by Tor Seidler
“Was it a long tunnel?” Bridget asked as the frog’s croak died away.
“Very long,” Bagley said.
“How many days did it take?”
“It took nights. They only worked at night.”
“Shouldn’t have thought it mattered to moles,” Paddy commented. “The ones I’ve met are so blind they don’t know day from night anyway.”
“It wasn’t for their sake, it was for my father’s,” Bagley explained. “You see, the tunnel’s for getting eggs, so it’s—”
“Eggs!” Bridget exclaimed, swimming backwards. She happened to have some eggs inside her at that very moment.
“Chicken eggs, not fish eggs,” Bagley assured her.
“Oh,” she said, and she inched closer again.
“Anyway, the tunnel’s under a farmyard, so in daylight it would have been too dangerous.”
“Foxes and hawks,” Paddy said knowledgeably.
“On top of which, Farmer McGee has a shotgun,” Bagley said, “and two tabby cats. But at night they all sleep, so my father could guide the moles.”
“But where do you fit in?” Bridget said in her sweet, bubbly voice.
“I used to watch him,” Bagley said, deeply touched by her interest.
“Your mother didn’t mind you staying up late?”
“I’m afraid I sneaked out of the den without her knowing. I’d creep across the farmyard and hide behind a stone or a fence post. Then one night I hid behind a feed bucket someone had left out—this was when the new tunnel was almost to the coop. While I was watching my father, the moon darkened for a second, and I looked up and saw a huge creature falling out of the sky.”
“Heading for you?” Bridget said, alarmed.
“Well, for me or my father. Just at that moment my father had his ear pressed to the ground. Between thumps he listened in case the moles encountered a rock. So naturally I jumped out from behind the bucket and warned him.”
“And he hid?”
Bagley closed his eye for a moment. “After I called out, he lifted his head and said, ‘What on earth are you doing here, son?’ Then he heard the wings and looked up.”
“And then?” Bridget said breathlessly, so caught up in the story she no longer felt the strain on her fins.
“After that, everything’s a bit muddled. I remember my father running over to protect me, and I remember seeing the bird’s long talons glinting in the moonlight, and I remember the bird had an enormous head and big yellow eyes. Then it felt as if my left eye was on fire. I screamed and covered my face. When I uncovered it . . .” Bagley had to swallow. “When I uncovered my face, I saw my father climbing into the sky.”
“Oh, no,” groaned the bullfrog. “Just like my poor old granny.”
“The horrid bird got him?” Bridget said.
Bagley gave a brief nod.
“And your eye was just . . . gone?”
Bagley nodded again. The eye was gone—though sometimes it was as if it could still see one thing: his father’s body, limp in the dreadful bird’s talons.
“It must have hurt worse than a hook in the mouth,” Bridget whispered. And though fish are coldblooded creatures, she shivered.
“I guess,” Bagley said. “I think I was in shock for a while.”
“You just stayed there?” said Paddy. “What if the nasty bird had come back?”
“I would have been dessert, I suppose. But he didn’t.”
“Then what did you do?” Bridget asked.
“Well, the next thing I remember is the head mole. Or, I should say, the head mole’s head, poking up out of the ground. He wanted to know where Mr. Brown was. They can’t see much, but he could tell I was too small to be my father.” Bagley gave a somewhat bitter laugh. “The mole wondered if he was ‘off getting a bite.’ Then he explained that the other moles were tired and hungry but willing to finish, since they were so close to the end. So I thumped them the rest of the way to the coop, then crawled home.” He gave a shrug. “Anyway, that’s why I wear a patch.”
THE PROMISE
After the weasel stopped talking, neither the fish nor the frog said a word. The only sound was the murmur of the sea. The silent moon had sailed higher, and now another one was suspended like a luminous fish in the depths of the pond.
Fish can’t shed tears, but Bridget was feeling a strange sort of prickling in her eyes. It may have come from keeping them exposed to the air too long, but all she could think of was the poor weasel. To lose your father and your eye in one swoop!
It was the bullfrog who finally broke the silence, sending a mournful croak out over the water. “I know a little bit how you feel,” he said. “I saw my old granny carried off the same way. Though, of course, I didn’t lose an eye in the bargain.”
“That’s a blessing,” Bagley said. “It would be impossible to keep a patch on, going in and out of the water all day.”
“True. I’d have to go around with an empty socket.” Paddy sighed. “It’s hard enough finding a wife as it is.”
“What exactly happened to your grandmother?” Bagley asked.
“An osprey got her. Seeing that one today gave me the willies.”
“I really don’t think he’ll stay long, Paddy,” Bridget said. “It’s so much work, building one of their nests.”
“I hate to tell you this, Bridge, but he may have moved into that old one.”
“An old nest? Where?”
“On top of the telephone pole, second one up from the beach.”
“Oh, dear. Then let’s hope we get some rain.”
What did rain have to do with anything? Bagley wondered. But before he could ask, Paddy gave a fierce croak. “I wish I could jump high enough to knock that nest off,” the frog declared. Then he sat up straight on his rock and said, “Good evening.”
A few feet away, a female frog had poked her slick head out of the water.
“Evening,” she said.
“Paddy,” said the bullfrog, puffing his throat out like a balloon.
“Lily,” said the newcomer, looking rather impressed by the display.
“I hope you’ll both excuse me,” Paddy said, lowering himself into the water. “My skin’s getting dry.”
“It was nice to meet you,” Bagley said.
“Same,” said Paddy. Then he said good night to Bridget and coasted off on a moonlit swim with Lily at his side.
Left to themselves, neither the fish nor the weasel spoke for a while. Then Bridget said, “Are you all right? You look a little green around the gills—if you know what I mean.”
“I was just thinking of that osprey,” Bagley explained.
“Oh, but he shouldn’t bother you. They like fish.”
Actually, he’d been picturing the bird carrying her off. But of course he didn’t tell her this.
“I keep thinking about your poor mother,” she said. “How did she stand it?”
“She didn’t, really.”
“Don’t tell me you lost her, too!”
“Not right away. But she was never the same after that night.”
Bridget dipped underwater for a moment and then came back up and stared at the fourlegged, oneeyed creature crouched in the end of the log. Why, she wondered, was she so eager to know his story?
“You managed to get home all right with only one eye?” she asked, hoping she wasn’t prying into his privacy too much.
“Eventually,” Bagley said.
He remembered staggering back to the den in the deathgray dawn. “There you are, dear,” his mother had said, thinking he was his father coming home as usual. “Shall I fix you a snack?” But he’d stumbled straight into his nook of the dark burrow and collapsed facedown in the dirt. Now that he was home, the pain and horror overwhelmed him.
Soon he’d felt a motherly paw on his back.
“Junior?”
He couldn’t speak.
“Were you out, Junior? What’s going on?”
He turned his head halfway around, good eye
up. “A hawk,” he managed in a choked voice.
“A hawk? You saw a hawk? When?”
“Just . . . now.”
“You were out. What on earth were you up to?”
“I was—watching Dad.”
“What about a hawk, Junior?” Now his mother’s voice was urgent.
“It—it came swooping down.”
“But hawks sleep at night.”
“A big hawk. With a huge head and huge claws.”
After a silence his mother whispered, “An owl.”
“An owl?”
“Merciless birds that hunt by night. They’re rare on Long Island. Did your father see it?”
Then Bagley let out a heartrending wail. “It took Daddy away,” he cried, turning over onto his back. “Into the sky.”
As this dreadful scene was flashing through Bagley’s mind, he realized the fish had spoken, but so quietly he couldn’t make out the words.
“Excuse me?” he said, leaning out over the edge of the log.
“What did your poor mother do when she found out what had happened?” Bridget asked a little louder.
“She fainted. On top of me. I shook her, but she wouldn’t wake up.”
“Poor you! What did you do then?”
Since she seemed so genuinely interested, he told her the rest of the neverbeforetold story. After working himself from under his mother’s body, he’d tottered out to the brook to get a mouthful of water. But not even a squirt in the face could bring her around. So he made a pillow of leaves for her head and went back to the brook to wash out his eye. By afternoon, when weasels started rolling eggs by to thank his father for completing the new tunnel, he’d fashioned an eye patch out of a piece of discarded snakeskin and a bit of vine. All he could bring himself to tell the visitors was that his father was “gone” and his mother was asleep. It wasn’t till late that night that his mother came around. And when she saw his patch and remembered the owl, her snout turned ashen, and she wouldn’t touch the egg yolk he’d separated for her. She lingered on for a few more weeks but never again ventured out of the den, and by winter he was alone.
“You’ve been by yourself ever since?” Bridget asked.
“Mm.”
She listed over to one side to see him better, her big eye catching the moonlight. “I know I’ve been nosy as an eel,” she said. “But will you tell me one more thing?”
“With pleasure.”
“It’s wonderful of you to bring the bugs every day. But why do you come here? We see muskrats, but never weasels.”
Bagley wasn’t sure what to say.
“Do you come to look at yourself in the water?” she asked.
“Oh, no.”
“Just I heard the swans say the pond makes a lovely mirror. I’ve always wished I could get out for a while and look in.”
“Well, I can tell you, you’re absolutely beautiful.”
“Why, what a nice thing to say! But if you don’t come to look at yourself, why do you come?”
Bagley hesitated, then said, “To look at you.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because, ever since I first saw you—it was one day early in the spring when you jumped completely out of the water . . . Ever since then, I’ve thought about you almost all the time.”
“You have?” This was flattering, but it was also perplexing. “Why should a weasel think about a fish?”
“I don’t know. I just do.”
“But . . . you don’t even swim, do you?”
“I could, a little, I suppose. But with my patch and everything, I never do.”
She thought how she sometimes wondered about him in the deep of night. And yet, grateful as she was for the bugs, and much as she sympathized about his losing his eye and his parents, the idea of feeling romantic about a creature with feet and fur was ridiculous. Rolling over farther, she took a peek at the moon. “My, it’s late,” she said, seeing how high it was. “I better say good night. Thank you so much for the bugs and for telling me your story.”
“You’re very welcome,” Bagley said, stung to think of her swimming away.
But she did. Alone, he remained with his head poking out the end of the hollow log, listening to the lapping of the distant waves. There were no more croaks now that the bullfrog had attracted a female. Bagley clenched his sharp teeth, wishing with all his heart for Bridget to return.
And then his wish came true. Her lovely head poked up again.
“You came back!” he said, overjoyed.
“I had to.”
“I’m so glad.”
“I had to,” she repeated. “I just couldn’t stand to leave that way.”
“How wonderful!”
“I mean, I couldn’t stand to think of you thinking about me.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you too much.”
“But that’s fantastic! I like you, too! More than that, I—”
“I mean,” she interrupted, “I like you too well to let you think about me. Unless of course you were pulling my fin.”
“Pulling your fin?”
“Kidding me—about thinking of me all the time.”
“Oh, no! I wouldn’t joke about that. If you don’t believe me, just come back tomorrow. And the next day, and the next. I’ll be right here.”
“That’s what I mean,” she said with a sigh. “I adore your bugs. They’re always so fresh—never more than a day old. But if you really feel that way about me, I don’t think you ought to come back.”
“Not come back? But why?”
“Because it would just cause you pain.”
“You mean, you could never . . . think about me?” His voice had become as hollow as the log. “No matter what?”
“I’m sorry. I truly am. But . . . fish are meant for fish.” She swam up closer, closer than she’d ever been. “If you weren’t so wonderful, I wouldn’t have come back just now,” she said softly. “But you are. So I couldn’t stand to think I was hurting you. You have to promise me you won’t come back.
“But I love coming here. I look forward to it all day.”
“That’s just what I mean! Please promise me. If you don’t, I’ll be miserable. Wait and see. After a few days away you won’t even remember what I look like. I’m really nothing special, you know. Will you promise?”
She was so close he could have touched her. “If you insist,” he said, heartbroken.
“Good. Now go and start forgetting me. It won’t take long—that’s my promise. But, you know, I think I’ll always remember you.”
She turned and swam off into the depths.
“Goodbye, Bridget,” Bagley whispered, staring out bleakly at the silverplated pond.
SOMETHING
Bagley didn’t move for a long time, hoping against hope that Bridget would return once more. But she didn’t. So at last he turned from her glimmering home and shuffled out of the log.
Depressed as he felt, his heart started pounding as soon as he came out of the reeds and cattails. As a young weasel he’d been almost reckless about open sky, but since the night of the owl he truly had been “skyscared,” as Zeke put it—particularly after dark.
Before crossing the deserted road, he looked towards the beach and saw, atop the secondtolast of the towering telephone poles, a huge nest silhouetted against the moon. It was on a little platform that human beings must have nailed on top of the pole just so a bird would make his home there. The nest was too far away for him to tell if the osprey was in it or not.
It was late when he got back to his den, so it startled him to hear someone speak as he was about to go inside.
“Bagley boy?”
On the opposite bank of the brook, the moonlight showed up a blaze of white—a weasel’s belly. Cuddled against this weasel was another, with radiantly dark fur.
“Evening, Zeke,” Bagley said. “Evening, Wendy.”
“We’ve been waiting for you, Bagley boy,” Zeke said. “Never knew you were such a night
owl.”
Bagley winced at the word “owl.” But since he wasn’t in the moonlight neither of his visitors noticed.
“Would you like to come in?” he asked politely.
“We better not,” Zeke said. “Mr. Blackish had some shooting pains in his tail, so Mrs. B took him home early—but they’re probably getting worried about Wendy by now. We just wanted to stop by and thank you.”
“Thank me? For what?”
“For giving me the invite to the Tantails’ shindig,” Zeke said. “Remember what I said about if there’s anything I can ever do for you, just holler? Well, that goes double now.”
Bagley had totally forgotten about today’s tea dance. “You had a good time?”
“The best,” Zeke said, pulling Wendy even closer to him. “We really kicked up our paws, didn’t we?”
Wendy looked up from the brook for the first time. “I was pretty mad at you, Bagley,” she said.
“I don’t blame you,” he admitted. “It was rude of me to give away the invitation.”
“Yes,” Wendy said, looking down again. “It was.”
“But you see, Zeke seemed to want it so badly, and I assumed I could go without it, if I wanted to. Then the whole thing slipped right out of my head, idiot that I am. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, Wendy.”
“Well,” she said. “Zeke did show me a wonderful time.”
“We gave those old fogies a real eyeful, didn’t we?” Zeke said proudly. “She’s the spiffiest partner you ever saw, Bagley. And only her second time out!”
“I’m glad everything worked out for the best,” Bagley said, trying to smile. But it wasn’t easy. There was Zeke, with a lovely weasel at his side, while he was in love with a creature who could never love him back, who lived deep in a pond he’d just promised never to visit again.
“See you around, Bagley boy,” Zeke said. “Maybe on egg duty.”
“Good night, Zeke. Good night, Wendy.”
“Good night, Bagley,” Wendy said, giving him a crooked smile.
Once the happy pair was gone, Bagley crept into his den and went to bed. In his present mood, sleep would be a blessing. But as soon as he closed his eye, he saw Bridget, her lovely head poking out of the moonlit pond. And he heard her bubbly voice: After a few days away, you won’t even remember what I look like. I’m really nothing special, you know.