Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  “Miss Floss,” said the Nexus. “Wait. I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have told you the other day to mind your candy. You were only trying to help.”

  “Yes I was.” Miss Floss’s tone was aloof.

  “I wonder if you’ll help with something else,” said Burdock, looking somewhat red. “When you’re sufficiently healed, that is. Would you pay me a visit?”

  “I’m terribly busy, Exalted Nexus.”

  “But it’s about the election,” said Burdock. “There’s a candidate I hope you might be willing to endorse.”

  Miss Floss glanced back at him with more interest. “Perhaps I’ll make a little time,” she said, and she left the Thatch along with the Physic.

  “What are those, Walter?” said Burdock, coming closer and peering into the candy box. “Exquisite,” he said, his voice oddly grave. “Just like the real thing.”

  “Here,” said Walter, handing him the box. “I don’t like orange-flavored candy.”

  Walter headed to the dining room for lunch, leaving behind Burdock, who lifted a tiny, perfect starflower from the box and twirled it in his fingertips. It sparkled in the light. He set it back down, gave a brief sigh, and left the Thatch with the box under his arm.

  THAT night, while the Gourds slept, Syrah went around the house as he had done before. This time, however, he wasn’t looking for ways to send messages. He knew now that it wouldn’t matter. Only the well could help him — and the well wanted something from him. Something special. Something heroic.

  What could he do that was good?

  In the boys’ rooms, he saw a hundred things he could have done if he were human-size. He could have put away Walter’s messy clothes. He could have fixed Tommy’s broken soldiers and horses. He could have told Bradley that the letter he’d started writing to Asti sounded pretty stupid and he ought to try again. It was not lost on him that, when he had been a human, he had never lifted a finger to assist with such things. It hadn’t occurred to him to bother, although he realized now that it would have been incredibly easy.

  As a frog, it was far more difficult.

  He hopped up onto the boys’ desks and pushed small things back into their places: quills, laces, bits of paper. Painstakingly, one by one, he carried Walter’s marbles in his mouth and deposited them in the wooden dish that stood next to the marble racetrack. He got a little bit carried away at Tommy’s war table, using his feet to push all the miniature soldiers and horses into marching formations and battle tableaux, and arranging the broken soldiers and horses to create scenes of devastation. He wasn’t sure that this exactly counted as a good deed, but maybe Tommy would like it.

  In Bradley’s room, there was much less to do. Bradley was the most meticulous of the triplets. Syrah hopped up onto his desk again and reread the beginning of his letter to Asti.

  You have probably heard that my pa is very sick, but don’t worry, I’m still well. I am taking care of everyone here. Tommy does nothing but cry, of course. I never cry.

  Syrah found a moth fluttering at the bedroom window, swallowed it, then hopped back up on Bradley’s desk and regurgitated the half-disintegrated moth right in the middle of the letter. There. That letter wasn’t going anywhere now — which was seriously nice of him. Bradley would only embarrass himself if he sent it.

  He tried to get into Deli’s room, but it was shut. So were Calabaza’s and Luffa’s. He saw something glinting at one edge of the long carpet that ran the length of the corridor, and when he investigated, he found that it was an earring, mostly hidden under the rug. A precious one, with a large, pale yellow teardrop gem hanging from a silver setting. It must have belonged to Roma. Syrah wondered how long it had been lost. He worked it out from under the carpet with his toes and pushed it out to the center of the carpet, where it could be discovered in the morning.

  Inspired, he set off to peek under the edges of other carpets. There were probably lots of little lost objects in this house, and some of them would be easier to find as a frog than as a human.

  For the rest of the night, Syrah hunted all over the top floor of the house, and by morning he had nudged and carried a variety of small things into the corridor. Three buttons, two of bone and one of copper, a tiny, scratched gold charm shaped like a teacup, a dog-eared playing card, a puzzle piece, and even a few coins. His greatest triumph of the night, however, was a silver thimble that he found in a dark corner, wedged deep down in a crack between two floorboards. He dug it out with his tongue, which was a disgusting task — the crack was full of ancient, musty grit; he felt like he was licking around inside a small tomb, and the thimble itself was tarnished and unpleasant to taste. But when he succeeded in prying it out, he was elated. He deposited it in the middle of his little pile of findings.

  A small drop-leaf table stood snug against the wall between Deli’s room and the now-empty bedroom that had once belonged to Christophen. Syrah settled down under this table, out of the way and mostly out of sight, and waited for the family to wake.

  It was Deli who appeared first, though she did not come out of her room. She sneaked up the stairs, carrying a pack on her back just as she had yesterday morning, and carrying her shoes in one hand so that her footsteps would be softer. She approached her room silently — until she stepped barefoot upon the pile of objects Syrah had assembled. She shrieked in pain, hopped for a moment, then bent down to see what had hurt her.

  “What the …” She crouched, set down her pack, and sifted through it. Her eyes flew wide. She lifted up her mother’s earring. “This can’t be the same one,” she said.

  At the far end of the corridor, Luffa’s door opened, and she appeared in her dressing gown.

  “You shouted,” she said.

  “Grandmother,” said Deli, shooting to her feet. She moved sideways to block Luffa’s view of her pack, but it was too late.

  “Why are you dressed and packed?” Luffa demanded. “What have you been doing?”

  Deli tried for a distraction. She held up the earring. “Somebody left a pile of stuff right outside my door,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “I stepped on this — that’s why I shouted. I think it’s the earring my mother lost last year. There are lots of little lost things piled up here — but who found them and left them like this?”

  Luffa looked halfway curious. She closed her door behind her and came to look down at the pile. “Like a little Skittish hoard,” she murmured. “An imp must have been here.”

  “This one’s engraved,” Deli said, picking up the thimble. She rubbed her thumb over the tarnished top. “ACG …”

  Luffa drew a sharp breath. “Hand me that,” she whispered. Deli passed her the thimble at once, and Luffa gazed down at it, the muscles in her face working jerkily. “Aurantia Citrulina Gourd,” she said. “This belonged to my mother.”

  Syrah’s mouth sagged open.

  “It must have lain hidden for a hundred years,” Luffa whispered. Her voice was rough. “The Pink butchers melted everything down. But this survived.” She closed her fist around the thimble. “Its return is a sign. Mama approves of my course. She forgives me. She sees —” Luffa faltered to a stop. “Excuse me.” She went back to her room and closed the door behind her.

  Deli swept the remaining lost items into her palm, took up her pack, and shut herself in her room. Syrah stayed where he was, staring down the hall at Grandmother Luffa’s door. He had never seen the woman so emotional. Had that thimble really been stuck in that crack for a century? It had certainly tasted like it…. But that was amazing. And he’d been the one to find it. He couldn’t believe that his hunt for lost bits and pieces had yielded such a treasure. He’d given back Luffa a piece of her childhood — a piece of her history. Of Yellow Country’s history.

  Yet he was still a frog. Apparently, finding thimbles wasn’t good enough.

  After lunch, he rode on Walter’s shoulder out to the front lawn that sprawled before the Thatch, where an impressive crowd had gathered. Syrah thought it must have been s
everal hundred people at least. There were only a few rows of seats at the front of the lawn; behind these, everyone else stood packed together. The back of the crowd extended all the way up the gently rising hill that led to the river, and more people were arriving all the time.

  They were here for Declaration Day, Syrah realized, and he looked around with interest. Declaration Day happened only once every seven years, and since his own country held no elections, it was his best chance to see how it worked. Plus, this was the first Declaration Day when a Gourd wouldn’t be running for the governor’s seat. Anything could happen.

  Walter took a seat in the front row, between Tommy and Bradley, and Roma sat beside them, looking elegant in her dark clothes and hat. She wore the pale yellow teardrop earrings that Syrah had restored to a pair, along with a bracelet of matching pale yellow stones. These she worried with her fingers, twisting the bracelet around and around her wrist as the crowd grew denser and louder behind her. She kept her eyes fixed on the flag of Yellow Country, which stood proudly in its bracket on the small stage that had been erected on the lawn. The stage was shaded by the grove of trees that lined the eastern edge of the lawn and traveled around toward the back of the Thatch. Unlike the pomegranate grove to the west where the Gourds buried their dead, every tree in this area was different.

  When the bell tolled one, Clementine Pease came to the stage. She wore a long duster over simple work clothes and boots, and her short purple hair was combed back. Around her neck hung the emblem of Yellow: two golden sheaves of wheat, crossed. She set down her stepladder, climbed up to the podium, and lifted a speaking trumpet to her lips.

  “People of Yellow Country,” she said, and the crowd fell silent. “You are gathered here to witness history. But before we move ahead into our country’s future, we must acknowledge our shared pain. Governor Calabaza has been taken very ill, just as so many of our good citizens have been taken very ill, by a sickness we do not yet understand. We know its source, but not how to cure its effects. As of our last count, fifty-six citizens of Yellow Country and twelve travelers from other nations have tragically lost their lives to this sickness.”

  Syrah listened, grim. Twelve travelers from other nations — were any of them his family? Surely if one of the Huanuis had died, someone at the Thatch would have mentioned it. They would have mourned. Wouldn’t they?

  “Many of the families of those we have lost are here with us today. In honor of their extraordinary strength, I ask you to set the grief of these families above your own grievances. Put aside your differences and be, today, a nation of strength and solidarity, and a people who support each other through loss. Let our every thought, our every word, be rooted in compassion for one another.”

  Roma sniffled and touched a handkerchief to her eye.

  “Our minister of foreign affairs, Luffa Gourd,” said Clementine, “reigned for thirty-six years as Queen of Yellow Country. She brought visionary change when she removed her crown and held the very first Declaration Day. For fourteen years, she served as governor, and since her retirement from that office, her son, Calabaza, has served in her place.

  “Today is the eighth Declaration Day in our nation’s history, and it is the first one in which no Gourd will declare candidacy. Today we leave our monarchy fully in the past as we take our first steps into a truly democratic future.”

  Anticipation thrilled through Syrah. Even if he didn’t agree with Luffa’s choices, he had to admit that this was exciting.

  Others didn’t seem so energetic. There was uneven applause and even some murmurs of dissent. Syrah looked around. The cabinet members sat in a row behind the Gourd family, several of them looking uneasy. In the row behind them, Syrah saw the Steelcuts. Huck looked exhausted; Harrow uncomfortable. G. G. Floss was also there, one of the few who applauded with enthusiasm.

  “And so, if you’re here to run, the time has come to stand and declare!” said Clementine. “Who’ll go first?”

  Behind Burdock, Huck Steelcut got to his feet. He made his way up to the stage carrying a seedling tree in a pot, which he set down beside the podium before picking up the speaking trumpet.

  Syrah watched him carefully, thinking of what he had felt in Harrow’s mind. Huck Steelcut had a secret, and whatever it was, if Harrow wasn’t allowed to talk about it, then the Steelcuts surely didn’t want the people of Yellow to know about it. Was it the Purge? Had Huck done it on purpose? But why would he do anything so awful, when it might be traced back to his farm?

  Maybe he had done it to become governor.

  Syrah let out a low, amazed croak. Of course. It was pretty convenient that this sickness had broken out right before the election — and it was too convenient that Calabaza had gotten sick. Especially if he hadn’t eaten any porridge, which Walter thought he hadn’t. Bradley and Tommy had dismissed Walter’s comment, but Syrah thought he might be right. Had there been porridge on Calabaza’s table at the ATC? Yes — and the bowl had been untouched.

  Syrah remembered again that swinging lantern light in the carriage house. Huck Steelcut’s lantern, maybe. Huck had been in Calabaza’s box at the ATC, so he would’ve noticed that the governor hadn’t eaten any porridge. He would’ve known that he had to feed Calabaza something else to make him sick. Like liver pâté sandwiches on oat bread. Syrah looked at the man who stood before them all on the stage, a silver cord shining around the brim of his hat and a silver S on his belt buckle, and he wondered.

  Was he a murderer?

  “My name is Huck Steelcut,” he began. “And I declare my candidacy. But before I get into politics, I think we need to start with what’s really on your minds this morning. A lot of you are wondering if my oats caused the Purge.” He paused again and ran a weather-beaten hand through his salt-and-dark hair. “All I can tell you is that I’ve complied with Minister Pease’s investigation, like every other oat farmer I know. We’ve surrendered sacks of our grain, and we’re waiting for an answer. I pray to the ancestors that it wasn’t my oats — but that’s not to say I hope it was anyone else’s. That’s not a burden I’d wish on any farmer.”

  Huck doffed his hat and placed it on the podium. He shook his head.

  “A lot of us are farmers here. We understand the difficulty of this situation better than government folks can. We carry a sacred duty. Every day, we wake before dawn, and we toil, and we strive to make sure that this nation remains a land of wholesome plenty. We are the ones who feed our people. We are the reason that Yellow Country stands strong. This sickness — this Purge — is an affront to everything we break our backs to protect: our people, our land, and our integrity.”

  “Hear, hear!” cried a voice in the back, and then several other voices rose in support. Syrah hopped up to the top of Walter’s head to look back at the crowd, and saw that many people were now listening avidly, leaning forward, nodding their approval.

  Huck gestured to his seedling pot.

  “My offering today is an apple tree,” he said, and then he added, “An apple nourishes. It can be dried or juiced, fried or baked. We can sell them whole, sell their cider, feed their cores to our stock. Every piece of what they are contributes in some way to our economy; nothing about them need go to waste. That’s how we ought to see our farmers too. It’s not just your labor that matters — it’s your voices. You deserve a governor who’ll listen to you. We’ve been governed a long time by people who know a lot about making rules, but not much else. Heck, we’ve got a law that forbids us from exploring gnomish magic that might make our farms more productive. How’s that useful to anyone? Calabaza loves to say we ought to leave the magic to the magical, but if that magic can feed people, maybe we have a responsibility to investigate it.”

  This met with more shouts of approval, as well as some protest. Syrah heard snatches of “Finally!” and “Exactly what I’ve been saying!” along with “Not on my farm.”

  “But like I said,” Huck continued, holding up a hand, “I’d listen to you. You ought to be the ones debati
ng and deciding the future of farming — not some royal politician who’s been holed up in a fancy house for decades, never getting his fingers dirty. It’s high time for the hand that tills the soil to be the hand that steers the nation. Thank you.”

  The crowd made a wild noise of approval. Syrah was surprised. In spite of the Purge, Huck’s message had sparked something in the audience. Syrah glanced at Luffa, whose face was immobile. It was impossible to tell what she felt.

  Huck returned to his seat, and Clementine set down her stepladder and climbed up to the podium, speaking trumpet in hand. “Stand and declare,” she said again. “Who’s next?”

  Nexus Burdock stood, and Syrah goggled in surprise. He wasn’t the only one. A few people gasped. Luffa’s eyebrows moved — barely, but it was there. Roma Gourd stretched out a trembling hand toward the Nexus, as if in appeal.

  “But Nexus,” she said weakly. “Calabaza — he’s unconscious. He trusts you.”

  Burdock made his way forward, looking nauseated but determined. He grabbed a seedling tree from beside the stage and carried it up the steps to set it beside Huck’s apple tree offering. When he reached the podium he picked up the speaking trumpet and closed his eyes. In a moment, it glowed golden, just as it had at the ATC, and when Burdock spoke, he did not have to raise his voice. He was calm and quiet but could easily be heard by every person present.

  “Fig trees interest me,” he said. “They’re like children: full of potential, but frighteningly vulnerable. Ignore a fig tree, neglect it, and its life will be short. It will die and never give fruit. But if you accept the fig’s fragility and give it your full attention as it grows, you will have a tree that lasts for centuries and bears fruit beyond compare.” Burdock paused. He passed his light eyes over the crowd. “We are fragile,” he said. “Vulnerable. Yet we are neglecting our weakness. Huck Steelcut accuses Calabaza of unfairly outlawing magical farming supports — which is true. But the whole truth is far more sinister.”