by Linda Talbot
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THREE
All this talk about food has made the Swiftifoots extremely hungry. They recall the soggy morsels found on their forest floor and long once more to be wet and well fed.
Fifi is missing the Paradise petals and wondering if she will soon flutter to a standstill, but she is carried aloft as though on a cushion by patient Porlock, while the Swiftifoots straggle wearily in their wake.
Gradually the vast plain changes. Small green plants grow here and there. Then trees appear, ranged like old friends, but unlike the dripping trees of the Swiftifoots’ home, for these reach skywards with tall stems ringed with needle-like leaves. Some stems have broadened into trunks, while underfoot many kinds of moss grow, soft as a carpet caressing the Swiftifoots’ sore feet.
Crump chuckles and bounces on it, but Squidge is frightened by the long needles on the trees that seem to dip deliberately in his direction. The moss is so springy that Fifi has to hang on hard to Porlock for fear of falling off.
Legs peevishly complains and sighs for salt water, as his tentacles get entangled in the undergrowth. Snurk wants to sink into the moss and be mistaken for a mushroom, thinking, “I’m much too old for this. Just let me lie down.”
But he plods on while Sven peers anxiously through the thick growth where leaves are now beginning to spread and reach like great green umbrellas towards the light.
The Swiftifoots do not know that they have travelled on in time, from the days of volcanoes and violent storms to the first forests that flourished long before theirs, which they had always believed to be the oldest on Earth.
There are curious plants which they pick and nibble at, but soon the trees thin and in a clearing runs a silver stream. In they spring, soaking their parched skins and taking great gulps of water.
Suddenly Squidge shrieks and leaps out backwards. Looking up, the Swiftifoots see a strange green creature with bulging black and red eyes, fly from one branch of a tree to another. His legs are as long and his skin as moist as any Swiftifoot’s, as he squats and blinks at them from the branch.
Sven steps onto a rock rising from the water and enquires, “Well, and who, may I ask are YOU?”
Bulging indignantly on his branch, the creature replies, “WHIZZLY, the FLYING TREE FROG. I heard you discussing dinner and if you’re thinking of eating ME, forget it!”
“No, no, we wouldn’t dream of it. We’re going to feed on the petals of Paradise Flowers,” says Sven, “If you’re tired of the forest, you’re welcome to come along.”
The tree frog swallows hard, a floppy sack under his chin wobbles and he spreads big webbed feet like four parachutes poised for flight.
“ME? Tired of TREES? NEVER!” he says, “On the ground who is to say what might spring upon one from behind or drop down onto one from the trees? I suggest you start living in trees this instant if you don’t want to be SPRUNG UPON and DEVOURED.”
“But the Land of Paradise Flowers has several thick forests,” urges Fifi, “And if you lived on Paradise petals you could leap from one end to the other in half the time.”
Whizzly blinks suspiciously, but being vain, says, “I’ll come if you promise I’ll fly faster than any frog on Earth.” And, glowing as green as the great leaves about him, he bulges even bigger.
Legs sneers at such a bumptious creature and waves three tentacles in disdain, but decides Whizzly is not even worthy of his contempt.
“Come meet my relatives,” says Whizzly. The Swiftifoots follow the frog through the forest until a curious chorus of belches, groans and clicks is heard and on reaching a pond in a clearing, they see a dim huddle of frogs with open mouths who are making this appalling noise.
Sven can barely be heard above the din as he comments, “This must be the Frogs’ Song. Perhaps it’s why Whizzly has no song of his own. Frogs form choirs.”
“Quiet, quiet!” croaks Whizzly, squatting on a small rock by the water. “I want you to meet the Swiftifoots, Porlock, Fifi and - er - Legs, who are on their way to the Land of Paradise Flowers.”
Gradually the clicks, belches and groans subside and with huge eyes bulging, the frogs look blankly at the motley group that mostly look like mushrooms, with a being that foolishly has no legs and another that has too many.
“Sit down, sit down!” urges Whizzly. “Let me tell you tales of the wonderful race of frogs.”
The Swiftifoots sink to the ground, folding their long legs under them, and prepare to listen. The frogs gather in a semi-circle, watching Whizzly, who swells proudly on his rock and begins, “We are, of course most remarkable because we live in and out of the water. We hatch from eggs and in one far country our father frogs keep these eggs in their mouths until they grow into baby frogs and leap out.”
“Huh!” exclaims Legs. “That’s a likely story. Whoever heard of eggs hatching like that. The frog would swallow them.”
“No no, there are special bags at the corners of his mouth where the eggs are kept as they grow,” Whizzly insists.
Legs still looks doubtful, convinced that Whizzly is just a show off who can’t help telling tales. “I suppose next you’ll tell us there are frogs that travel three metres in one leap,” he says.
“Of course!” replies Whizzly. “There is the Goliath frog - I’ve seen it - and there is the water holding frog, who comes above ground when it rains, takes in water through his skin, then buries himself in the sand where the water may last him for two years. And the fire-bellied toad, who throws himself on his back if he is attacked and blazes with a pattern of yellow and black and pumps out poison....”
“Stop, stop!” says Legs, “I don’t believe a word of it. You are just a puffed-up creature with nothing better to do than sing out of tune and tell tall stories.”
And with a great swipe of one tentacle, Legs knocks Whizzly off his rock. He falls with a heavy PLOP into the water and the other frogs begin to belch and click again, this time in anger.
The Swiftifoots scramble to their feet and before Whizzly can rise from the water, they flee through the trees. Now Whizzly will never feed on the petals of Paradise Flowers and leap like the Goliath frog. He was too boastful.
The Swiftifoots have never run so fast. They can hear the frogs leaping like lightning behind them through the trees. One drops onto Porlock and Fifi hurriedly draws in her tiny head as the green creature slithers across the pores.
The Swiftifoots know they cannot outleap the frogs, but suddenly Sven spots a huge hollow tree and with a piercing cry that the Swiftifoots know means “FOLLOW ME!” in time of danger, he dives into it.
The other Swiftifoots follow, but Legs and Porlock are too large, so Legs flattens himself on the ground to resemble sprawling black tree roots, while Porlock huddles against the trunk.
The frogs fly overhead. They travel too fast to notice the Swiftifoots’ disappearance and soon vanish, their belches and clicks growing faint on the night air. Exhausted, the Swiftifoots wait until all they can hear is the rustle of the great trees, reminding them of a rare dry night at home.
Legs slowly disentangles his tentacles and mumbling indignantly, arches upright. Fifi scrambles down from Porlock while Snurk, determined to sleep, at last uncomfortably curls up in the hollow tree. The Swiftifoots creep onto the forest floor and doze. Soon dawn breaks, and drowsy with sleep and hunger, they line up once more to move on.
It is mid morning when the trees thin and the Swiftifoots stand before a murky swamp; its brown water motionless, long creepers dipping green fingers into sullen depths. In the middle lies a lumpy brown log that suddenly shoots through the water towards them.
The Swiftifoots halt in amazement. How can a log move when the water is motionless? Then one end of the log opens a great gaping jaw and above it, they notice two beady eyes.
Sven leaps backwards and the Swiftifoots tumble into an untidy heap. Then Sven says to the log, “Before you come nearer, I must warn you we are NOT good to eat and we ARE in a hurry to reach the Land of Paradise Flower
s, so we’ll be obliged if we are not detained. But should you wish to accompany us, you are welcome. By the way, what are you?”
The log-like creature blinks and opens his jaws to show rows of sharp teeth. I am SSHNAPS, the CROCODILE, the largest living reptile. Does the sun shine in your land of flowers? I need some soon because my blood is extremely cold.”
“Oh yes, it will shine all day if you wish,” says Fifi, fearful of those great jaws. “Why are you called Sshnaps?”
The crocodile says, “Because when I spot something good to eat, I swim towards it silently - ssh! - then, SNAP - I have it. MEN make the most tasty meals. But I haven’t seen any lately.”
Everyone shudders at the mention once more of men.
“That’s because you have been swept back in time with us,” says Sven, “But I’m sure we are moving closer to these men, you speak of.”
“I’m glad you can take me to the sun,” Sshnaps continues. “It is very tiresome being confined to a cold swamp and gone are the days when my marvellous ancestors, the dinosaurs, ruled the Earth.”
“Oh, not another boaster,” grumbles Legs.
“As we have travelled back in time they may still be around,” murmurs Sven.
Sshnaps ignores the interruption and adds, “Everyone thinks I am simply a log left in the water. It is most distressing when one would welcome a worthwhile conversation. No one considers discussing their daily affairs with a discarded tree trunk. Ah well, I must find SSHNAPILLA my wife. She has buried forty eggs which are about to hatch.”
“They will no doubt be carried about in her mouth until they are big enough to jump out,” sneers Legs, remembering what Whizzly said about father frogs carrying the eggs of their offspring.
“Yes,” replies Sshnaps. “Sshnapilla carries her babies in her mouth to a safe place until they are big enough to look after themselves.”
“I knew it,” groans Legs, “What a foolish way to behave. One gulp and there goes your family.”
The crocodile ignores him again, wondering how such an ungainly being with so many legs can walk through a forest without getting hopelessly entangled. Sshnaps slithers out of the water and begins to run very fast along the bank. The Swiftifoots follow and soon they reach a second dank swamp with another log-like crocodile lying near the edge.
“Meet Sshnapilla,” says Sshnaps. The Swiftifoots find it hard to distinguish between them, especially when both break into slow song:
“It’s dull in this ditch
With water like pitch.
Let us find a wide river where we can slither
And dream of days when with loud cries
Dinosaurs of monstrous size,
With thrashing tails and gleaming eyes
Would roar, and some with wings would soar.
Giants of the earth, sea and sky.”
Gazing at the crocodiles’ gaping jaws, the Swiftifoots can imagine such creatures. And might Sven be right? May they be far enough back in time to meet one?
Suddenly Sshnapilla seems to be listening. She slides into the water and swims some distance before stopping by the bank.
“She can hear our babies crying,” explains Sshnaps. “That means they are ready to hatch.” Urgently Sshnapilla scrapes away the sand to reveal the squirming baby crocodiles.
“How can you carry all those to the Land of Paradise Flowers?” asks Sven anxiously. Sshnapilla opens and shuts her great jaws in agitation, then replies, “I’ll take as many as I can. We must find some sunshine to warm our cold blood or we’ll die.”
She grabs six babies and the Swiftifoots set off again, the crocodiles swimming beside them through the brackish water.
Suddenly a roar shakes the trees. The earth trembles. Then a huge scaly head with piercing eyes and a mouth of sharp white teeth thrusts through the foliage. A dinosaur.
Through the trees, diamond-shaped plates are visible along the length of its shuddering body and its huge feet thunder, one by one, like rocks dropped by a giant.
Everyone flees. They dive, swerve, scurry and slide beneath flapping fronds and the enormous trunks of trees. Legs at last gets entangled in the creepers, but, spurred by fear, he pulls his tentacles free and slithers after the others.
Still the earth shakes. Despite his size, the great beast is moving fast, but the Swiftifoots, Fifi and the animals move faster, until, gasping and exhausted, they sink in the undergrowth.
The roars are distant and the earth has stopped trembling. They wait a long time to be sure the dinosaur is no longer in pursuit.
“What happened to the dinosaurs?” Snurk asks Sshnaps.
“They were around for many years but eventually may have died because the Earth got colder or they may have been affected by a meteor that landed on the Earth. No one knows for sure.”
They set off once more, pausing every few steps to listen. But only a low wind rustles the leaves and lifts the creepers.
Berries grow here and there, which the Swiftifoots munch as they march, although Legs longs for the tang of delicacies soaked in sea salt. Crump tries to swing on the creepers but keeps falling off and getting lost in the long grass, while Squidge patters gingerly behind Porlock, shivering as he imagines how the baby crocodiles must feel, clutched in Sshnapilla’s great jaws.
As night draws on and the crocodiles waddle onto the land, a low rumble stirs the trees. Another dinosaur? Thunder? But where is the lightning and the rain?
They move on cautiously, when suddenly, from the midst of a tangled bush, thrusts another huge head with a big bone protruding from above a hatchet-shaped bill and a bright blue neck. Jerking it fiercely, the creature gazes at the extraordinary collection of beings; leaping, bouncing and slithering towards him. They stumble and stop, waiting for Sven to make his usual inquiries.
But before he can say a word, the being steps with dignity from the bush. He has long legs and feathers like coarse hair, wings with stubby quills as thick as knitting needles and his claws are like barbed arrow heads. Raising his huge head, he silently confronts the Swiftifoots.
Sven swallows and asks in a small voice, “I - er - was wondering - what are you? - a bird perhaps?” The last words are uttered in a rush.
The creature looks down on him in disdain. “I am THOR - the CASSOWARY, the noblest of the flightless birds. I thought you might be those deplorable creatures - MEN - who never give us a moment’s peace. They jump on our backs so our legs crumple - can you imagine the discomfort and indignity? They steal our chicks which their wives rear with their children and they wear our feathers in their hair. Then they take us to a ceremony where we are strung round men’s shoulders while they dance. But we are so heavy they can only dance for half an hour. Then we are killed with PIGS - would you believe? We are plucked, wrapped in banana leaves and cooked - UGH!” With a melancholy sigh and a rumble, Thor sings:
“I am King of the flightless birds.
Where are my wings? you ask.
Imagine their span as I thundered and ran
But I cannot fly and that is why
I must find a forest unhunted by man.”
Those MEN again. What appalling things they do. Will they be the next creatures the Swiftifoots find in the forest?
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