrings made of rat bone weighed each lobe down. Over the years, they’d drooped almost all the way to his hoary shoulders. A long tail, much like a lion’s, swished from his fuzzy derriere, and a necklace made of boar’s tusks hung ‘round his barrel chest. His own teeth were jagged and uneven, crowding his mouth as if jostling for position. Long, greasy black hair fell about his small black eyes, which he swiped away with long bony fingers, dirty yellow nails bitten to the quick.

The troll’s breath smelled exactly the same as a dead fish languishing in a vat of spoiled milk.

Dreadful stench aside, it was a cozy troll abode, with a thick rope hammock stretched out under the bridge’s crooked planks. The living space was tastefully adorned with the femurs and jaw-bones of deer and sheep, several rabbit ribcages, and even one or two human skulls. Several fish lay in a net the troll had pulled from the river the night before. The troll had never tasted billy goat gruff, however, so when he heard “Trip, trap, trip, trap” up above him on the bridge that morning and, knowing it was not rain for the sky was a preening shade of blue, his stomach growled and he popped his head up over the bridge and smacked his lips.

“Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?” he demanded, though it sounded more like “Ooohs ‘at crissy crossin’ me bridgey bridge? Speak up, ya gout, fore’s I give ya a’woopin ya wonna soon ferget!”

“Why, ‘tis only me,” young Sven replied, eyes wide and innocent, “most diminutive of the Billy Goats Gruff. Please, wise old troll, don’t eat me. I’m all fur and bones, you see, sure to stick in your throat. Wait for my brother. He’s bigger… and juicier.”

The gristly little goat did indeed look all fur and bones, the sort of meal a desperate troll might pounce upon, lickity-split, but our troll was anything but desperate.

“Right then,” said the troll, imagining the juicy legbone he’d soon be gnawing upon. “Off you go,” and he made an awkward bow and waved his long, gangly arm to the hillside beyond in the rough approximation of a flourish, hair falling across his eyes. The troll pushed the greasy hairs from his brow. The little goat scampered past. The troll sneezed. He wiped his nose and glowered at the goat.

The sun pressed higher toward its orbital summit, shimmering yellow, but this didn’t bother the troll, at least not existentially. The notion that trolls turn to stone in sunlight is just a tall tale troll parents tell to frighten troll children. Trolls are, by and large, night owls; not quite nocturnal in the way of cats, but with remarkably decent night vision and a distaste for heat and early rising. Most days, a troll sleeps well past noon and then lazes about engaging in the art of self-pity, which trolls have down to a science.

The troll glared at the skinny little runt of a goat as it pranced by and glared twice as ferociously at the sun, shading his eyes and squinting with as mean a visage as he could conjure. He gulped back a yawn as the goat disappeared from view and clambered back down to his underbridge lair.

It was not long after that the second billy goat arrived. The troll was snoozing peacefully in his hammock, dreaming of sizzling mutton and, oddly enough, his father staring down at him with a look of exasperated disappointment, when the clattering of hooves startled him from his slumber.

“Trip, trap, trip, trap” across the bridge, only somewhat louder than before. The troll, grateful to have awoken before the dream took any other unexpected turns, swung from his hammock and landed on the bridge, grinning hungrily at the startled billy goat. This goat was certainly much bigger. Not scrawny at all, with a fine rump ripe for roasting.

The troll rubbed his bony hands together and leered at the goat, licking his thin lips lasciviously. “And so the juicier one arrives at last!” he said, though it sounded more like “Aha ‘ere be the juicy-juicy meaty-lad, har har har, an one fer to swelly me belly, reckons I, oh me lads!”

But Olle was just as savvy and cool under pressure as his younger brother, and he said without missing a beat, “Oh most fearsome of trolls, you must have rather a large and impressive appetite, far surpassing that of a humble goat!

“Rest assured, I am but a meager morsel compared to my eldest brother who is, dare I say, the fattest old goat in the valley.” He called that last part out rather loudly, and over his shoulder, as if speaking to someone else. “Save your appetite, troll,” he continued. “Save it for the feast to come!”

The troll, hungrier now than before, but also greedy (as trolls are, by their very nature) waved the middle goat across magnanimously. He didn’t return to his hammock, however. Instead, he loped down to the little firepit beneath the bridge and began striking flint against tinder, casting sparks over some kindling he’d gathered for the fish.

He could almost taste the roasting billy goat sizzling on the spit as he muttered to himself. The troll’s childhood had been one of slim pickings, really, mostly rabbits and sickly deer and even rats (he was not fond of rats, alive or dead). He remembered his father bringing home a human once, but it was an old and bony creature and for all his father’s bluster and swollen ego, it had barely fed the four of them. He had slipped half his portion under the table to his little sister, and the pangs of an empty stomach followed. He has tossed and turned that night, tummy rumbling.

There were many such days of hunger and silence and cold, dreadful judgment. But now? Now he would gorge himself. The days of fish and nets would soon be over. Drool fell from his chin in gloopy rivulets as the fire roared to life.

Just then: TRIP, TRAP, TRIP, TRAP

Knotting the red and white checkered bib his mother had made for him around his neck (though it was mostly a ratty brown by now) the troll reached up and swung himself to the bridge once more, a slavering grin across his terrible face, his bulbous nose twitching in anticipation.

Before him stood the largest and most fearsome billy goat the troll had ever seen. In fact, he was quite certain goats didn’t come in this size. Nor was this particular specimen fat or altogether juicy looking. “Now then,” he said, making his voice as deep and intimidating as he could, though he felt it quiver, “Now then,” he said again, “Dunna be spoutin’ off bout some bigger goaty goat on ‘is way and not to gobble yer down, please and thankee, mister troll.” He eyed the muscled goat warily. “Though if’n there’s this fat one I keep ‘earin’ tell of, I reckons I could wait.”

The eldest of the billy goats raised a bushy eyebrow in response but, much to the troll’s consternation, did not plead or implore. In fact, that expression looked troublingly familiar. Cruel disdain. Indifference.

The troll trembled all over. His hands felt suddenly clammy. This billy goat gruff did not beg nor barter nor beseech. Did not say a word. Instead, it lowered its long curved horns and charged, mighty hooves pounding across the wooden bridge.

The troll bellowed, scrambling back and slipping on the wet planks of the bridge. It was too late. The goat crashed into him, and suddenly he was up off the bridge, scrabbling helplessly in the air.

The troll felt a burst of pain in his side and, glancing down, saw dark red blossoming out across his chest. “But —” he began, “Wait —” and then he was sailing, careening over the side of the bridge, limbs akimbo, the way his sister’s ragdoll had looked when their father had thrown it away so long ago without a word, just the wearily dismissive shake of his shaggy head.

Cruel disdain. Indifference.

With a terrible splash, the troll plunged into the river.

Several things went very poorly for the troll all at once. First, it is well known that trolls are terrible swimmers, never having mastered the art of doggy paddling (having eaten all the dogs who might teach them). Second, just below the bridge there stood a great and mighty waterfall, ironically called Troll Falls (at least on the maps of the valley that neither the troll nor the billy goats had ever seen). The wound in the troll’s side certainly didn’t help matters. He saw stars and water spilled into his lungs and a terrible blackness filled his vision. He thought for moment he could hear his sister shouting his name.

The troll’s arms and legs felt weak, like flapping fish at his side, stupid fish incapable of paddling. He coughed up cold water and tried to shout, but more water filled his mouth. He wanted to shout, but all he could muster was a besotted gurgle. Try as he might, the troll could not scrabble his way to the bank, and the three billy goats gruff watched as he spun and bobbed and plunged. And then he was gone, swallowed by the churning rapids.

“That was nicely done,” Olle said at last. “For a fatty.”

“I am not fat,” Axel replied, glaring at his brother. Olle smirked.

“I feel bad for him, a little,” Sven said.

“Never feed the trolls,” said Axel.

“He might have been lonely,” Sven replied.

“Had a wife and kids,” said Olle.

“Never. Feed the trolls,” Axel repeated.

“Or a lousy childhood,” Olle said.

“Doesn’t matter. Don’t do it.”

“Might have just been tired of fish,” Olle said. “Thought he’d mix it up a bit.”

Axel growled and stomped his front hoof.

Sven glanced between his brothers, then trip-trapped into the grassy field beyond, the smell of flowers and fresh grass filling his nostrils as the other two bickered.

In the end, they all lived happily ever after —as one does in a story like this. So long as you’re not a troll.

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