Lynne Banks - The Farthest Away Mountain

“I’ll just have to leave it,” she thought. “Oh dear !”

But nothing seemed so bad now she was out in the sunny meadow and away from the gloom of the wood. The birds sang as she ran through the deep grasses to the cabin, with the heads of the long-stemmed buttercups bouncing off her skirts. The place seemed deserted. She peered in at one of the windows, but the glass seemed to be covered with dust inside so that she couldn’t see. She went round to find the door. She turned one corner, and another, and another, and – but here was the same window again! There was no door.

“But how do people get in and out?” she wondered aloud.

“They don’t,” said a voice that sounded like an old rusty pump. “That’s the idea.”

Dakin jumped. The voice had seemed to come from inside the house.

“Where are you?” she said, looking through the window again.

The dust on the inside of the pane was disturbed, and now Dakin could see something – it looked like a little hand – rubbing a tiny clear place. Then the hand disappeared, and there was a minute eye, looking out at her.

There was a pause while the eye looked her up and down. Then the voice said, “You look all right. You can come in, if you want to.”

Dakin wasn’t at all sure she did, but it seemed rude not to, so she said, “How can I, as there’s no door?”

“Down the chimney, of course,” said the voice impatiently.

Dakin looked round. Leaning against the side of the cabin was a ladder, which she hadn’t noticed before, and up this she climbed rather reluctantly. She thought how dirty the chimney was at home and wished she’d gone straight past the cabin without stopping.

“Come on, come on!” the voice called irritably.

On the roof, Dakin scrambled to the chimneystack and looked down. It was a very big opening, and it didn’t look sooty, so she sat on the edge of it with her legs dangling in.

“Don’t be afraid, you won’t hurt yourself!” called the voice.

Dakin was getting very curious to see what the owner of the voice looked like, so she pushed herself off the rim of the chimney.

It was rather like going down a slide: there was a quick whoosh and the next thing she knew was that she was standing in a big, open fireplace which obviously hadn’t had a fire in it for years, if ever. She looked round. The inside of the cabin was just one room, very small and bare; it had plants growing in pots here and there, and that was about all in the way of furniture, but the most curious thing was a pool, sunk into the floor, with lily-pads floating on it; and up above it a big silvery green witchball dangled like a moon.

Dakin looked for the owner of the voice, but couldn’t see anyone.

“Hello,” croaked the rusty voice. “Here I am.”

Dakin stared. Sitting on one of the lily-pads on the pond was the biggest, oldest, wartiest frog she had ever seen. It came to her in a flash who it must be.

“You’re Old Croak!” she cried. “You’re not dead, after all!”

“Certainly I’m not dead!” answered the frog indignantly. “Why should I be dead? Dead, indeed! I’m in the prime of life.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dakin humbly. “Somebody told me you might help me, if only you weren’t dead. So I’m very glad to meet you.”

“Can’t help you,” said the frog at once. “Can’t possibly help you. But I’m glad to meet you, too. Sit down, sit down. Have a fly.”

There didn’t seem anywhere to sit except on the floor, so Dakin sat there. Then she saw that Old Croak was holding out a large fly which he apparently expected her to take.

“What – what am I to do with that?” she asked.

“Eat it, of course,” croaked her host. “What else? Delicious! One of my last,” he added sadly. “And who knows when there’ll be any more? But never mind, I don’t entertain often. Nothing but the best is good enough for the only visitor I’ve had in two hundred years.”

Dakin naturally supposed he was exaggerating about the time. As to the fly, she didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t take the poor old thing’s last one, especially when she didn’t want it.

“Thank you very much,” she said, “but as a matter of fact, I ate before I came. So why don’t you have it?”

“Really?” asked the frog, his wrinkled old eyes lighting up. “Well, in that case—” He popped the fly into his wide mouth and gulped it down, beaming with pleasure.

“I suppose there aren’t many flies inside here,” said Dakin.

“Hardly any,” said Old Croak, shaking his head. “Windows sealed up, no door… They don’t come down the chimney much. I suppose I shall starve to death one of these days. No doubt that’s what she wants. No one will care.” He heaved a deep, wheezy sigh, and sat brooding on the lily-leaf with his chin in his green hands.

“Who is ‘she’?” Dakin ventured to ask.

The frog started and nearly fell into the water.

“Shhh!” he hissed warningly. He looked all round, and then beckoned her closer. She kneeled on the edge of the pool, and he hopped from one leaf to another until he was able to speak right into her ear.

“The witch!” he muttered.

Dakin grew cold. “A real witch?”

“Oh, she’s real enough – by night, anyway, he added strangely.

“Have you ever seen her?” asked Dakin doubtfully. Of course there were plenty of stories about witches, but she wasn’t prepared to believe unless there was some proof.

“Seen her? Seen her?” hissed Croak, his eyes popping. “I see her every night, every night , mark you! Down that chimney she comes, in her dark glasses and all her coloured rags – for she’s not one of your black witches, you know, colour’s the thing with her – and she reaches up to the ceiling and takes down her witchball. Look! Do you see it hanging up there?”

Dakin looked at it again. Now she knew that it was a real witch’s ball, not just a silver decoration, she realized how sinister it was with its strange greenish sheen.

“Lights up at night, you know,” continued Croak in a hushed whisper. “That’s how she searches, every night, hunting… through the woods, all over the mountain. Then at dawn she comes back. Hangs the ball up. Throws me a few curses (though I usually hide in the pool where it’s safe). Takes herself off—”

“What is it she’s looking for?”

“Ah! I could tell you—” He stopped and looked round again. “I daren’t though. Not with that thing hanging there. Not with her being the way she is during the day. I’ve heard she sleeps in a cave up there near the peak, but I don’t believe it. I don’t believe she ever sleeps! I—” He stopped again, and a look of terror came into his eyes. “Listen!” he whispered. “Can’t you hear ?”

Dakin listened. Everything had gone very quiet – the same kind of quiet as in the wood. Outside the murky window the sun had gone in and the cabin had grown suddenly so dark that Dakin could hardly see Old Croak at all. She swallowed fearfully and put out her hand. The frog gripped one finger with his little cold pads.

“Can’t you hear ?” he whispered again.

And now, Dakin did hear. A terrible roaring groaning gnashing sound, faint at first, and then growing louder and louder, as if some dreadful creature were approaching, grumbling and talking to itself.

“What is it?” whispered Dakin in the darkness.

The frog had to swallow several times before he answered. “Drackamag,” he gulped at last.

“But who – what – is Drackamag?” asked Dakin, as the terrifying noise got closer and closer.