Oddest of All (8 page)

“Anyway, the point is that you, Dennis, have a small but still significant component of frog blood within you, waiting to assert itself. This explains, by the way, why you have been attracted to swamps all your life.”

“But—”

“Oh, don't try to deny it. We've watched you gaze longingly into our murky waters. We've listened to your sighs. Search your heart, Dennis Juggarum. Isn't it true that when you stand at the edge of the swamp something in your blood cries out, ‘Home. That's
home!
'”

Dennis stared at the king in astonishment. Speaking very slowly, he said, “You're telling me that I'm part frog?”

“Yes. A distant relative, in fact.”

Dennis gulped and hoped his eyes weren't bulging too much.

“Of course, you're not the only cousin-several-times-removed we have wandering around the human world,” continued the king. “But you are the only one who happened to be close to a swamp at the moment, which meant you were the one we turned to for help. After all, we can't just go hopping into the city and haul people off the streets.” He chuckled at the thought, the sound reverberating in his enormous throat.

“What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” asked Dennis uneasily.

The king's tongue flicked out and snagged a passing insect the size of a small bird. He swallowed, then said, “As you have seen, my subjects are suffering disastrous effects from the chemicals being leaked into the water. Frogdom has many levels, of course, and at the moment it is only the smallest of my people who are suffering—the ones tied most closely to your world. But that which happens to the least of my subjects is of concern to me. Am I not their king? What I want, Dennis, is for you to go to the man causing the pollution and make him stop!”

“He won't listen to me. I'm just a kid.”

“He'll listen if you go to him as a giant talking frog.”

Cold fear prickled along Dennis's neck. When he finally managed to speak past his confusion, the words came as a whispered “You want me to become a frog?”

“Exactly!” cried the king, leaping to his feet. “I want you to arise as the righteous avenger of all frogdom and terrify these despoilers of our waters. Hop into their hearts as a symbol of the wrath of nature—nature aroused and angry—nature that will rend them from limb to limb if they persist in their evil ways. I want you, Dennis, to become a crusading frog of doom!”

“You want me to become a frog,” whispered Dennis again.

“Oh, not permanently,” said the king, airily waving a long green hand. “You're not built for it, long term. But just as tadpoles transform themselves into frogs, you have the bloodlines to do the same thing. You just need a little . . . prodding.”

“What kind of prodding?” asked Dennis out loud. In his mind he was saying,
Don't panic. It's only a dream!

Reaching out with his scepter, the king struck the gong that hung next to his throne. Its clang was like the croak of a metallic frog.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” grumbled a hoarse voice, the words seeming to come from the ground itself. “I'll be there in a minute.”

A sudden hiss of steam beside the throne made Dennis step back. The ground bubbled, which was an alarming sight, and the steam gathered into a swirling cloud that turned green then vanished. In its place stood a stoop-shouldered old frog with wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He wore a dark green robe covered with stars and moons. Cupped between his green fingers was a wooden goblet with lilies carved around its stem. Steam flowed over the edge of the goblet, falling to the ground like mist. There it curled around the old frog's feet until he appeared to be standing in a small cloud. He grinned at Dennis. “Nice entrance, huh, kid?”

“Amazing! Um, who are you?”

“Don't tell me you never heard of Murklin the Mudgician. Oh, forget it. I don't wanna know. Here, drink this.”

He extended the steaming goblet to Dennis.

“What will happen if I do?”

“It will release your inner frog,” said King Urpthur happily, “and make the destiny written in your blood clear for all to see!”

Dennis continued to stare at the goblet, which burped and blurped with little pops of muddy liquid. “What if I don't want to release my inner frog?”

An angry murmur rose behind him. “Traitor,” he heard low voices croak. “Ingrate!”

The king raised a hand to silence the court. “We will not force you to do this. But if you refuse, you will forever bear the knowledge that you abandoned both kin and king in their hour of need. You will know you let fear, not courage, rule your heart. You will forever remember yourself as one not willing to shed your skin for a greater cause.”

“But I don't
want
to be a frog!”

“Part of you already is. A small part, granted. But part of you, nevertheless. Besides, it's not permanent. You'll only be a frog sometimes.”

“When?”

“The night before and the night after the full moon are what we call frog moons. On those sacred nights you can rise in frogly glory to confront the villains who are poisoning my subjects. Oh, Dennis, Dennis—think of it! To how many men is it given to find the secrets hidden in their blood, to wear two shapes, to live two lives? To how many men is it given to speak truth to power, to be a voice for their people? How many, how many, are allowed to croak for the good of others?”

Inspired by the king's words, Dennis reached for the goblet. Its warmth felt good between his hands. He gazed into it.

The bubbling, popping brew looked like a miniature swamp.

This is my destiny
, he told himself, lifting the cup to his lips.
Besides, it's only a dream, so what difference does it make?

The brew smelled of the swamp, of wildness, of magic. The first swallow was difficult. Then the potion took hold of him. Surrendering to it, Dennis drained the cup to the last drop.

The assembled frogs burst into ribbiting cheers as the world swirled green around him.

 

When Dennis woke he was lying at the edge of the swamp, the hot sun beating down on his face, his clothes clean and dry.

Beside him sat the five-legged frog. Dennis reached for it, but it leaped away, disappearing into the swamp with a small splash.

He sighed and pushed himself to his feet, muttering, “What a weird dream. I must be coming down with something.”

 

“Dennis, where have you been?” cried his mother when he came through the door. “Dinner was ready half an hour ago!”

“I was out visiting some . . . friends.” Then, on a whim, he asked, “Mom, did we ever have any royalty in our family?”

His mother smiled. “Well, according to Gramma Wetzel, your nineteenth great-grandfather on my side was a genuine prince.”

His horrified reaction must have shown on his face, for she said quickly, “What's wrong, Dennis?”

“Nothing! I just don't feel very well.”

It
was
nothing. It had to be nothing.

He clung to that thought all night.

Even so, when he went to his room after supper, he opened his window and pushed up the screen—just in case he needed to get out later on.

Eventually Dennis fell into a fitful sleep, marked by dreams that were strange and soggy. When he awoke, the moon was shining through his window. As he remembered from the night before, it was round and nearly full—nearly, but not quite.

A frog moon.

Suddenly Murklin's potion began its strange work. Dennis's eyes began to bulge more than ever. He grabbed for his ears, but they were shrinking—shrinking—
gone!
Sliding his hands upward, he felt his hair disappearing into his clammy skin. Looking down, he saw his legs grow longer, stronger, and greener.

An instant later his terror was replaced by a rending pain that seared him from head to toe.

And then it was over, the transformation complete.

Staggering to his feet, Dennis found that despite having become a frog he was still his regular height, maybe even a bit taller. Clearly he was the kind of frog he had seen at the king's court. He held his hands before him, marveling at his long, green fingers and the webbing that stretched between them.

A cool night breeze lifted the curtains, carrying with it the odor of the swamp. Dennis found the smell irresistible. He scrambled over the sill and onto the lawn, where he dropped to jumping position.

The cool, dew-laden grass felt sweet against his flat white belly. He blinked twice, took another deep breath of the moist air. Then, without really thinking about it, he unleashed the power of his mighty legs.

The force of his leap sent him hurtling into the air.

Too high!
he thought, as he soared across the yard, his heart hammering in terror.
I'm going too high!

Yet when he landed and realized he had survived the leap, he felt a surge of joy.
It's almost like flying!

Flexing his legs again, Dennis bounded gleefully around the lawn, leaping higher and higher.

A chorus of tiny peeps brought him to a halt.

He turned. The field behind the house looked as if it was starting to percolate. Then he saw the cause. Leaping toward him were his . . . well, his cousins: thousands of frogs, tiny ones in the lead, larger ones—though not so large as him, of course—bringing up the rear.

The frog moon floated above them like an enormous silver coin.

His cousins surrounded him, an avenging army of frogdom. The littlest ones crept forward to stare up at him, their goggling eyes awash with admiration.

Dennis felt a sense of purpose surge through him. Taking a deep breath, he puffed out his throat and emitted a sound that astonished even him, a deep bass note, a trumpet call of warning that reverberated through the night—the sound of a mighty amphibian who had had enough.

Fire in his froggy eyes, Dennis turned to lead his leaping army toward old man Bingdorf's estate.

Someone had to stop that man's polluting ways.

Someone had to protect the water.

Someone had to say, “This is enough. You cannot do this any longer!”

And he, Dennis Juggarum, was just the frog to do it.

W
ATER.

Margaret hated water.

So why was she standing at the edge of Auntie Alma's pond, staring at the black water as if she could see more than a few inches past the murky surface?

As if she were looking for something.

A dragonfly darted past, its flashing emerald wings startling Margaret out of her thoughts. She raised her eyes to gaze again at the little rowboat that floated in the pond. It seemed strange to see it caught in the middle like that, not free to drift to one side or the other.

Why is it anchored there, anyway?
she wondered uneasily. She shrugged. Probably one of her cousins had done it. They were always playing pranks.

The thought of her cousins made her sigh. It would be nice if a few of them were around now. Auntie Alma's place was just too quiet without them. Sure, their rowdiness annoyed her sometimes. Even so, they would liven things up a bit. She sighed again. If only that rowboat was back on the shore, where she could get at it.

Turning, she started back toward the house. It would be a long time before she forgave her parents for leaving her here like this. Their separation had been bad enough. Now, to “work on getting back together,” they had shoved her off on Auntie Alma . . . left her here to rot for the summer while they tried to “find themselves.” Why didn't they try to find
her
, instead? She had been feeling lost for some time now, and being exiled from her home and friends like this was no help.

Margaret kicked savagely at a silver dandelion, setting its seeds free to float away on the breeze. If her parents
did
have to send her away for the summer, couldn't they have found someplace besides Auntie Alma's? Sure, it was out in the country, and the fresh air was probably good for her. But there was no one around to hang out with, no one to even talk to except Auntie Alma, who wasn't her real aunt anyway, for heaven's sake, just an old friend of the family.

A really old friend, if you wanted to get right down to it
, thought Margaret unkindly. Indeed, white-haired Alma Jefferson was a truly ancient collection of crotchets and wrinkles. She had a huge, hairy mole on her chin that Margaret found simultaneously fascinating and repugnant. Her hearing was bad, her eyes were weak, and she put her teeth in a glass on the kitchen shelf every night. Margaret especially hated that. Something about the sight of those dead things soaking in their cold water always made her shiver.

Stop it
, she told herself as she went through the back door of the house.
You're being cruel
.

In fact, pausing to think about it made Margaret remember how much she had loved Auntie Alma when she, Margaret, was younger—how when she was frightened she would throw her arms around the old woman's waist and whisper, “I'm always safe with you.”

That memory made it all the more painful when Margaret entered the kitchen and saw the slight look of disappointment that flickered across Auntie Alma's face. Though the expression vanished almost instantly, it stabbed Margaret to the heart.
I guess she doesn't want me around, either. Probably she was hoping I'd drown while I was out at the pond
.

Margaret shuddered at the thought. She had been afraid of Auntie Alma's pond for as long as she could remember—which wouldn't have been quite so bad if everyone else in the family hadn't seemed to think it was the most wonderful place in the world.

How they had teased her for not wanting to enter its cool, dark waters. “For heaven's sake, Margaret, come in and cool off,” her mother would exclaim on those hot summer afternoons when they came here to escape the city. “You like the pool in town. What's wrong with this?”