Imogene jumped to directly in front of the chair and cleared her throat. Which is pretty impressive when a frog does it.
The witch didn’t seem to notice.
Not being noticed was something Imogene could fix. With her renewed vigor, she jumped onto the book.
“Hey!” the witch said. “Your feet are wet!”
“I’m a frog,” Imogene reminded her.
“You’re a frog who’s leaving wet footprints on my book.”
“Well,” Imogene pointed out, her patience having snapped, “I wouldn’t be able to do that if I was, for example, back in my princess shape.”
“Probably not,” the witch agreed. “Unless it was a very big book.”
Imogene frequently found it difficult to talk to adults, but this witch was impossible.
And yet the witch slid a hand beneath Imogene’s feet to protect the book, but she didn’t toss Imogene back into the well, or anywhere else for that matter. Instead, she continued to sit with a patience—or at least a stillness—that seemed to be a sign that she was willing to listen.
Imogene asked, “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“You indicated that you were a princess,” the witch said, “though, of course, I have no way of knowing if that’s true.”
“As a matter of fact,” Imogene said, “speaking of things true and not true . . . I’m the princess who kissed the wainwright’s boy you turned into a frog, and he lied to me.”
The witch’s brow furrowed as she tried to work this out. “Did you kiss him before I turned him into a frog or after?”
“Af—” Imogene started to say, but she interrupted herself to go “Eww!” and then again “Eww!” before she finished with “After.” Then she added another “Eww.”
“All right,” the witch said. “And your point—beyond Eww!—is . . . ?”
“He told me he was a prince,” Imogene explained, “and that I needed to kiss him for him to turn back into a prince.”
“You’re a very gullible princess,” the witch said.
Imogene stamped one of her little green feet in frustration for how this conversation was going.
The witch asked, “So, is the Eww! for him being a wainwright’s boy and not a prince? Making you not only gullible, but stuck-up?”
Stuck-up was the way Imogene thought her mother acted, and she hated to be compared to her. “The Eww!” she protested, “is because I’m only twelve. Well, almost thirteen, but not for another two weeks. But still, I don’t kiss boys. Well, once, when we were both five, I kissed Prince Malcolm, who’s the son of my father’s best friend, King Calum. But our parents made us do it, because we hardly ever see them since they live so far away, and all the grownups were kissing one another to say goodbye when they were returning home, and they made us.”
“Twelve is very young,” the witch agreed wistfully. “I can almost remember being twelve myself . . .” She looked as though she was beginning to drift off into a pleasant daydream.
“But what I’m saying,” Imogene said, rather loudly, to bring the witch back out of her memories, “is that you turned the wainwright’s boy into a frog, for stealing apples for himself and his hungry brothers and sisters—he admitted to me afterward—and for throwing apples at your front door, and, yes, he did tell me that one of them accidentally hit you . . .”
“Gullible,” the witch accused Imogene once again. “He is the ringleader of a group of boys who have come here just about every day this summer. They take the fruit off the trees, which is something they’d be welcome to if they ate them. But mostly they use them to have battles, hurling them at each other and at my house. They climb the trees and break the branches; they trample my herb garden; they throw old shoes down my well. Yesterday I’d had my fill.”
“Oh,” Imogene said. She should have guessed from the way Harry had been so reluctant to share the story that he had not told her the half of it. “I am truly sorry they’ve been tormenting you.”
The witch said, “Well, at least you are more polite than they are.”
Which gave Imogene the courage to say, “So, he did what he did, you did what you did—and I’m not saying you were wrong to get annoyed at him—but then all I did was to feel sorry for this poor little frog who told me he hadn’t done anything wrong, and that he needed me to kiss him back into human shape. And he didn’t warn me I would become a frog in his place.”
“Hmm,” the witch said. “Does that mean you wouldn’t have helped him if you had known it would cost you?”
“I—I don’t know,” Imogene stammered. She thought about it for several seconds. All the while, the witch didn’t say anything. Finally, Imogene admitted, “Probably not. I would have tried to find some other way to help him, but I probably wouldn’t have kissed him.” She realized she had just revealed to the old witch how entirely less-than-a-perfect-princess she was. “Does that mean you won’t turn me back to my real form?”
The witch shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. I was just curious. I myself think it would be incredibly foolish for someone to sacrifice her life as a human for a boy she hardly knew.”
With a sigh of relief that the question hadn’t been a good-princess test, Imogene said, “So, you’ll turn me back? Thank you! I’ll tell my father what you said about the boys, and maybe he can assign a guard, or have a wall built, or decree it illegal for anyone to bother you, or . . .” Imogene’s voice petered off when she saw that the witch was shaking her head.
“I wish I could help you,” the witch said. “But when those four apples he threw hit me on the head like that, one after the other—bonk! bonk! bonk! bonk!—I lost my temper.”
“Yes.” Imogene nodded, but her little frog stomach was doing flip-flops. “So you said.”
“I . . .” the old witch started. “Well, the fact is I cast the very first frogging spell that came to mind. Before really thinking things out. I can’t just take it back. There is no charm to make it go away. I am so sorry. The only way for you to return to your own self is if someone kisses you and becomes a frog in your place. There is nothing I can do to change that.”
Imogene sat down heavily. Well, as heavily as a frog can. Which isn’t very.
Which was a good thing, because the witch was still holding her in her open palm.
“So there’s nothing I can do?” Imogene asked. “I’m trapped?”
As though talking to someone of very limited intelligence, the witch spoke slowly and distinctly. She said, “You can get someone else to kiss you.”
Then she said, “That way, that person will be a frog in your place.”
And then she said, “At which point, you yourself will no longer be a frog.”
“I understand,” Imogene said. “But I couldn’t do that to someone.”
The witch considered this, then asked, “Because of the whole twelve-going-on-thirteen-so-you’re-not-big-into-kissing thing?”
“No,” Imogene said. “Because it’s wrong.”
Once again the witch enunciated very carefully. “Nooo. That is the correct way to break this particular spell.”
“I don’t mean wrong wrong,” Imogene explained. “I mean . . . you know . . . wrong.”
“Ah! Now that you’ve clarified that . . .” the witch said.
But after a few moments, she added, “If it was me, I would give serious consideration to how to turn this back on the boy who started all this—the wainwright’s boy.”
That’s only fair, Imogene thought. Sort of. She supposed. Or at least it was one way of looking at things.
“Maybe,” she agreed. “But even so, I think that under the circumstances, he won’t be very inclined to go about kissing any frogs, even if I managed to hide my identity.”
“Good point,” the witch admitted. She thought some more, then suggested, “Perhaps you could take turns with someone. I’m guessing the wainwright’s boy probably wouldn’t work out for this, which is a pity. But maybe other friends, or family members, might be willing t
o share the enchantment. For example, you could be a frog on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Your father could substitute for you on Tuesdays, your mother on Thursdays, and your little brother on the weekends. Maybe this Prince Malcolm might want to give being a frog a try the next time his family comes to visit. It could be a learning and bonding experience for all of you.”
“I don’t think so,” Imogene said.
“Sure, shoot down all my ideas,” the witch said. She shrugged. “But, really, that’s neither here nor there. You’ll choose as you choose, and, after all, it’s nothing to do with me.”
Imogene nearly choked on a “Rrr-bitt,” so angry she could spit. Except she didn’t know if frogs could spit. She suspected her tongue might get in the way. Just to be safe, she limited herself to spitting out words. “Nothing to do with you? It’s your spell.”
“But it’s your problem, dear.” The witch leaned over to set Imogene into the grass. “You’re welcome to stay in my well, if you’d like. I’ll try to remember to leave the bucket halfway up, so you can come and go as you please. If you decide to go elsewhere, I’d suggest you stick to backyards. Not so straightforward as the road, but the pond is off in that direction. That means the ground is just generally wetter, and you’re not so likely to dry out. But, of course, that’s your choice, too. Now shoo! Go away! I’ve got my own life to live.”
“Well, so do I!” Imogene protested, hating the way that came out whiny, but still . . .
And yet the witch once again missed the point entirely. “Well, good,” she said cheerily. “I’m so glad that’s settled.” She picked up her book and once more began reading, apparently able to forget Imogene the instant she wasn’t looking at her.
“All right,” Imogene said, “be that way.” Which was a pointless thing to say. Obviously the witch was going to be that way.
Imogene hopped to the well, then up onto the edge, then into the bucket. Not that she was going to stay here. Even if she was to spend the rest of her life as a frog, she would not spend it with the witch as her companion, as that would be entirely exasperating. She splashed about in the water, getting her skin thoroughly wet, and drinking until she felt ready to burst, even though one part of her human mind taunted her that she’d just been squishing that same water with her webbed toes: You’re drinking your bath water!
When she was satisfied that she was as moistened inside and out as was froggily possible, she jumped back down to the ground. She even ate a fly or two.
She considered ignoring the witch’s advice and heading for the road, since that was more the direction she needed to go. But she’d already sampled its dangers. She shouldn’t ignore good advice just because she didn’t like who it came from.
“Goodbye!” Imogene croaked to the witch. “And thanks for all your help!”
Without taking her gaze off the page, the witch raised her hand in a halfhearted wave, not even giving Imogene the satisfaction of recognizing her sarcasm.
Chapter 5:
A Princess Knows How to Engage in Interesting Conversation
(Not everybody has something interesting to say)
Imogene jumped her way to the back of the witch’s yard, which was a bit soggy. These webbed feet are quite handy, she thought. And then wondered if feet could be handy.
A few hundred jumps and three gnats and a fly farther on, she reached the stream that would widen into a pond when it got near the mill.
Well, she reminded herself, I AM a frog.
That part was obvious.
I am a frog who knows how to swim.
That took a little more reminding.
At first she swam very near the edge of the stream, where the water was shallow. But her toes kept getting tangled in the grass that grew there precisely because it was so shallow.
After a while, where the stream grew wider, she noticed there were other frogs.
“Hello,” she called, because she didn’t think she should be snobbish just because they had been born frogs and she had been born a princess.
The frogs didn’t answer.
Then she realized they were talking, but in frog, not human. Fortunately, though the spell that the witch had cast let her continue to speak as a human, it also let her understand a few words of frog. By concentrating, she could make out what the frogs were saying, and that was when she realized their language only had a few words. Imogene didn’t like to judge, but she felt that the frogs didn’t have much to say.
The thing she heard most often was “Good food!” But she quickly recognized there were no frog words to make a distinction between bug or worm, or—even more important, she thought—between Found some! and Looking for some! Occasionally she would hear “Ouch!” when someone landed badly, and there was one group of male frogs chorusing over and over a croak that Imogene could only interpret as “Hey, girls! Big, strong males here! Good for producing likely-to-survive offspring!” The female frogs didn’t answer: those who were interested swam over, and those who were not didn’t.
There was no way for communicating such things as Hello, or My, what a pretty shade of green you are, or Please excuse any unintentional rude behavior—I’m new to being a frog.
All of a sudden, several of the frogs croaked, “Sky!” Or, Imogene wondered, would simply Up! be a more accurate translation? The frogs didn’t seem to have much of a grasp of the world.
It was only when a shadow passed over her that she took into account the higher pitch of their croaks, a tone that she knew—once she thought about it—signified Danger!
Some of the frogs had dived below the surface of the water. Others remained perfectly still, pretending to be a bit of dead debris afloat in the stream, boring and unappetizing.
There was no time for her to seek the safety of going underwater, which she judged the more likely defense: any movement now would be sure to attract the predator. Which also meant that Imogene had to fight the inclination to raise her head to track what had to be a bird swooping in for lunch. Whether it was a hawk or a seagull or any other type of bird who ate frogs, what difference would knowing make? But it was hard not to know.
If it’s coming after me, it’s coming after me, Imogene reasoned, then she simultaneously braced herself to die and sent out and upward to the incoming bird the mental thought, The male frogs are fatter!
The shadow passed entirely over her—but barely. It was a heron, which explained why its shadow was so long, and it hit the water no farther away than the breadth of one of Imogene’s hands—one of her human hands, true, but that was still terrifyingly close—and it snatched up one of the frogs who had hidden underwater. “Ouch!” was the only thing the frog said.
Imogene felt a little bit sad that someone had gotten eaten, but a whole lot glad that it hadn’t been her.
As soon as the heron and its meal were airborne, the frogs in the stream resumed what they’d been doing. “Good food!” and “Hey, girls!” once more rang out over the water. Not a single Poor Fred or even an Oh my!
Imogene, however, was shaken. She paddled her froggy legs to the edge of the water. There could well be snakes and other dangers on the land, she realized. And no frogs to croak out a warning. But she felt less exposed on the marshy ground than in the open water.
She could even see the back of a house from here. And a boy, throwing meal out to some chickens.
Imogene had had enough of trying to solve her problems on her own. She would go to this boy and ask him to transport her back to the castle. Surely her parents or one of her parents’ various advisors would be able to come up with some solution.
And, she told herself as she began to jump toward him, a boy who lived so close to the house of the witch must certainly be used to seeing unusual things. He would not be as likely as other villagers to take alarm at a talking frog who claimed to be the princess of the realm.
She jumped through the marsh grass, then through the tall grass that bordered the marsh, then through the grass that formed the yard—cropped short
er by the goat that almost stepped on her because Imogene was concentrating on the boy so much that she didn’t see the goat till the last moment.
Oh, don’t go inside, Imogene mentally begged the boy, because she could see that he’d finished feeding the chickens.
Fortunately, the boy was not a conscientious worker: he hoisted himself onto the top rail of the fence that kept the goat away from his mother’s wash line, and sat watching the chickens. Since chickens are not all that interesting, this had to be pure laziness on the boy’s part, but it worked out to Imogene’s advantage.
“Hello,” she called to the boy.
He made a startled little jump and gave what Imogene could tell was a guilty-for-sitting-down-on-the-job glance around the yard. Then he hurriedly upended the meal bucket and shook it as though the only reason he’d sat was to give himself the chance to get every last bit of meal out for the chickens.
“Hello,” Imogene repeated.
The boy looked from the back of the house to the yard, no doubt trying to determine where the voice was coming from, since no one was in sight.
By then Imogene had reached the fence. “Over here,” she said. “By the gate. Look down.” She figured that directly by the fence post was a safe place where the boy was unlikely to accidentally step on her. And if somehow he looked likely to, she could hop backwards beneath the lowest rail into the other section of the yard.
But the boy didn’t get to his feet at all. “Oh,” he said. “What do you want?”
Well! Imogene thought. There was not being frightened because one was used to seeing unusual things from living next door to a witch, and there was sounding downright bored—at a talking frog.
She fell back onto her previous statement. “Hello,” she said once more, this time speaking in her most formal princess voice.
The boy gave a soft grunt, which could have been a return greeting, or a sound of mild indigestion.
Frogged Page 4
