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Quickly she slipped undone the straps of her knapsack, opened it, and reached to the bottom between the rough loaf and the smooth book. Her fingers touched the small, heavy figure, and closed round it. It fitted her hand in a comforting way. She drew the little man out and looked at him. He reminded her of home and the warm kitchen. A tear fell off her cheek and splashed on his long brass goblin’s nose.
He sneezed.
Dakin shrieked and dropped him in the moss. She backed against a tree, her eyes huge and her hands to her face.
The little troll picked himself up. He stood knee deep in moss with his hands on his hips, looking up at her. For a long moment they stared at each other. Then the little man, in a voice like the far-away cracking of twigs, said:
“Could I borrow your handkerchief, madam?”
Without speaking, Dakin took it out of the pocket of her apron and gingerly held it out to him as if expecting him to bite her. He reached up his tiny hand and, holding the handkerchief by one corner with most of it on the ground, he wiped her tear off his face and carefully dried his beard.
“Thank you,” he said politely. “I’m quite tarnished enough,” he added. “Moisture doesn’t do brass any good, you know.” He sounded a little bit severe about it.
Dakin went down on her knees beside him, staring at him, quite unable to believe it.
“Would you mind explaining,” she said shakily, “how you come to be alive?”
“Certainly,” replied the little figure. “Only would you please pick me up? I’m getting a bit tired of shouting.”
Cautiously she laid her hand palm upwards on the moss beside him and he stepped briskly onto it, holding onto her thumb to steady himself as she got carefully to her feet. She looked at him in bewilderment. Of course, it was darkish and difficult to be sure, but he seemed just the same – that is, he hadn’t turned into a flesh-and-blood little man. He was still heavy for his size, and he still seemed to be made of brass. Only now he was definitely and undoubtedly alive. He was rubbing at his sleeves to try to get the tarnish off them, and gradually the metal was becoming brighter.
“That’s better!” said the troll.
“We did our best,” said Dakin, “but we couldn’t get into the cracks.”
“Quite. Quite,” said the troll. “I’ll soon have it all off. Now we must talk. By the way, where are you going?”
“To the farthest-away mountain,” said Dakin.
The little man was so startled he had to grab her thumb with both hands to save himself from toppling to the ground.
“You don’t mean – not to the – f-f-f-farthest-away mountain?” he whispered in a trembling voice.
“Why not?” asked Dakin.
“But you can’t! No one’s ever been there! It’s inhabited by gargoyles—”
“Gargoyles?” cried Dakin excitedly.
“Yes. And ogres and monsters and witches and—”
“If no one’s ever been there, how do you know?” asked Dakin.
The troll clapped his hands to his mouth, as if he had said too much.
“Well, I… I don’t really know… that is, I’ve heard—” he stammered.
“You’ve been there! You have!” cried Dakin.
“Well—”
“Haven’t you?”
“Well, as a matter of fact – I have. In fact I used to live there. Once. Years and years and years ago. And I don’t want to go back!” he added. “So you’d better go straight home like a sensible girl, and put me back on the mantlepiece where it’s safe.”
“I’ve got to go to the farthest-away mountain,” said Dakin. “It called to me.”
“What!” The little troll sat down suddenly in the palm of her hand. He looked up and clasped his knotty little hands together as if pleading with her. “It didn’t – by any chance – nod to you, too, did it?”
“Yes, it did – this morning,” said Dakin.
“Then you’re done for. Poor little girl. Done for,” whispered the troll, shaking his head sadly. A brass tear rolled down the side of his nose. Then he stood up again sharply. “Well,” he said, straightening his pointed hat, “I must be getting along.” He walked briskly to the edge of her hand and would have stepped off into empty air if she hadn’t grabbed him.
“Wait!” she cried, holding him while he struggled and kicked. “Stop! You can’t leave me here alone! Where are you going?”
“Anywhere!” he said. “Anywhere but where you’re going. Let me go this minute!”
“But you’ll get lost in the wood!” Dakin said. “I don’t know myself which direction leads towards home. And you were in the knapsack, so you can’t know either.”
The troll stopped struggling and looked at her.
“I can find the way out of the wood,” he said. “Or I could find the way up the farthest-away mountain. If I wanted to. Which I don’t. If the mountain’s called you, and nodded to you, well you have to go. I understand that. So I’ll show you which way to walk, and I’ll walk in the opposite direction. I wouldn’t go there again, not for a million golden pine-cones.”
With a sinking heart, Dakin put the little man gently down onto the ground and picked up her knapsack.
“All right, then,” she said. “I’ll go on alone. Which way is it?”
The little man pointed. “That way,” he said. “And if you want to keep straight, watch how the pine needles lie. Walk along them, never across. Oh—” He stopped, and dug in a hidden pocket of his jacket. “You’d better take this. You’ll never get past Drackamag without it.” He held something up to her. When she took it, it turned out to be what looked like a tiny blue bead.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s to suck,” the troll explained. “When you hear Drackamag roaring up ahead, put it in your mouth. Suck. Don’t chew.” He started to turn away, but again stopped. “One more thing,” he said. “Mark you, I wouldn’t give a bee sting for your chances of getting through alive, but there’s no reason to go without knowing anything. You must bathe in the Lithy Pool. That’s very important. With all your clothes on.” He paused. “I don’t know the password any more,” he said sadly. “It used to be ‘dragon’s fin’, but it might be almost anything now. Perhaps someone will tell you on the way. There used to be Old Croak – but he’s probably dead long ago. Oh dear.” Another brass tear sparkled among the mosses. “Goodbye.” He turned away very quickly and ran off as fast as his short legs would carry him.
CHAPTER THREE The Cabin in the Meadow (#ulink_e49ebbdd-b823-5127-862b-0b24db11b316)
If Dakin had felt lonely and frightened before, she felt five times as bad now that her only friend had deserted her. But he had given her some help, and she supposed she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to come if it was as bad as he said.
She trudged on through the silent trees, her eyes on the ground to watch the way the pine needles lay. They pointed her direction like arrow-heads. The absolute quiet was like a heavy blanket over her head. She tried to sing, but her voice just came out in a little bleat.
And all the time, her heart was full of fears.
What – or who – was Drackamag? If he – or it – was as terrible as he sounded, what good was sucking a little blue sweet going to do against him? What was the Lithy Pool, and why should she have to bathe in it with all her clothes on? Who would ask her for the password, and what would happen to her when she didn’t know it? And who was Old Croak? He sounded as if he might be helpful – if he were still alive. It would be good to feel she had at least one friend ahead of her.
While she was thinking about all this, and following the pine needles, she suddenly noticed that there were little dapples of light on them. She looked up, and to her delight discovered that the trees were thinning.
She had reached the other side of the wood!
Through the last of the rough trunks, she could see a sunny meadow, speckled with flowers. In the middle of it was a little log cabin and beyond that the farthest-away mountain stood up against the sky, looking not far away any more but very near. She laughed aloud and began to run.
Just as she passed the last tree, she felt a sudden tug, and the next moment her hair came tumbling down her back. She stopped and looked back. Her bobbled stocking-cap was caught on a branch, high, high up.
She stood under the last tree, staring above her at the cap.
“But how could it have got up there?” she thought. “I can’t possibly reach it!” It was as if one of the high branches had reached down and snatched the cap off her head as she passed. She thought of climbing up to get it, but the tree was smooth all the way up.
“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.
