At last, the Finale, in which our intrepid hero learns to speak Frogish and the dangers of thinking too much…
—7—
Should I or shouldn’t I? The eternal question all mankind faces when confronted with the choice of good, evil, or various shades of grey. Now I was faced with whether this particular shade of grey was more black or more white, and Prince Charming’s puppy eyes were not helping.
Valiant, chivalrous knights such as myself, even when we are, admittedly, acting in a somewhat mercenary role in order to acquire the broadsword of our dreams, are fated to always choose the lighter shade of grey. To embrace a darker shade of grey is to invite demons from all nine netherhells to dance the night away in our souls. Okay, maybe that’s a wee bit melodramatic, but you get the idea.
In that moment, an epic decision of greyness stared me in the face. I had already diverted the magical curse placed on the princess; however, how many magical curses can one knight, no matter how chivalrous, divert in one day? More importantly, weren’t frog princes supposed to be kissed by a girl?
I turned to Emmaretta. Her lovely green eyes studied the sky and trees, clearly unwilling to meet anyone’s gaze. Particularly my gaze.
One might think I had a choice. The truth in life is choice is an illusion.
“Woah! Cool it, Sir Roger!” Edward Hopper muttered under his breath. “No philosophizing allowed!”
I frowned. Had I spoken my thoughts aloud?
The wood frog laughed. That is a most curious sight and not at all as portrayed on those cute tapestries nobles hang in their daughters’ bedchambers. First, frogs do not have teeth on their bottom jaw, which is strange enough. Second, when they chortle, their mouths open REALLY wide. As in swallow-an-entire-world wide. Finally, their croak comes out as a serious belch, the kind you hear regularly in The Blackmore Tavern on payday. In other words, a frog’s laugh is not a pretty sight. Especially when said frog can chuckle with such suavity.
“It’s obvious,” said Edward Hopper. “Your face scrunched. You were thinking. You are a mercenary knight. Thinking is bad. Just focus on the job you were hired to do. Kiss the frog.”
He was right. Thinking hurts. But still, isn’t kissing a frog prince the job of a princess? I turned to Emmaretta.
“You’re princess of the girl scouts. You should kiss him.”
“I’d love to, hun,” she said as she tenderly brushed mud from my cheek, “But I just can’t risk catching warts.” She wiggled her perfect fingers in front of my face then pointed at the other princess. A shiver ran up my spine, then down, and back up once more. How can a man say no to such beauty?
I sighed and turned to the young woman whom I had just rescued.
“Why don’t you kiss him? You know, true love and all, Princess…uhm…say, what is your name?”
“It’s Nancy,” she said sadly, hanging her pretty head. “Plain old lady-in-waiting Nancy. That’s why I can’t kiss him. I don’t have a single drop of princess blood in me.”
“Rrribbbbiitt ribbity ribbity,” croaked Prince Charming. Everyone looked at Edward Hopper. The wood frog flicked his tongue roguishly.
“Geez, don’t any of you know anything? True love’s kiss only works on sleeping princesses, not frogs.”
“Hmmmm,” I replied, thinking hard. My head began to ache. “So why do you all think I can break the spell?” I asked.
Edward Hopper stared at me as if I were an idiot. For some reason, he has stared at me that way several times in the past few days. Then he sighed. It was one of those noisy exhales generally performed only by teens when they blow so much air out in exasperation that they appear to deflate, an act always accompanied by a rolling of eyes. My parents complained I performed that routine daily. Now I know what they meant.
“Do you think chivalry is dead, Sir Roger?” pronounced the wood frog in his very best annoyed teenager tone. “What could be more chivalrous than saving a frog prince from a fate worse than death?”
“What do you mean?” I asked slowly. Edward Hopper’s eyes rolled in perfect annoyed teenager fashion.
“All right, all right, I’ll try!” I said. Why anyone thought this would work, I didn’t know. What I did know was my brain was seriously taxed, based on the hammers pounding inside my skull.
Slowly I bent over once more. (The truth is I moved reluctantly, not slowly, but that would imply thinking, which I did not want to do in that moment. I just wanted to get the kiss over with.) Prince Charming puckered his frog lips. I puckered my manly lips.
For a moment, the world paused dramatically. Music swelled. Fireworks quivered, ready to explode. The air swirled around me, ready to lift me off my feet. Our lips met.
In the history of fairy tales, there have been kisses and there have been kisses. This was not an epic kiss on the scale of Buttercup and Wesley but, all things considered, it at least was not the kiss of death. Most of the fireworks turned out to be duds, but a couple could have singed eyebrows. The air swirled just enough to rotate us a quarter turn, drawing a couple of “aahs” from our audience, but no “ooohs.”
When the dust settled, an inordinately handsome, golden haired man with arms nearly as chiseled as mine stood before me. If I hadn’t known better, I would have guessed him to be one of those male models who pose for paintings used in advertising the latest surcoat and other noble wear.
There was a problem, however. My neck was craning in a highly unusual manner. As in looking straight up in order to watch the lady-in-waiting fling herself into Prince Charming’s arms and kiss him furiously. Yes, it was very romantic and all, but I am a noble (if mercenary) knight. Their heads should only reach to my shoulders yet my eyeline only met his soft princely slippers.
“Sir Roger!” cooed the lovely Emmaretta. Her voice sounded more distant than it should. “Is that you?”
Suddenly, her long flirty eyelashes and sad green eyes loomed large above me. Had I fallen unknowingly when I’d kissed Prince Charming?
“Rrribbbitttt!” I croaked.
Wait a second! I croaked? Why was I speaking Frogish? I cleared my throat and tried again.
“Purrreeeek!” I barked.
“Sir Roger! It is you! Ohhh, you’re so cute!!”
An instant later, Emmaretta was lifting me. I glanced at my hands. Where were my fifth fingers? Why were they mottled green? Why was I filled with a sudden urge to jump?
“RRRIIIBBBIITTT!!!” I croaked, realizing my newfound Frogish speaking skill sounded remarkably like a bullfrog. Then I dangled helplessly before Emmaretta, her lovely face larger than ever.
“Wow, Sir Roger! That voice! You should consider becoming a bard when you’re human again!”
Wait! Did she say, ‘human again’?
The truth, when it strikes like one of my fists crushing Gremnik’s face, is extraordinarily painful. That pain, particularly when metaphorical, is enough to split the hardest skull. Metaphorically speaking, of course. My head is extraordinarily hard, after all.
Unfortunately, what I had become was not a metaphor. It was not even a fairy tale. I am a noble knight, not a prince. How could I now be a frog? There was only one thing to do. I scrunched my face and looked at Emmaretta with my best attempt at puppy eyes.
“Ribbity smooch?” I pleaded.
“Oh my!” she said. “I supposed I could try…”
I puckered my froggy lips. She puckered her lovely lips and leaned close for our first kiss.
There were no fireworks and no magical twirls.
“Oh my!” she said despondently. “I guess I’m not a princess of any sort.”
“Maybe,” said Prince Charming suddenly, stepping close. “But maybe not. My wicked stepmother is not the mere hag you saw. Normally, she’s a beautiful witch with a streak of evil genius. She’s also a really good queen, which, as you can imagine, causes a great deal of conflagration when the good queen half butts up against the wicked stepmother half, or when the evil genius crashes against the beautiful witch. It’s rather stressful to have so many fairy tale responsibilities, to be honest.”
Evil witch? Beautiful genius? Wicked queen? Good stepmother? Wait a second…did I get those all backwards?
“Ribbit,” I pronounced solemnly.
Prince Charming nodded. “Thank you for your understanding, Sir Roger. To be honest, I never dreamed she would be so upset when I asked Lady-in-Waiting Nancy to marry me.” He pointed at the pretty dark-haired lass in the long green dress, who smiled meekly.
“I thought,” he continued, “That she’d be happy I’d finally found love after rejecting all the suitors she’d brought to the castle, but no! Sadly, that’s when the spellwreck happened. A wicked stepmother needs to plot in a dungeon and allow the evil genius part to concoct a truly diabolical spell. Instead, the good queen part interfered, knowing that I, as the prince, should marry nobility. Most likely, her screwed-up spell is why you, a simple—if manly—knight could end my curse with a kiss.”
“Ribbit ribbity,” I said. I mean, his explanation was all well and good, if rather confusing, but it didn’t help my situation. Who would kiss me and turn me back into a handsome knight?
“Yes, well, I don’t have an answer for you, Sir Roger,” he said. “My wicked stepmother’s spell, as you saw, turned her into an ugly hag, so she certainly can’t kiss you. I’d offer my castle, as she’s certain to try to lure more princesses in hopes I’ll marry one of them, but I don’t think she’s too happy with you.”
“Don’t worry!” said Emmaretta brightly and hugged me against her chest. “He’s such a cute frog. I’ll take care of him!”
I let out a long sigh that came out as “rriibbbbiitttttttttttt.”
“Oh, I don’t want you to stay a frog forever, Sir Roger! We’ll find a princess to kiss you!”
“And I’ll help you adjust to your new frogginess,” called Edward Hopper as he suavely flicked his cashmere scarf back over his shoulder.
So it was decided. Was I forever doomed to be a frog? How could I get rid of Edward Hopper and his cashmere scarf? Would Emmaretta ever return my affections? Most importantly, how would I ever obtain a Legendary Spring Steel Broadsword with Differential Hardening©?
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