by L. A. Kelley
Creak.
Slowly…silently…the handle twisted around. I froze in place as the door inched opened. My heart attempted to hammer through my chest. The wide open view to the outside showed moonlight glistening in the puddles. One by one the sparkles disappeared as a hulking figure slipped past the jamb to block the view. The low light made features hard to distinguish, but the thing was huge and covered with some sort of armor plating. Giant spikes stuck up from where the head should have been. Silhouetted against the doorframe, it was a walking nightmare.
As noiseless as a cat, the monster slunk over the old wooden floorboards. I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep. An unbelievable stench hit my nostrils. I clapped my hand over my mouth to keep from gagging. As I did, my fingers brushed something cold and metallic—the flashlight! I curled my fingers around the grip and felt for the switch. Opening my eyes to bare slits, I watched the figure squat at the hearth. Snatching the pot of rice and beans, it silently retraced the path to the door.
Not being a military strategist, my mind instantly settled on the direct assault. I shot to my feet while simultaneously thumbing on the flashlight. For added effect, I yelled, “Aaaaargh!” Although, I’m not sure why.
Needless to say all hell broke loose. Amelie scrambled to her feet. Pinned in the glare of the flashlight was a howling swirl of sticks, leaves, and mud with a small snarling dog attached. Brandishing her knife, Amelie plowed into the whirlwind bringing the entire rotating mass to the floor.
She wrestled the creature down and commanded fiercely, “One twitch, hellspawn, and I’ll cut out your heart.”
Mrs. Hart barked. I yelled “Aaaaargh!” again for no real reason and played the flashlight over the captured figure. I don’t know what I expected. Certainly not a mud covered man in a loincloth made from oak leaves howling at the top of his lungs.
“Be quiet, Clovis!” ordered Odile in a no-nonsense tone. “What a mess. You spilt the red beans and rice all over the place.”
Clovis clamped his lips shut. He squinted in the light, eyeballing Odile suspiciously. “Ribbit.”
“Don’t give me any of your backtalk. It’s me, Odile Benoit. You remember, don’t you? We’ve known each other a long time. I’m no threat.”
Mistrust slowly drained from his expression. “Ribbit?”
“Amelie let him up slowly. Clovis, behave yourself, you hear? All we want to do is talk.”
Amelie withdrew her knife from his chest, but kept a firm grip on the haft and a wary eye on Clovis. Mrs. Hart planted her feet in front of the door, daring him to make a break for it. Odile introduced Amelie, Mrs. Hart, and me. Clovis presented his hand to be kissed and I snorted in disgust.
“You be nice, Clovis Landry,” Odile ordered, “and I’ll cook you a breakfast better than cold rice and beans.”
Apparently, the promise of a hot meal held more appeal than freedom. “Brrroooorrrkkk?” he croaked.
“Hush puppies,” Odile replied. “You always were partial to mine. You said they were the best around.” Clovis smacked his lips and got to his feet.
“Oh, geez,” I hollered. Apparently, the royal tailor ran out of oak leaves before finishing the loincloth. “His butt is sticking out.”
“An underling does not mention the king’s posterior,” Clovis sniffed. “You violate court etiquette.”
“Ah,” Amelie noted dryly. “Fortunately for us, the king is bilingual.”
“And nutty as a fruitcake,” I sputtered. “Underling? Who’s he calling an underling?”
Clovis ignored me and zeroed in on a tangled mass of shrubbery in the corner. “My crown!” He pounced and although we stood inside a cabin, the three of us had a perfect view of a full moon.
“Oh, geez,” I moaned.
Clovis placed the interwoven mess of leaves and sticks proudly on his head. The vegetation cascaded down his neck, giving him the unearthly appearance from before. He squared his shoulders and stood erect. “The king is ready for breakfast.”
“Mon Dieu.” Amelie clapped a hand over her mouth as the first wave hit. “The smell is back.”
We both glared at once at our new houseguest. “He stinks,” I snarled.
“I did not give you permission to speak, varlet,” said Clovis. “I shall resume my throne until breakfast is ready. After which, prepare to be administered a suitable punishment or you may beg for mercy.” He took two bounding hops and planted himself squarely in the center of the pile of gunny sacks. “Ribbit.”
“Amelie,” I hissed, “give me the knife. I’m in a stabbing mood.”
She patted my arm with sympathy. “Sorry, can’t kill him yet.” She appealed earnestly to Odile. “Can we?”
Odile chuckled. “I’m afraid not. However, we most certainly can do something about the smell.” She dug into her knapsack, retrieved a bar of soap and a washcloth, and handed both to me. “Take him to the pump.”
“Me?” I was aghast. “Why me?”
“Because,” responded Amelie smoothly, “Odile is cooking breakfast and I have both a knife and a gun so you can’t make me go.”
I glowered at the two of them. Mrs. Hart nudged my ankle. “Lucy says she’ll stand guard so Clovis won’t escape,” explained Odile. “Clovis—go with Peter.” The King of the Frogs opened his mouth to protest, but Odile cut him off. “No arguing or no breakfast.”
He scrambled off the pile of gunny sacks, but Odile ordered him to wait. She pulled the cleanest one from underneath and borrowed Amelie’s knife to cut a slit in the bottom. With the drawstring on top the new opening made an improvised skirt. Her eyes sparkled in amusement as she tossed the sack to me. “The emperor’s new clothes.”
“Come on, your highness,” I groused. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Lead on, page,” Clovis commanded. He hopped across the room until I snapped at him to quit. In a huff, he swung his arms stiffly at his side and paraded out the door bellowing, “Make way for the King. All hail the glorious King of the Frogs.” I stormed after Clovis and herded him to the pump. As soon as he discarded his crown and loincloth, Mrs. Hart quickly trotted them both downwind of the cabin to bury.
The sun had risen, all the better to note the crusty dirt covering the shaman. Clovis sat contentedly under the spigot while I pumped. A steady stream of water gushed forth matching his steady stream of nonsensical chatter. Apparently, the King of the Frogs recently declared war on the turtle nation because of some imagined insult.
“They chew right in front of me with their mouths open. Can you believe the affront? No manners at all.” Despite my professed disinterest, Clovis outlined his battle plan. “Quite simple, really. I told my generals, flip them. Brilliant, no? Of course,” he confided smugly, “I am a military genius.”
When Clovis finally let me get a word in edgewise, I sneered. “So that’s what you do all day—run around the swamp sneaking behind turtles and flipping them on their shells.”
“Naturally, boy. This is war.”
“Don’t the turtles simply flip over again?”
“In time, in time,” Clovis huffed, “but it’s the principal of the thing.” He awarded me a look dripping with pity. “You obviously have no head for military strategy.”
With Clovis’ vigorous scrubbing, most of the dirt and grime washed away, but hair and beard were another matter. Clovis had braided them into a snarled mass that a steel toothed comb couldn’t plow through. I went inside for Amelie’s knife. She protested, complaining the blade would have to be boiled clean after coming in contact with Clovis. When I told her I couldn’t guarantee he didn’t already have squirrels nesting in his hair, she grudgingly handed it over.
Fortunately, the knife was razor sharp. Clovis hacked off the shaggy mass on his head and trimmed his beard to mere stubble. He slipped on the gunny sack and tied the drawstring around his waist. After running his hands happily along the rough material, he bellowed into the swamp, “The finest raiment from the most skilled tailors of my kingdom—it will never be yours, tur
tle scum. Do you hear me? Never!”
The swamp was silent. Apparently, the Turtle King didn’t care about wearing a skirt fashioned from an old gunny sack. We paraded to the cabin. Actually, Clovis paraded. I stomped behind in disgust.
Odile contemplated the newly scrubbed Clovis with approval. “I must say you are world’s better, practically human, again.” She sniffed. “Smell better, too.”
“Thank you. My new squire has proven suitable.”
“I’m not your squire,” I sputtered.
“Although, lacking in decorum. One can’t be too picky about the quality of help nowadays. He needs to be instructed in the niceties of the court. I will see to his education personally…” Clovis took a deep whiff of the hushpuppies. “After breakfast.”
Without enough chairs to go around, we joined Clovis on the floor. The shaman hadn’t eaten a good meal in a while. After the outer coating of dirt had been scraped off, nothing much remained underneath but skin and bones. The Frog King certainly had no lack of appetite. The pile of hushpuppies in front of him quickly evaporated. Amelie’s compassion overcame her disgust and she offered him half of hers. He gratefully accepted and immediately dubbed her Minister of State.
“Odile,” I entreated under my breath, “how can he help? He’s loony to the bone.” Mrs. Hart cocked her head and barked at Clovis.
To my amazement, Clovis stopped eating and addressed Mrs. Hart directly. “Nonsense. Squire Peter obviously has no understanding of court protocol.” Mrs. Hart barked again. “Well, if you say so, but…” His voice dropped. “He doesn’t appear very bright.”
Amelie’s eyes widened. “You understand Lucy?”
Clovis was insulted. “Of course, although she talks very quickly. No matter, all are welcome in my kingdom.” He shot me a sideways glance. “Including, the slow ones.”
“Hey!” I made a move, but Odile held me in place. “Let go. I’m going to pop him one good.”
“Sit,” she ordered. “As crazy as Clovis appears on the surface, something of the shaman remains within.”
I plunked down with a grunt. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Not at all. Clovis knows his own name. He can speak to Lucy. He recognized immediately she wasn’t a normal dog. That knowledge requires powerful insight. He hasn’t run away. Part of him knows me and trusts I want to help. The real shaman is buried somewhere deep inside the Frog King. The question is how to bring the rest of the man to the surface.”
I shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Liars I can deal with, but Clovis…”
Amelie was thoughtful. “So, he’s not a liar? I don’t understand, Peter. You haven’t challenged Clovis once, but he’s lied all along. I mean, he’s not really the King of the Frogs.”
“No, but I don’t sense a lie, either. A lie isn’t a lie if you believe it to be true.”
“No. It’s still a lie, Peter,” insisted Odile. “Somewhere deep inside Clovis realizes that. You must find a way to break though and reveal the truth.”
I regarded her with disbelief. “Me? How? I don’t have a single idea where to begin.” Mrs. Hart placed her paw on my knee.
“Lucy says you freed her from a lie.”
“That was different. The lie around Mrs. Hart was like a shell keeping her prisoner. I felt the barrier as soon as we touched. I don’t sense a lie with Clovis.”
“Perhaps,” Amelie said, “this lie is buried deeper and not so obvious.”
“Maybe.” Was it possible? Could a lie be buried so deeply, it seems to be the truth?
Odile nudged me. “Freeing Lucy started with a touch.”
She had a point. What could I do with a really good grip? Clovis stopped chewing long enough to notice my scrutiny. He circled his arm protectively around the plate. “The hushpuppies are all mine. Property of the King.”
“I don’t want your breakfast.” I slid over my plate with two hushpuppies left. “Do you want the rest?”
His eyes glistened in approval. “Putting your King first—very thoughtful, squire. I had doubts, but now believe you are not as mentally deficient as you first appeared and will make an excellent manservant.”
“Gee, thanks,” I jeered. Clovis reached for the plate. My hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.
Clovis moved to shake me off. “Let go.”
I held on tight and took hold of his other hand, too.
Show me the lie.
A fierce hot pain ripped through my arms. Clovis yelped and pulled away.
“Grab him,” I yelled.
Amelie pinned the shaman to the floor.
“What are you doing?” he said with a trembling voice. “Your King commands you to stop. You must do as I say.”
I crouched beside him.
“Please.” Clovis begged with tears in his eyes. “It hurts…don’t.”
Amelie shot me a questioning look. I shook my head a vehement no.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, swallowing hard and tightening her grip.
Despite everything, I pitied Clovis. He seemed less and less like a crazy swamp creature and more like a sick frightened man. “I’m sorry, too, Your Majesty.” I rubbed the tingling from my hands, took a deep breath, and again seized hold of his wrists.
Although anticipating the electric shock, nothing prepared me for the burning agony rocketing through my arms. The sensation was like submerging both hands in boiling water. I bit my lip hard to keep from crying out and tasted blood. The shock built to a scorching wave. I hazarded a terrified glance, convinced the skin and muscles had been reduced to scorched flesh. To my relief, their appearance was normal.
So, the fire was a lie—a good one, but a lie nevertheless. A powerful lie can convince most people of anything but, luckily, I’m not most people. “No fire surrounds us,” I murmured to myself. “The pain is nothing but a lie.” The fire fought with a burning intensity as if possessed by a will and mind of its own.
Clovis moaned and thrashed in Amelie’s unrelenting grip. The lie was way stronger than the one that captured Mrs. Hart. Simple recognition wouldn’t destroy it. This lie built a wall of flames around the shaman’s sanity. When his mind tried to break free, the agony drove him back.
How do I fight a lie in the shape of a flame? Fight fire with fire? I dismissed that idea immediately. What a dumb expression. People who do that become piles of smoldering goop. The cries from Clovis weakened.
“Peter!” Amelie’s worried face told the story.
Clovis arched his back and groaned in pain, slumping into Amelie’s arms. The hard years took their toll on the Frog King. He wouldn’t be able to tolerate much more.
Fire didn’t feel right. I needed another weapon, but what? The answer came in a flash. The best tool to fight fire was water. Enough will douse any flame.
Click.
The other sense locked in. I pushed away the reality of the cabin and built an image of a swirling mass of cool blue water in my mind. I believed in the lie so hard misty droplets spattered my face.
Ignore the pain. Ignore everything. Believe the lie.
Neither Odile, Amelie, nor Mrs. Hart saw anything, but why should they? The lie was my weapon to wield, not theirs.
“Let him go,” I ordered Amelie.
She lowered Clovis gently to the floor and strode through the invisible water. The shaman’s eyelids fluttered. I knelt over him and murmured.
“Water douses the flame.”
My imaginary stream came in contact with the fire surrounding Clovis. With a hiss, the water turned to steam and evaporated, but the flaming barricade didn’t weaken. The lie wasn’t powerful enough.
“No flame can stand against a whirlpool!”
The water became a foaming churning eddy with five times the volume. A liquid cylinder surrounded Clovis. Tongues of yellow flames lapped at the surface, filling the air with hot dense steam.
“The steam turns to rain.”
Water rushed in a torrent. The fire reached white hot intensity, striving to destroy the cyl
inder. I gathered the rain, pouring the water on the flames. They sputtered and hissed like an angry cat.
“The fire dies.”
In a final desperate assault, flames lashed out to break my concentration, but I sent cascades of water to force them back. The raging heat disappeared. The fire withered until at last nothing glowed but a single ember hovering over Clovis. The flickering entity emitted both warmth and hate. I mustered all the belief I had to make the lie an unbreakable command.
“I see you now. Your power is gone. Return to the Lower Worlds where you belong.”
The ember screamed in rage and disappeared in a puff of smoke.
I dropped Clovis’ hands and collapsed, feeling like an old rag forced through the wringer of a washing machine. Something cold and wet poked my arm. Mrs. Hart nosed me with concern.
“Peter?”
I forced open my eyes. Amelie laid a soft hand on my forehead. Her worried face hovered inches from mine. “Are you all right?”
“Mmph,” was all I managed.
“Of course he is,” Odile harrumphed. “See to Clovis. The boy doesn’t need coddling.”
“Hang on a second.” I groaned, struggling to sit. “Coddling sounds pretty good.”
“Nonsense, too much pampering will make you weak. Battling on the dark road isn’t for sissies.”
Amelie gave Clovis a quick once over. “He’s asleep now. His breathing is regular. What happened, Peter? What did you do?”
Describing the battle with the flames wasn’t easy, not being exactly sure about everything myself.
“Did Peter reach him, Odile?” asked Amelie.
She shrugged. “Beat’s me.”
“You don’t exactly ooze confidence,” I complained. “Can’t your shaman powers give a little hint?”
“They don’t work that way. On the bright side,” she added in a cheerful tone, “you couldn’t possibly have made him worse.”
Amelie flashed a brilliant smile. “Well, I’m proud of you, Peter.” A pleased flush crept up my neck.
“Who said I wasn’t proud of him?” sniffed Odile. “Of course, I’m proud of him. He passed the first test for a shaman. He has not been destroyed.”
