The River
by John Fergusson
The young frog lazed in the morning sun. Azure damsels skimmed the green and limpid pool. Swallows swooped for flies.
His skin, like his ambition, was shiny, green and bright. For soon he would be a mature frog, maybe even king of the pond.
But for the raupo-bed in the distance he was content. ‘Never go there!’ his mother had warned. ‘Pukeko and herons will eat you for breakfast.’ He shivered. No, he had no intention of taking such risks. Here were worms aplenty in the mud-holes, smooth lilies to bask on, and young females to sport after.
A brown snout appeared, disturbing his reverie. It hauled itself onto the adjacent leaf. The snout belonged to a wrinkled frog, his skin mottled, his markings faded.
The young frog’s eyes widened. ‘I haven’t seen you before. Do you live here?’
‘No,’ said the old frog. But his face held secrets.
‘Where are you from, then?’
‘Oh, I came down the river.’ The old amphibian looked at him with the same secret look.
The young frog felt a little discomforted, as if the visitor had begun speaking of his rheumatism or his piles, as old frogs will. However, he was not really surprised. For he had heard of the river, but, like his forbears, he discounted it as myth. Or something which didn’t concern him. The pond yielded its living easily; who cared about old wives’ tales?
The young frog appraised the ample girth and scrawny limbs of his companion, and relaxed. Here was little competition. ‘Well, this is a smart pond. You’ll be welcome here. Food is easy and the girls are fine!’ He winked, as only young frogs know how.
‘Have you never been to the river, then?’
‘What on earth for? All I want is here. Besides, I don’t really believe in it. It might be okay for others, but there’s no real evidence for it anyway. Why waste time chasing dreams, when I can chase girls instead?’
The old frog swiveled his eyes. ‘Did your parents never read you the book of the river when you were a tadpole?’
The youngster was tiring of the conversation. Two sleek female frogs had slipped onto a nearby lily-pad, and were admiring their reflections in the surface.
The teenager puffed his neck and swelled. ‘Well, bits of it,’ he said. ‘They read many stories. I loved the one about the frog who turned into a prince. But I don’t fancy kissing a human!’
The old frog sighed. ‘Then you will never see it.’
‘See what?’ The two girls were preening, their green skins radiant in the sunshine. He licked his wide, wide mouth.
‘The waterfall.’
‘The water what?’
‘It is the most beautiful thing!’ The brown frog’s voice quivered with excitement. ‘As if the river bursts. It cascades over the edge with a huge roar, crashing to the pool below. Then it dances and gurgles, and leaps in great waves that surge with power. And you should see the spray! The dew clings to you like a skin of pearls. Oh, it is beautiful. Beautiful!’
The young frog didn’t even understand his language, never mind his meaning. He turned to the newcomer, expecting to see the gleam of madness in his eyes. But the old frog wasn’t looking at him any longer. Instead, he was peering beyond the raupo-bed, where no one ever went.
There was something in his earnestness which stirred the spirit of the young frog. What if the old thing was right after all? What if there really was a river? From the deep echoes of his mind came a fog of memory from ancient legends.
He shook his head. ‘So in this river of yours, the water moves? By itself?’
‘Oh yes! The whole river is alive. Near the edge it is gentle, but in midstream it is fast. You cannot swim against it. In winter it is so powerful it rolls boulders along the bottom, and moves whole mud-banks with its force. And in summer the sunlight plays on the surface in a kaleidoscope of colour, and the water-weed weaves in the stream like willows in the wind. It is not confined like this pond, which you can circle in an hour. It comes from nowhere and goes to nowhere, and goes on forever.’ The elderly frog turned back, all afire. ‘And it is so fresh! You can breathe and not suffocate. It is so clean you can see through it for leaps and leaps. There are great fish there too. Mighty silver salmon, and giant trout that can eat you in one swallow, and koura that swim backwards. And eels and―’
‘Old man, your dreams have turned you crazy. How can you swim backwards? And fish don’t eat frogs! Give it up, old croaker, and go back where you came from. You won’t convert me into a river-freak. I have a fine life here. Besides, where is this great river of yours? I don’t see it, or feel it, or hear it. It is just a figment of your fading imagination. Dream on, old wrinkles!’
The ancient frog didn’t seem the least perturbed. ‘The river is one good leap beyond the edge of this pond, that is all. One leap, and you’re there. One leap, and a whole new life awaits you. One leap, and this pond will seem a small and dingy place. It will seem dull and cramped and smelly.’ His bright eyes fixed on the youngster. ‘And lifeless.’
Without another word, his old form plopped under the surface, and swam past the raupo to the far bank where no one ever went. He clambered out and hopped towards the tall willows fluttering in the breeze. And then he leaped into the air and disappeared.
After some moments the young frog swung his eyes back to the lily-pad, but the two girls had gone. He felt the strange emptiness that comes when you have lost something – something precious – a hollow stomach which can only be filled by the treasure lost. He wasn’t sure if it was the empty lily-pad or the words of the old frog, but it seemed he was being given a choice.
He looked again at the distant shore. His skin crawled. What had the old amphibian said? ‘One leap?’ It seemed so very unlikely. And yet…
A twinge of hunger spoke of lunch. He slipped into the muddy water, and in a few seconds was plugging for worms. But somehow the pond had lost its glamour. The water was flat in his nostrils. Dull.
‘Bother the old frog! Bother him and his river tales. An hour ago I was happy, and now I am worming in a cramped and smelly pool, and for what? To become top frog of a muddy pond, rear tadpoles, get old and crabby and die? Is that a life?’
He spat out the remains of a worm, and swam to the surface. Once again his eyes were drawn to the raupo. And then with firm strokes he struck out across the limpid water. ‘One leap the old beggar had said. One leap I shall make! And if the old frog is wrong, I can go back to my worms.’
For the first time in his life he shuffled through the raupo-bed and pulled himself onto the bank. He scanned the view. Not a heron or pukeko to be seen. Had he been deceived all this time?
Fearful, he hopped under the willows and came to water. Moving! It gurgled and slushed. He peered nervously over the edge into its crystal depths. The bottom stared back, a mere leap away. Would he sink? Would he be able to breathe? The old croaker had said so. He dipped a toe. It felt cool and fresh. What about the giant trout?
‘Bother you, old croaker!’
And he gathered himself and leaped with all his strength into the waiting river.
His skin, like his ambition, was shiny, green and bright. For soon he would be a mature frog, maybe even king of the pond.
But for the raupo-bed in the distance he was content. ‘Never go there!’ his mother had warned. ‘Pukeko and herons will eat you for breakfast.’ He shivered. No, he had no intention of taking such risks. Here were worms aplenty in the mud-holes, smooth lilies to bask on, and young females to sport after.
A brown snout appeared, disturbing his reverie. It hauled itself onto the adjacent leaf. The snout belonged to a wrinkled frog, his skin mottled, his markings faded.
The young frog’s eyes widened. ‘I haven’t seen you before. Do you live here?’
‘No,’ said the old frog. But his face held secrets.
‘Where are you from, then?’
‘Oh, I came down the river.’ The old amphibian looked at him with the same secret look.
The young frog felt a little discomforted, as if the visitor had begun speaking of his rheumatism or his piles, as old frogs will. However, he was not really surprised. For he had heard of the river, but, like his forbears, he discounted it as myth. Or something which didn’t concern him. The pond yielded its living easily; who cared about old wives’ tales?
The young frog appraised the ample girth and scrawny limbs of his companion, and relaxed. Here was little competition. ‘Well, this is a smart pond. You’ll be welcome here. Food is easy and the girls are fine!’ He winked, as only young frogs know how.
‘Have you never been to the river, then?’
‘What on earth for? All I want is here. Besides, I don’t really believe in it. It might be okay for others, but there’s no real evidence for it anyway. Why waste time chasing dreams, when I can chase girls instead?’
The old frog swiveled his eyes. ‘Did your parents never read you the book of the river when you were a tadpole?’
The youngster was tiring of the conversation. Two sleek female frogs had slipped onto a nearby lily-pad, and were admiring their reflections in the surface.
The teenager puffed his neck and swelled. ‘Well, bits of it,’ he said. ‘They read many stories. I loved the one about the frog who turned into a prince. But I don’t fancy kissing a human!’
The old frog sighed. ‘Then you will never see it.’
‘See what?’ The two girls were preening, their green skins radiant in the sunshine. He licked his wide, wide mouth.
‘The waterfall.’
‘The water what?’
‘It is the most beautiful thing!’ The brown frog’s voice quivered with excitement. ‘As if the river bursts. It cascades over the edge with a huge roar, crashing to the pool below. Then it dances and gurgles, and leaps in great waves that surge with power. And you should see the spray! The dew clings to you like a skin of pearls. Oh, it is beautiful. Beautiful!’
The young frog didn’t even understand his language, never mind his meaning. He turned to the newcomer, expecting to see the gleam of madness in his eyes. But the old frog wasn’t looking at him any longer. Instead, he was peering beyond the raupo-bed, where no one ever went.
There was something in his earnestness which stirred the spirit of the young frog. What if the old thing was right after all? What if there really was a river? From the deep echoes of his mind came a fog of memory from ancient legends.
He shook his head. ‘So in this river of yours, the water moves? By itself?’
‘Oh yes! The whole river is alive. Near the edge it is gentle, but in midstream it is fast. You cannot swim against it. In winter it is so powerful it rolls boulders along the bottom, and moves whole mud-banks with its force. And in summer the sunlight plays on the surface in a kaleidoscope of colour, and the water-weed weaves in the stream like willows in the wind. It is not confined like this pond, which you can circle in an hour. It comes from nowhere and goes to nowhere, and goes on forever.’ The elderly frog turned back, all afire. ‘And it is so fresh! You can breathe and not suffocate. It is so clean you can see through it for leaps and leaps. There are great fish there too. Mighty silver salmon, and giant trout that can eat you in one swallow, and koura that swim backwards. And eels and―’
‘Old man, your dreams have turned you crazy. How can you swim backwards? And fish don’t eat frogs! Give it up, old croaker, and go back where you came from. You won’t convert me into a river-freak. I have a fine life here. Besides, where is this great river of yours? I don’t see it, or feel it, or hear it. It is just a figment of your fading imagination. Dream on, old wrinkles!’
The ancient frog didn’t seem the least perturbed. ‘The river is one good leap beyond the edge of this pond, that is all. One leap, and you’re there. One leap, and a whole new life awaits you. One leap, and this pond will seem a small and dingy place. It will seem dull and cramped and smelly.’ His bright eyes fixed on the youngster. ‘And lifeless.’
Without another word, his old form plopped under the surface, and swam past the raupo to the far bank where no one ever went. He clambered out and hopped towards the tall willows fluttering in the breeze. And then he leaped into the air and disappeared.
After some moments the young frog swung his eyes back to the lily-pad, but the two girls had gone. He felt the strange emptiness that comes when you have lost something – something precious – a hollow stomach which can only be filled by the treasure lost. He wasn’t sure if it was the empty lily-pad or the words of the old frog, but it seemed he was being given a choice.
He looked again at the distant shore. His skin crawled. What had the old amphibian said? ‘One leap?’ It seemed so very unlikely. And yet…
A twinge of hunger spoke of lunch. He slipped into the muddy water, and in a few seconds was plugging for worms. But somehow the pond had lost its glamour. The water was flat in his nostrils. Dull.
‘Bother the old frog! Bother him and his river tales. An hour ago I was happy, and now I am worming in a cramped and smelly pool, and for what? To become top frog of a muddy pond, rear tadpoles, get old and crabby and die? Is that a life?’
He spat out the remains of a worm, and swam to the surface. Once again his eyes were drawn to the raupo. And then with firm strokes he struck out across the limpid water. ‘One leap the old beggar had said. One leap I shall make! And if the old frog is wrong, I can go back to my worms.’
For the first time in his life he shuffled through the raupo-bed and pulled himself onto the bank. He scanned the view. Not a heron or pukeko to be seen. Had he been deceived all this time?
Fearful, he hopped under the willows and came to water. Moving! It gurgled and slushed. He peered nervously over the edge into its crystal depths. The bottom stared back, a mere leap away. Would he sink? Would he be able to breathe? The old croaker had said so. He dipped a toe. It felt cool and fresh. What about the giant trout?
‘Bother you, old croaker!’
And he gathered himself and leaped with all his strength into the waiting river.
Copyright and licensing notice
© 2017 by Franklin Writers Group
© 2017 by Franklin Writers Group
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
(CC BY-NC-ND 4.0)
To view a copy of this license, please visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/
Attribute to: Franklin Writers Group and the author, John Fergusson.
To view a copy of this license, please visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/
Attribute to: Franklin Writers Group and the author, John Fergusson.
This page published 18th September 2017