Goblins and Ghosties (6 page)

‘I can't come out,' said Olle. ‘Mama told me not to open the door.'

‘You could climb out of the window,' said the troll. ‘Think how pleased your mum will be when she comes home and finds the goat, safe and sound.'

Olle thought about it.

He opened the window.

‘Come on, then,' said the troll. ‘Out you come!'

‘Wait a minute,' said Olle. ‘Is it far?'

‘Far-ish,' said the troll.

‘Then I'd better bring something to eat on the way.' Quickly Olle wrapped up a piece of honey cake and stuffed it in his pocket.
Then,
with the troll's help, he climbed out of the window and off they went, down the path and deep into the forest.

If you're wondering why the troll didn't grab little Olle and gobble him up on the spot, well, maybe he was getting to an age where he didn't like to rush his meals and risk getting indigestion. Maybe he liked the idea of having his dinner walk to his lair on its own two legs instead of being carried kicking and screaming. Maybe he was actually enjoying having little Olle trotting along beside him, chatting away about nothing in particular, since trolls, on the whole, don't have many friends.

Whatever. They walked along till Olle got tired. Then they sat down for a rest. Olle got out the honey cake and offered the troll a piece.

The troll shook his head. ‘My mum says it'll spoil my dinner.'

‘That's what my mama says too!' said Olle. Then, at the thought of this big ugly man having a mum who still told him what to do, he started to laugh.

Olle
had one of those laughs that are catching. Soon the troll was laughing too. His mouth opened wide and Olle couldn't resist it. He tossed in a piece of honey cake.

The troll coughed and spluttered. He did everything he could not to swallow that piece of cake, but down it went.

Say what you will about trolls, but they do have certain standards. If somebody gives them a present, they don't feel it's right to eat that person until they've given something back.

Will he, nil he, the troll had eaten a piece of Olle's honey cake. What did the troll have to give little Olle?

Only the goat he'd stolen the night before.

Tripping down the hillside she came, as soon as the troll whistled.

‘I told you she'd just wandered off,' said the troll.

‘Thank you! Thank you!' cried Olle. He threw his arms round the troll's neck and gave him a big kiss on his ugly face. ‘Mama will be so pleased.'

Off
he trotted, home again, leading the goat behind him. The troll stood rubbing his hairy cheek where Little Olle had kissed him, wondering why he hadn't grabbed that plump, juicy boy and eaten him, the minute he'd given the goat back.

Ah, well, maybe next time…

Wungala

Australia

Wungala went out gathering food one day, taking her little boy, Bulla, with her. He was a good kid, bright as a button and chirpy as a cricket. It always made the day go faster, having him with her. Before she knew it, the sun was sliding down the sky.

Might as well eat before we go home, she thought.

So she sat down in the shade of a coolabah tree beside a water hole. She lit a cooking fire.
Then,
she found herself a big flat stone and started grinding away at some of the seeds she'd gathered, grinding them into flour to make damper bread.

Bulla sat drowsing beside her.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright, ‘Who's that, Ma?'

Wungala had to screw up her eyes against the dying sun to see where he was pointing. All she could see was a figure standing outlined against the sky.

‘Him?' she said. ‘He's just a man.'

She went on grinding the flour to make damper bread. All the same she was starting to have a bad feeling about that man she'd seen.

‘He's watching us, Ma.'

‘He can watch if he wants. He might even learn something.'

While she was stoking up the fire to get the ashes nice and hot so she could cook the damper bread, she snatched another look.

That was no mortal man.

Once or twice, when Bulla was really bad,
she'd
said to him, ‘If you don't behave yourself that old wulgaru will come and get you!' Same as her mother used to say to her, just something you say to bring the kid into line, always believing it was all moonshine. Now, there he was, large as life and twice as ugly. The wulgaru.

The story was, as far as she could remember, that there was once a man, Djarapa. A lazy beggar, he was, but smart. Maybe that was his trouble, so busy thinking of all the smart stuff he was going to do that he never got round to actually doing anything. Then, one day, he hit on the idea of building himself a slave to do all the work for him, so he could spend all the time doing his smart thinking.

So the wulgaru was born, out of odd bits of wood and stone and clay with magic songs to give him life. But it wasn't long before the two of them fell out, maybe because the wulgaru didn't take kindly to doing all the work while Djarapa sat on his backside. The wulgaru took off into the bush and Djarapa couldn't be bothered to go after him.

Now
the wulgaru haunts the faraway, silent places. They do say he eats people, when he can get them. Kids, mainly, who are too small to fight back, because deep down inside he's a coward. So mostly he sticks to frightening people. If you show him you're not frightened, that kind of unsettles him. Enough to give you a chance of making a run for it, anyway.

So Wungala went on calmly grinding the seeds into flour and when she'd done that she sent Bulla down to the water hole – ‘But stay this side of it, you hear me?' – to fetch some water to mix with the flour to make the damper bread.

When she'd made the dough with the water and flour, she pushed the bread into the hot ashes to cook.

‘He's coming closer, Ma,' whispered Bulla. ‘He was just the other side of the water hole when I went there. Now he's creeping round it, coming this way.'

‘Let him come,' said Wungala. ‘Maybe he's hungry. Maybe we should share with him. What do you think?'

‘
I think I should stick real close to you, Ma.'

‘Good boy. You do that.'

By the time the damper bread was cooked, the wulgaru was crouching opposite them, just the other side of the fire, but still puzzled, wondering why they didn't seem frightened. Why didn't they scream and run?

Instead, Wungala smiled at him as she hooked the hot damper bread out of the fire. ‘You want some, wulgaru?' she said. ‘You want some? Come and get it, then.'

The wulgaru leaned closer, and Wungala, smiling all the time, tossed that hot slab of damper bread from hand to hand.

Boy, it smelt good!

‘Closer,' she crooned. ‘Come closer.'

The wulgaru leaned closer and closer, till he was within arm's reach. ‘You want some? You can have it all!' cried Wungala.

She pushed the damper right into the wulgaru's face.

That damper was piping hot – and sticky too! The wulgaru couldn't breathe or see or even think straight. He howled and spun and
danced
and clawed at that stuff till he could breathe again.

Then he let out a great roar.

Still the damper bread clung and burned, while the wulgaru spun and hopped and danced, trying to claw it away from his eyes. Where was she, the woman who'd done this to him? Soon as he caught her, he'd tear her limb from limb – but first he'd gobble up that kid of hers, snip-snap, bones and all, right in front of her eyes!

Round and round he danced, looking all over for them, but Wungala and Bulla were long gone, racing all the way back to camp, leaving the wulgaru still spinning, dancing himself dizzy till he tumbled head first into the cool, cool water.

All this happened a long time ago, but the wulgaru hasn't forgotten. Nor has Wungala.

She never threatened Bulla with the wulgaru again. Even now, she's scared of speaking his name even in a whisper, just in case the wulgaru hears her.

Speak of the devil, they say, and he will appear.

The Dauntless Girl

Ireland

Good evening, sir, and what can I get you? A drink to keep out the cold? Coming right up. Yes, sir, it is quiet in here. Always is at this time, as soon as the evenings start drawing in. That's when the regulars start taking the long way round instead of the short cut through the graveyard. ‘Why's that?' you ask. Well, you being an educated man and a townie, too, you probably don't believe in ghosts.

Our
Molly was the same, though she was local, born and bred.

She was a grand girl, was Molly. A hard worker and cheerful with it. The one thing she wouldn't put up with was being idle.

Evenings like this she'd stand, hand on hip, fingers drumming on the bar. ‘What's keeping them?' she'd say.

‘You know what's keeping them,' I'd tell her. ‘They're afraid to take the shortcut through the graveyard after dark.'

‘Afraid of ghosts!' she would scoff. ‘Afraid of their own shadows!'

Then, one night, she told the customers to their faces, ‘You're scared, all of you. Aren't you? Look at you! Great big men, afraid to walk across the graveyard in the dark! Poor babies!'

I heard someone mutter something about it all being very well for her to talk, as she didn't have to do it.

‘Alright, then,' said Molly. ‘I will. This very minute!' She flung down the cloth she'd been using to wipe the glasses. ‘I'll be there and
back
again before you've finished that pint. And if I do meet a dead man, risen from the grave, I'll have the shroud off him and bring it back as a souvenir.'

Out of the door she went, across the road and into the graveyard.

As to what happened next, all I can say for sure is that we waited for her to come back. There were so many men crowded round the windows, that I never got so much as a look. One or two of them swore they could see she'd stopped part way across and was talking to someone.