In which our intrepid hero may have–between ribbits and fens–found true love…
—3—
Some things are not meant to be: the sun rising in the west; a short wait in line at any government office; mankind speaking Frogish.
Regardless, this is why I am covered head to toe with mud, crawling through wet fens, weeds dripping from my trusty Craftsman™ broadsword. It is all Princess Emmaretta’s fault.
Yes, I have another woman in my life. She can speak Frogish.
“I wasn’t really going to be a princess, you know,” she said as we slithered and wiggled through a bog of spike-rush and sedge. “I was just the daughter of a prominent merchant and me mum was the fourth cousin of the prince twice removed on her mum’s side, or something like that. It’s the thought that counts, you know.”
Would her mouth ever stop moving?
“But once I discovered how much more fun I could have doing boy things, well there you have it!”
“Wait,” I croaked. I would have spoken but my throat hurt from three days of slogging with mosquitoes and horseflies. “You’re not really a princess?”
“Of course I’m a princess, ninny! Just not the kind of princess you thought! I’m the best girl scout you’ll ever find. Princess of the girl scouts!
I sighed heavily. Muck and silt flew off my lips like spittle and landed in her sludge-encrusted tresses. I grimaced. My luck with women has not been noteworthy of late.
I seemed to recall she had thick red tresses and long flirty lashes when we’d crashed into each other as I fled The One-Eyed Toad’s buxom bar-rat, but it was rather dark at the time. I normally don’t fall for feminine charms; however, she’d offered sympathy rather than scoff at my chipped blade. When accompanied by batting lashes, what man can resist womanly wiles?
Despite the muck encrusting her long flirty lashes, I’d realized she was rather pretty in a girl-next-door-who-crawls-in-the-mud sort of way. Between her large, sleepy green eyes and large, cheery red lips, I’d grown entranced. Well, sort of. I wasn’t certain about her unorthodox style of braiding. ‘Dreadlocks’ she called them. The look was rather matted for my taste. I always prefer a bit of spring and bounce in a woman’s braids. Maybe it was a good thing, though. She was rather springy and bouncy already.
“Are you certain there are frogs in these fens?” I asked for the 111th time.
That’s not exactly the best line I’ve ever used when flirting. However, it’s not my worst line, either. Unfortunately, she seemed oblivious to my charms. Her every response was to jabber, and then jabber more.
“Oh, yes, Sir Roger!” she declared cheerily for the 111th time. “I promise you, we’ll find your Prince Charming!”
“He’s not my Prince Charming!” I emphasized. It was only the 92nd time I’d made that particular assertion.
She punched my arm in what I hoped was more than a comradely way.
“Oh, you know what I mean, silly! For your princess friend!”
I grunted. In this swamp, I thought her wallop was rather romantic. Maybe if I picked one of the flowers sprouting out of a tuft of sedge grass…
Suddenly, she laid a filthy finger over my lips. For the briefest of moments, hope flickered deep in my bosom. Then she spoke.
“Hush! Do you hear them? The croaking?”
All bosom flickering paused. I cupped a hand to one ear. Sure enough, there it was.
“Ribbit!”
The long lashes of her large green eyes batted quite flirtatiously. If only they would bat like that for me. (It should be noted at this point that I would have sighed quite heavily had her filthy finger still not rested upon my lips.) Unfortunately, I had learned she was only excited about one thing. Speaking Frogish.
“Ribbit! Rib-rib-ribbit!!”
I stepped back in surprise. Emmaretta was rather good at Frogish. Or so I assumed. Speaking with animals has never been my forte. (Once, when I languished in a Torg prison, I tried communicating with the local rats in hopes they might chew through my bonds, but they only laughed at me. Yes, rats do laugh—more of a titter, really—particularly when one cannot speak proper Rattish. Lowest point of my knightly career, especially considering what happened next, but that’s a whole other tale.)
Abruptly, a cacophony of ribbits erupted all about us. I could only hope the frogs would not respond as the rats had done when I languished in prison.
“Ribbity rib rib ribbity!” exclaimed my dreadlocked princess.
“Ribbit,” came a single, deep, formal voice. “Ribbity. Ribbit ribbit.”
Emmaretta bowed, then punched me until I followed suit.
The spike rushes parted and an immense bullfrog waddled forth, a crown on its head.
“Rrrrriibbbitttt!” it ribbeted. Actually, it barked, as much as any frog can bark.
My mud-encrusted friend straightened and turned to me, her cheery face cheerier than ever.
“King Buster knows of this Prince Charming you speak of and is willing to help us.”
My jaw dropped. Not because of the offer of aid, however.
“His name is Buster? Seriously? What kind of name is that for a frog, let alone a king? And since when do frogs wear crowns?”
Disgust replaced cheery. I’m afraid I seriously damaged future flirting potential.
“You ninny! That’s your response?” She pointed to her mud-encrusted dreadlock tresses. “I did all this for you and that’s all you can say?”
“Ummm,” I thought furiously. “Ribbit?”
She crossed her arms, and some of the disgust fled. “Hmpf! Well, at least you know how to say ‘thank you’ in Frogish.”
“Ummm,” I managed to stammer. “I did?”
“Ribbbbbbit!” barked King Buster. “Rrrrribbity!”
“Ribbit ribbit ribbit!” answered Emmaretta excitedly.
“What?” I asked.
Cheer returned to her large red lips and sleepy green eyes.
“He’s sending his best frog scout to guide us. These fens are no place for a cursed frog like your Prince Charming.”
Oh great. First a girl scout and now a frog scout. What was next?
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