Myth and Magic

by Radclyffe

  A rasping croak roused her from her paralysis, and she turned to regard the frog. It hadn’t got very far with its attempts to write, but it had managed a large letter B followed by the beginnings of an r. The sight of it brought the truth thudding home, and her knees buckled.

  “Bruna!” she cried.

  *

  “Kissing the frog is out of the question,” said the king, frowning as he regarded the yellow frog now sitting on the table in his privy chamber.

  “But, Father,” said Margery. “What other choice is there? We can’t leave Bruna like this and we can’t lose any time. If she stays in frog form, there must be a risk of her becoming more and more like one and—”

  “If it is her,” interrupted Prince Oliver, who wasn’t one of the king’s advisors but had barged his way into the hastily convened meeting, “we still don’t know that letter isn’t a complete pack of lies.”

  “It isn’t.” She brandished the frog’s inky scrawl.

  “Coincidence.”

  Margery glared at her brother. “Then provide her with more paper and ink and ask her to write something.”

  “Hush, child,” said the queen, who like Oliver had insisted on being present. “You came here for our advice. Let us give it.”

  Margery bit her lip and subsided.

  “That is Tokju’s seal,” said the Keeper of the Privy Seal.

  “And my niece is missing and this strange frog has appeared in her place,” said the chamberlain quietly. No one would meet his gaze, so Margery slipped her hand in his, and felt him squeeze it.

  The king grunted. “Even if Tokju wrote the letter, there’s no guarantee everything it says is true. I’ve never heard of a curse like this.”

  “I have,” said the chancellor. Once he was sure of everyone’s attention, he continued, “My second cousin is ambassador to the Khen Empire. Last year, apparently, Khen’s treasurer went missing after a…a fracas involving Tokju.”

  “Did the emperor’s moneybox go missing too?” asked Oliver.

  The chancellor took the sarcastic question at face value. “No. They found a strange bloodhound in the treasurer’s bedchamber, believed from its odd behavior that it was rabid, and destroyed it.” He saw their expressions, and added, “The treasurer was well known to have an aversion to dogs.”

  Margery grimaced. It sounded like just the kind of “joke” that would appeal to the vindictive ambassador. She balled her hands into fists. If he was so dangerous, why had they permitted him to come here? Were they so afraid of offending the ruler of the Empire Beyond the Sea?

  Oliver’s brows knit. “All right,” he allowed. “But even if Tokju did curse Bruna, there’s no guarantee kissing the frog would undo it. It may be a trick to get Margery to kill herself.”

  “I don’t think it’s a trick,” she said.

  He held her gaze. “Are you willing to wager your life on that?”

  “The fact remains,” said the king, after a moment, “the frog is poisonous. And according to the court physician, there is no known antidote to its venom. It must not be kissed…by anyone.” He threw his chamberlain a look of apology. “As the frog is Bruna, it will not, of course, be destroyed. And Margery will see that it’s well cared for, won’t you, my dear?”

  “But, Father!” she protested.

  “Thank you, sire,” said the chamberlain. Disappointed by his reaction, she withdrew her hand, prompting a sad, defeated glance.

  Before Margery could object further, her mother shushed her. “Your father is right, Margery. There is nothing to be done. And in any case, Bruna would not want you to give up your life for her, would she?”

  At the queen’s words, the frog let out a loud croak that made everyone jump and hide embarrassed smiles.

  Margery brooded. She had been so concerned with getting Bruna returned to human form, she hadn’t considered that. Were she in Bruna’s place, she wouldn’t want to be the cause of her death. And to live on without her and know she was the cause of that absence… Stumped, she chewed her lip and consoled herself by imagining Tokju suffering a long, painful death.

  *

  The days passed and Margery grew used to seeing the vivid yellow frog that was Bruna emerge from its gilded cage, now minus a door, and hop around the bedchamber. Its sticky tongue zapped any cockroach or spider foolish enough to stray within reach. As the menagerie keeper kept it well supplied with crickets and worms, there was no need for it to supplement its diet in this way, so it must be due to frog instincts that Bruna either would not, or more worryingly could not, resist.

  She missed her girlfriend. Not just for her kisses, which had sent delightful shivers through her, but for the way they could share their thoughts and feelings, light or dark, on any subject under the sun. The difference in their stations had never mattered, so why should a change of appearance? But conversing with the frog was tortuous, though it was able to form its inky letters faster now, and most of the time they were reduced to regarding one another in silent sadness.

  At the King and Queen’s behest, the menagerie keeper had sent word to a trader who had dealings with the Empire Beyond the Sea, requesting him to acquire some of the food a yellow tree frog would encounter in its natural habitat. Margery had mixed feelings about that, for wasn’t it an admission that Bruna’s condition might be permanent? Usually she was able to thrust that unbearable thought to one side. Not today, though. Seeing Bruna eating one of the largest spiders Margery had ever seen made her feel ill.

  “This can’t go on.” At her exclamation, the crunching noises stopped, and the frog turned to regard her, two spider’s legs sticking out of its mouth. I must do something.

  The thick gauntlets provided by the menagerie keeper were lying next to the cage. Giving herself no time to think—if she did, her usual paralysis would grip her—Margery pulled on the gloves and advanced on Bruna.

  The frog let out a croak of alarm and hopped sideways—not fast enough. Margery swooped and took it in a firm, two-handed grip.

  Heart pounding, and with a murmured, “Forgive me, Bruna,” she raised the frog to her lips and kissed it.

  *

  When awareness returned, Margery found a familiar pair of brown eyes gazing down at her. Am I dreaming? She closed her eyelids and opened them again. Bruna was still there, standing next to the four-poster bed in which Margery lay, and which from the hangings was Margery’s own.

  Bruna turned and spoke to someone out of Margery’s field of vision. “Tell the king and queen their daughter’s awake.”

  She felt exhausted and bruised, as if she had been in a wrestling match with an opponent much larger and stronger than her. “Have I been ill?” The words came out in a froglike croak, as her parched tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.

  “Very. At one point, we feared you might die.” Bruna held a goblet to Margery’s lips. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

  The cool, clear water brought welcome refreshment, and relief of another kind flooded through her. It must have been a fever dream. “I had the most ridiculous dream,” she said, smiling. “I thought Tokju cursed you and turned you into a frog.”

  “He did.” The king’s voice. Seconds later he had taken Bruna’s place.

  Her thoughts still sluggish, Margery blinked up at him. “Did he?”

  He nodded. “It was rash of you to risk your life like that. The poison almost killed you.”

  “Almost?” Margery frowned. “Did the physician find some antidote at the last minute?”

  Her father shook his head, expression grim. “You were fortunate.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Bruna will tell you everything. I have a meeting to attend.” His stern gaze softened. “Foolish child.” He bent his head and kissed her, his beard prickling her cheek. “I’m glad you are well. Your mother will be along to see you shortly.”

  He vanished and Bruna reappeared and took Margery’s hand in hers. “The menagerie keeper thinks it was the food I ate.”

/>   “What?”

  “My diet. What Tokju didn’t know, or if he did, didn’t care about—a miscalculation on his part—is that a tree frog’s poison comes largely from the things it eats. And as I had been eating crickets and worms and spiders—” She paled and held a hand to her mouth. “Forgive me, just the memory of it makes me feel a little nauseous.”

  “So you had become less deadly?” prompted Margery.

  Bruna nodded. “Which is why, when you kissed me, you didn’t die. Though you came close.” She shuddered at the memory. “Tokju’s letter went up in flames when you broke the curse, by the way. So we no longer have any evidence to bring against him.”

  “Damn the man.”

  “Your father won’t permit him to come here again, though, so the Empire Beyond the Sea will have to choose another ambassador.”

  “Good,” said Margery, with feeling.

  Silence fell. From the sounds in the corridor outside, the queen would be here any minute.

  “I’m so sorry, Marg,” said Bruna. “If he hadn’t caught me hiding the dye-filled eggshell in his luggage—”

  “Is that what you were doing?” Margery rolled her eyes. “You and your practical jokes.”

  “Tokju had it coming. Besides, I only meant to ruin some of those fancy robes of his. How was I to know he’d curse me for it?” Bruna’s indignation was fleeting, though, and her eyes began to dance and her cheeks to dimple in the most delightful way. “Anyway, all’s well that ends well. But I wish we could have seen Tokju’s face when he discovered the other eggshell.”

  “There were two of them?” said Margery. “What was in it? More dye?”

  Bruna shook her head and burst out laughing. “Rotten fish guts.”

  Rhidian Brenig Jones has herded sheep in New Zealand, taught English in Poland, and run a bar on the Costa del Sol. Now settled back home in Wales, he leads an adult literacy program and writes whenever he can snatch a spare hour. He lives with his husband, Michael, and two arthritic Labradors.

  This story is based on “The Snow Queen.”

  The Snow King

  Rhidian Brenig Jones

  Once, at high summer, two boys were born. Their mothers were affectionate friends and had arranged things very satisfactorily indeed, for their babies arrived within three days of each other. It often happened that if Annalena was busy hanging out the washing, Eila would take both babies to her breast, and if Eila was busy making her cheese, why, Annalena would quickly pluck her squalling boy from his wooden cradle and suckle him with her own son. The boys grew, and if there were two mothers to deliver slaps to naughty backsides, there were also two to wipe away childish tears or press honey cakes into eager little paws. They grew quickly, sturdy and straight and handsome and, hearing their laughter, the villagers believed that something of the July day of their birth had entered the boys’ souls, for they were sweet-natured and sunny and loving. So they were and so they remained as the years passed, and if Dara grew a little taller, then Remi had the bluer eyes and the softer mouth.

  Such a soft mouth. Dara knew it well, for as their boyhood passed, so their childlike love for each other deepened into the passionate love of young men. More than friends, closer than brothers, their souls were one, merged and mingled almost from birth, and now their bodies, too, united. Indeed, at times, when one was locked in the other and their breath came fast and one cried into the other’s mouth when his hot seed spilled, neither could be sure where he ended and his beloved began. Seeing their love, the village mothers sighed, saddened that such fine seed would never swell their daughters’ bellies, but there were many other lads with strong backs and stout limbs and so they held their peace.

  When Dara and Remi were twenty, winter came hard and early, holding the land in an iron grip. The trees in the great forest that encircled the village creaked under a weight of snow that broke their branches, and icicles hung like daggers from every eave. Monstrous yellow clouds piled above the hills, withholding another fall of snow until it suited them to drop it on the shivering village. One day, the boys buttoned themselves into their warmest coats, jammed on their fur hats, and set out to bring home a Yule log, because the time of the mid-winter feast was fast approaching. Remi swung the ax as they wound between the trees, slashing at snow to warm his muscles; of the two, he had the best eye for a good tree and for where to cut. Dara walked at his side, flicking a rope at Remi’s legs for the pure annoyance of it.

  “You do that one more time and you’ll be sorry.”

  “Why? What’re you going to do?”

  “You’ll see…Dara!” Remi made a grab but Dara danced away, snapping and feinting, laughing out loud as Remi lost his footing and fell sideways into a deep drift. Still laughing, he reached out an arm and hauled his lover to his feet and dusted him down.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t chop my foot off,” Remi complained, struggling for a little in Dara’s arms.

  Dara kissed his mouth. “Think I wouldn’t love you if you lost a foot?”

  “Would you?”

  “Yes.” He slid his hand into Remi’s coat. “Might not love you if you lost this, though.”

  “It’s all you love me for, isn’t it?” Remi asked, pushing into his palm.

  “Mmm.”

  “Don’t get it out, it’ll freeze solid.”

  “I’d better not, then, had I?” Dara tilted his head and kissed him again, walking him backward toward an enormous pine. “I’ll just do it like this. Nice and warm under your coat.”

  The deep silence of the forest held, broken only by Remi’s moans and Dara’s fast breathing as he stroked and caressed, feeling the hot flesh grow even harder as it readied to release. But suddenly, startling Remi, he stopped and jerked his mouth away from Remi’s chilly cheek.

  “What? What is it?”

  “I’m not sure.” Dara looked around. Nothing. There was nothing there, nothing but silence and the lowering sky and the countless trees, immense under their glittering palls of snow. He returned his mouth to Remi’s puzzled face and his hand to his cock, but his eyes darted suspiciously from tree to tree. “For a moment, I thought…”

  “Don’t think. Just do it, make me—oh, oh, yes, like that.”

  But when, moments later, Remi cried out and his hot seed spurted onto the snow, Dara’s flesh was crawling. Something had been watching them, he was sure of it. Dark eyes. Black eyes. Black eyes…wanting.

  Even for two strong young men, the weight of the log made the return journey difficult going and needles of snow had begun to hiss through the gaps in the trees. They bent their shoulders to the wind and hauled and sweated, cursing as the log threatened to upend as it bumped and jammed on hidden hummocks. Hauling at the front, Dara turned as he felt Remi drop his end.

  “What’s the matter?” He slithered back to where Remi stood, bent at the waist, rocking, his hands covering his face.

  “My eye, there’s something in my eye.”

  “Let me see, move your hand, let me see.”

  “No, leave it—no, Dara!”

  Dara stepped away and watched Remi slowly drop his hands and blink away tears.

  “It’s gone.”

  “What was it?”

  “It felt like ice, ice stabbing my eye.”

  “Come on, let’s get home.” Dara picked up the rope and glanced at the sky. “It’s going to come down hard tonight.”

  *

  Warm and snug under a goose-feather quilt, Dara ran his toes up and down Remi’s calf. “My turn,” he murmured, kissing his shoulder, “in case you’d forgotten.”

  But to Dara’s astonishment, Remi shrugged away. “Not tonight.”

  “Is your eye still hurting? Want me to kiss it better?”

  “Don’t, Dara. Leave me alone. I’m tired.”

  The two had slept together since they were toddlers, fretful and whiny if kept in their own beds. Under the eaves of one cottage or the other, skinny legs entwined, they had planned great quests, how they would ride out to
explore the mysterious north lands where the ice-dragons dreamed, curled on their hoards of diamonds. Smaller adventures, too, plots closer to home. Dara to distract Eila from her cooking fire, Remi to snatch hot currant bread from the griddle, and both to race away, laughing at her angry yells. Year in, year out, close in each other’s arms, they slept. Nearing manhood, they explored the mysterious places of their bodies, their lusty loving bringing pleasure beyond imagining. But this night, for the first time, Remi pushed Dara away.

  It was the beginning of a dreadful change. As if a cloud had covered the sun of his soul, Remi became morose, prone to black and spiteful moods. The villagers stared, aghast, when he followed poor, crippled Ada along the lane, lurching and hopping in jeering mockery of her lameness. He heard only the false notes from his little brother’s flute and took care to point them out, sneering at the boy when he blushed and hung his head. Until then a tender and passionate lover, he curled his lip, flicking Dara’s seed off his hand in disgust rather than licking it up, as he had always loved to do. People avoided him, dreading the cruel remarks that left them red and furious, unable to think of a clever answer. Even Dara recoiled from the lash of his tongue and watched him, hurt and wondering.

  One night, Dara woke from an uneasy sleep. He was cold and turned over, wanting Remi’s warmth, although he didn’t dare tumble joyously on him as he used to do, kiss him until both were breathless, their cocks hard and aching. But Remi wasn’t there. Dara pushed off the covers. Moonlight filled the room and it was very cold. Pulling a blanket around his shoulders, he got up and quietly made his way down the stairs, wincing at each squeak of the treads, not wanting to disturb Remi’s family. Icy air swirled around his ankles; the door of the cottage stood ajar. He looked out into the dark and his heart stopped in his chest. Remi walked across the yard.