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It was winter, but not this kind of winter. Back before your great-great-great-grandfathers time, they had winters like you and I aint never seen: great bloody frozen beastly winters, that coaxed the ice right out of the cracks in the rocks and the roots of the trees, and soared over the grey clouds dropping basketfuls of the coldest snow youve ever imagined. Waterfalls would freeze before the water was even done falling; birds would die of the cold in the midst of flying south, and drop right out of the sky into snowdrifts taller than a ships mast.

If was the trolls that did it, see. You dont get trolls any more these days, because theyre mighty scared of motor cars and telephone lines, and the gnarly ancient forests that were their ancestral homes have almost all been cut down for ships and paper and bedside tables. Theyve probably moved underground, slunk into ugly damp holes to feel sorry for themselves, but back in those days you couldnt walk a furlong in a forest without being watched by a little troll-child with a big round nose, or coming across a troll-maiden combing her hair in a clearing, looking for all the world like a pretty young village lass, except for the tricksy cow-tail poking out from her dress. Most times it was best to just keep walking. Trolls are trouble, more often than not, and people forget that theyre not above eating a person, bones and all, when theyre hungry enough.

They can hide in snowflakes, trolls can, and turn themselves inside out all tricksy-like and make it look like theyre old men or goats or spinning-wheels. They love pranks, except for the old ones who love fresh blood even better. Anyway, the story Im going to tell you has a few trolls in it, and they were as trollish as they come.

It was winter, like I said, and in a little mountain valley at the top of the world there lived an old, worried farmer, with his five lazy sons and his old, worried wife. They grew beets, and had a few goats, but beets and goats milk wouldnt keep a family from freezing and starving in those old days, and the farmer knew all too well that his lazy sons hadnt gathered nearly enough food to see all seven of them through that cruel winter. He worried and he worried, and his wife worried with him, while his sons sat in bed and ate the last of the beets.

The family was poor, aye, poor as the moss on the trees, but the farmer figured a debt was better than starving to death, and so he got a big board and wrote Help Wanted on it and went and nailed it to a drooping pine by the old road, and counted out the last of his silver as he waited for a knock on the door. Three days he waited and worried, while the weather outside grew colder and the trolls danced on the wind and draped icicles on all the trees. They couldnt read the sign, being trolls, but after three days the farmer was so worried that he added a little bit to the sign in Trollish, like his grandmother had taught him back when trolls would come around to their house for tea every so often.

Well, wouldnt you know, after the farmer had written his bit in Trollish, and turned around and gone home and got into bed beside his worried wife, there came a knock at the door. Five knocks, in fact, from gnarly knuckles that could only belong to one sort of creature. Sure enough, there on the doorstep stood five of the lankiest, nosiest trolls you could ever wish to see. Their names were Pot-Licker, Door-Slammer, Sausage-Snatcher, Window-Peeper, and Pudding-Gobbler, and perhaps youve heard of them. Aye, they were the Yuleboys, the nasty snatchy sons of Gryla and Leppalud the Horrible, who had eaten an entire village at the age of three, and picked the bits out of his teeth with the prize tree in the centre of the square.

I reckon Ive told you younguns a few Yuleboy stories before, but this ones a new one, I promise. You see, after they had been caught stealing so much cattle in the last story, the Yuleboys had had a bit of a change of heart; they wanted to make it up to us ordinary people, and so they racked their brains for a way to help out instead of hinder. Well, that sign had been a bit of a godsend for the Yuleboys, since Door-Slammer was getting bored and almost ready to go back to slamming doors, and Sausage-Snatchers fingers had been itching to nab some tasty sausages...

Were here about the Help Wanted, says Pot-Licker, barging inside and looking around, as his brothers all scuffed their feet on the mat and tried to look helpful. What kind of Help do you Want, old snub-nose? (Trolls call us snub-noses, you see, because to them our noses seem tiny and useless. They pride themselves on their massive noses, and often have contests to see which one is bigger or redder or wartier.)

The farmer started to think that maybe hed done a foolish thing to invite trolls to help around the house, but his stomach rumbled and he told the Yuleboys all about his lazy sons and his worried wife and their bare pantry, and asked them begged them, really to find him any food at all to help them through the harsh winter ahead.

Easy as pie, says Pot-Licker, with a sidelong glance at his brothers, and they all rub their fingers together and think of how nice it will be to help someone out for a change. Trolls, despite their faults, are notoriously good at finding food; you could be, too, if you just knew where to look and werent afraid to get your hands dirty. But, says Pot-Licker, wagging his finger, youve got to promise to go right straight back to bed, and not get up until morning, and not ask us where weve gone in the night to get your food for you. Mama Gryla would scold us something terrible if she found out wed gone and given our secrets away, and if you ask well have to tell you, no mistake. Trolls work like that, you see: ask them a question, and theyve got to answer, so long as you say please and thank you. So mind your manners.

Anyhow, yes says the farmer, and goes right back to bed as quick as he can, and in a flash hes sound asleep and the Yuleboys are doing whatever it is trolls do in the night when theres nobody watching. The farmer thinks he hears singing, and bubbling, but hes dead tired and relieved, even if hes got trolls cooking his breakfast.

When the ugly watery winter sun pops her head over the trees at last on Monday morning, the farmer and his wife come down to the kitchen to find a welcome sight indeed: Pot-Licker, Door-Slammer, Sausage-Snatcher, and Window-Peeper are busy briskly stirring a pot that just happens to be brimming with the merriest, bubbliest stew theyve ever seen. Pot-Licker ladles out two big heaping bowls for the farmer and his wife, and five more for the lazy sons. I doubt you lot have ever tasted stew quite like this; the farmer certainly hadnt. It tasted like warm summer afternoons, and like the inside of fresh leather coats, and like the feeling you get when your bare feet are just starting to warm up by the fire after walking ten miles through snow and ice. Say what you will about trolls, but theyre excellent cooks.

So the farmer and his wife polish off their bowls with relish, and the farmer loads the five bowls on a tray and takes them upstairs to his five sons in their five little rooms with their doors shut tight. They dont like it when he comes in, and hes too kind-hearted a soul to take a stick to them and sort them out like Id do if my boys started giving themselves airs like that. Everything all right? asks the farmer at every door, as he sets down the soup, and every time he gets a Fine! Go away! from each ungrateful boy.

Anyway, along goes the day like any other, except with Yuleboys in the kitchen stirring the pot and bringing the farmer and his wife their meals at suppertime. Again the farmer takes five bowls to his sons doors, and again he gets five cries of Fine! Go away! As hes settling down for the night with his wife, he hears the Yuleboys dancing and cooking just like the night before, and he wonders to himself just how these wonderful trolls work their magic. Trolls are trolls, though; its best not to wonder, or the magic will all dry up, like a wet rag being wrung out.

Next day, Tuesday, the farmer and his wife once more awake to find Pot-Licker, Door-Slammer, and Sausage-Snatcher at work stirring a pot full of stew that looks even more delicious than yesterdays. Pot-Licker ladles them each a bowl, plus five for the sons, and the farmer takes them upstairs and hears the usual Fine! Go away! behind each door. Drifting off to sleep that night, he hears the same dancing and cooking as before, as the Yuleboys work their magic.

Wednesday, Pot-Licker and Door-Slammer have cooked up yet another pot of even tastier stew. Pot-Licker ladles some for the farmer and his wife and the five boys, and the farmer gets his Fine! Go away! from every lads door. The dancing and the cooking are as vigorous as ever that night, and the farmer falls asleep wishing he knew how to cook such excellent stew.

Thursday morning, Pot-Licker alone greets the farmer and his wife with yet more simmering stew, which he ladles into bowls for the farmer and his wife and the five sons. Good heavens, says the farmers wife at last, you and your brothers are a blessing and no mistake! At your service, maam, says Pot-Licker, but his voice is all sniffles and coughs. Trolls catch colds just like us people do, you know. The farmer takes the stew to his sons doors, and hears the Fine! Go away! and, for just a moment, wishes he had Yuleboys instead of sons. Trolls, by and large, make awful children, but he thinks he could get used to the five cooks and their midnight dancing.

Hes understandably disappointed, then, when he and his wife wake on Friday morn to find a big pot of toothsome stew on the fire with no one to stir it or ladle it out. Pot-Licker! Door-Slammer! Sausage-Snatcher! Window-Peeper! Pudding-Gobbler! he calls. Where are you, Yuleboys? But no one answers, and he has to ladle stew himself, for his wife and his five lazy, careless boys. Theres no sign of the troll-children anywhere, except dirt on the floor from their dancing the night before.

Morosely, the old worried farmer climbs the stairs to his sons rooms, and puts a bowl at every door just like any day. All right? he calls at every door, sighing, and every time he gets his Fine! Go away! Hes just about to go back downstairs, when at last, through the fifth and final door, he hears a big, sloppy, trollish sneeze.

Oh yes, youve guessed it. Behind that big firm door, when the farmer swings it open, is little old Pot-Licker, in a lazy boys bed with his covers up to his red nose. He squeaks a trollish squeak and vanishes with a pop! before the farmers disbelieving eyes and as he stands there, blinking, he hears four other little pops! in the other four rooms. The beds are empty and disheveled when he goes to check, but you can bet your boots they were filled not a moment ago by a certain Door-Slammer, Sausage-Snatcher, Window-Peeper, and Pudding-Gobbler.

But where are the little boys, youre thinking? Well, between the five empty beds and the five full pots of stew, I think you can guess, little ones. The farmer and his wife sure did, and that was the end of their modest little lives.

Theres a lesson to be learned from the Yuleboys, children two lessons, in fact. The first ones about trolls, and keeping your distance; but in this day and age, I doubt thats as important as the second one, which is about lazy little boys and what happens to them.

Now, whos going to fetch me a drink?

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