It was a very Old Thing and it had been sitting for it didn’t know how long beside a muddy brook in the rain. It might have been there for years or days or hours, it couldn’t say. Then it heard the creak of hinges and an odd gruff voice with a creak of its own calling.
The Old Thing made a harrumphing sound and raised itself up, heading for the small oval portal in the earthen bank.
Inside it was dry and toasty warm and the Old Thing couldn’t imagine why it had been sitting alone in the rain and mud for such a time. Just then the kitchen door swung open and there were toast and tea and blackberry marmalade on a pewter tray in the midst of an ancient oak table. Encircling the table a carved bas relief seemed to twist and dance in the fire light, unfolding a tale that changed from beginning to end even as it was told.
For a moment Old Thing was lost in the telling, "Come Old Thing!" the voice said "Sit here by the fire!" For once Old Thing did as it was told, ambling along in a toadish fashion that would have left wet foot marks if Old Thing could find any feet. It had a wide lipless mouth and mottled grey-green skin much like a toad ---but who or what it was, really, the Old Thing couldn’t say.
Nor can I.
