Dead Man and the Army of Frogs

by Harper, Lou

  "The back door is quicker," the Mr. Brown replied and marched to the one wall without a door. He pushed on the shelves and they moved to reveal an opening. Before they could blink Bran and Denton stood in a dark alley that reeked of garbage and piss.

  "We could've gone in this way. It would've been so much simpler." Denton pulled out his phone to check their location and could hardly believe what he saw. "We're halfway across town from where we entered. How did she do it?" he asked, but Bran was already gone, at the foot of the alley. Denton hurried after.

  When Denton caught up with him, Bran was standing at the curb and scanning the street up and down. "What was all the stuff with the cheese about?" Denton asked.

  "Tyromancy—divination by cheese." Bran waved his arm at an approaching yellow cab.

  "Well, this has been without a question the weirdest night of my life. Nothing can top it."

  "Pray you're right." Bran's expression was grim, even for him.

  Chapter Three

  Denton was still chewing on the previous night’s events—along with his breakfast—the next morning. "What did she mean when she said she wasn't the one to meet your mom, but she remembered her?" he asked around his toast.

  Bran shot Denton a reproachful look. "Swallow before you talk." He spooned scrambled eggs onto his own plate, next to two slices of bacon, and placed the frying pan in the sink. "I know little of the Old Crone but I assume the name is a title like Sibyl," he finally replied Denton's question as he sat.

  "Who?"

  "Oracle in the ancient Greek times. When the Old Crone dies the name passes onto the next one, and I suspect, the memories as well."

  "So is she human?"

  "More or less." Bran scooped eggs onto his fork in that meticulous way of his.

  Denton watched him eat. "So what are we gonna do now? Sit around on our assess till she calls for us?"

  Bran swallowed and drank a sip of orange juice. "We have a job. Mrs. Martel dropped off the key to her brother's condo this morning. You were still in bed. She said she'll get Frankie over at her house this afternoon. She'll let us know when the coast is clear."

  "Okay, so we sit on our asses till Mrs. Martel calls."

  "You can. I have stuff to do."

  After breakfast Bran puttered around with his herbs, picking, chopping, bundling them, and brewing some into mysterious concoctions.

  "What you're doing right now, is it witchcraft or medicinal?" Denton asked as the many scents filled the apartment.

  "A little bit of both," Bran replied. "I promised mother to send her a few things. She likes using herbs but has no patience for growing them. She says they're too fussy." He also brought out his canvas bag, the one he took with himself on jobs, and checked its contents, restocking some.

  Denton had his own preparations to undertake. He needed to refresh his memory on the various summoning and banishing rituals. So, he pulled out several of his old necromancer books and his notes, sat on the carpet and spread them out around himself. It was just easier this way. Of course, as soon as Denton settled down, Murry appeared out of nowhere to take interest. With all the carpet, chairs, couch, and other assorted vertical surfaces around Murry absolutely had to lie on top of Denton's papers. Another cat mystery he'd never solve.

  The call from Mrs. Martel came not long past noon. "The eagle has landed," she whispered.

  "Excuse me?" Denton asked in a moment of confusion.

  "Sorry," she replied. "I've always wanted to say that. Frankie has arrived. I'm hiding in the bathroom right now."

  "Oh, I see. How long do you think we have?"

  "It's my youngest's birthday, but we're having a proper lunch before the cake, so I think we'll have him for at least a couple of hours."

  "Good. Make sure you call me as soon as he leaves, unless I contact you first."

  "Will do. Good luck."

  Denton hang up and turned to Bran. "Mission Spirit Mother is a go."

  "Right." Bran had his canvas bag sitting open on the coffee table and was checking its contents. It was an olive green thing, the kind you could pick up in an army surplus store, but its inside had been augmented with pockets and padded dividers.

  "You're like Mary Poppins with her bag," Denton quipped. "You read Mary Poppins? Or saw the movie?" he asked seeing Bran's blank expression.

  "Nope."

  "Well, she's a British nanny, and she has this magical carpet bag that always has just what she needs. When I was a kid I've always wished I had a magic bag."

  "Maybe she was just well prepared. C'mon, let's go."

  ***

  They took Bran's car—technically his mother's—to their destination. Bran hated exposing the old Karmann Ghia to the elements and salty roads of a winter Chicago, as much as he hated looking for a parking spot in Old Town, but it was the practical thing to do in the situation.

  Bran rang the bell to the condo, just to be on the safe side, and used the key only after a couple of minutes of no response. It was nice with large windows, exposed brick, hardwood floors, fireplace, and so on. Someone had renovated the place not long ago, updating it while retaining its original quality. It looked cozily expensive—as one would expect for the neighborhood.

  "Do you see anything?" Bran asked at the door to the living room.

  "Nothing ghostly," Denton replied.

  They checked the kitchen but the only thing out of place was a dirty plate in the sink. In the guest bedroom a pile clothes lay across the bed but there were no spirit shadow in sight. Ditto in the master.

  "This is odd." Bran said.

  "What is?" Denton looked around but didn't see anything unusual.

  Bran pointed at the unmade bed. "Frankie obviously sleeps here, but this must have been the mother's room." He opened the door to the walk-in closet and walked in. "It's all her clothes."

  "Frankie has a hard time letting go," Denton agreed. "I bet we'll find the spirit in the bathroom. That's where she died, after all."

  He was wrong. The bathroom stood empty. The shower showed sign of regular use, and there were toiletries around the sink, but the tub stood gleamingly empty. While Bran looked through the medicine cabinet, Denton kneeled down and touched the edged tub with his fingers. Nothing happened. He closed his eyes, concentrated and picked up a faint image of an elderly woman, her bloodless face floating in a pool of red. He opened his eyes and craned his neck to look up at Bran, who loomed above him. "The death trace is almost completely gone."

  Bran rubbed his chin. "This is off, there's no sign of haunting, and there should be if it's as bad as the sister let us believe."

  "Maybe the spirit is attached to Frankie," Denton suggested.

  A gurgling sound coming from the tap made them turn back to the tub.

  Bran crouched down right next to Denton, so close they touched from knee to shoulder. They glared at the thing jutting out of the faucet. It kept wriggling and pushing out till it became a recognizable shape.

  "Fucking hell!" Denton said staring at the head of a frog. He could hear behind him Bran's breath catching. They kept staring as the frog, like some four-legged, soggy Houdini, slipped out of the hole he was too big to fit into, and plopped into the tub.

  "Ribbit," it said and licked one of its eyeballs.

  Denton reached out and fully expected the frog disappear when he touched it, as his hallucinations always had, but it didn't. He carefully picked up the little guy and held it out for Bran to see.

  "Rana Clamitans, green frog." Bran said. "Common in the region."

  Denton shook his head. "This is not a normal frog. There's something screwy going on."

  "You're right." Brand brushed his fingers over the frog's skin as he murmured a few words. Briefly the bumps on the frogs back emitted a faint glow.

  "Is it possessed by a demonic spirit? Can it pass onto either of us?" Denton asked with a touch of worry. He didn't fancy being possessed.

  "Nothing as substantial. It's only a wisp inside," Bran answered.

&nbs
p; "But demonic?"

  "Yes."

  Denton was confused and not pleased with Bran's laconic replies. "Okay, remember, when you told me that a demonic spirit—like the naasi—was to a full demon, like a chimp was to a human?"

  "Yes."

  "Well then, what is the thing inside the frog in the same comparison?"

  "A frog," Bran replied after a moment of consideration. "Something simple, yet elegant in its own way." Bran rooted around in his bag and pulled out a clear crystal pendant hanging from a silver chain. He stood and let it dangle over the frog. The tip of the crystal gained a faint green tinge. Bran turned and walked away slowly, holding the pendant in front of him.

  Denton stood too, still cradling the frog in his hand, and followed Bran, who headed straight to the master bedroom. Right in the doorway the crystal showed a pink hue and it got darker and darker as Bran moved farther inside. When he let it swing over the bed, the crystal became deep red. "We're dealing with a demon spirit, not a spirit shadow," Bran announced, putting the pendant away. In its stead he pulled out tweezers and a small, stoppered glass bottle.

  "Why the bed?" Denton asked.

  "People are most vulnerable in their sleep. To all sorts of spirit invasions." He squatted and then lay flat on his stomach and ducked his head under the bed. He crawled out holding a piece of fuzz with the tweezers. He stuffed it into the bottle, and sealed it in with the cork.

  It wasn't the first time Bran's activities left Denton baffled. "Don't tell me you caught a demonic dust bunny."

  "Residual traces. I'll need to ask my dad to identify the demonic spirit." Bran straightened up, put the bottle away, and flung the bag back over his shoulder. "We might as well go. There's nothing else to find here. Bring her." He gestured at the frog.

  "How do you know it's a she?"

  "The size of the tympanum—the membrane they have for ears."

  "Oh, okay. Where are we going?"

  "To the lily pool. And for the record, I'm not obsessed. But you realize we're only a couple of blocks south of the park in Lincoln Park, and the last guy we met who was possessed by a demonic spirit—"

  "Lenny."

  "Lenny picked it up a few blocks west of the park. Frogs, demonic spirits, Peter, me, the lily pool—these things are all connected somehow."

  Denton found it hard to argue with the evidence. "I'm not arguing."

  "Good. Let's go."

  ***

  "I'm gonna call her Hermione," Denton said as they got into the car, and brushed a fingertip down the froggy's back.

  Bran heaved an exasperated sigh. "It's not a pet. We'll have to release it."

  "I know. I can still give her a name. Right, Hermione?"

  "Ribbit." Hermione agreed.

  Bran sighed again. "Call Mrs. Martel, tell her we need more time."

  "Tell her about the demon?"

  "Absolutely not. Make up something. We'll have to figure out what to do about this situation."

  "I'll just send a text for now," Denton put the frog down in his lap, where she sat obligingly, and took out his phone and after some deliberation sent the message: The cuckoos left the nest. Talk later. Hopefully she'd get his meaning.

  ***

  The Alfred Caldwell Lily Pool was a fenced-in park within the park. Its footpaths wound through dense vegetation and around a small lake. Normally, there would've been people strolling around on a Saturday afternoon, but the place stood empty thanks to the darkening skies threatening with another downpour. Empty of people, at any rate. Denton spotted the frogs long before reaching the edge of the water. At least a dozen of them were sitting in the grass and croaking in an un-harmonized chorus, and more were paddling to shore. Even when Denton came toe to webbed-toe with them, none backed off. Quite the contrary, they did their best to get closer to him, sit on his feet, or even climb his legs.

  Denton couldn't decide if he should freak out or not. "Okay, I'm no frogxpert, but even I know this is not a regular frog behavior." He stayed stock still and looked to Bran for help or explanation.

  To Denton's disappointment, Bran simply stood there, with clear bafflement on his face. "No, it's not. They are coming out of the water to meet you."

  "Thank you, Captain Obvious. You haven't yet told me why."

  "I have no idea." Bran lifted up one frog and inspected it from all angles, then put it back down. He sighed. "There are too many of them." He shuffled back and the frogs ignored him. "Well, you've always wanted minions."

  Denton was not amused. "Yeah, but I was thinking of skeletons, mummies, or maybe spiders the size of mastiffs. Something more fearsome and less squishy." He glimpsed up, at the foreboding sky. "It's gonna start raining any second now."

  "You know, the collective noun for frogs is army," Bran said conversationally.

  "Is it?" Denton was getting the impression Bran was enjoying his quandary.

  "Well, one of them. Fitting in this case, I'm afraid."

  "Great." Denton leaned down to place Hermione on the grass but she wrapped her front legs around Denton's thumb and held on. He gently peeled her off and put her down. He tried to move away slowly and carefully, without stepping on any of his soldiers, but they followed him. A few thick drops of rain fell from the sky. Denton groaned. "Do you have anything useful to contribute? What am I supposed to do now? You didn't want me to take one frog home. Imagine a whole platoon of them."

  "They are your army, you're the general. Command them to stay," Bran suggested.

  "Will it work?"

  "I have no idea."

  Well, what did he have to lose? Denton took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and stretched his arms out in a dramatic fashion. "Friends, frogs, beloved minions, I command you to return to your pond and wait for me till I return." For good measure, he visualized his army doing just that.

  For several seconds the frogs stayed still and quiet, only their little throats undulating. Finally, one of them let out a croak, turned, and took a flying leap into the water. The rest followed as one. Just in time because the rain had begun to pelt down hard..

  "Better go," Bran announced, unnecessarily. Denton turned tail as soon as he was sure his army took his order, and rushed for the exit. By the time they reached the car, they were both soaked to the skin.

  ***

  Back home Bran and Denton barely had a chance to change into dry clothes before Denton's phone rang. Sarah Martel was distraught, to say the least.

  "He'll do it. He's going to kill himself, I know it!" her voice was drowning of tears and panic. "You must do something!"

  Denton did his best to calm her down by making promises he didn't know he could keep. When she finally managed to get off the phone he grimaced at Bran. "We have no time."

  "I'm not sure what we're dealing with. We must talk to my father first." Bran set out to conjure Mal, but the demon was no show.

  "Are you sure you're summoning him right?" Denton asked.

  "I've told you, the usual ritual is only as much as sending an invitation. The addressee isn't obliged to answer." Bran walked out of the room and came back holding an X-acto knife, a lighter and a piece of paper the size of a postage stamp. "Few witches know there's one infallible method of summoning a demon—you need to use something belonging to said demon. Like a lock of hair or feather, depending."

  "Hair of a demon to summon the demon. I imagine it's not easy to come by."

  "No. But even if you do, the catalyst is consumed by the ritual. Fortunately, I have a near endless supply of something of Mal's."

  "What?"

  "Our blood." Bran pricked the tip of his index finger with the knife. He squeezed the finger till a big drop of blood welled up on it, then smeared the blood onto the piece of paper. As he repeated the words of the summoning chant, he lit the paper and when the flame licked his finger he let go.

  The ash barely hit the bowl when Mal appeared—without a puff of smoke this time, Denton noted. "Bran, was this necessary? I was in the middle of something. Hasn't y
our mother taught you manners?" Mal complained. He was wearing riding pants and a dark blue hoodie.

  "Dad, we need your help, and it's urgent," Bran replied.

  Mal huffed. "Fine. What is it?"

  Bran quickly explained the situation and pulled out the container with the dust bunny. Mal turned the glass around in his hand. "Do you have something silver? What about that serving plate your mother had?"

  Bran rushed into the kitchen and returned with a polished silver tray. It was about the size of a pie shell with an intricate pattern of flowers around the rim, but otherwise smooth and highly polished.

  "Why silver?" Denton asked.

  "Silver reveals the true appearance of a demon. Look." Mal lifted up the tray next to his own face. It reflected not the handsome face of a man, but a blurry version of the bird head Mal wore when Denton first saw him.

  "Ha. Neat." Denton was impressed.

  Mal put the tray down, and Bran transferred the lint onto it. Mal held his hands palms down over the tray and uttered a few words in a language Denton didn't recognize. He sounded a little like the Old Crone when she'd made the stones move. Sparks like miniature lightning passed between his palms and the surface and the silver. He pulled his hands away and pointed. "There." He and Bran stared intently at the tray.

  Denton leaned in too, but all he could make out was a dark shape writhing across the surface. A moment later it was gone.

  "Sarveel?" Bran sounded uncertain.

  "It is," Mal said

  Bran sat straight up with a frown of bafflement on his face. "I don't get it. They sow hatred, don't they?"

  Mal shook his head. "No, the books have it wrong. The sarveel encourage hatred to grow in men's hearts so they can feed on the emotion. They are parasites. But it doesn't have to be hate. Any other negative emotion will do—fear, jealousy, guilt. The stronger the better."

  "Can this…sarveel fake a ghost?" Denton asked.

  "Quite possibly," Mal replied. "They can induce certain thoughts or dreams to heighten desired emotions. It stands to reason a sarveel could make a man imagine he was seeing a ghost—assuming the person is sensitive to suggestions to begin with."

  "The fact Frankie's possessed by such a demonic spirit means he's sensitive," Bran replied.