Frogged (3 page)

“Ribbit!” Imogene called as he turned from her. She quickly managed to come back to human speech. “Wait!” Then, because

 

1. she had been raised to always remember her manners, but mostly because
   
2. he'd clearly indicated he resented her being a princess,
   

 

she added, “Please.”

He stopped but didn't turn to face her. “You don't even know my name,” he pointed out. “Here you go, wanting to call me back, but you don't know how except as”—he slipped into a la-di-da voice that she could only assume was supposed to sound like hers—“that-poor-boy-I'm-oh-so-kind-enough-to-help.”

So, Imogene thought, it was a good thing she hadn't mentioned the bread before.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

He
had turned
her
into a frog, and she was apologizing.

But still. “I'm sorry I never asked your name.”

Finally, sulkily, the boy faced her. “Harry,” the boy told her. “My name is Harry.”

Before he could turn around for good and walk away, she hurriedly said, “Hello, Harry. I'm Imogene.”

He snorted, which might have meant he thought that was obvious. Or maybe it meant he thought she was talking down to him by not saying, “Princess Imogene.” But they both knew what she was.

And what he was.

She said, “Please, Harry, will you tell me what happened?” Then, seeing the I-can't-believe-you're-asking-me-that expression on his face, she clarified, “To you. How did
you
get changed into a frog?”

But even that question seemed to try his patience. “I done told you,” he said. “You try to act like you're a regular person, but you don't listen. I already said.”

And with that, he did resume walking away.

“A witch!” Imogene called after him. She started jumping, following as he strode through the grass that separated the mill pond from the road, but she quickly saw she could never catch up. Her frog legs were strong for jumping both high and long, but not so good for a whole bunch of jumps, one right after another. “I
was
listening. I
did
hear you. You said a witch turned you into a frog, and you said she did it for no reason.” She didn't point out that he had also said he was a prince, so he was perhaps not the most reliable person from whom to be getting her information. She finished all in a rush and raised her voice, because the distance between them was growing and he gave no sign that he intended to stop. “But you didn't give me the specifics.”

“Specifics,” he muttered, still striding away from her. But then he did finally face her again, though he continued walking—more slowly—backwards. “Specifics.”

The way he lingered over the word made Imogene suspect that he might not know what it meant, but that he didn't want to admit so. He
had
tried to bluff his way through “metaphor.” But he had also sort of gotten it. She said, “Who the witch was. Where the two of you crossed paths. What you were doing when—for no reason—she put the spell on you.” It couldn't hurt to take his side. “If she said anything to you. That kind of specifics.”

She had time for all this because he had stopped walking and she'd had the chance to close some of the distance between them. She was, however, panting from all the jumping, which was harder work than she would have ever thought. Not that she had ever thought about any of it: jumping or frogs or jumping frogs.

Luckily, he answered—luckily because she didn't have breath for any more questions
or
jumps.

“She's the old lady what lives in the house down the way from where my friend Tolf lives, you know, the house behind where the cooper has his shop?”

Imogene managed to croak out, “
Who
lives behind the cooper's shop: Tolf or the old lady?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Tolf. The witch's house is down the way from him. But before you get to the blacksmith's shop. She has apple trees in her yard. More apple trees—more apples—than anyone could ever use.”

Imogene had a suspicion she could guess where this story was going, but she nodded to encourage him.

Harry said, “I heard tell she was a witch, but I figured that was talk she started herself, so as to keep people from pestering her. Either that, or people call her witch causin' she's as ugly as the wrong end of a wild pig.”

Imogene didn't interrupt to ask him
which
was the wrong end of a wild pig. That is, she supposed she knew, but she wasn't sure, since she wouldn't want to come face to face with either end. And the end that, technically speaking, had a face to come face to face with had nasty sharp tusks, and surely those were something most anyone would want to avoid.

Her own parents didn't believe in witches, not outside of stories, and they certainly didn't believe in name-calling those who were unfortunate in their physical appearance.

But before she could become too distracted by either of those lines of thinking, Harry finished, “And, I mean, if you were a witch what knew spells, wouldn't the first spell you cast be to improve your looks from ugly to at least passable?”

“Yes,” Imogene said, because what instantly came to mind was all those princesses who were as good as they were beautiful, and she'd always wanted that. Well, truth be told: she was more interested in the beautiful part than the good part. But then she said, “Well, no, probably it would be the second thing I'd wish for.” Because—as nice as it would be to be beautiful—it was more important to be healthy and of sound body. As someone who had just had her body changed into that of a frog, she knew the importance of this. But that was selfish, because of course she'd also want her family to be healthy, so she amended her statement to “Well, actually the third.” Her mind kept spinning and bouncing off different possibilities. “Or, no, wait a minute: the fourth, because— Except . . . Maybe the fifth . . . Unless it was the sixth. Or it could be—”

“Princess,” Harry interrupted firmly, and even a bit crankily for all her dithering.

“What?”

“It would be one of the first.”

She pondered that, weighing it.

“If you were a witch?” Harry sounded exasperated. “With lots of years to cast lots of spells?”

“But isn't that the point?” Imogene said. “She
did
turn out to be a witch. Who hasn't made herself attractive. For whatever reason.”

“You always got to be right, don't you, Princess?” Harry snapped.

“You're the one who brought it up,” Imogene snapped right back.

“Anyways,” Harry said, “I didn't believe she was a witch, even though
you
probably would of on account of you being a princess and being so smart about everything. And there was her yard, with all them apples nobody was eating except for the worms once them apples fell off them trees, and with me with never enough to eat.”

“So you went into her yard?” Imogene said. “To take an apple because you were hungry? And she caught you and changed you into a frog for
that?
” It hardly seemed fair.

Harry squirmed. “Well,” he admitted, “with me and my brothers and sisters with never enough to eat.”

“All right,” Imogene said. “So you took . . . several . . . apples? For your brothers and sisters?” She thought there might be six of the children, total, but she wasn't absolutely certain.

It was hard to believe someone could be so cruel to begrudge six—or even seven—hungry children an apple each, and Imogene took a few moments to think about going to someone like that and asking for help in de-frogging herself.

Moments Harry apparently spent thinking about something, too.

“Well . . .” he said.

That brought her back quickly. “What?”

“A few of them apples—you, know, the ones on the ground—they were wormy. And mushy. They were no good to eat.”

Imogene tapped her little webbed foot. “And so?” she prompted.

“So,” Harry admitted, “I threw a few of them, for target practice.”

“Target practice?”
Imogene demanded. “Don't tell me you were throwing apples at the witch.”

“No!” Harry assured her. “I'd never do that.” His squirming resumed. “Not intentionally.” He sighed, as though she was interrogating him. “All right, all right, I was throwing them at her door. How was I to know she was home? How was I to know she'd choose
then
to come out?”

Imogene sighed, too. “And that was when she turned you into a frog? After you accidentally hit her with an apple?”

Harry considered for a bit too long before saying, “More or less.”

“More or less what?” Imogene snapped.

“I was throwing the apples fast,” Harry said. “And I'm a very good shot. Maybe two hit her.”

Imogene just looked at him and waited.

“Three at the most.”

“Anything else you need to tell me?”

“No, Princess, that's about it. What do you need to know all this for, anyway?”

It was so obvious, Imogene couldn't believe he had to ask. “So I can track her down. And convince her to take the spell off me without my having to pass it on to someone else.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, well—good luck with that!” he said.

Chapter 3:

(That's just crazy: the only people who are fearless are people who have no imagination)

 

 

Princess Imogene had hoped that Harry would come with her. But the way he wished her good luck
sounded
like the end of the conversation.

And the way he turned around and walked away
looked
like the end of the conversation.

“Aren't you going to help me?” she called after him.

“Nope,” he called back.

And that most certainly
was
the end of the conversation.

Not sure how far her croaky little voice would carry, she shouted after him, “You could at least bring me there.” He couldn't hear her, not at that distance, but it was hard to give up. “Just to the edge of her property. Even if . . .” He'd reached the top of the little hill. Well, it was really more of an incline than a hill; it only looked like a hill to someone who was just two and a half inches tall. But in any case, Harry reached the road that led to the mill itself, and he disappeared beyond the corner of the building with never a glance backwards. Her voice dropped to a mutter, and she finished, “Even if you're too afraid to face her again.”

Imogene sighed.

Well, she would just have to
not
be afraid. She would have to get there on her own.

Imogene began jumping. And jumping. And jumping.

A pesky gnat made a nuisance of itself by circling her head.

Imogene fully intended to swat it away, but instead of her hand coming up, her mouth opened and her tongue shot out.

“Ech!”
She tried to cough the bug out of her throat, but her throat did the exact opposite of what she wanted—and she swallowed it instead.

“Ech! Ech! Ech!”
But it wouldn't come back up.

She tried to convince herself that so long as she was a frog, eating a gnat was the same as eating peaches in cream was for her princess self.

But she wasn't that easy to fool.

Just never mind,
she reflected, even though she was still fighting not to gag.
The best thing you can do is to turn back to your princess self as quickly as possible.

And the best way to do that was to confront the witch as quickly as possible.

Surely, Imogene theorized, the witch would have to listen to good sense and agree that there was no reason
Imogene
should suffer for what the wainwright's boy had done.

But, again, Imogene wasn't that easy to fool.

Still, she jumped up the grassy incline that had become a hill and estimated that was about a tenth of the way she had to go. She might have to take a few rests as she traveled, but this was certainly doable.

She jumped onto the road, since that—being more level than the grassy slope—should be easier.

Her big froggy eyes caught a movement off to the side, and she hopped back just in time to avoid being run over by the wheel of the cart that the greengrocer was pushing.

Not becoming a froggy slick on the road would have been indisputably a good thing if only she hadn't landed on top of the bare foot of the greengrocer's daughter, a five-year-old who was walking behind and off to the side of the cart and who apparently didn't like frogs. Or, at least, didn't like frogs unexpectedly landing on her.

The girl screamed—which Imogene thought was an overreaction no matter how you looked at it—and kicked her foot up into the air, which flung Imogene back into the grass from which she'd just come.

The good news was that Imogene landed on something soft.

The bad news was that she landed on something furry.

The
really
bad news was that the soft, furry thing she'd landed on was a big orange cat. And the way it was crouched where road met grass—right where Imogene had come out from not more than a jump, a scream, and a kick away—suggested that the cat had, in fact, been stalking her.

Who could have guessed that such a fat old cat with a frog sitting on its head could move so fast? Or so nimbly?

First, it jumped straight up into the air as though it, too, had a bit of frog in its makeup.

With no better plan than not to fall off, Imogene dug her green webbed toes into the orange fur.

Then, the cat tried to twist itself to get its mouth over to the back of its head.

With no better plan than not to get eaten, Imogene hunkered down where she was, which seemed as though it had to be the most difficult place for the cat to reach.

Finally, the cat threw itself into the dust of the road and rolled.