reading

Prologue

And Then There Was None

A small nameless creek flows down out of the hills to the green pastures in the valley some five hundred feet below. The creek flows west past an abandoned dairy barn, then crosses beneath a narrow country road through a two-foot-wide metal pipe. After meandering midway into the pasture, the creek turns back to the road as if on a leash. There, it follows a drainage ditch due south along the edge of the road, straight as a pin, and spills out into river on the south edge of the valley.

There are two natural ponds along the creek’s course. The first pond is in the pasture midway across the valley and is nothing more than an oblong pool about ten feet in width and as deep as it is wide. The second pond is larger and lies next to the road less than a quarter mile from where the creek finally spills out into the river. The creek has no official name, but even so, it shows up as a faint blue line on most maps of the area. The simple reason is the stream has water in it all year round. That is why what happened was so odd.

It had been an exceptionally wet spring. The rainfall had broken records. By the beginning of summer, the creek was high and the water level of both ponds stood well above their high-water marks. The foxgloves were in full bloom, the oat grass was tall and lush, and the warm summer days had grown longer than the nights. Then, abruptly, the water in the creek disappeared. One moment it was there, flowing full, and the next moment it was not there at all. The water did not disappear gradually, over time. No, the water just vanished. As though some evil magician had waved a wand over it. Presto! The water was gone.

At first, this did not concern the frogs that called the pond at the south end of the stream home. Their pond was full, and they truly believed the water would flow again with the next rain. For a time, life went on as usual. But twenty-four thirsty days staggered by without the slightest hint of rain. The summer sun broiled and blistered the mud in the empty creek until the mud cracked and curled at the edges like dry scales on an abandoned snakeskin. By the middle of summer, the level of the water in the pond got so low that six feet of barren mud separated the water’s edge from the old shoreline. The frogs knew then, they had to do something.

Chapter One

Wart and Ratchet

Wart sat alone in the silent shade of a small willow, guarding the creek at the north end of the pond. He had never before done something so important. He had no illusions, though. He would like to believe his status had gone up a notch in the eyes of the other frogs, but he knew better. Wart had no status. Only the water level of the pond had changed. A six-foot stretch of mud now separated the shore from the water. Wart guessed it would take three, maybe four jumps in the open, through the mud, to reach the water. To be safe, the number of guards around the pond had been increased. This, as Wart understood it, provided earlier warning of danger and gave frogs more time to get to the water and safety. Every frog had to share the increased workload. How had Meshach said it? “Drastic times call for drastic measures.” Wart was nothing more than a drastic measure.

“If Ratchet doesn’t get here soon, I’ll never get another chance, drastic measure or not,” Wart said, speaking to himself in half a whisper. “Where is he?” Wart looked down the long, narrow muddy creek between him and the pond. He did not see Ratchet.

“He’d better not mess this up.”

Wart had just this one shot to prove himself. Jumbles, the frog who usually stood guard with Ratchet, would return tomorrow. Wart’s help would no longer be needed. Jumbles had volunteered to travel upstream today to persuade the old toad Natterjack to share some water from his pond. If Wart were to prove himself, it had to be today. That is, of course, unless Ratchet ruined it for him. “What is Ratchet up to?”

Wart had been friends with Ratchet most of his life. Well, really, all of his life. Ratchet had known Wart’s parents. He had been a close friend of Wart’s father. Wart’s parents had died before Wart had hatched, so Wart never knew them. Ratchet had even been present when the old nursemaid, Hajji, gave Wart his name—his silly name. His life might have been different if he had had a normal name. In all fairness, though, his name had been an accident. The moment Hajji saw him, she had clapped her hands in delight, thinking him so small and cute, and said, “Why, he’s no bigger than a Wart!” She had meant it kindly, but as soon as she said it she wished to take it back. Wart had learned one thing for sure in his short life. Wishes do not count, and words, once spoken, cannot be taken back. The name stuck to him like pollen to the nose of a bee, and he had lived with it ever since.

Wart never grew to normal bullfrog size. Standing on tiptoes, he did not look much bigger than a dragonfly. This bothered him most of all. For you see, he did not need to tell anyone his name unless they asked. But he could not hide his size, unless of course he stayed indoors and never went outside, which is generally not a healthy way to live. Everyone knows not to judge a book, or a frog, by its cover, yet everyone always does. Frogs, being the polite amphibians they are, seldom said anything out loud, but the look in their eyes when they first met Wart gave away their thoughts.

If his name was not humiliating enough, Wart’s friend Ratchet took up the slack. Ratchet had a knack for getting Wart into some embarrassing situations. For one, Ratchet always fell asleep—sometimes right in the middle of a conversation. Since Wart and Ratchet spent most of their time together, whenever someone made fun of Ratchet, most of it rubbed off onto Wart. But really, without Ratchet, Wart’s life would be lonely indeed. Still, Ratchet could be a bother—like now. If Ratchet did not get here soon, Wart could find himself in some real trouble.

Guards worked in pairs for a reason. The job was dangerous. Wart thought he had the most dangerous guard post of all. He was not just bragging, either. He could see no escape route from where he sat. If he had to sound a warning, it would not only alert the other frogs, it would also give his position away. The guard must jump into the water at the exact moment he cries out. Here, where the stream enters the pond, there was no water. It would be a race to the pond with a coyote or raccoon hot on his tail. A scary thought. Wart stared down the open stretch of mud between him and the pond. As he did, he saw Ratchet climbing out of the water.

“It’s about time,” Wart said as Ratchet hopped up to him. “If Jumbles had come by before you got here, I would have been in real trouble.”

“Sorry, Wart,” Ratchet said and looked down at the ground. “Is this a soft spot?”

“Don’t change the subject, Ratchet. You know Jumbles will be here any moment. If I had been alone, it would have gotten back to Meshach. I’d never get another chance to do anything.”

“Sorry. I overslept.”

Wart rolled his eyes. Ratchet, oblivious to Wart’s expression, sat down in the shade.

To stay alert, Wart inspected his surroundings, starting first to his left, southward, toward the pond. He let his eyes wander down the muddy creek bed, noting every detail along the way. Even though the water level in the pond had fallen, the mud between the old shoreline and the water had not dried. Willows hugged the pond edge and kept the creek shaded. To his right, northward, where the stream entered the pond from the pasture, Wart could not see the creek due to a dense wall of willows. Here too the mud was moist. In the pasture beyond, though, Wart knew the creek bed had dried and cracked. Wart did not envy Jumbles who would soon head out into the open pasture heat in search of the mysterious toad pool.

Ratchet shook his head.

“What’s the matter, Ratchet?”

“My head itches,” Ratchet said as he raised his right back leg, the leg closest to Wart, and stretched it forward along the top of his back, much like a dog scratching its ear. As Wart watched, Ratchet struggled to get his rear leg far enough forward to reach the back of his head, sliding it along the top of his back. At the same time, Ratchet twisted his head back toward his foot. Wart smiled watching Ratchet struggle. Then, without warning, Ratchet’s foot slipped from his back and snapped quick as a willow whip sideways. His foot smacked Wart full in the face. Wart tumbled head-over-legs backwards.

A moment later, Wart crawled out from the grass behind Ratchet, shaking his sore head. The ground seemed to tilt beneath him as he wobbled forward.

“Knock it off, Ratchet!”

“Sorry, Wart,” said Ratchet.

When his head cleared, and the earth settled down, Wart glanced downstream, half-expecting to see Jumbles. If Jumbles had seen what just happened, Wart would never live it down.

“For once, Ratchet, can’t you do one thing right?” Wart said as he sat down next to Ratchet.

Ratchet raised his leg again.

“Oh, no you don’t!” said Wart.

“But Wart,” said Ratchet. “It itches.”

“Where?”

“On my head,” said Ratchet, “right behind my right eye.”

“I can’t take another kick to the head,” Wart said. “I’ll do it.” Wart moved in front of Ratchet, facing the big frog head on. “Bend forward.”

Obediently, Ratchet lowered his head. Wart, standing on tiptoes, reached for the top of Ratchet’s head. “Lower your head a bit more.”

Ratchet obeyed. Wart stretched forward, but could not reach Ratchet’s eye. “I’ll have to climb onto your nose to reach it,” Wart said. Wart raised one leg and draped it over Ratchet’s snout. He scooted up higher so both legs straddled Ratchet’s wide snout as though it were a saddle. Once seated, Wart began to scratch between the big frog’s bulging eyes.

“Ah,” said Ratchet, “that’s the spot.”

As Wart scratched, a large mosquito flew up from the creek and hovered a short distance behind Wart. Wart did not see the mosquito, but Ratchet did. The bug just hovered in the air behind Wart. Without warning, Ratchet jerked his head up and shot his long, sticky tongue out toward the mosquito.

“Oh!” said Wart. Ratchet’s sudden movement had caught him off guard. Wart lost his balance. He slipped off backwards just as Ratchet’s tongue shot into the air. Wart wrapped his arms and legs around Ratchet’s tongue and hung on tight as the tongue shot up toward the bug. Ratchet’s aim was off, probably due to the weight of Wart, but the tongue got close enough so Wart could clearly see the startled look in the mosquito’s eyes. Then Ratchet’s tongue jerked back toward his wide-open mouth.

Wart let go of the tongue just before Ratchet would have swallowed him. He flew over Ratchet’s head and dove headfirst into the grass at the base of the same willow tree. Wart landed with an “Oomph!”

A moment later, Wart crawled out from the grass, dazed, unsure of his direction. He was dizzy and found it hard to walk without veering off to his left. Wart stopped, teetered a bit, and tried to get his balance. When his head did finally clear, Wart’s first urge was to give Ratchet one stiff kick in the behind, but he decided against it. The big frog would not feel it anyway.

Someone giggled. Wart looked up. Jumbles stood in the middle of the creek, with a wide grin stretched across his face. Jumbles shook his head, turned, and disappeared into the willows, heading toward the pasture.

“Where did you go, Wart?” Ratchet said, then added, “have you seen a mosquito about?”

Wart sighed and rolled his eyes. Ratchet was his friend, but at times like this Wart wondered if he needed such a friend.

Chapter Two

Tummy Trouble

“I must be crazy.”

Jumbles pressed his right hand firmly against his queasy stomach. The creek was worse than he had imagined. All that remained was an empty expanse of dry, sun-blistered mud. The mud had hardened and cracked into jagged plates with sharp, curled edges. It resembled an old shriveled snakeskin more than a creek. His stomach grumbled. The trip to Natterjack’s would be slow and gruesome.

“This is no place for a frog,” he whispered as he shook his head.

Thick oat grass crowded the narrow creek bed from both sides. To his left, the bank rose sharply to the road, high above the east edge of the creek. Jumbles had never made the steep climb up to the road, and did not intent to, either. To his right, the bank rose only slightly to the old cow pasture along the west edge of the creek. There were no cows now, just a few cedar fence posts, heavy with moss and titled with time. Only one determined strand of rusted barbed wire held the posts upright. On moonless nights when the wind moved the oat grass, some frogs claimed to hear the lonesome moos of cows drifting across the pasture even though the dairy had long since been abandoned. Jumbles gave no place to such nonsense. His reason for not traveling on the pasture side of the creek had nothing to do with the spooky stories of ghostly cows. Even though he would be well hidden in the tall grass on the east side of the creek, so would coyotes. Jumbles would rather see a coyote from a great distance than to suddenly confront one face to face in the grass. So, he had decided to travel right up the center of the creek.

Of course, this was before Jumbles had seen the creek. He had not expected the creek to be so dry. But good idea or not, he had committed himself to the plan. He would not make sudden changes based on the rumbles of his tummy. It always grumbled, but he never knew it to give good advice. So, without further thought, Jumbles leaped forward into the center of the wide-open creek, leaving Wart and Ratchet on guard somewhere behind him in the cool shade of the willows.

Jumbles made good time the first half of the day. Round about noon, though, Jumbles came to where the creek veered steadily away from the road. Until then, he had hugged the shaded edge of the steep eastern bank. Here, however, the creek widened and turned westward into the flat pasture. Jumbles now found himself smack in the middle of the wide-open creek without shade or hiding place. As the day grew on and the sun climbed into the sky, his pace slowed. The sun now fell heavy on him. It hammered at his head relentlessly. His skin felt as dry as the creek. Worse, yet, he cast the only shadow in the creek. A dark stain under the bright light of the wide-open creek. Easy for a coyote to spot.

Jumbles knew such thoughts would only start his stomach grumbling. The noise would make his situation worse. He thought back to Wart stuck like a bug on Ratchet’s tongue. He smiled. Of course, Jumbles would never say anything to the other frogs. Still, Wart never got anything right. Jumbles had been one of the few frogs to agree to let Wart stand guard. Another guard on the schedule gave Jumbles and the others more time off. Some frogs had objected to Wart. Taylor had been the most outspoken. In the end, Meshach allowed Wart to stand guard. Jumbles now wondered if Taylor had been right all along.

Jumbles stopped. He thought he heard the faint rustle of grass. The wind, maybe? Or something else? There was no wind. Not even the whisper of a breeze. Jumbles cocked his head to one side and listened. Nothing. Only sun and silence. He sat as still as a rock for what seemed like forever, not daring to move. Then, just as he decided to take a step forward, he heard it again! The faint rustle of grass, just ahead and to his right. He held his ground and his breath. Alert, ready to jump. His eyes open, unblinking, fixed on the spot in the grass from where the sound had come. There was no doubt. Something was moving toward him. Jumbles crouched down tight as a spring, ready to bolt with a quick push of his strong hind legs. His heart pounded. It echoed loudly in his chest. His belly rumbled, growled, and grumbled. Whatever lurked in the grass had surely heard the noise from his stomach. His plan to travel up the center of the creek no longer seemed such a good one.

Jumbles saw only the dark needle-point of the thing at first. It poked out from between the grass stalks. Jumbles watched as it emerged from the grass into the creek, growing in length until there was no doubt. A snake slithered out into full view. Jumbles knew by the yellow stripe along the side of the snake’s sleek body it was a female garter snake. The snake stopped and flicked her forked tongue. Once! Twice! Then turned her head and fixed her green eyes on Jumbles.

Jumbles did not move, did not blink. He dared not even breathe. The snake had his scent. He was sure of it. Snakes smell by tasting the air with their tongue, and the snake had surely tasted frog.

“Would it be tasty?” The snake spoke to itself as most snakes do. Its voice reminded Jumbles of the sound of brittle grass stalks scraping together in a breeze. He did not answer. A snake’s eyesight was poor. She only had his scent. If he remained still, and kept quiet, she might move on.

“Would the tender frog have gone down easy?” The snake flicked her tongue again, this time almost licking Jumbles’ snout. “Isn’t it lucky for the frog,” she continued, “I just swallowed a mouse?” She pushed her sleek body forward, revealing a large bulge in her middle.

Jumbles’ tummy jumped. He should have felt sorry for the little mouse, but at the moment he was too frightened to feel anything—except the strong urge to turn and jump. Wisely, Jumbles held his ground. A sudden move would have been dangerous.

Jumbles had no idea what the snake was thinking as she stared at him. Did she wonder if there was enough room in her stomach for both the mouse and a frog? Did she mentally consider her chance of catching Jumbles with the weight of the mouse in her middle? Whatever her thoughts, she apparently decided not to bother with him. For without another word, she turned and slithered off toward the grass on the far side of the creek. A moment later, the snake disappeared in the grass.

Jumbles let go a deep silent sigh, blinked his two saucer-shaped eyes as though waking from a dream, and timidly glanced around. The grumbling in his tummy slowed. Then Jumbles remembered the bulge in the snake’s stomach. “If it hadn’t been for the mouse, I would be the bulge in her stomach.” Jumbles shivered at the thought.

The snake would most likely crawl off to some shaded spot and lie still a few days to digest her meal. But one can never be sure with snakes. She might change her mind; decide a frog would make a fine dessert after a mouse. Jumbles’ tummy rumbled again.

legs.

Jumbles traveled the rest of the day without meeting the snake again or any other trouble. But he traveled slower and more cautiously, so the trip took longer than expected. It was mid-afternoon when he finally arrived at Natterjack’s pool.

The pool was formed by a dam of stones spanning the creek. The dam had been constructed by the dairy farmer to deepen the pool so cows could drink from it. No cows had been seen in the pasture for years, but the dam still held back water. Without cows trampling the edges of the pool, willows had taken root and now shaded the water. Jumbles sat in the shade looking up at the dam. Where he sat, the stream was dry. Behind the dam, the shaded pool was full, the water deep. Since there was no water spilling over the dam, Jumbles knew the creek above the pool must be dry too. He doubted Natterjack would be willing to share his water if no water was flowing into his pool from above.

Jumbles leaped up and over the dam, plopping into the cool water with a splash. The water felt good after a long day in the sun. He floated motionless for a long moment, only his eyes above the water, his long legs dangling below him. He searched the banks of the pool, then the dam. Something seemed odd, out of place. It bothered him, the not knowing. It would come to him. It always did if he just thought about it. Jumbles took one last glance at the dam, then lowered his head with a blink of his eyes and disappeared beneath the water.