Frogged

by Vivian Vande Velde

  Bertie looked as though he might be considering objecting, but he didn’t.

  Although she was beginning to suspect it was hopeless, Imogene told all of them, “But a princess is as good as her word!” As soon as she said it, she remembered it had been one of the chapter titles in The Art of Being a Princess. It seemed forever ago that her mother had presented her with the book in the hope that it would help her to get herself ready for her thirteenth birthday. Now here she was, two days closer to that birthday than she had been back then, remembering with some personal embarrassment how she had felt so bored by the book, so put-upon, so unfairly treated by life in general and by her mother in particular. What she wouldn’t give to be back home, even if that meant being lectured on princessly behavior.

  Luella was still arguing with Ned. “She’s doing poorly in there. She needs more room.”

  Ned looked down at Imogene with an expression Imogene couldn’t decipher.

  Imogene told him, “Return me to my home, and my parents will reward you with a sum greater than you could earn in a year of play-acting.”

  And then she saw it: the flicker of understanding, of belief on Ned’s face.

  Finally! Imogene thought.

  But when he spoke, it was to Luella, and what he said was, “If you clean out the big cooking pot, the cauldron, we can place the frog in there. It won’t be able to climb out because of the way the sides curve in, but flies and whatnot can get in, and it can eat and be in the sunshine, since it shows a tendency not to talk when it’s unhappy.”

  And yet he knew. Imogene saw it in his eyes. “But . . .” she sputtered, “but . . .”

  Ned told his men, “We need to get that wheel fixed, or we won’t be going anywhere. Bert, if you’re not too busy doing whatever you habitually do to avoid being useful, perhaps you would deign to render us your aid? And, Luella, before you put the frog in the pot, you can make us breakfast.”

  “But . . .” Luella sputtered, sounding like an echo of Imogene, “but . . .”

  Uh-huh, Imogene thought at her. Good luck with that.

  Eventually, breakfast got made, the wheel got fixed, and the company got under way. That afternoon and the next, they were to visit small towns, whose names were unfamiliar to Imogene, so that was no help in letting her know where she was or how far from home. More worrisome was the fact that she did recognize the name of the bigger town they’d be in after that. Balton Keep was three kingdoms away. Still, her father knew King Salford of Balton Keep. If Imogene could hold on for the two days it would take to travel there, and if she could then get word to King Salford, he would see to it that she’d be returned home. It was the best chance she was likely to get.

  Meanwhile, though Luella wouldn’t believe Imogene’s claim of being a princess, she did clearly believe Imogene’s promise not to try to escape. So she let Imogene ride on her shoulder, much to Ned’s displeasure, and that was far more interesting—even though this was Luella—than spending the whole day in a bucket or a pot.

  Imogene said to her, “What do you know of the witch who lives just down the road from you?”

  Luella shook her head. “I don’t know that story.”

  “It’s not a story,” Imogene said. “There’s a witch who lives just down the road from you.”

  “Really?” Luella said. “I didn’t know that. The blacksmith lives just down the road. Have you seen him? The young one, I mean, not the father. He is so well built. Those arm and shoulder muscles, glistening with sweat and well-being . . .” Luella sighed and began to fan herself.

  Imogene said, “The witch lives before the smithy. In the house with the apple trees in front.”

  “I haven’t noticed an apple tree in anyone’s yard,” Luella admitted. “There’s an oak tree where the cooper lives. I know that ’cause every autumn the cooper’s nephew likes to throw acorns at me when I pass by. My friend Nell says that’s a sure sign he likes me. Do you think so?” She didn’t give Imogene a chance to answer. “I used to believe her when we were twelve, but now I’m sixteen, I’m not so sure. Even though he is cute, and I wouldn’t mind him liking me. In the winter, there’re always boys throwing snowballs at girls, and I don’t think all those boys like all those girls. I mean, I suppose they could . . .”

  Imogene tried to bring Luella back to the topic of the witch. “Between the cooper’s house and the smithy,” she clarified.

  Luella’s brow creased with concentration. “No,” she finally said. “No, I don’t think there’re any cute boys that live in those houses . . .”

  Well, that explained why Luella had not noticed any odd goings-on despite living so close to the witch. Apparently all she ever noticed were cute boys.

  Which explained Bertie.

  But Ned, Imogene thought. Ned knew there was no such thing as Chinese speaking frogs. Why was he pretending?

  When they arrived at the village that afternoon, one of the actors took out a trumpet. He blew a fanfare or two in practice, and Bertie did some weird vocalizations (“La-la-la-la-la. Me-me-me-me-me. Pie-pie-pie-pie-pie. Low-low-low-low-low. Lu-lu-lu-lu-lu.”) to prepare his voice, then the two of them walked together down the village street, announcing a performance.

  Imogene was glad to see Bertie leave. He had refused most of the afternoon to speak to Luella, claiming he needed to focus, and this had made Luella cranky. Imogene wasn’t sure what he was focusing on, but periodically he would strike a dramatic pose or he would suddenly declaim such things as “No! My loyalty to my king and my country means more to me than your filthy gold or your vile threats! You may go ahead and rip my body asunder—I shall not betray my liege lord!”

  It was not a play with which Imogene was familiar, and she suspected it would not be much to her liking.

  Villagers began to gather even before the heralds were back. Some pretended that they just happened to have come out on the village square by coincidence, but it was clear that this was more excitement than the people were used to.

  Imogene had asked to be returned to her cauldron for one of her periodic dunkings, and she was swimming laps when Ned came and abruptly plucked her out of the water. It wasn’t that he was rough, but he certainly wasn’t as gentle as Luella, who generally announced herself by saying something like “Hello, little froggy. It’s time to rejoin the people people,” and then she would cup her hands in the water and raise them slowly, with the water draining out between her fingers until only Imogene remained. But Ned reached in one-handed without even announcing himself. And it was only when Imogene was dangling in the air that he said, “All right, my fine Chinese speaking frog, are you ready for your acting debut?”

  While Imogene was a bit flustered, Luella’s mood instantly improved. “Ooo,” she said. “What do you have planned for us?”

  “For us,” Ned repeated flatly. Then he said, “Well, the frog and I will sit out front and chat a bit for the entertainment of the villagers. Get them in a spending mood, if all goes well. And you will give this pot a good scrubbing, then see about supper for us once the performance is over.”

  “What?” Luella squealed. “No.” She stamped her foot. “Froggy is my pet. “

  Imogene didn’t like being called a pet, even though she knew Luella didn’t mean it badly.

  Luella continued, “We found her in my parents’ barn. I take care of her. Bertie said you’d help me make up an act with her. Like a small play. Her and me. Together. Not her and you. Bertie said.”

  Not sounding very impressed with this argument, Ned asked, “Did he, now?”

  Imogene joined her voice to Luella’s as they both said, “Yes, he did.”

  Ned laughed. “And so you shall,” he agreed. “Someday. But for now I need to test the waters, so to speak. I daresay a frog—even a princess frog—can understand the necessity of testing the waters. See what’s what. See what floats and what sinks like a stone.”

  Pouting, Luella pointed out, “You could do that by watching me.”

  “And so I coul
d,” Ned said. “Just. Not. Today.”

  Not today was the kind of thing Imogene’s parents said when they didn’t want to come right out and say no. Imogene wondered if Luella’s someday for performing would come any sooner than her own someday for getting a pet monkey such as the one Prince Malcolm had when she and her parents had gone to visit two years ago. Although . . . now that she found herself in the position of being Luella’s pet frog, Imogene realized she was having sudden second thoughts about the whole keeping-an-animal thing.

  Luella gave it one more try. “I brought my best dress,” she said, indicating what she was wearing. “For acting in.”

  Imogene felt bad she had not noticed that Luella had changed. The dress was faded and frayed, though not so badly as her everyday dress. And Luella had combed her hair. Unlike Imogene, Luella had great hair.

  “Very pretty,” Imogene told her. Too late.

  Luella finished by saying, rather lamely, “Bertie said you got crowns and tiaras and necklaces and such—made from wood but painted to look like gold and rubies and emeralds. He said maybe I could wear one.”

  Ned gestured toward the chests in the cart. “Yours for the choosing,” he said. “Just be careful not to chip the paint while you’re making supper.”

  “I . . .” Luella started.

  Imogene could read on the farm girl’s face the words that were on the tip of her tongue. She was about to say: I hate you.

  But she restrained herself. She turned and stomped away.

  “Well,” Ned said to Imogene, “that didn’t go nearly half badly.”

  “You’re mean,” Imogene told him. “And I’m not a frog.”

  Ned cocked his head and put on a theatrical “thinking” expression.

  “Well, yes, all right, I am a frog,” Imogene conceded, “but—”

  “Be that as it may,” Ned interrupted, “it’s to everyone’s best interests for you to behave. Are you ready?”

  With no idea what to expect, Imogene admitted, “I don’t know.”

  “Just follow my lead.”

  Ned picked up a stool from the back of the cart and brought it into the village square, where he set it in front of a group of waiting children. Sitting himself down, Ned placed Imogene on his knee. He spoke loudly, obviously for the benefit of the children and for the adults beyond them. “Well, my little green friend. Here we are in another village.” He asked one of the children, “What’s the name of this place?”

  “St. Eoforwic,” several of them replied.

  “St. Eoforwic,” Ned repeated. To Imogene, he asked, “So what do you think of the fine village of St. Eoforwic?” Before she could wonder what in the world he wanted her to answer, he held her up to his ear as though to hear a whispered reply. “Oooh,” he said. “Really? Well, I think so, too. Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . Oh, yes, definitely much better than Swinburn, where we were yesterday. What do you like best about it? Hmm . . . you know, I do believe I must agree with you . . .”

  This struck Imogene as rather pointless, as he could do the same thing with a regular non-speaking frog. Or a rock, for that matter.

  By this point, the children were laughing and calling out things like “That’s a frog, mister!” as though maybe Ned didn’t know. And “Frogs can’t talk!” Until one very little girl complained, “I can’t hear nothing!”

  Ned told them, “Well, you see, my frog is a little bit shy. She doesn’t like to talk when there’s a whole big crowd of people. That’s why she whispers in my ear.”

  Several of the older children hooted. The parents looked on indulgently.

  Imogene hoped that when Ned wanted her to do something, he’d give her a clear signal.

  Ned crooked his finger at the little can’t-hear-nothing girl to come closer. “But maybe for you, because you’re such a sweet, pretty little girl, she might speak to someone besides me. Go on, tell her your name.”

  Although Ned held Imogene up to the girl’s ear, the girl assumed the question was for her. “Wilda,” she said.

  Being a clever actor, Ned was never at a loss for something to say. He said to Imogene, “Say hello to Wilda.”

  And that, Imogene guessed, was her signal. She whispered to the girl, “Hello, Wilda.”

  The little girl’s eyes grew wide with amazement. “She did! She said it! She said, ‘Hello, Wilda.’”

  The other children laughed at Wilda, and one or two called her a fool.

  “Well, that’s not very kind,” Ned told the crowd. “It looks as though people don’t believe me or Wilda.” To Imogene, he said, “I suspect you’re going to have to speak louder, or poor Wilda will get a reputation for being a bit off in the head.” He held Imogene up high in his hand.

  Which was as clear a signal as Imogene could hope for. She cleared her throat and loudly announced, “I said: ‘Hello, Wilda.’”

  The villagers gasped appreciatively and clapped.

  “And what’s your name?” Ned asked.

  Did he want her to say? Well, if he didn’t want her to, he should have told her what to say instead. “I am Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington. I have been kidnapped by these people and am being held against my will.”

  Cheers, and more clapping.

  Which was definitely not the reaction she had been hoping for.

  “Really,” she said. “I am your princess, turned into a frog by a witch.”

  The people clearly thought this was all part of the performance. Several shouted out, “We don’t got a princess,” and “All we got is Prince Durwin,” and “He ain’t a frog—he’s more like a rabbit.”

  This was worse than Imogene had thought. They were already so far beyond the border of her father’s kingdom that nobody here had even heard of her.

  Ned regained control of the crowd by telling them, “Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington is princess of . . . the Frog Pond.”

  “Ahh,” the people said, as though that made any sense.

  “And,” he continued, “Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington has just told me that she is totally charmed by this little village of . . . What was it again?”

  It was no use fighting him and getting him peeved with her. “St. Eoforwic,” Imogene said.

  The crowd loved that.

  Ned continued, “And what Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington whispered in my ear before is that she believes it’s the most excellent village we’ve visited yet.”

  People applauded.

  “And that the best thing is the people, who are so kind. Isn’t that right, Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington?”

  “Very kind,” Imogene agreed. She didn’t add, Though somewhat dense. How could they believe she was a talking frog? Yet the adults were murmuring things like “Well, I never!” and “What will they think of next!” It was like a whole village of Luellas.

  “And,” Ned said, raising his voice to be heard above the appreciative murmurings, “and not only can this very clever frog speak, but it speaks several different languages.”

  Softly, for only Ned to hear, Imogene said, “Regardless of what Luella and Bertie believe, I am not a Chinese speaking frog. I do not speak Chinese.”

  Ned just smiled. He said to the villagers, “Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington of”—he paused for emphasis—“the Frog Pond . . . can speak . . . cat. Princess?”

  Unenthusiastically, Imogene said, “Me-oww.”

  “And dog.”

  How embarrassing. “Bow-wow.”

  “And pig.”

  “Oink.”

  “And even rooster.”

  Imogene looked at Ned levelly. “You are joking,” she said.

  But the crowd laughed harder at this than they had at the other animals.

  “Cock-a-doodle-doo,” Imogene said.

  Looking well pleased with how the act had gone, Ned swept to his feet and bowed. Which must have been the signal for the other actors to walk amongst the crowd with their hats held out for coins. By the chinking, they collected a lot of coins. “My frog and I
appreciate your kindness. And we hope you enjoy the rest of the show. Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington?”

  “Enjoy,” she echoed hollowly.

  Now she understood. Ned knew she was a princess, but he figured he could make more money by showing her as a talking frog than he could by returning her to her parents.

  How would she ever get home?

  Chapter 9:

  A Princess Is Loyal to Her Friends in Need

  (Except, of course, when she isn’t)

  The performance consisted of various acts of juggling, tumbling, and magic. Imogene was able to watch while she kept Luella company in the back of the cart as Luella prepared vegetables for a stew that would be supper for those whose diet consisted of more than bugs on the wing.

  The only thing remotely resembling acting was when Ned recited a long poem. A long, long, long poem. Imogene counted twenty-seven stanzas—and she only started counting after she already thought it had gone on forever. In all honesty, she felt the reciting was decently well done, with Ned’s voice alternately going loud and soft, slow and fast, angry and tearful, but she suspected Ned was the author of the piece, and—based on this—she judged he would do better to stick to acting.

  When it was all over—not only the poem finished, but the crowd dispersed, the money counted, the costumes returned to the cart (folding was another of Luella’s jobs, it turned out), and the actors assembled for dinner—Imogene gathered from the men’s good humor that they considered this a better-than-average night.

  “It was a good show,” Luella acknowledged to Ned. She hesitated before handing his bowl to him, so that he was forced to look directly at her. “You and the frog. I paid attention. I can do it tomorrow.”

  Imogene bobbed her head in agreement, the closest she could come to nodding with her basically neckless frog anatomy.

  Ned gazed heavenward, either for patience or for the right words. “I do not judge the act to be quite ready yet for the understudy,” he told the two of them. But then, before Luella could start hurling ladlefuls of the stew, he added, “What we will be doing tomorrow as we travel is learning the lines for the play we will perform the day after. And as for the play, my lovely Luella, yours will be the key role: our success will be dependent upon you.”