His sister turned her attention to golden balls.
She dallied with these golden balls in all manner of places: behind the cookstove, in the palace garden, under privet hedges, and once—just once—on the edge of a well deep in the forest. That was a mistake.
The splash could be heard for no more than a meter, but her cries could be heard for a mile.
No doubt she might have remained hours weeping by the well, unheard, unsung in song or story, had not an ambitious, amphibious hero climbed flipper after flipper to the rim of his world.
He gave her back what she most desired. He took from her what she did not wish to give.
“And will we meet again?” he whispered at last, his voice as slippery as kitchen grease, as bubbly as beer.
“By the wellspring,” she gasped, putting him off, pushing his knobby body from hers.
“In your bed,” he said. It was not a frog’s demand.
To escape him, to keep him, she agreed. Then raising her skirts to show her slim ankles and high arches, she made a charming moue with her mouth and fled.
He leaped after her but was left behind. By the hop, it was many miles to the palace door. He made it in time for dinner.
By then the princess had changed her dress. The dampness had left a rash on her swanlike neck. The front of the skirt had been spotted with more than tears. She smiled meaningfully at the table, blandly at her brother who was now the king. He recognized the implications of that smile.
“Answer the door,” said the king before there was a knock. He knew it would come, had come, would come again. “Answer the door,” he said to his sister, ignoring the entire servant class.
She went to the door and lifted the latch, but the frog had already slipped in.
Three hops, seven hops, nine hops, thirteen; he was at the table. He dragged one frogleg, but he was on time.
The princess would have fed him tidbits under the table. She would have put her foot against his. She would have touched him where no one could see. But the king leaned down and spoke to the frog. “You are well suited,” he said lifting the creature to her plate.
“Eat,” commanded the king.
It was a royal performance. The frog’s quick tongue darted around the princess’s plate. Occasionally it flicked her hand, between her fingers, under her rings.
“After dinner comes bed,” said the king, laughing at his sister’s white face. He guessed at hidden promises. She had never shared her golden balls with him.
“I am not tired,” she said to her plate. “I have a headache,” she said to her bowl. “Not tonight,” she said to her cup.
The frog led the way up the stairs. It was very slow going.
Her bed was too high for a hop. She lay upon it, trembling, moist as a well.
The frog stood at the foot of the bed. He measured the draperies for flipper-holds. He eyed the bellpull for a rope ladder. He would have been all night on the floor but for the king, who picked him up between thumb and finger and flung him onto the bed.
The bedclothes showed no signs in the morning, but a child grew in her like a wart.
Marriage transformed the frog but not the princess. He became a prince, Prince Grenouille. She became colder than a shower to him. She gave the child her golden balls. And she gave herself to cooks and choirboys, to farriers and foresters, but never again to a frog.
And Prince Grenouille suffers from her love for others. He wanders from his desk down to the wellspring in the forest. He dips his hand into the water and drinks a drop or two. The air is full of moist memories, and his burdens, like an ill-fitting skin, drop from him while he is there.
Frogs lust, but they do not love. Human beings have a choice. And, oh, a princess is a very large and troublesome golden ball indeed.
Johanna
The forest was dark and the snow-covered path was merely an impression left on Johanna’s moccasined feet.
If she had not come this way countless daylit times, Johanna would never have known where to go. But Hartwood was familiar to her, even in the unfamiliar night. She had often picnicked in the cool, shady copses and grubbed around the tall oak trees. In a hard winter like this one, a family could subsist for days on acorn stew.
Still, this was the first night she had ever been out in the forest, though she had lived by it all her life. It was tradition—no, more than that—that members of the Chevril family did not venture into the midnight forest. “Never, never go to the woods at night,” her mother said, and it was not a warning so much as a command. “Your father went though he was told not to. He never returned.”
And Johanna had obeyed. Her father’s disappearance was still in her memory, though she remembered nothing else of him. He was not the first of the Chevrils to go that way. There had been a great-uncle and two girl cousins who had likewise “never returned.” At least, that was what Johanna had been told. Whether they had disappeared into the maw of the city that lurked over several mountains to the west, or into the hungry jaws of a wolf or bear, was never made clear. But Johanna, being an obedient girl, always came into the house with the setting sun.
For sixteen years she had listened to that warning. But tonight, with her mother pale and sightless, breathing brokenly in the bed they shared, Johanna had no choice. The doctor, who lived on the other side of the wood, must be fetched. He lived in the cluster of houses that rimmed the far side of Hartwood, a cluster that was known as “the village,” though it was really much too small for such a name. The five houses of the Chevril family that clung together, now empty except for Johanna and her mother, were not called a village, though they squatted on as much land.
Usually the doctor himself came through the forest to visit the Chevrils. Once a year he made the trip. Even when the grandparents and uncles and cousins had been alive, the village doctor came only once a year. He was gruff with them and called them “strong as beasts” and went away, never even offering a tonic. They needed none. They were healthy.
But the long, cruel winter had sapped Johanna’s mother’s strength. She lay for days silent, eyes cloudy and unfocused, barely taking in the acorn gruel that Johanna spooned for her. And at last Johanna had said: “I will fetch the doctor.”
Her mother had grunted “no” each day, until this evening. When Johanna mentioned the doctor again, there had been no answering voice. Without her mother’s no, Johanna made up her own mind. She would go.
If she did not get through the woods and back with the doctor before dawn, she felt it would be too late. Deep inside she knew she should have left before, even when her mother did not want her to go. And so she ran as quickly as she dared, following the small, twisting path through Hartwood by feel.
At first Johanna’s guilt and the unfamiliar night were a burden, making her feel heavier than usual. But as she continued running, the crisp night air seemed to clear her head. She felt unnaturally alert, as if she had suddenly begun to discover new senses.
The wind molded her short dark hair to her head. For the first time she felt graceful and light, almost beautiful. Her feet beat a steady tattoo on the snow as she ran, and she felt neither cold nor winded. Her steps lengthened as she went.
Suddenly a broken branch across the path tangled in her legs. She went down heavily on all fours, her breath caught in her throat. As she got to her feet, she searched the darkness ahead. Were there other branches waiting?
Even as she stared, the forest seemed to grow brighter. The light from the full moon must be finding its way into the heart of the woods. It was a comforting thought.
She ran faster now, confident of her steps. The trees seemed to rush by. There would be plenty of time.
She came at last to the place where the woods stopped, and cautiously she ranged along the last trees, careful not to be silhouetted against the sky. Then she halted.
She could hear nothing moving, could see nothing that threatened. When she was sure, she edged out onto the short meadow that ran in a downward curve to the ba
ck of the village.
Once more she stopped. This time she turned her head to the left and right. She could smell the musk of the farm animals on the wind, blowing faintly up to her. The moon beat down upon her head and, for a moment, seemed to ride on her broad, dark shoulder.
Slowly she paced down the hill toward the line of houses that stood like teeth in a jagged row. Light streamed out of the rear windows, making threatening little earthbound moons on the graying snow.
She hesitated.
A dog barked. Then a second began, only to end his call in a whine.
A voice cried out from the house farthest on the right, a woman’s voice, soft and soothing. “Be quiet, Boy.”
The dog was silenced.
She dared a few more slow steps toward the village, but her fear seemed to proceed her. As if catching its scent, the first dog barked lustily again.
“Boy! Down!” It was a man this time, shattering the night with authority.
She recognized it at once. It was the doctor’s voice. She edged toward its sound. Shivering with relief and dread, she came to the backyard of the house on the right and waited. In her nervousness, she moved one foot restlessly, pawing the snow down to the dead grass. She wondered if her father, her great-uncle, her cousins had felt this fear under the burning eye of the moon.
The doctor, short and too stout for his age, came out of the back door, buttoning his breeches with one hand. In the other he carried a gun. He peered out into the darkness.
“Who’s there?”
She stepped forward into the yard, into the puddle of light. She tried to speak her name, but she suddenly could not recall it. She tried to tell why she had come, but nothing passed her closed throat. She shook her head to clear the fear away.
The dog barked again, excited, furious.
“My God,” the doctor said, “it’s a deer.”
She spun around and looked behind her, following his line of sight. There was nothing there.
“That’s enough meat to last the rest of this cruel winter,” he said. He raised the gun, and fired.
The Sow, the Mare, and the Cow
Not so very long ago, a sow, a mare, and a cow were friends. They lived together on a farm in a green and pleasant land.
One day the sow said to her friends, “I am tired of man and his fences. I want to see the world.”
She grunted this so loudly that all the other animals on the farm heard her and turned their backs. But her friends did not.
“I agree,” said the mare.
“And I,” said the cow.
So that very night, the cow and the mare leaped over the fence; the sow crawled under. Then the three companions went one hoof after another down the road to see the world.
But the world was full of men and fences all down the road.
The sow shook her head. “I am going into the woods,” she said.
“I agree,” said the mare.
“And I,” said the cow.
So they pushed through branch after branch, and bramble after briar, till the way grew dark and tangled. At last they found a small clearing where no fence had ever been built and no man had ever dwelt. They settled there for the night.
The sow and the mare took turns standing guard, but the cow fell right to sleep.
The mare began to nod.
Then the sow.
Soon all three were asleep, and no one was left to guard the others in the small clearing in the dark wood.
Suddenly a low growling filled the forest.
The sow and the mare woke up with a start. The cow lowed in alarm and hid her eyes with her hooves.
The growling got louder.
The cow jumped up.
Back to back, the three friends spent the rest of the night awake and trembling.
In the morning the sow said, “I think we should build a barn. Then we will be safe from the growlers in the night.”
“I agree,” said the mare.
“And I,” said the cow.
So the mare gathered twigs and boughs for walls. The sow rooted leaves and moss for the roof. And the cow showed them where everything should be placed.
Branch by branch, bramble after briar, they built a fine barn.
That night the three friends went inside their barn. The sow and mare took turns standing guard, but the cow fell right to sleep.
The mare began to nod.
Then the sow.
Soon all three were asleep, and no one was left to guard the others in the fine barn in the small clearing in the dark wood.
Suddenly a high howling filled the forest.
The sow and the mare woke up with a start. The cow lowed in alarm and tried to hide in a corner.
The howling got higher and closer.
The sow ran to guard the door. The mare ran to guard the window. The cow turned her face to the wall. The three friends spent the rest of the night awake and trembling.
In the morning, the sow said, “I think we should build a high fence around our fine barn to keep away the growlers and the howlers in the night.”
“I agree,” said the mare.
“And I,” said the cow.
So the mare gathered logs and stumps. The sow pushed boulders and stones. And the cow showed them where everything should be placed.
Then stick by stone, and bramble after briar, they built themselves a high fence. The three friends went inside their fine barn which was inside their high fence, to spend the night.
The sow and the mare took turns standing guard, but the cow fell right to sleep.
The mare began to nod.
Then the sow.
Soon all three were asleep, and no one was left to guard the others in the fine barn inside the high fence in the small clearing in the dark wood.
Suddenly there was a scratching at the door and a scrabbling on the roof.
The sow and mare awoke with a start. The cow lowed in alarm and fell to her knees. They waited for someone or something to enter. But nothing did.
Still the three friends spent the rest of the night awake and trembling.
In the morning the three friends were tired and pale and a little uncertain. They looked at one another and at the fine barn inside the high fence in the small clearing in the dark wood.
Then the cow spoke. “I have a sudden great longing for man and his fences.”
But the mare did not say, “I agree.”
And the sow did not say, “And I.”
They were suddenly both much too busy digging ditches, fixing fences, mending roofs, and laying a path to their door.
So the cow put one hoof after another all the way back to the farm in the middle of the green and pleasant land. There she lived a long and happy life within man’s fences.
But the sow and the mare opened the door that very night and met the growlers and the howlers, the scratchers and the scrabblers who were just the forest folk who had come to make them welcome. And they too lived long and happy lives within fences of their own making. And if you can tell which one of the three was the happier, you are a better judge of animals than I.
Cockfight
The pit-cleaners circled noisily, gobbling up the old fewmets with their iron mouths. They spat out fresh sawdust and moved on. It generally took several minutes between fights, and the mechanical clanking of the cleaners was matched by the roars of the pit-wise dragons and the last-minute betting calls of their masters.
Jakkin heard the noises through the wooden ceiling as he groomed his dragon in the under-pit stalls. It was the first fight for both of them, and Jakkin’s fingers reflected his nervousness. He simply could not keep them still. They picked off bits of dust and flicked at specks on the dragon’s already gleaming scales. They polished and smoothed and polished again. The red dragon seemed oblivious to first-fight jitters and arched up under Jakkin’s hands.
Jakkin was pleased with his dragon’s color. It was a dull red. Not the red of the holly berry or the red of the wild-flowering trillium
, but the red of life’s blood spilled upon the sand. It was a fighter’s color, and he had known it from the first. That was why he had sneaked the dragon from its nest, away from its hatchlings, when the young worm had emerged from its egg in the sand of the nursery.
The dragon had looked then like any lizard, for it had not yet shed its eggskin, which was wrinkled and yellow, like custard scum. But Jakkin had sensed, beneath the skin, a darker shadow and had known it would turn red. Not many would have known, but Jakkin had, though he was only fourteen.
The dragon was not his, not really, for it had belonged to his master’s nursery, just as Jakkin did. But on Austar IV there was only one way to escape from bond, and that was with gold. There was no quicker way to get gold than as a bettor in the dragon pits. And there was nothing Jakkin wanted more than to be free. He had lived over half his life bonded to the nursery, from the time his parents had died when he was four. And most of that time he had worked as a stallboy, no better than a human pit-cleaner, for Sarkkhan’s Dragonry. What did it matter that he lived and slept and ate with his master’s dragons? He was allowed to handle only their fewmets and spread fresh sawdust for their needs. If he could not raise a fighting dragon himself and buy his way out of bond, he would end up an old stallboy, like Likkarn, who smoked blisterweed, dreamed his days away, and cried red tears.
So Jakkin had watched and waited and learned as much as a junior stallboy could about dragon ways and dragon lore, for he knew the only way out of bond was to steal that first egg and raise it up for fighting or breeding or, if need was great, for the stews. But Jakkin did not know eggs—could sense nothing through the elastic shell—and so he had stolen a young dragon instead. It was a greater risk, for eggs were never counted, but the new-hatched dragons were. At Sarkkhan’s Dragonry old Likkarn kept the list of hatchlings. He was the only one of the bonders who could write, though Jakkin had taught himself to read a bit.
Jakkin had worried all through the first days that Likkarn would know and, knowing, tell. He kept the hatchling in a wooden crate turned upside down way out in the sands. He swept away his footsteps to and from the crate, and reckoned his way to it at night by the stars. And somehow he had not been found out. His reward had come as the young worm had grown.