New evidence; is this the truth about the Billy Goats Gruff Family?
This story is based on the Norwegian Folk Tale of three brother goats, the Gruff brothers, who sought pastures green on the other side of the river. The only bridge was controlled by a supposedly wicked Troll. The first two goats to cross were allowed to pass by unmolested, they had each betrayed their elder brother who they said would be along shortly; and true enough he was and he beat the Troll and continued to join his younger brothers. (We can only assume they kept it a secret how they managed to cross the bridge unharmed). You know, I can see some interesting latent messages in this story, especially for Trolls.
I suggest we revisit this tale and see what the truth might have been. The author recommends that those of a nervous disposition, the squeamish, vegans and goat herders find something else to read. You have been warned.
*********
It was a fine summer’s day, and the three Billy Goat Gruffs were out doing what they did best …. eating. They didn’t care that much what they ate, they’d been up trees for apples, had the bark off saplings, and even once letting a camper wake to discover his only washed and drying underwear had disappeared off the line outside his tent.
In fact, the three goats, Little-Gruff, Middle-Gruff and Big-Gruff had virtually scoffed their way through most of the west side of the river that ran through the valley.
They had many times observed the verdant lush grasses on the other side waving an inviting welcome to them in the summer breeze ….. But the river kept them from accepting.
“Let’s find a way across to that lovely grub over there,” said Middle-Gruff. The other two, salivating drool down their beards, agreed at once. Big-Gruff, who was almost verging on being the sensible one, said, “OK, we’ll travel the bank upstream looking for a good crossing place … we’ll go today ….but we must stick together, for don’t you remember our parents warning us never to cross the river? … Remember? … just before they disappeared.”
They three brothers in hooves sauntered the upstream bank, occasionally stopping to browse on thistle and gawp salivating at the lush field that would soon be theirs, all theirs, a place to die for, such paradise as it looked. Nary had a conscious thought crossed their minds why there were no other animals out there feasting on such plenty.
It wasn’t long before Little-Gruff was well out in front, he was a ‘gobby little know it all’, couldn’t be told a thing by his elder brothers. “I know that”, he would bleat in the face of advice, “do you think I’m stupid”, as his brothers tried to teach him something … and even then it wasn’t much of a something either.
“Stay in sight Little-gruff”, shouted Big-Gruff through a mouthful of nettles, “do not cross the river without us!” Middle-Gruff shook his coat of the nettle flavoured spit that he’d just been sprayed with and passed wind. Big-Gruff thought he heard a reply in the breeze, “yeah, yeah, yeah, dopey”, but he wasn’t too sure as the sound of salivated nettle shoots chomping around in his mouth had obliterated his hearing – except for the chomping that is.
Middle-Gruff was chomping well too and had been since waking for breakfast and yet, all the while, his mind was on the field; His field, full of his grass, and as he dreamed he dreamed a horrific image. In his mind, Little-Gruff was there first, and eating, eating his grass in his field. “Er, Big-Gruff, I think I'd better catch up with dear Little-Gruff, .... You know ... make sure the poor little chap is ok and doesn't cross the river to my field .. I mean our field, without us. I'll, er, just move ahead a bit quicker, OK?” Without awaiting reply, Middle-Gruff, seething with envy and filled with fermenting nettle leaves walked on briskly, without ever looking back to his big brother.
“Good chap, well done”, said Big-Gruff, spotting a succulent bed of watercress, which was now all his, and his alone. Big-Gruff sent up a silent prayer for the find to the great Capricorn, Patron Saint of goats, who some say resided in an eternal-summer land filled with everlasting harvests.
Big-Gruff sauntered, chomped and salivated; Middle-Gruff ran, seethed and passed wind; but Little-Gruff was far away and had happened across something rather interesting ... half hidden by dense foliage ... a bridge! More importantly it was a bridge and pathway to his field and his grass.
With eyes only on his field across the river and not a single moment of conscious thought for his brothers or his missing parent’s warnings Little-Gruff was off, the bridge's wooden boards clonking to the sound of his little hooves, 'trip trap trip trap trip tra......'
Horror of all horrors, something from the world of a goat's worst nightnannies leapt over the railings and stood hunched and threatening in front of him .... It was a Troll.
“Who's that crossing my bridge?” demanded the Troll, and some would say he was quite within his Troll rights to ask.
“Gulp, it's only little me, Little-Gruff”, quaked the trembling Little-Gruff, babying himself in the hope of sympathy. “Please don't eat me, I am thin and starving ... I only want to go and eat in my field …. I mean that field, if you let me go my bigger brother will be along soon and he is much fatter than I, you could eat him instead”. Some thoughts crossed the Troll's mind, a rare experience, but it occurred to the Troll, that firstly, that field was his, secondly he too was starving and thirdly, he hadn't eaten a goat in months. That was enough thinking for the day.
Little-Gruff looked at the grass, his grass; the Troll looked at the goat, his goat, and before Little-Gruff could move or call for help the Troll was on him; mercifully a swift death; with the goat's limp body under his arm the Troll swung his body over the rail and under the bridge. There, up on a dry bank in the shelter of the bridge and hidden by undergrowth, the Troll sat comfortably surrounded by a scattered bone collection, a hobby of some years now, and he tucked in to the tastiest freshest goat he'd had in ages.
Only half way through his dinner he heard another customer arriving, a trifle annoyed by the disturbance at mealtime he felt he must respond to anything crossing his bridge. His bridge, did you ask? Yes, his bridge; a Troll bridge, built by the Troll, for the Troll, it was the Troll that built it and maintained it, not the government, not the council, but old Trolley boy himself, and hard work it had been at times too. 'Trip .. Trap ...Trip ... Trap' came the heavier hooves of Middle-Gruff, rushing to catch up and be with his little brother ... he was almost across too when with great power and speed the troll vaulted the railings to confront his latest 'customer'. “And who is this that crosses me bridge”, demanded the Troll, never having been one much for grammar, as he'd left school early to take up a trade.
Middle-Gruff was made of the same stuff as his younger brother, only his stuff was older and bigger. “Ah, mister Troll Sir, tis only I, Middle-Gruff, .... if you'd just let me pass by sir I can promise you a much bigger goat is coming this way as we speak”.
Middle-Gruff was sure that the Troll's eyes looked away for a moment as if to see if a bigger goat was indeed close by, it was his chance to make a run for it back to his now beloved Big-Gruff brother. Too late and too slow, Middle-Gruff's first twitch was his last twitch and soon he joined his younger brother under the bridge. The Troll finished his first course and without a break, nor drink of water, and with only a belch between them, went straight on with the second course. The Troll hadn't eaten so well in years, “Lovely grub”, he thought, using a fine rib bone to pick bits of meat from between his teeth, “mmm lovely grub”.
Above him the Troll heard a heavy clatter on his wooden boards, 'TRIP TRAP TRIP TRAP' ..... What a busy day it had been, what with all the exertion, dealing with two awkward customers and being stuffed by that huge dinner he was drowsy and could hardly move any way. The Troll settled back with hands on belly and afternoon napped.
Above the Bridge, above the Troll, and above the dismembered bodies of his brothers, mum and dad and several other relatives, Big-Gruff was blissfully unaware. Trip trapping his heavy hooves across the wood enjoying the sound it made and bathed in glorious late afternoon sunshine he eyed the lush grass in his new field. Big-Gruff looked around for his brothers but couldn't see them, sure that they had found the bridge and crossed over, he assumed that they had been at a good dinner and were now resting somewhere out of sight. “I'll eat first”, Big-Gruff said to himself, an old habit, “then I'll join my brothers later”. Big-Gruff stuffed himself silly with the sweetest, lushest grass he'd ever encountered, until he could hardly move. “Lovely grub”, he thought trying to tongue an awkward bit of leaf from between his teeth, “mmm, lovely grub”. As evening approached and night's dusk put out the lights Big-Gruff settled down comfortably in some long grasses that sheltered him from the night breezes of the valley.
“What a good day”, thought Big-Gruff, “what a good day”, then just as he closed his eyes to sleep he thought he heard something move nearby ... and ... as night fell upon him ... so did the Troll.
“What a good day”, thought the Troll, “what a good day”, as Big-Gruff's lifeless body was dragged off to join his brothers.
Well, there we have it, one version of The three Billy Goats Gruff; food for thought eh? You didn't have to read it ... and you can always write your own.
In the original, the two younger goats, so quick to betray their siblings, were let go across by the Troll, ... trusting old Troll eh? Then that vicious bad tempered big Billy goat Gruff turns up and in an unprovoked frenzy murders the Troll, who is only asking the question, 'who's that crossing my bridge?' It was murder right enough but Big Billy Goat Gruff could have got off with trollslaughter due to diminished common sense and only done twenty hours community service no doubt.
The murdered Troll would have left behind a number of grieving dependants who had to move out of the area because Big Billy Goat Gruff was still free. It would not be long before the bridge fell in to disrepair for want of maintenance and the council would refuse to do it as it had never been adopted. The valley would thereafter always be divided. Nothing would be reported in the papers and no memorial to the Troll ever erected. The courts, headed by Sir Hugh Wilberforce Gruff would make sure of that.
“Change the way you look at things, and the things you look at will change”.
This story is based on the Norwegian Folk Tale of three brother goats, the Gruff brothers, who sought pastures green on the other side of the river. The only bridge was controlled by a supposedly wicked Troll. The first two goats to cross were allowed to pass by unmolested, they had each betrayed their elder brother who they said would be along shortly; and true enough he was and he beat the Troll and continued to join his younger brothers. (We can only assume they kept it a secret how they managed to cross the bridge unharmed). You know, I can see some interesting latent messages in this story, especially for Trolls.
I suggest we revisit this tale and see what the truth might have been. The author recommends that those of a nervous disposition, the squeamish, vegans and goat herders find something else to read. You have been warned.
*********
It was a fine summer’s day, and the three Billy Goat Gruffs were out doing what they did best …. eating. They didn’t care that much what they ate, they’d been up trees for apples, had the bark off saplings, and even once letting a camper wake to discover his only washed and drying underwear had disappeared off the line outside his tent.
In fact, the three goats, Little-Gruff, Middle-Gruff and Big-Gruff had virtually scoffed their way through most of the west side of the river that ran through the valley.
They had many times observed the verdant lush grasses on the other side waving an inviting welcome to them in the summer breeze ….. But the river kept them from accepting.
“Let’s find a way across to that lovely grub over there,” said Middle-Gruff. The other two, salivating drool down their beards, agreed at once. Big-Gruff, who was almost verging on being the sensible one, said, “OK, we’ll travel the bank upstream looking for a good crossing place … we’ll go today ….but we must stick together, for don’t you remember our parents warning us never to cross the river? … Remember? … just before they disappeared.”
They three brothers in hooves sauntered the upstream bank, occasionally stopping to browse on thistle and gawp salivating at the lush field that would soon be theirs, all theirs, a place to die for, such paradise as it looked. Nary had a conscious thought crossed their minds why there were no other animals out there feasting on such plenty.
It wasn’t long before Little-Gruff was well out in front, he was a ‘gobby little know it all’, couldn’t be told a thing by his elder brothers. “I know that”, he would bleat in the face of advice, “do you think I’m stupid”, as his brothers tried to teach him something … and even then it wasn’t much of a something either.
“Stay in sight Little-gruff”, shouted Big-Gruff through a mouthful of nettles, “do not cross the river without us!” Middle-Gruff shook his coat of the nettle flavoured spit that he’d just been sprayed with and passed wind. Big-Gruff thought he heard a reply in the breeze, “yeah, yeah, yeah, dopey”, but he wasn’t too sure as the sound of salivated nettle shoots chomping around in his mouth had obliterated his hearing – except for the chomping that is.
Middle-Gruff was chomping well too and had been since waking for breakfast and yet, all the while, his mind was on the field; His field, full of his grass, and as he dreamed he dreamed a horrific image. In his mind, Little-Gruff was there first, and eating, eating his grass in his field. “Er, Big-Gruff, I think I'd better catch up with dear Little-Gruff, .... You know ... make sure the poor little chap is ok and doesn't cross the river to my field .. I mean our field, without us. I'll, er, just move ahead a bit quicker, OK?” Without awaiting reply, Middle-Gruff, seething with envy and filled with fermenting nettle leaves walked on briskly, without ever looking back to his big brother.
“Good chap, well done”, said Big-Gruff, spotting a succulent bed of watercress, which was now all his, and his alone. Big-Gruff sent up a silent prayer for the find to the great Capricorn, Patron Saint of goats, who some say resided in an eternal-summer land filled with everlasting harvests.
Big-Gruff sauntered, chomped and salivated; Middle-Gruff ran, seethed and passed wind; but Little-Gruff was far away and had happened across something rather interesting ... half hidden by dense foliage ... a bridge! More importantly it was a bridge and pathway to his field and his grass.
With eyes only on his field across the river and not a single moment of conscious thought for his brothers or his missing parent’s warnings Little-Gruff was off, the bridge's wooden boards clonking to the sound of his little hooves, 'trip trap trip trap trip tra......'
Horror of all horrors, something from the world of a goat's worst nightnannies leapt over the railings and stood hunched and threatening in front of him .... It was a Troll.
“Who's that crossing my bridge?” demanded the Troll, and some would say he was quite within his Troll rights to ask.
“Gulp, it's only little me, Little-Gruff”, quaked the trembling Little-Gruff, babying himself in the hope of sympathy. “Please don't eat me, I am thin and starving ... I only want to go and eat in my field …. I mean that field, if you let me go my bigger brother will be along soon and he is much fatter than I, you could eat him instead”. Some thoughts crossed the Troll's mind, a rare experience, but it occurred to the Troll, that firstly, that field was his, secondly he too was starving and thirdly, he hadn't eaten a goat in months. That was enough thinking for the day.
Little-Gruff looked at the grass, his grass; the Troll looked at the goat, his goat, and before Little-Gruff could move or call for help the Troll was on him; mercifully a swift death; with the goat's limp body under his arm the Troll swung his body over the rail and under the bridge. There, up on a dry bank in the shelter of the bridge and hidden by undergrowth, the Troll sat comfortably surrounded by a scattered bone collection, a hobby of some years now, and he tucked in to the tastiest freshest goat he'd had in ages.
Only half way through his dinner he heard another customer arriving, a trifle annoyed by the disturbance at mealtime he felt he must respond to anything crossing his bridge. His bridge, did you ask? Yes, his bridge; a Troll bridge, built by the Troll, for the Troll, it was the Troll that built it and maintained it, not the government, not the council, but old Trolley boy himself, and hard work it had been at times too. 'Trip .. Trap ...Trip ... Trap' came the heavier hooves of Middle-Gruff, rushing to catch up and be with his little brother ... he was almost across too when with great power and speed the troll vaulted the railings to confront his latest 'customer'. “And who is this that crosses me bridge”, demanded the Troll, never having been one much for grammar, as he'd left school early to take up a trade.
Middle-Gruff was made of the same stuff as his younger brother, only his stuff was older and bigger. “Ah, mister Troll Sir, tis only I, Middle-Gruff, .... if you'd just let me pass by sir I can promise you a much bigger goat is coming this way as we speak”.
Middle-Gruff was sure that the Troll's eyes looked away for a moment as if to see if a bigger goat was indeed close by, it was his chance to make a run for it back to his now beloved Big-Gruff brother. Too late and too slow, Middle-Gruff's first twitch was his last twitch and soon he joined his younger brother under the bridge. The Troll finished his first course and without a break, nor drink of water, and with only a belch between them, went straight on with the second course. The Troll hadn't eaten so well in years, “Lovely grub”, he thought, using a fine rib bone to pick bits of meat from between his teeth, “mmm lovely grub”.
Above him the Troll heard a heavy clatter on his wooden boards, 'TRIP TRAP TRIP TRAP' ..... What a busy day it had been, what with all the exertion, dealing with two awkward customers and being stuffed by that huge dinner he was drowsy and could hardly move any way. The Troll settled back with hands on belly and afternoon napped.
Above the Bridge, above the Troll, and above the dismembered bodies of his brothers, mum and dad and several other relatives, Big-Gruff was blissfully unaware. Trip trapping his heavy hooves across the wood enjoying the sound it made and bathed in glorious late afternoon sunshine he eyed the lush grass in his new field. Big-Gruff looked around for his brothers but couldn't see them, sure that they had found the bridge and crossed over, he assumed that they had been at a good dinner and were now resting somewhere out of sight. “I'll eat first”, Big-Gruff said to himself, an old habit, “then I'll join my brothers later”. Big-Gruff stuffed himself silly with the sweetest, lushest grass he'd ever encountered, until he could hardly move. “Lovely grub”, he thought trying to tongue an awkward bit of leaf from between his teeth, “mmm, lovely grub”. As evening approached and night's dusk put out the lights Big-Gruff settled down comfortably in some long grasses that sheltered him from the night breezes of the valley.
“What a good day”, thought Big-Gruff, “what a good day”, then just as he closed his eyes to sleep he thought he heard something move nearby ... and ... as night fell upon him ... so did the Troll.
“What a good day”, thought the Troll, “what a good day”, as Big-Gruff's lifeless body was dragged off to join his brothers.
Well, there we have it, one version of The three Billy Goats Gruff; food for thought eh? You didn't have to read it ... and you can always write your own.
In the original, the two younger goats, so quick to betray their siblings, were let go across by the Troll, ... trusting old Troll eh? Then that vicious bad tempered big Billy goat Gruff turns up and in an unprovoked frenzy murders the Troll, who is only asking the question, 'who's that crossing my bridge?' It was murder right enough but Big Billy Goat Gruff could have got off with trollslaughter due to diminished common sense and only done twenty hours community service no doubt.
The murdered Troll would have left behind a number of grieving dependants who had to move out of the area because Big Billy Goat Gruff was still free. It would not be long before the bridge fell in to disrepair for want of maintenance and the council would refuse to do it as it had never been adopted. The valley would thereafter always be divided. Nothing would be reported in the papers and no memorial to the Troll ever erected. The courts, headed by Sir Hugh Wilberforce Gruff would make sure of that.
“Change the way you look at things, and the things you look at will change”.
