Trops In Trouble

By Janet Rosina West

When a small purple toy rolled out of a cereal packet one morning Dawn was determined that this time little brother Jonathan would not claim it. Little did she know that this was to be the start of a great adventure. She was needed in a land far away and would have to face dangers which she had never, ever imagined. She was needed to help the Trops rid their land of the dreaded Bimbles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326258511

Book preview

Trops In Trouble

TROPS IN TROUBLE

By Janet Rosina West

TROPS IN TROUBLE

By Janet Rosina West

Illustrations by Heather Stuart

© 2015 Janet Rosina West. All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-326-20808-0

For Dawn and Diana –

My morning and evening stars

THE TROPICS

CHAPTER 1

THE CEREAL PACKET TOY

Trop fell out of a packet of cereal one bright, sunny morning in June. Dawn didn’t really like cereal, but her mother always bought it for her little brother, Jonathan. Jonathan always seemed to get what he wanted, but he did not get Trop.

Dawn saw this purple thing bounce onto the table and roll under the edge of her dish. She put her hand over it quickly. Jonathan had not noticed. He was far too busy putting as much sugar on his cereal as he could, before their mother finished feeding the cat. Dawn slowly slid her hand along the table and popped whatever it was into her pocket. She would look at it later, on the way to school, perhaps. Jonathan still went to playgroup. Mummy took him in and Dawn walked the last little bit to school by herself – always crossing where the lollipop lady was, of course.

It was only a short way to school. Lots of Dawn’s friends went the same way, and it was because of them that Dawn had no chance to examine her treasure. Penny wanted to talk about the puppet show which was visiting the school the next day. Alison was worrying about her lost reading book and Jane had a stick of rock, which she broke into four splintery pieces to share.

They were at school in no time at all. The whistle blew and Mrs. Palmer was there, waiting for a tidy line. They left their bags in the cloakroom, went to their classroom, and the day began.

Like most schools, Dawn’s was a very busy one. There was writing to do, painting and all sorts of things with numbers. There was PE and television, playtimes and dinner time and last of all a story. By the time Dawn said ‘goodbye’ to the lollipop lady, she had forgotten all about the thing that had tumbled out of the cereal packet that morning.

It wasn’t until she was tucked up in bed that she remembered. She would look at it now. There was no need to turn on the light, it was still bright outside and the curtains were not very thick. It was then that Dawn had a nasty shock. Where was her dress, the one she had worn today: her blue dress, with the deep pocket, with the thing in it? She thought back. Of course, Mummy had put it in the linen basket while Dawn was in the bath. There was paint on it, and some drips from an ice cream.

Dawn slid out of bed and crept to the bathroom. She looked in the linen basket: it was empty. That meant that Mummy had put the washing into the machine. Dawn tiptoed to the top of the stairs and listened. Yes, she could hear it, the machine was rumbling. It would be going round and round, full of hot soapy water and her secret thing. There was nothing for it but to go back to bed and wait for the machine to stop. Usually, Mummy left the clothes in it until the next morning.

It seemed as if she lay there for days and days before she heard Mummy and Daddy coming upstairs to bed. They opened and shut doors, ran water and flushed the toilet at least four times before everything was finally quiet. It was dark now. Dawn was not keen on the dark, but she dared not turn on the light in case Mummy heard it click or saw it shining under her door.

Slowly and carefully she went downstairs and into the kitchen. The machine in the corner looked like a big, black monster. It was a monster, she thought, eating her new toy. The door catch was stiff and Dawn had to squeeze as hard as she could before it clicked open. She put in her hand and felt around. The clothes were cold and damp, all mixed up together. In the dark, she would never find her blue dress!

It was then that Trop bit her. Dawn pulled out her hand quickly. ‘Ouch!’ She peered at her hand in the dark. Something had hurt her: she must have been stung. It was too dark to see properly, so Dawn opened the fridge door. There was a little light inside, bright enough to see her hand by. She looked hard at the sore place. There was no sting to be seen, but, plain as plain, Dawn could see a row of tiny marks; teeth marks they were, no doubt about it. Dawn gazed fearfully over her shoulder at the black gaping hole of the washing machine. It looked like a cave, a cave with a monster inside. Cereal packet toy or not, Dawn was not putting her hand in there again! Back to bed she was going, straight away.

Then she thought: if she left that door open, with the thing inside that has sharp teeth, it might just escape and hide in the dark corners of the house ready to jump out and bite.

Dawn decided (and very brave it was, too) to shut the door of the washing machine. She crept close to it, but just as her hand was on the catch, a loud sneeze made her jump. Then, a very loud grumbling voice came from the middle of the scrambled clothes.

‘Death of cold, that’s what I’ve caught. Death of cold and dizzy spells.’ Dawn stared into the blackness. She must be dreaming: no one could be grumbling inside a washing machine. The voice came again. ‘If there is anyone there, get me out of here at once. I’m wet and cold and twisted inside out. GET ME OUT!’

Dawn moved her face closer to the hole. She used a little voice, but it sounded very loud in the empty kitchen. ‘I’ll help you out if you promise not to bite me again. You hurt my finger, and it’s not my fault you’re in there.’

There was a pause, then the voice, not quite so cross now: ‘Mmm, sorry about that, didn’t know what was poking at me. It won’t happen again, I can assure you. Just get me out – please.’ Dawn pushed in her hand and felt around the cold, damp, tangled clothes. Then her fingers touched something quite different, something warm and soft and wriggling. She closed her hand over it gently and pulled it from the machine. It was too dark to see what it was, but it was small enough to fit in her hand, and it was moving.

Dawn went back to the fridge and opened the door. In the light that came from inside, she saw Trop for the first time. He was as big as a good-sized walnut, or a small egg, or a table tennis ball. He was purple all over, except for a tuft of fluffy hair which was a nice bright pink. He had two legs, long and thin. His feet were big, and webbed like a frog’s. His arms were also long and thin and his hands were like a proper person’s, only much, much smaller. He had black twinkly eyes, a black round nose and, Dawn could see, in his mouth were two rows of sharp, white teeth. He looked up at Dawn: his face was a bit frightened, a bit curious … and a lot grumpy.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘and how did all that come about? There I was, drowning in cornflakes when I whooshed out, banged my head and woke up in a big black bag.’ (That was Dawn’s pocket, but Trop didn’t know that). ‘Then I’m all squashed up and twisted around and around, soaked with water for hours and hours. Then, I get poked and pulled about and end up freezing to death.’

Dawn pulled her hand quickly out of the fridge, where she had put it, to see him better. ‘Well,’ said Dawn. ‘When you fell out of the cornflakes, I put you into my pocket. Then, I’m afraid I forgot all about you until I was in bed. Mummy put my dress in the washing machine and that was where you got wet and dizzy. I am sorry, I really am, but I never thought that you would be alive. They don’t put live things in cereal packets. So, how did you come to be in there?’

Trop wriggled into a comfortable position in Dawn’s hand. ‘Well, now,’ he began, ‘that’s a long story.’ He looked up at Dawn. ‘And you, little girl, if that’s what you are, look far too tired to listen to a long story tonight.’

It was true: Dawn’s eyes felt hot and full of prickles and her mouth would keep yawning. Trop’s face suddenly looked very kind and he smiled. ‘You go to bed and I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.’

‘Do you promise not to go away while I’m asleep? Will you be here in the morning?’ asked Dawn, who quite thought that if she closed her eyes for even a minute she would never see the little creature again.

Trop stood up on Dawn’s hand and puffed out his round purple body until he was nearly twice his normal size. ‘We Trops,’ he said proudly, ‘always speak the truth and never break a promise’. Dawn was satisfied; holding Trop carefully, she went upstairs and crept into her warm bed. Trop settled down on the pillow, covered himself with Dawn’s hair (which was long and soft) and, in two minutes, they were both fast asleep. Dawn dreamed of a Land of Purple Trops and Trop dreamed of a little girl with warm silky hair.

CHAPTER 2

TROP NEEDS HELP

When Dawn opened her eyes the next morning, the first thing she saw was Trop. Still fast asleep, his little purple body moved in and out as he breathed. His mouth was wide open, showing those sharp, white teeth which had bitten Dawn the night before. She poked him gently with her finger. ‘Little thing,’ she whispered, ‘wake up; it’s time to wake up’.

Trop opened his eyes and stretched. ‘Good morning,’ he said gravely, ‘and before we start the day, may I introduce myself properly. My name is Trop. I am a Trop, in fact, I am the King of the Trops. The King is always called Trop, you know, always has been. You must be a little girl, but do you have another name?’

‘Yes, I’m Dawn. I’m not a princess or anything, just an ordinary girl and I have never met a king. Do you want me to curtsy?’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Trop kindly. ‘I want us to be great friends. I may need your help, Dawn. I may need it very badly. We Trops are in danger. I was on my way to find help when the Bimbles caught me. It was they who put me in the cereal packet. They could not kill me, you see, because I’m the King and a Trop King cannot be killed. Not unless there is a new one ready to take his place.’

Dawn was looking very puzzled. It was strange enough to be talking to a purple Trop early in the morning, without him muddling her up with talk of Bimbles. Trop looked at the sun shining through the curtains. ‘Have we time to talk?’ he asked. ‘You should really hear all about it from the beginning.’

Dawn looked at the little clock which stood on her bedside locker. She was very proud of it. Her father had bought it for her when she had finally learned to tell the time. ‘It’s only seven o’clock,’ she said. ‘I always wake up early, but I don’t have to get up until half past — that will give us half an hour,’ she added, seeing Trop’s puzzled face.

‘Strange thing, time,’ he muttered, ‘always changing, everywhere you go. Why will it not stand still, so it’s always the same everywhere, then nobody would get mixed up? Ah well, if you think that half of whatever it was is long enough, I’ll begin. Are you comfortable? Good: can’t bear fidgets.’

‘Now, as I told you, I am the King of the Trops. That is why I am purple. Trops come in all kinds of colours, but there’s only one purple one and that is the King. All of the little Trops are white; when they get old enough to do a grown-up Trop job, they get their colour. Just as all human babies are born with blue eyes and their mothers look every day to see if they are starting to get their real colour, so it is with us Trops. Except, of course, that our eyes are always black and it’s our bodies that change colour.

‘I will be King until one day a white Trop turns purple. That Trop will have been chosen to take my place. On that day, I shall turn a nice dark blue and my job as King will be over. It’s very important, this changing of colour. Getting our colours, we call it. You see, it tells us what we are to do in life. The red Trops are the hunters: they are our soldiers, too, if we ever need them, which we never have until now – but more of that later.

Blue Trops catch fish, and green ones farm the land. The brown ones are our builders and the yellow ones go around giving help to those who need it, fetching and carrying and the like. There are other colours, of course, but I will tell you more about them later. It is the Bimbles that I should really be talking to you about.’

It was then that Dawn’s mother called and she had to get up. Her clock must be slow. She tried to explain this to Trop, but he could not understand that it could be half past, when her clock only said a quarter past. Especially when he heard that her mother had a clock as well.

It was not until she was walking to school that she heard more about the Bimbles. Trop was sitting in the bottom of her bag. He said that it was very comfortable. Dawn had put a nice soft scarf in there for him to sit on. His voice sounded a bit muffled, but Dawn didn’t want to risk any of her friends seeing him. They just might tell a grown-up, and a grown-up was sure to be interested, and might even want to look after Trop for her.

‘The Bimbles,’ began Trop, ‘are spiders. Like the spiders you have here, in sheds and houses. Only Bimbles have much fatter bodies and much longer, hairier legs. They are fat because they are greedy. They came from here, your Land. Years ago it was;