' Bolf ' - A Story by Gerrard Wilson

Once upon a time, there lived a troll called Bolf. He was not a happy troll; in fact, he was probably the most dejected troll you could ever have the misfortune of meeting. How could he have been happy, when he had what must surely be the worst name – BOLF – in the entire troll world?

He did try changing his name, in fact, he tried changing it on a number of occasions, but every time he tried, something terrible would happen, to stop him from taking on his new name.

The first time this happened, when he chose the wonderful new name of Nork, there was an almighty earthquake, which left everything in a total shambles, with ‘renaming ceremonies’ put far down the agenda.

The second time he attempted to take a new name (he chose an even stronger one this time, he chose Firelie), an enormous forest fire erupted in the district, which he took as a terrible omen of bad luck. On the third occasion, there was a big explosion in the local fertilizer mine, with all hands needed there, to offer assistance. In the end, after trying to change his name on fourteen different occasions, Bolf begrudgingly accepted that he was stuck with it, that he would never be able to change it.

However, life goes on, and the unhappy troll – Bolf – lived with his dreadful name, struggling from one day to the next, seeing no rhyme or reason as to why he should be anything other than unhappy. He remained unhappy for another ten long and utterly miserable years, and he would have remained unhappy for at least another ten if it had not been for the unexpected appearance of a beautiful young female troll.

When he first set eyes on her, Bolf was so mesmerised by her stunning beauty, he wanted to run right up, to tell her that she was the troll of his dreams, but he didn’t. No. Instead of doing this, he skulked away, dismally forlorn, allowing his terrible name to hold him back, to get in the way of true love.

He did ask his acquaintances about her, but when they told him her name, he said, “Gaalf? That’s an even worse name than mine!” He was right; in troll circles to be named Gaalf equates to a human being called dung. And I ask you, who wants to be called dung?

Thus, it went on, for day after day and week after week, with Bolf admiring the beautiful female troll, from afar, yet denying himself the right to meet her simply because of a name.

One day, as Bolf was sitting unhappily outside the local convenience store, as all good trolls do, watching for scraps of food that the humans might absentmindedly throw away, things like banana skins, orange peels and empty cigarette packets (he absolutely loved empty cigarette packets), that he could munch on, to ward away the hunger, he spied a packet not far from him.

It was one of those new types, made of shiny, stiff cardboard, with fancy scrolled lettering upon it. They always tasted so good. Casually strolling across to where it was lying upon the ground, whistling nonchalantly, pretending that he wasn’t in the faintest bit interested (you see he had no intention of advertising the packet’s location to any troll who might happen to be watching), Bolf reached down to get it.

BANG! Heads collided.

“Ow!” that really hurt,” Bolf moaned, rubbing his head, trying to sooth away the soreness.

Then he saw her, Bolf saw the person, the troll whose head, whose beautiful, beautiful head he had just collided with – It was Gaalf!

“I’m sorry,” he spluttered, trying to help her up from the ground. Then he saw her hand – clutching the packet, his packet. He tried ignored it.

“Are you all right?” he asked, trying so hard to ignore the packet she was holding.

“I, I think so,” she said, as she settled her troll dress (a green coloured canvas frock more akin to a tent than a dress). “Are you okay?” she asked, noticing how interested he was in her hand, the one holding the empty packet.

“Yea,” he replied with a little laugh, “I’m as tough as old boots, and come to think of it I could do with a new pair.” He laughed again.

Gaalf laughed politely along with him.

“My name is Gaalf,” said Gaalf, “and before you make any remarks about my name, let me tell you that I have heard them all before,” she jokingly warned him.

He was shocked, to think that this beautiful young troll could act so casually about her name, her name that was ten times, perhaps even twenty times more dreadful than his. No. He suddenly realised that he was not shocked – he was impressed, very impressed indeed.

There was a prolonged silence, with Gaalf staring at Bolf as if she wanted something.

Smiling, Gaalf said, “Well?”

“Well? Well – what?”“Aren’t you going to tell me you name?” she asked, in an admiring sort of away.

“My name?” said Bolf, laughing nervously as he spoke.

“Yes. You do have one, don’t you?”

“Of course I do…”

“And it is?”

“What?” said Bolf, increasingly embarrassed by the conversation and where it was heading, yet having no idea how to escape it.

“If you don’t want to tell me, I will understand,” said Gaalf, looking increasingly sad as she spoke. “I will understand if you are ashamed to talk with me,” said the troll with the worst name in the entire troll world.

It was at that moment Bolf saw, really saw how silly he had been, and he realised how many long years he had wasted, feeling sorry for himself, hating his name, and he yelled, “My name is Bolf and I am proud of it! I love your name, Gaalf. I think it’s fantastic, and so are you!”

Gaalf giggled, embarrassed by Bolf’s sudden outburst, but also loving it.

That was how it all began, how the long and much respected bloodline of Bolf actually started. And they did, they certainly did live happily ever after.

Pardon? You want to know what happened to the empty cigarette packet? That’s easy enough for me to answer, to explain. Bolf knocked Gaalf to the ground. And when she was there, holding her in a half nelson, he forced her to give it to him. It’s a funny old troll world, isn’t it?

© Gerrard T Wilson 2008

More of the author’s works can be seen on his website: www.crazymadwriter.com