Brave Red, Smart Frog

by Emily Jenkins

  Crystal told her father about the ball and the frog, but after that, there wasn’t much to say.

  There never was.

  After the servants cleared the plates and set down dessert of strawberries and cake, a rap sounded at the door that opened on the kitchen garden.

  Crystal went to it and there sat the frog, round as a doughnut and ten times the size. He hopped into the dining hall and over to the princess’s chair. “Lift me up.”

  “I’m not lifting you up. You came to dinner uninvited.”

  “I did you a kindness. You owe me a reward. You left without paying it,” said the frog. “Lift me up.”

  Crystal reached down and grabbed the dry but definitely warty frog underneath the belly. She hoisted him up and set him on the table. “This is the frog who helped me get my ball back,” she explained to her father. “He’s come to claim his reward.”

  “If you promised a reward, you must pay it,” said the king. “What does he want?”

  “I want only this,” said the frog to Crystal. “To eat with you at your table and to sleep with you on your pillow.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Ask for diamonds.”

  “What would I do with diamonds?”

  “Then ask for riches.”

  “What would I do with riches?”

  “Then ask for a pond. A pond with lily pads, and a thousand thanks,” said Crystal.

  “I do not want a pond,” said the frog. “I want company.”

  “You do not.”

  “I do.”

  “If he will not take diamonds or riches or a pond, then you must pay the reward he asks,” said the king.

  “You just want to slime up my table,” said Crystal to the frog. “You want to get your horrendous froggy tongue all over my slice of cake.”

  “A little cake would be nice, thank you,” said the frog. “You can put some here, in that saucer for me. Then you won’t get my frog germs.”

  “I still have to look at you,” said Crystal, but she cut a generous slice of the cake, put it on the saucer, and added several strawberries.

  The frog shoved his face into the cake and ate everything with enthusiasm, even the little green leaves of the strawberries. Crystal, who was used to formal table manners, found herself smiling. They talked about stories she’d read and adventures he’d had, about cake and music and birdsongs.

  That night, the frog slept on Crystal’s pillow.

  “Stop breathing,” said she. “You’re breathing too loud.”

  “You stop breathing.”

  “No, you.”

  “No, you.”

  “You smell like a frog,” she complained.

  “You smell like a human,” he complained right back, “and your hair takes up too much room on the pillow.”

  “At least I’m not bald and warty.”

  “I’m good-looking to other frogs,” said the frog. “Other frogs find me very attractive.”

  “Why are you even here, then? Why would you want to be here with me?”

  “It’s chilly out,” said the frog. “There’s nobody to talk to.”

  And with that, the two of them went to sleep.

  THE NEXT MORNING when Crystal awoke, the frog was nowhere to be found. She spent the day with her ladies-in-waiting, trying on dresses, being measured for dresses, trying on jewels and slippers and hats. It was “Yes, Princess,” “Of course, Princess,” and “You know best, Princess,” all day long.

  When she arrived in the grand hall for dinner with her father, Crystal looked eagerly for the frog.

  He was not there.

  “You have paid your debt to him,” said the king, “so he has gone back to his mudhole.”

  At this, the princess felt heavy and sorry for herself. The meat tasted like cardboard. The roasted apples were sour, the potatoes dry and mealy. She thought of the frog, with cake on his bloated froggy face, and felt that dinner with her father was even duller than a day with her ladies-in-waiting.

  She jumped as soon as she heard a knock at the door, and when she saw the frog upon the doorstep, she picked him up gleefully and kissed him on his dry, bald, warty, froggy head, she was so very glad to see him.

  Now, some kisses break enchantments.

  And other kisses begin them.

  Crystal’s kiss was the first kind, not the second. As soon as her lips touched the frog, he wrenched out of her hands — and before he hit the ground, he was transformed.

  Before her stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, just a little older than herself, not froggy in the least, though his large warm eyes looked familiar. It was the frog himself, and Crystal felt both surprised and unsurprised, as if she had known there was magic of this sort at work all along.

  “I want only this,” he said. “To eat with you at your table and to sleep with you on your pillow.”

  “You just want to slime up my table,” said Crystal. “You want to get your horrendous froggy tongue all over my slice of cake.”

  “I have a normal human tongue now,” he said. “And while it’s true I’m fond of cake, I’m fonder by far of you.”

  “Cheeky,” scolded Crystal, but she smiled as she led the way to the table and offered him a chair. Cake was served; the two of them devoured it in big, joyful mouthfuls, and then asked for seconds. The young man told Crystal and her father his story.

  Years ago, he had been prince of a neighboring kingdom. He had angered an ill-tempered witch, and she had punished him by turning him into a frog. A frog he had remained for a good long time, knowing that the only thing that could break his enchantment was true love’s kiss — but never dreaming he would find it.

  “You think I love you, then?” said Crystal. “We only met yesterday.”

  “I know you love me,” said the prince, laughing. “If you didn’t love me, I would still be a frog.”

  “Oh, all right, it’s true, but don’t gloat about it. It’s disgusting,” said the princess, putting her hand on his.

  He stopped her mouth with a second kiss.

  And after that, they married, and spent their hours talking and laughing and teasing each other, only quarreling now and then to keep the days from seeming dull.

  There was once a woodcutter who lived near the edge of a frozen forest; a forest where it was always winter. Perhaps you know of it.

  The woodcutter did not cut wood in that forest, because people in the towns nearby believed the trees were haunted by sprites who would take vengeance on anyone who cut down their homes. Therefore, each morning the woodcutter drove his cart and donkey several miles away to a sunny forest populated by bunnies and bluebirds. He cut down the trees there, instead.

  He loved the bunnies. He loved the bluebirds. He loved the smell of fresh-cut wood and the feel of the ax in his hands. He loved his wife; he loved his children; he loved his soft-nosed, dear old donkey. His name was Twig, this woodcutter, and he was very happy in his life.

  Then one day, the donkey died. It was very old.

  After that, Twig became stupid with grief. True, it was only a donkey, but it had been his pet and helper for many years. And so, he did not cut wood.

  Twig did not cut wood and he did not cut wood, and therefore he did not sell wood and he did not sell wood. Instead, he moped around the house, thinking about the donkey’s soft nose and sweet, unquestioning nature.

  Finally his wife, Butter — who made dinner, did the accounts, and looked after their four children — said to him, “Twig. You have got to sell wood. You’re a woodcutter.”

  “I have no donkey to pull the cart,” Twig answered.

  “Why not buy a new donkey?”

  “We are too poor. I have sold no wood for months on months. Our savings are gone.”

  “Why didn’t you buy a new donkey when the old one died?”

  “I was too sad. I loved our donkey.”

  “You must cut wood in the frozen forest, then,” said Butter, “for it is nearby enough that you
won’t need the cart.”

  “The frozen forest?” Twig was frightened.

  “If you do not cut wood, we will have nothing to eat in this house but boiled cabbage and fish heads.”

  And although he did not like boiled cabbage and fish heads any more than you do, Twig was frightened of the frozen forest and, still, he did not cut wood.

  He did not cut wood and he did not cut wood, and he did not sell wood and he did not sell wood.

  His children ate boiled cabbage and fish heads.

  He and Butter ate boiled cabbage and fish heads.

  And it was not long before the fish heads became too expensive, and they ate nothing but boiled cabbage, day in and day out.

  One afternoon, after lunching on cabbage while looking at the sad, cabbage-sick faces of his four children, Twig could take it no more.

  He shouldered his ax and pulled his wheelbarrow from the shed. He kissed his wife and walked bravely into the forest.

  The moment he set foot on the narrow path that went through the trees, Twig felt a chill. Only a few paces farther and he was shivering, his hands stiffening under his gloves, his ears turning pink with the cold.

  The bare branches of the trees clicked across one another.

  No bunnies scrabbled in the underbrush. No bluebirds chirped in the branches.

  Twig could feel the cold through the soles of his boots.

  He went on for some time until, deeper into the wood, the trees became thick enough to cut down. He chose one that was a good size for splitting and carting home. He raised his ax.

  “Stop!”

  At his ear was a tree sprite. She was the same ash-brown color as the tree he was preparing to chop, with an angry face and wings like winter leaves — rusty, crumpled, and papery.

  “Don’t cut my tree!” cried the sprite. “I beg you. Don’t leave me to the mercy of the wolves and the ravens. They are starving and have no mercy to spare. Without the tree to protect me, I’ll be dead before nightfall.”

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I have four hungry children to feed, a wife who isn’t pleased with me, and a dear sweet donkey who is many months dead. I must cut wood to feed my family.”

  “Each tree in this forest protects a sprite,” the creature explained. “You cannot cut wood here at all. You will kill us.”

  Twig thought of raising his ax, but found he could not do it. Instead, he nodded and prepared to go home, lifting the handles of the barrow and turning back along the path.

  “Wait!” cried the sprite. “For your charity, I reward you with three wishes. What do you wish for?”

  “Oh, I must consult my wife,” replied Twig. “If she hasn’t got a hand in choosing the wishes, she’ll be even less pleased with me than she is now.”

  “The next three wishes you voice will come true,” said the sprite. “And I’m very sorry about your donkey.”

  TWIG HURRIED HOME, but it was late in the evening when he arrived. The children were asleep, and Butter waited at the door.

  “Where is the money?” she asked him.

  “I have none.”

  “Then, where is the food? Surely you have sold the wood, spent the money, and brought us food?”

  “I have not.”

  “Idiot!” she cried. “Where is the wood, then?”

  Butter was not a cruel woman, but remember: she was very, very hungry.

  “I did not cut wood,” said Twig, and with that, Butter turned her back on him, stomped into the house, and busied herself sweeping the floor of the kitchen.

  Twig followed. He explained to her about the frozen forest, the narrow path, the tree sprite who was frightened of wolves and ravens, and finally the three wishes. “I wanted to consult you before making a wish,” he said.

  “Stop it,” snapped Butter. “I know there are no wishes. I know there was no sprite. You slept the day away while your children went hungry, and now you come home to me with a mouth full of lies.”

  “But it’s true!” cried Twig. “Let me prove it! I wish we had a fat squashy sausage for our dinner.”

  And with that, a fat squashy sausage, warm and steaming slightly, appeared on the table.

  “See?” said Twig.

  “You wasted a wish on a sausage.”

  “But you like sausage,” said Twig. “I picked sausage because I know you like it!”

  “I’d like a larder full of food that would last us the winter,” snapped Butter. “I’d like a cow that we could milk, or a garden we could tend. I’d like shoes for the children or a donkey to pull your cart again. I’d like a sack of money or ten years of good health or a husband with half a brain, which is more than the husband I’ve got. Wishing for a sausage,” she sniffed. “No one but a child would wish for a sausage.”

  “I went in the forest like you wanted,” said Twig.

  “You’re a great noodle,” said his wife. “Mooning about that donkey for months upon end when your own children eat nothing but cabbage.”

  “Aw, come on, let’s eat the sausage,” said Twig. “It’s such a fat squashy one.”

  “Don’t touch it!” cried Butter. “If we eat it, we have to keep it. If we don’t eat it, maybe there’s a way we can undo the wish.”

  “I’m hungry.” Twig reached out.

  “No.” Butter grabbed it. “It’s a stupid sausage.”

  They each had one end and began pulling back and forth.

  “Don’t say stupid sausage. It did nothing to you,” said Twig.

  “Stupid, stupid sausage,” said Butter.

  “Well, then: I wish that stupid sausage was on the end of your stupid nose!” cried Twig.

  As soon as he spoke those words, the sausage sprang to the end of Butter’s nose and attached itself there, fat and squashy. When Butter turned her head, it flapped her on the shoulder. When she nodded, it bounced.

  Twig laughed. He pointed. He felt pleased, the way one does when one has won an argument — until his wife, whom he really did adore, crumpled into a chair sobbing. The sausage shook as she wept.

  “If we eat it now,” said Twig, helpfully, “it’ll look a lot better. It’ll just be a little sausage stub on your nose. No one will hardly notice it!”

  “I don’t want a sausage stub on my nose,” moaned Butter.

  “We’ll eat it right down,” said Twig. “It’ll be a very tiny sausage stub, I promise.”

  “I don’t want a very tiny sausage stub, either.”

  “We’ll use the last wish however you want. Do you think a cow is best? Or a donkey? Do you think we could get a donkey and a cow and maybe a pig all in one wish? Perhaps we could just say, ‘An assortment of farm animals’!”

  “I can’t think with this sausage,” sobbed Butter.

  “Aw, come on, love,” said Twig. “I’ll still think you’re pretty with a sausage stub. Really, I will. And I don’t give three figs if the neighbors talk.”

  Butter thought for a long while. Finally she said, “I am lucky to have a husband who thinks I’m pretty with a sausage stub. And I am lucky to have a husband who doesn’t give three figs if the neighbors talk.”

  “Thanks, my dear,” said Twig. He kissed her on her nose, right next to the sausage. It smelled delicious.

  “But I don’t think I’m pretty, and I do care three figs if the neighbors talk,” continued Butter. “I can’t live with even the tiniest sausage stub, Twig. I truly cannot.” And she began to cry again, crying for the cow and the donkey they would never have, for the cabbage-sick faces of the children and the unchoppable trees of the winter forest, for her sons’ and daughters’ worn-out shoes and the barren land behind their home that would never be a garden. She cried and cried, and Twig patted her back until at last he said:

  “I wish the sausage off your nose.”

  In an instant it was back on the table.

  Butter wiped her eyes and looked at it. “We are lucky it’s still here,” she said. “It might have gone entirely.”

  “That we are,” said Twig.
r />   And so they ate half of it for dinner and saved the rest for the children’s breakfast. They laughed at each other’s jokes and patted each other’s arms and talked about what they would do the next day, and how they would work together.

  There was once a child whose mother died. The girl was mournful and sometimes lonely, but she did not turn bitter. In fact, she was sweet as cherries.

  Along about the same time, there was another child whose father died. This girl was bitter as walnuts. She felt the world had wronged her and planned to punish it in return.

  The father of the one and the mother of the other met and decided to marry. They shared money, meals, and a small home, living together for a short time in harmony.

  However, one day the man encountered a hungry wolf.

  That was the end of him.

  He left behind the sweet girl, the bitter girl, and, bitterest of all, a woman who had lost two husbands in only two years.

  The sweet one had the worst of it. Her stepmother and stepsister made her scrub the floors and wash the windows, beat the carpets and cook the meals. They made her do the dishes, wash the clothes, make the beds, and mend the holes in their stockings. They scolded her and hit her and told her she was worthless.

  They themselves did very little. They had lost two men, the world was cruel, and they were far too unhappy to make dinner.

  Cherry — the sweet one, that was her name — was as angry at those two as anyone could be. Who can blame her? Still, she managed to keep her temper most times and to enjoy the sun on a beautiful day, the taste of good cheese, the purr of a kitten.

  Things went on in this unpleasant fashion until early one important morning, when Cherry went to get water from the well. It was a walk of some ten minutes, and as she turned home with her jug full, a crone appeared on the path. The woman’s fingers were long. Her nose was hooked. She staggered and mumbled. She was dirty and her teeth rotted.

  “May I have a drink of that water?” she asked. “I have no cup of my own.”

  Cherry was tired already. She knew her stepmother and stepsister would be impatient for the water she was carrying. The crone was unclean, even frightening. Cherry wanted to pull back, but instead she looked at the woman’s face.