bullfrog. “I certainly don’t want to be a bullfrog.” He gave a long sigh and settled himself into the dirt beside her. “But all frogs look the same, pretty much. Human beings can be ugly, and shunned. But to a frog, there is none of that ugliness. And you, my darling are the most beautiful frog that I ever did see.”
And then he smiled at her.
What he said to her just then was all at once insulting and, somehow, complimentary and confusing. Was she blushing? He had paid her a compliment. Nobody had ever called her beautiful. Not ever. Not her. Not iguana-caught-in-a-belt-sander Eva.
She tried to give a nervous laugh, but even that wouldn’t come through.
“It’s okay to be afraid,” he said, and then he croaked. “We are all afraid, everyone. Love is a freaky, scary thing. The potential pain. The possible rejection. The loss when the love is gone. It is righteous to fear it.” He shifted his rubbery feet in the loose dirt in front of her. “But love is something that everyone searches for.” He then sat still, right in front of her. He set his bulbous chin into the moist soil. He looked up at her and smiled. “Everyone searches for love, even people who are unlucky enough that they have to be frogs to find love.”
She looked into his eyes as he continued smiling at her. It was a goofy smile. He looked ridiculous. This whole situation was ridiculous.
For the first time in a long time, Eva started laughing.
The bullfrog frowned.
And then, upon seeing his reaction, Eva laughed harder.
“Glad you think I’m funny,” the bullfrog said, frowning. If a bullfrog could look embarrassed, this bullfrog was certainly giving off that look.
I’m making him feel uncomfortable, she thought. She grunted as she stifled her laughter. She looked into his eyes and saw abject sadness. She had seen that look before, many times, every time she had ever looked into the mirror. All at once, her fear and her laughter were gone. She felt sorry for him. She looked into his eyes as he looked into hers. Were those human eyes, hidden just beneath the amphibian surface?
He watched her carefully. He looked every bit as worried as she did. After a few moments, his reticence faded and his goofy smile returned.
He hopped over so that he was sitting right next to her. He bumped his shoulder into hers. “So, hey baby, do you want to go make some tadpoles?” he asked. And then he smiled a human smile.
“What does that mean, go make some tadpoles? I’m trying to get out of this and you’re being all strange.” She turned and tried to walk away, but instead, she hopped, and then she flopped on the ground. “Christ.”
“I feel bad for you, I really do,” he said, but then he smiled at her again. “So, do you want to go make some tadpoles or not?”
That’s when she realized what was happening. Somebody was asking her out. But this was not what she had in mind when meeting somebody. This was not the fairy tale that movie portrayed. This … creature was just trying to score with her. “Tadpoles. Are you freakin’ kidding me?”
“No,” he said, “I really, really want to go make some tadpoles with you.”
“Aren’t tadpoles, like, baby frogs?”
He gave her that goofy smile again.
“Christ,” she said. She started laughing then, but all that came out was “Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit.” And that just made her laugh all the more. “Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit.” She laughed harder. It was just feeding on itself now. Was she actually enjoying this? She was. She was actually enjoying this. It was completely off and wrong, and completely off the wall bizarre, but somehow …
He kept smiling at her. But the goofiness of it was fading. He started to lose some of his confidence, and then the smile itself started to fade. But she kind of liked his smile and moved closer to him. His smile returned the closer she got to him. This time, it was the most wonderful smile that she had ever seen, a welcoming one.
“So,” she said, “how does one go about making tadpoles?”
His smile broadened. “I’ll show you. I really think you’ll like it.”
“Okay, sure,” she said. Why the hell not? she thought. I’m a frickin’ frog, so why the hell not? “Alright. Let’s go. I’ll go make some tadpoles with you.”
“I know of the absolute perfect spot, a small mud puddle down by the river,” the bullfrog said. He hopped a little as he spoke. “The mud is warm down there.”
THE RIBBITY RIBBIT RAP SONG …
Ribbit ... ribbit ... ribbit ...
Feelin' a bit like a frog.
The ribbity frog ribbit rap frog.
If I reach for you
Will you receive me?
Ribbit. Ribbit. Ribbit Gharuup!
Ribbit real good, ribbit.
Spanish fly ribbit.
Spanish fly ribbit rap.
All tongue baby, ribbit, ribbit, ribbit real good.
Gharuup!
Makin' tadpoles by the sea.
Ribbin' ribbin, ribbity, ribbit.
Rib-rib
Tadpoles in da puddle, baby.
Tadpoles in da sea.
Ribbin' ribbit, rubb it. Ribbit.
Ripit, rib-rib
Tadpoles in da air.
Tadpoles in yo hair.
Tadpoles everywhere!
Ribbit.
The song ends, just as fast as it began.
You open your eyes. Yes, you.
You stop.
You breathe.
You stop again.
And then maybe you laugh a little.
Now, you are there. You are as a camera and you open your eyes. You are thirty feet above the ground, looking straight down upon nineteen women, all dressed in black hooded robes. They are all chanting. “Frogs of the dark river black, come back, come back.” You are floating. You can feel the light breeze trying to tug on you. It is a warm night. You are looking down, but in your mind’s eye, you can see the stars overhead, behind you.
You have no control. You are like a free-roaming camera, watching everything. You descend, and as you descend, your view moves upward until you are looking right at the nineteen women.
But they do not see you.
Their faces are moist, whether by the mist coming off the river, or the tears coming from their eyes, you cannot tell.
“Frogs of the dark river black,” they continue, “come back, come back.” The rhythm is still there. It beats like a drum.
You turn. For a moment, you look down at the boulder where the specimen had been sitting. You quickly look up and you rush across the river to the island beyond. You rush faster than you can run, through the air, hovering. You are not on the ground. You are floating. You are still the camera. The camera sees all.
You rise a bit.
You look down. You are passing over a series of mud puddles. Two frogs are having sex down there; the larger one is on top of the smaller one. But you do not linger. Your vision moves upward and you speed away.
You see the clearing in the middle of the ring of trees, and the large boulder that Eva had rested upon, but again, you do not linger.
You move south, to the edge of the island. The island ends in a sharp point. At the sharp point is the largest of the island’s large boulders. Upon the large boulder sits an old woman, sitting with her legs crossed in the lotus position, seemingly meditating. It is the same old woman that Evangeline had seen in the small office. A smoldering cigarette dangles from the corner of her mouth. Half of the cigarette is used up ash, ready to fall. Her mouth moves as she speaks, yet the ash does not fall.
You zoom in closer to the old woman. You can hear what she is saying. “Evangeline Portincort. Laurence Spinline. Evangeline Portincort. Laurence Spinline.” She was repeating the names, endlessly. Her skin was quivering a bit as she spoke. She wore jean shorts and a T-shirt that said in great big letters: LOVE IS LOVE, AND LOVE IS GREAT. LOVE IS INEVITABLE.
The many long grey strands of the old woman’s hair flutter in the breeze, but they flutter in the opposite direction of the wind.
She opens he
r eyes and looks into yours. Her eyes are completely bloodshot and red. Some of the blood vessels in her cornea had burst, giving her an almost grotesque appearance. A line of blood begins to seep from the corner of her left eye. It begins to drip down her cheek. She looks into your soul, and she smiles at you.
She knows what you are thinking. Her smile deepens. She gives a small chuckle.
“Love is everywhere,” she whispers to you, “if you open your mind to it, and accept it.”
The tendrils of her grey hair seem to reach for you, but they do not reach far enough to touch you. You spin and you rush away from her and back to the middle of the island. You turn to the West and rush through the trees.
You hear voices, men’s voices. They are chanting, just like the women were on the other side of the island. You rush through the woods and you pass clear of the trees. You can see them now.
Nineteen men are standing at the edge of the river, just like the women on the other side of the island, all dressed in white robes. One white robe had been discarded and lay half in the warm water and half in the mud where the other men are standing.
“Frogs of the dark river, stride forth, be confident, be truthful,” they chant. “Frogs of the dark river, stride forth.”
You are hovering before them. You can almost see their faces below their white hoods. “Frogs of the dark river,” they continue, “stride forth, be confident, be truthful.”
Your gaze turns upward to the sky, full of stars. A shooting star flies over the horizon, too fast to follow.
Everything fades to darkness.
“Frogs of the dark river, stride forth, be confident, be truthful,” they continue to chant. “Frogs of the dark river, stride forth.” Their voices fade away, just as