Instead of the distant blue sky, Dennis saw above him a vast expanse of muddy brown, seemingly no more than a few hundred feet away. Directly overhead the brown was replaced by a translucent green circle. The dim light filtering through the circle made him wonder if it was the bottom of the swamp.
He took a deep breath, testing the air. It was damp but pleasant. Tree-sized mushrooms grew all around him. Dennis pushed himself to his feet, delighted at finding himself still alive. “Unless this is where you go after you die,” he muttered uneasily.
“Trust me, you’re quite fine,” said a deep, throaty voice.
Dennis spun in the direction of the voice. Sitting several feet away was a frog the size of a golden retriever. Its bulging eyes were the size of Ping-Pong balls.
“Who are you?” cried Dennis.
“Your guide. The king wants to see you. Follow me.”
Without waiting for Dennis to respond, it began leaping toward the mushroom forest.
“Sure,” said Dennis. “Follow you. Why not? Since I’m either dead or dreaming, I might as well.”
The frog, clearly not listening, continued leaping into the forest. Not wanting to be left behind, Dennis scrambled to catch up.
The path they followed curved snakelike through the mushrooms. At some point the oppressively low “sky” was replaced by a decently distant one, which would have made Dennis feel better if not for the fact that it was bright green.
The sun—or whatever they called the glowing ball that lit the sky here—was green, too, the light green of early spring grass.
Dennis wanted to question his guide. But though the huge frog never got out of sight, it always managed to stay far enough ahead that Dennis wasn’t able to talk to it.
Eventually the mushroom forest gave way to a vast swamp.
“Awesome,” whispered Dennis, staring at ferns that grew as tall as trees and lily pads the size of the dining room carpet. A jewel-eyed dragonfly buzzed past, its wings as long as Dennis’s arms.
Still following his guide, Dennis hopped along strips of squishy land and crossed mucky areas on chains of grassy hummocks. Thick ooze bubbled and popped on all sides. Finally they came to a pair of towering willows that formed a natural archway.
“This is as far as I go,” said his guide. “Beyond these trees lies the Court of King Urpthur, Lord of All Frogs. Be courteous and respectful when you greet him.”
“But—”
The frog held up its front feet. “The king will tell you all you need to know. Go in.”
Stepping between the willows, Dennis caught his breath in wonder. Before him stretched a courtroom of elegant beauty. Though it had no walls, its boundaries were clearly marked by stems of mushroom and fern. Growing far straighter here than anywhere else he had seen them, they formed a series of alternating green and beige pillars. The caps of the mushrooms spread like giant umbrellas, while the fern fronds curled high to create a lacy green roof.
In the center of the court shimmered a long pond filled with water lilies, their soup-bowl-sized blossoms displaying a thousand shades of pink, yellow, and white. Along the sides of the pond, standing on their hind legs and chatting casually, were dozens of frogs, most taller than Dennis. Many wore hats and capes and had swords buckled about their waists.
At the far side of the pond, on an ornate throne carved directly into the giant trunk of a living willow, sat King Urpthur. His golden crown was studded with emeralds. A scarlet cape hung from his shoulders. The green fingers of his right hand curled around a golden scepter. Next to the throne was a gong, suspended from a willow frame.
The court fell silent when Dennis entered. All eyes—and big, goggling eyes they were—turned to him.
“Come forward,” croaked the king.
Dennis did as he was asked. But when he reached the edge of the pond he stopped, uncertain. Was he supposed to wade through it or pick his way around it? Looking more carefully, he was relieved to spot a faint path on the grassy bank. Following it around the pond to a spot directly in front of the king, he paused, uncertain of what to do next. Finally remembering his guide’s warning to be “courteous and respectful,” he made an awkward bow.
King Urpthur smiled, which pretty much split his face in half. “Greetings, Dennis, and welcome to my court! Please accept my apologies for the frightening way we brought you here. It is difficult to transport a human to Froglandia, and getting more difficult as the years go by. We only brought you now because of the extreme danger in which we find ourselves.”
“The mutations!” guessed Dennis out loud.
Immediately he wondered if he should have spoken without being asked. But the king merely nodded, his face grave and frightened. “The mutations,” he repeated softly.
“I understand they would upset you. But what do they have to do with me?”
“You are one of our links to the human world.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Granted.”
Dennis blushed. “I mean, I don’t understand.”
“Oh. Oh, I see!” The king began to laugh, a deep, rich chug-a-rumming. The court joined in, until the result was almost deafening, a percussion concert of croaking.
“As I was saying,” said the king, after he recovered from his mirth, “you are part of the frog family.” Seeing the doubt on Dennis’s face, he continued, “Your nineteenth great-grandfather on your mother’s side was what is sometimes called a frog prince. There is often a misunderstanding about this in the old tales. In this case, the princess who kissed the frog was not turning an enchanted human back into his own form. She was turning one of my own ancestors (Great-Uncle Hopgo, to be precise—we royal frogs have quite long lives) into a human! Personally, I think it was silly of Unc to give up Froglandia, and his life span, for a mere human. But love does that to frogs.
“Anyway, the point is that you, Dennis, have a small but still significant component of frog blood within you, waiting to assert itself. This explains, by the way, why you have been attracted to swamps all your life.”
“But—”
“Oh, don’t try to deny it. We’ve watched you gaze longingly into our murky waters. We’ve listened to your sighs. Search your heart, Dennis Juggarum. Isn’t it true that when you stand at the edge of the swamp something in your blood cries out, ‘Home. That’s home!’”
Dennis stared at the king in astonishment. Speaking very slowly, he said, “You’re telling me that I’m part frog?”
“Yes. A distant relative, in fact.”
Dennis gulped and hoped his eyes weren’t bulging too much.
“Of course, you’re not the only cousin-several-times-removed we have wandering around the human world,” continued the king. “But you are the only one who happened to be close to a swamp at the moment, which meant you were the one we turned to for help. After all, we can’t just go hopping into the city and haul people off the streets.” He chuckled at the thought, the sound reverberating in his enormous throat.
“What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” asked Dennis uneasily.
The king’s tongue flicked out and snagged a passing insect the size of a small bird. He swallowed, then said, “As you have seen, my subjects are suffering disastrous effects from the chemicals being leaked into the water. Frogdom has many levels, of course, and at the moment it is only the smallest of my people who are suffering—the ones tied most closely to your world. But that which happens to the least of my subjects is of concern to me. Am I not their king? What I want, Dennis, is for you to go to the man causing the pollution and make him stop!”
“He won’t listen to me. I’m just a kid.”
“He’ll listen if you go to him as a giant talking frog.”
Cold fear prickled along Dennis’s neck. When he finally managed to speak past his confusion, the words came as a whispered “You want me to become a frog?”
“Exactly!” cried the king, leaping to his feet. “I want you to arise as the righteous avenger of all frogdom an
d terrify these despoilers of our waters. Hop into their hearts as a symbol of the wrath of nature—nature aroused and angry—nature that will rend them from limb to limb if they persist in their evil ways. I want you, Dennis, to become a crusading frog of doom!”
“You want me to become a frog,” whispered Dennis again.
“Oh, not permanently,” said the king, airily waving a long green hand. “You’re not built for it, long term. But just as tadpoles transform themselves into frogs, you have the bloodlines to do the same thing. You just need a little . . . prodding.”
“What kind of prodding?” asked Dennis out loud. In his mind he was saying, Don’t panic. It’s only a dream!
Reaching out with his scepter, the king struck the gong that hung next to his throne. Its clang was like the croak of a metallic frog.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” grumbled a hoarse voice, the words seeming to come from the ground itself. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
A sudden hiss of steam beside the throne made Dennis step back. The ground bubbled, which was an alarming sight, and the steam gathered into a swirling cloud that turned green then vanished. In its place stood a stoop-shouldered old frog with wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He wore a dark green robe covered with stars and moons. Cupped between his green fingers was a wooden goblet with lilies carved around its stem. Steam flowed over the edge of the goblet, falling to the ground like mist. There it curled around the old frog’s feet until he appeared to be standing in a small cloud. He grinned at Dennis. “Nice entrance, huh, kid?”
“Amazing! Um, who are you?”
“Don’t tell me you never heard of Murklin the Mudgician. Oh, forget it. I don’t wanna know. Here, drink this.”
He extended the steaming goblet to Dennis.
“What will happen if I do?”
“It will release your inner frog,” said King Urpthur happily, “and make the destiny written in your blood clear for all to see!”
Dennis continued to stare at the goblet, which burped and blurped with little pops of muddy liquid. “What if I don’t want to release my inner frog?”
An angry murmur rose behind him. “Traitor,” he heard low voices croak. “Ingrate!”
The king raised a hand to silence the court. “We will not force you to do this. But if you refuse, you will forever bear the knowledge that you abandoned both kin and king in their hour of need. You will know you let fear, not courage, rule your heart. You will forever remember yourself as one not willing to shed your skin for a greater cause.”
“But I don’t want to be a frog!”
“Part of you already is. A small part, granted. But part of you, nevertheless. Besides, it’s not permanent. You’ll only be a frog sometimes.”
“When?”
“The night before and the night after the full moon are what we call frog moons. On those sacred nights you can rise in frogly glory to confront the villains who are poisoning my subjects. Oh, Dennis, Dennis—think of it! To how many men is it given to find the secrets hidden in their blood, to wear two shapes, to live two lives? To how many men is it given to speak truth to power, to be a voice for their people? How many, how many, are allowed to croak for the good of others?”
Inspired by the king’s words, Dennis reached for the goblet. Its warmth felt good between his hands. He gazed into it.
The bubbling, popping brew looked like a miniature swamp.
This is my destiny, he told himself, lifting the cup to his lips. Besides, it’s only a dream, so what difference does it make?
The brew smelled of the swamp, of wildness, of magic. The first swallow was difficult. Then the potion took hold of him. Surrendering to it, Dennis drained the cup to the last drop.
The assembled frogs burst into ribbiting cheers as the world swirled green around him.
When Dennis woke he was lying at the edge of the swamp, the hot sun beating down on his face, his clothes clean and dry.
Beside him sat the five-legged frog. Dennis reached for it, but it leaped away, disappearing into the swamp with a small splash.
He sighed and pushed himself to his feet, muttering, “What a weird dream. I must be coming down with something.”
“Dennis, where have you been?” cried his mother when he came through the door. “Dinner was ready half an hour ago!”
“I was out visiting some . . . friends.” Then, on a whim, he asked, “Mom, did we ever have any royalty in our family?”
His mother smiled. “Well, according to Gramma Wetzel, your nineteenth great-grandfather on my side was a genuine prince.”
His horrified reaction must have shown on his face, for she said quickly, “What’s wrong, Dennis?”
“Nothing! I just don’t feel very well.”
It was nothing. It had to be nothing.
He clung to that thought all night.
Even so, when he went to his room after supper, he opened his window and pushed up the screen—just in case he needed to get out later on.
Eventually Dennis fell into a fitful sleep, marked by dreams that were strange and soggy. When he awoke, the moon was shining through his window. As he remembered from the night before, it was round and nearly full—nearly, but not quite.
A frog moon.
Suddenly Murklin’s potion began its strange work. Dennis’s eyes began to bulge more than ever. He grabbed for his ears, but they were shrinking—shrinking—gone! Sliding his hands upward, he felt his hair disappearing into his clammy skin. Looking down, he saw his legs grow longer, stronger, and greener.
An instant later his terror was replaced by a rending pain that seared him from head to toe.
And then it was over, the transformation complete.
Staggering to his feet, Dennis found that despite having become a frog he was still his regular height, maybe even a bit taller. Clearly he was the kind of frog he had seen at the king’s court. He held his hands before him, marveling at his long, green fingers and the webbing that stretched between them.
A cool night breeze lifted the curtains, carrying with it the odor of the swamp. Dennis found the smell irresistible. He scrambled over the sill and onto the lawn, where he dropped to jumping position.
The cool, dew-laden grass felt sweet against his flat white belly. He blinked twice, took another deep breath of the moist air. Then, without really thinking about it, he unleashed the power of his mighty legs.
The force of his leap sent him hurtling into the air.
Too high! he thought, as he soared across the yard, his heart hammering in terror. I’m going too high!
Yet when he landed and realized he had survived the leap, he felt a surge of joy. It’s almost like flying!
Flexing his legs again, Dennis bounded gleefully around the lawn, leaping higher and higher.
A chorus of tiny peeps brought him to a halt.
He turned. The field behind the house looked as if it was starting to percolate. Then he saw the cause. Leaping toward him were his . . . well, his cousins: thousands of frogs, tiny ones in the lead, larger ones—though not so large as him, of course—bringing up the rear.
The frog moon floated above them like an enormous silver coin.
His cousins surrounded him, an avenging army of frogdom. The littlest ones crept forward to stare up at him, their goggling eyes awash with admiration.
Dennis felt a sense of purpose surge through him. Taking a deep breath, he puffed out his throat and emitted a sound that astonished even him, a deep bass note, a trumpet call of warning that reverberated through the night—the sound of a mighty amphibian who had had enough.
Fire in his froggy eyes, Dennis turned to lead his leaping army toward old man Bingdorf’s estate.
Someone had to stop that man’s polluting ways.
Someone had to protect the water.
Someone had to say, “This is enough. You cannot do this any longer!”
And he, Dennis Juggarum, was just the frog to do it.
The Thing in Auntie Alma’s Pond
&
nbsp; WATER.
Margaret hated water.
So why was she standing at the edge of Auntie Alma’s pond, staring at the black water as if she could see more than a few inches past the murky surface?
As if she were looking for something.
A dragonfly darted past, its flashing emerald wings startling Margaret out of her thoughts. She raised her eyes to gaze again at the little rowboat that floated in the pond. It seemed strange to see it caught in the middle like that, not free to drift to one side or the other.
Why is it anchored there, anyway? she wondered uneasily. She shrugged. Probably one of her cousins had done it. They were always playing pranks.
The thought of her cousins made her sigh. It would be nice if a few of them were around now. Auntie Alma’s place was just too quiet without them. Sure, their rowdiness annoyed her sometimes. Even so, they would liven things up a bit. She sighed again. If only that rowboat was back on the shore, where she could get at it.
Turning, she started back toward the house. It would be a long time before she forgave her parents for leaving her here like this. Their separation had been bad enough. Now, to “work on getting back together,” they had shoved her off on Auntie Alma . . . left her here to rot for the summer while they tried to “find themselves.” Why didn’t they try to find her, instead? She had been feeling lost for some time now, and being exiled from her home and friends like this was no help.
Margaret kicked savagely at a silver dandelion, setting its seeds free to float away on the breeze. If her parents did have to send her away for the summer, couldn’t they have found someplace besides Auntie Alma’s? Sure, it was out in the country, and the fresh air was probably good for her. But there was no one around to hang out with, no one to even talk to except Auntie Alma, who wasn’t her real aunt anyway, for heaven’s sake, just an old friend of the family.
A really old friend, if you wanted to get right down to it, thought Margaret unkindly. Indeed, white-haired Alma Jefferson was a truly ancient collection of crotchets and wrinkles. She had a huge, hairy mole on her chin that Margaret found simultaneously fascinating and repugnant. Her hearing was bad, her eyes were weak, and she put her teeth in a glass on the kitchen shelf every night. Margaret especially hated that. Something about the sight of those dead things soaking in their cold water always made her shiver.
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