Brave Red, Smart Frog

by Emily Jenkins

  What did she see?

  Need.

  Cherry offered the jug.

  The crone drank. When she finished, she said, “For your sweetness, I reward you with pearls.”

  Cherry laughed, it seemed so impossible, but as she laughed, her mouth filled with small spheres. They rolled gently off her lips and into her hand. Cherry looked down to see a pile of exquisite pearls.

  When she looked up, the crone had disappeared.

  AT HOME, her stepmother was furious. “Where is the water, stupid girl?”

  Cherry flushed. She had forgotten to refill the jug. “I met a crone by the well,” she answered, “and she blessed me somehow.” As she spoke, pearls began rolling off her tongue. Pearl after pearl after pearl. They clattered to the floor and rolled across the boards.

  Her stepsister, Walnut — that’s what they called her — dropped to her knees to pick them up. “Are they real?”

  “I don’t know.” More pearls hit the floor. Pearl after pearl after pearl.

  “Disgusting. They’re wet!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t speak, then!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t speak!”

  Hand clamped over her mouth, Cherry sat down in a corner.

  “She should speak, you noodle,” cried the stepmother. “These pearls will be our fortune. Goodness knows we deserve it after all we’ve been through.”

  And so, Cherry spoke. She spoke of frivolities and forests, of wolves and moonlight, the past and the future. Pearls dropped from her lips with every sentence. You might think it would be uncomfortable, but instead it felt to Cherry as if she were saying exactly what she intended, the way you might feel when words roll off your tongue in shiny perfection. It felt surprising, but beautiful and satisfying.

  The stepmother and Walnut knelt on the floor, scooping the pearls into a basket. Wet handful by wet handful, pearl after pearl after pearl.

  “I love you,” said the stepmother, “and perhaps I haven’t told you as much as you might like to hear it. You, my Cherry, you are a beautiful girl with beautiful curls and beautiful pearls. I couldn’t adore you more.”

  NEXT MORNING, Cherry set out to bring water from the well, but Walnut was standing outside. She smacked Cherry on the side of the head and took the jug out of her hands. “Don’t you go again. I’m going.”

  Cherry stopped in surprise.

  “The crone gave you pearls yesterday in exchange for water,” said Walnut. “If you go again today, she’ll give you something else, won’t she? Rubies or emeralds or maybe diamonds.”

  Cherry shrugged.

  “I’ve had a hard life,” said Walnut. “I lost my father and then I lost my stepfather and we’ve got a poky little house and nothing fun ever happens. Anyone would feel sorry for me. Let me get the water today, and I’ll come back with diamonds, just you wait and see.”

  Cherry left Walnut with the jug and went indoors silently.

  AS WALNUT WALKED the path to the well, she stumbled and moped to make herself look as miserable as possible, but the crone was nowhere in sight.

  Walnut filled the jug and began to carry it back, pausing often to sigh and stare at the sky. If the crone was hiding nearby, she would surely see how very unhappy poor Walnut was — and reward her suffering with jewels.

  She was almost home when a small boy ran up behind her on the path. He was dirty and had green goop coming out his nose. “Oooh, could I have a drink of water?” he asked Walnut. “I have no cup.”

  “Not with that nose. Be off.”

  “What’s wrong with my nose?”

  “Go away.”

  “Come on,” said the boy, wiping his snot on the back of his hand. “Be nice. I’m awful thirsty.”

  “Have you seen a crone nearby?” asked Walnut. “A crone who might be a fairy and takes pity on poor depressed girls like myself?”

  “I haven’t seen anyone. Please, may I have some water?” he repeated. “I have no cup. I am horrible dry in the mouth, lady.”

  “Get on away from me,” said Walnut. “Germy little runt, you.”

  At that, the boy kicked her in the shin, making her drop the jug. It broke, and the water spilled out across the ground. “For your bitterness,” he yelled, as he ran away laughing. “For your bitterness, I reward you with toads!”

  “You’re a toad, runt!” yelled Walnut, shaking her fist at him — but as she spoke, her mouth filled with slimy objects, each the size of your big toe. She spat them harshly into her hand. There were two brown toads and a green one wiggling on her palm.

  “Disgusting!” she said. A large yellow toad formed in her mouth, forced its way out, and joined its fellows in her hand.

  Walnut screamed and dropped the toads. As she did, four small red ones leaped from her tongue onto the wet ground, where they splashed happily in the puddle by the broken jug. Walnut stomped them angrily, but they were extremely fast, and even when she did manage to step on one, it popped back as if made from rubber.

  Hand clamped over her mouth, Walnut ran home as fast as she could go, the eight toads hopping cheerily behind her.

  Well, you can only imagine.

  Walnut’s mother insisted she tell the story of what had happened at the well, and with each word she spoke, Walnut produced another toad — the longer the word, the larger the beastie.

  Soon the poky house was filled with toads. Toads in the sink, toads in the cooking pot, toads in the cups and saucers. Toads on shoulders and toes, toads on pillows and sponges, tiny toads in the curves of spoons. And, oh, the croaking and belching that filled the house!

  Walnut stood on a chair and screamed, which only made sickly white toads the size of bread loaves force themselves from her mouth. The stepmother grabbed hold of an iron pot and began banging at toads right and left, but no matter what she did, no matter how hard she bashed them, they popped up again merrily.

  Cherry opened all the doors and windows and tried to shoo the toads outside, but the longer Walnut screamed, the more they seemed to like it, and as many came back indoors as she could coax out.

  “This is Cherry’s fault!” cried the stepmother harshly. “If she had not lied about the crone, this never would have happened!” And she came at Cherry with the iron pot, looking to beat her with it.

  Cherry was quick-footed and strong from all her work, though. She dodged her stepmother and ran out the door. She ran for some time, past the outskirts of the nearest town, and then began to walk.

  Then she changed direction and kept walking.

  Cherry never wanted to go back to that house again.

  She wanted to make a life for herself somewhere new.

  She realized now that the crone had given her a great gift, indeed: independence. With pearls coming from her mouth, Cherry would never again be poor. She would never again need to live with people who were cruel to her, merely because those cruel people put a roof over her head.

  She came to a town, rented a room, and paid in pearls.

  There was once a forest; a strange forest, where it was always winter. You have heard of it before.

  Nothing good to eat grew there. All the streams were frozen, and no fish ever swam in them. Almost no one lived there, either. Only some dwarves, tree sprites, an untold number of witches — and one or two humans who weren’t suited to ordinary life.

  As you might imagine, the animals of the frozen forest were very, very hungry.

  Through the trees carved winding paths, too thin and icy for horses to walk. And deep among the trees lay a locked house, built years ago by a man and a woman who had quarreled with their relatives and liked to live alone.

  Now, the man was dead, and the woman was very old, indeed. We shall call her Grandmother, though she had not seen her daughter in a long, long time and had never met her granddaughter at all.

  Where the wintery trees stopped, near a warm sunny meadow where horses roamed, lay another house. This house itself looked relieved — as if it had narrowl
y escaped being swallowed by the forest. In it lived a girl who was always called Red, because of the hooded red cloak she wore when she rode horses in the meadow.

  One day, Red’s mother received a letter, delivered by a dwarf. Grandmother, who lived in the locked house, deep in the wintery forest — Grandmother was ill. She longed to see her granddaughter. She wanted to gaze on the rosy cheeks and bright eyes of youth before she died.

  Grandmother did not wish to see anyone else.

  Indeed, she asked them not to come.

  Red’s mother baked corn cakes. A gift for Grandmother. An apology. A peacemaking.

  When the cakes were ready, clouds were gathering in the sky. Red’s mother asked her not to go. The frozen forest was dangerous enough without a storm. But Red would not hear of any more delay.

  Grandmother wanted her; Grandmother was dying. She would go.

  Mother drew her a map, to guide her through the dangerous woods, and Red walked into the dark.

  The bare branches of the trees clicked across one another.

  Red’s cloak billowed out behind her.

  Snow began to fall.

  She had been walking for nearly an hour when the wind snatched the map from her hand. It flew into the clutches of an oak.

  Could she climb and retrieve it?

  No. The tree was coated in ice. Should she turn home?

  No. She might never meet her grandmother.

  “Are you lost?” The voice she heard was coated in honey. Red started and looked around.

  There was no one there. No one she could see.

  “I am not lost,” she lied.

  “Where are you going?” asked the voice.

  Red made out two warm eyes, peering from behind a tree.

  A wolf. Scrawny. Wet with snow and starving.

  “My grandmother lives in this forest,” Red told him. “She is expecting me.”

  “That is your grandmother, in the sugar house?”

  “No.”

  “The stone house?”

  “No.”

  “In the locked house, then?” asked the wolf.

  “Yes,” answered Red. “That must be her.”

  He trotted toward her like a dog and sniffed at the napkin covering the corn cakes.

  “They’re a gift,” she said. “But take one. You look hungry.” Red gave him a still-warm cake.

  The wolf ate it in two bites. “You are very kind,” he said. “May I have another?”

  He was so hungry. Starving, even, but Red clutched her basket to her chest. “I am sorry, but you may not,” she told him. “They are a gift for Grandmother. An apology. A peacemaking. She is weak and dying.”

  The wolf’s eyes grew big. He licked his lips.

  For the first time, Red was afraid.

  But then he wagged his tail. “Thank you for the one cake, anyway. In return, I will tell you the shortest path to Grandmother’s.”

  The wolf gave clear directions. Bear right, not left. Cross the frozen stream on the fallen tree. Bear left, not right.

  All the while, Red was thinking: I am so glad I found him. So glad I helped him. If not, for certain I’d be lost in this storm.

  All the while, the wolf was thinking: the locked house is warm and full of good smells, but till this day, Grandmother was too smart to answer the scratch of a wolf at her door.

  Today, she is weak and dying. Today, as never before, she is expecting company. And I am so, so hungry, thought the wolf. So very hungry.

  “Good-bye,” said Red. “Thank you.”

  “Good-bye,” said the wolf. “Travel safely.”

  He felt his fur prickle in disgust at what he knew he was about to do.

  Red walked. Bearing right instead of left. Crossing the frozen stream. Bearing left instead of right. She kept her cloak tight about her as protection. The walk took nearly an hour, but because the snow fell so hard and fast, and because the wind blew loud and mean, she traveled safely. No other animals were hunting.

  The wolf trotted through the trees only a short way. He knocked with a cold paw at the door of the locked house.

  “Who is it?” Grandmother took a long time coming to the door.

  “Granddaughter,” said the wolf, altering his voice as best he could. “You expect me, don’t you?”

  “Red?”

  “Yes. I’ve come to see you, Grandmother.”

  Grandmother unlocked the door.

  The smell of potato soup reached the wolf.

  The door opened inward, and he was upon her.

  He swallowed her whole, then swallowed her soup and her bread and her ale.

  He rummaged her closet and put on her clothes.

  Red arrived walking slowly, head bowed against the wind. She tapped the door only to find it swing in at her touch.

  “Grandmother,” she called, entering. “It’s Red. I’ve come with a basket of corn cakes.”

  No answer, but the bedroom door was open. “Grandmother?”

  Red set the basket on the kitchen table and pushed forward. She had never met her grandmother. The figure before her was gnarled and frail, wrapped tightly in a robe and scarf.

  “Grandmother?” Red said again as she approached. “Do you know me?”

  “I know you,” said the wolf.

  “What big eyes you have,” she said, her voice no louder than a whisper.

  “The better to see you with, my dear. Come closer.”

  Red stepped. And stepped.

  “What big ears you have,” she said.

  “The better to hear you with, my dear. Come closer, still.”

  It was her grandmother. It must be. Her grandmother had written and asked for Red, in her last days of life.

  Red stepped. And stepped.

  “What big teeth you have,” she said, as she came to the bed.

  And the wolf, though he hated himself, though he hated the frozen forest and what it had made of him, the wolf hated hunger even more.

  “The better to eat you with, my dear,” he said, and pounced.

  He was so hungry, he swallowed Red whole.

  It took only a moment. She didn’t feel pain.

  It was the wolf who felt pain, but he did not stop himself till the last of the bright red hood was down his throat.

  Now with Grandmother, soup, bread, ale, and Red, the wolf should have been sated — but deep hunger can be like this: eating merely makes you want more.

  He threw off the clothes and dragged his stuffed body to the kitchen. As he ate the corn cakes, he knew he could be spied clearly through the window of the locked house.

  But no one would see him, he thought. Hardly anyone came into the icy forest. And today, the sky was black with storms.

  Still, someone did see the wolf.

  A huntsman returning from a terrible errand stood outside the locked house, wondering if he might take shelter there from the cold. He knew full well that a wolf on a kitchen table is a dangerous, dangerous thing, and he was out to hunt a wolf, in any case.

  The huntsman pushed the unlocked door open and discharged his rifle.

  Blood spattered across Grandmother’s tablecloth.

  The wolf was hungry no more.

  The huntsman shut the door against the cold. He rebuilt the fire. Then he took his knife and cut open the wolf. He needed the heart for his purposes.

  Red was there. Inside the wolf. Alive and breathing.

  Grandmother was there, too.

  They two were there, embracing and laughing, even though they were strangers. They were safe and warm, and that was suddenly more than lucky enough in this world.

  The snow piled high outside, and the three people were grateful for what they had, there in the locked house in the forest of winter.

  Travel home would wait for another day.

  There was once a farmhouse, and in it lived a vegetable farmer, a dairy farmer, and their daughter.

  The three of them lived on a small farm near a sunny forest populated by bunnies and bluebirds. Th
ey raised turnips and sweet potatoes that fed them through the winter, and beans and tomatoes that fed them in the summer. They had a donkey to pull the cart and three cows that gave milk, which the mother turned to cheese and butter.

  Eventually the daughter of this family was old enough to think about marriage. Her name was Amity.

  A young man from town came courting Amity, after meeting her when she was selling her mother’s cheese at market. His name was Blunt. He had been to school. He had a sharp mind and a kind heart, but something of a quick temper.

  One day, Blunt and the family sat down to a meal in the farmhouse. They wanted wine, so Amity took a jug and went to fill it from the cask in the cellar.

  As she turned the tap and let the wine flow, Amity looked up and saw an ax hanging from a hook above her head. She was tenderhearted, and the ax got her thinking. Amity thought and thought, and as she thought she began to cry.

  Ten minutes later, her mother came downstairs to find the wine had overflowed the jug. Amity sat weeping on a low bench, her feet soaked.

  “That ax,” sobbed Amity, “it is so desperately sad.”

  “What of it?”

  “One day, Blunt and I might marry. We might have a son, and we might name him Dingleberry.”

  “No, not Dingleberry. Boysenberry,” said the mother.

  “We might name him Dingleberry or Boysenberry,” said Amity, “and we would love him more than earth and sky. Dingleberry or Boysenberry might grow big, and soon he would be big enough to fetch wine from the cellar.”

  “Oh, what a big, strong boy!”

  “Yes. We will be so proud of him. And Dingleberry or Boysenberry might come down here, and that ax, that ax! It might fall from its hook and cut the head clean off our big, strong boy.”

  “He’ll never grow up to find true love,” moaned the mother.

  “We’ll miss him so,” said Amity, and she scooched over on the bench so the two of them could weep together.

  Ten minutes later, the father came downstairs to find wine still pouring from the tap, soaking their feet and ankles.

  “That ax,” sobbed Amity, “it is so desperately sad.”