Oddest of All (7 page)

She raised her head and gasped. Tears streaming down her cheeks, flowing through the valleys of her scars, she whispered, “Oh Mother, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.”

Mrs. Smiley nodded in understanding. Yet she seemed sad as well. She looked up, and I saw an expression of great longing on her pale, glowing face.

“You have to let go of her, Dolores,” I whispered. “She didn't stay all these years because she was angry. She stayed because you needed to know she loved you, needed to know she forgave you.
She stayed because you hadn't let go of her.”

“Nine's right,” said Chris. “You have to let her move on now.”

I could see Dolores swallow. “I love you, Mother,” she whispered. “I miss you. And . . . I release you.”

She said it three times.

I thought it was over. But from the darkness, from a place beyond understanding, another visitor arrived.

It was a young man, pale and transparent, yet quite handsome.

“Bud!”
whispered Dolores.

The new ghost smiled at Dolores sadly. Then he floated toward us, bent, and pressed his lips against her scarred cheek. He could not really touch it, of course. But Dolores knew what he was telling her. Raising her trembling fingers to her face, she watched as Bud took Mrs. Smiley's hand and began to lead her away from us—out of this world with its sorrows and rages and tragedies, on to a place of perfect forgiveness.

Suddenly Mrs. Smiley stopped. Turning back to us, she blew her daughter one last kiss. Then she smiled again, turned, and vanished slowly into the darkness.

D
ENNIS JUGGARUM
was squatting at the edge of Bingdorf's Swamp the first time he spotted the five-legged frog. The sight made him recoil in fear and disgust. Even so, he decided to catch the thing—partly because he was fascinated by it, and partly because he wanted to show it to his biology teacher, Mr. Crick. They had discussed mutations in class just a week or two earlier; maybe he could get extra credit for bringing this one in. Given his grades on the last two tests, that would be a good thing!

To his surprise, the frog's lopsided condition did nothing to slow it down. Extra leg flapping uselessly at its side, the creature easily leaped away before he could lay hands on it.

“Drat!” muttered Dennis. He cursed mostly out of habit, since he was actually relieved not to touch the thing. Part of him—not his brain, but something deep in his gut—feared that whatever caused the weird mutation might be contagious.

That fear didn't stop Dennis from returning to the swamp the next afternoon. But then, he had done that nearly every day for the last six years. For some reason he felt at home there—certainly more at home than he ever did in school, where some oaf was always ready to tease him about his looks, or, more specifically, about his bulging eyes.

He had long ago given up complaining to his mother about the teasing. “Oh, Dennis, what nonsense!” she would scoff. “You're a
very
handsome boy.” Which, oddly enough, he knew to be almost true. All he needed to be as handsome as a prince was eyeball-reduction surgery.

In the swamp he could forget about his looks, about school, about teasing, about everything that bugged him in his daily life. The only thing he couldn't ignore was the smokestacks of the Bingdorf chemical factory on the far side of the swamp—the only blot on an otherwise beautifully untamed view. Even though everyone in town was sure the plant was dumping its toxic wastes here, no one had been able to prove it. According to his mother, most people didn't want it proved, preferring jobs to clean water. And since old man Bingdorf owned not only the factory but also the swamp, he was able to get away with it.

Dennis forced his eyes away from the distant silhouette of the hated factory. Today he had come to the swamp for a more specific purpose than simply losing himself in the buzz and pulse of life that surrounded him whenever he was here. Having bombed his third bio test in a row, he was determined to catch the mutant frog. The need for extra credit had grown to emergency proportions!

Squatting a few feet from the murky water, holding himself motionless, Dennis cast his glance in all directions. He gasped. Barely an arm's length to his right squatted the five-legged frog—and next to it a frog with eyes on its shoulders! The eyes blinked, causing Dennis to cry out and stumble backward. At the sound of his voice the frogs leaped away, disappearing with a
plunk
under a mat of algae.

Dennis wasn't sure whether he was disappointed—or relieved.

 

When he told his mother about the mutated frogs that night she frowned and said, “I've been reading about that problem in other places, Den. They're pretty sure it's caused by chemical pollution. Around here, that would mean the Bingdorf factory, of course. Not that old man Bingdorf would care. He'd sell his own children if he thought he could get a decent price for the chemicals they were made of. But you'd better stay out of the swamp, Dennis. I don't want three-legged grandchildren!”

Though Dennis rarely rebelled against a parental order, he couldn't resist the weirdness of what he had seen—or the chance for that extra credit in bio. So the next afternoon found him back in the swamp, frog hunting again. At least, that was the reason he gave himself. The truth was, he would have gone even without the lure of the mutants. The swamp was just too important to his peace of mind for him to abandon it so easily.

His defiance of his mother's orders paid off when he spotted the five-legged frog again. This time it was sitting alone. Gathering his courage, Dennis crept forward, hands cupped and ready. But just as he was about to lunge for it, the frog leaped away.

Dennis splashed into the swamp after it.

Aside from the fact that it would make his mother angry, going into the water didn't seem dangerous. He had waded into the swamp plenty of times before and knew it was less than two feet deep here.

At least, it had never been more than two feet deep in the past. To his shock, Dennis now found himself up to his thighs in water.

Even worse, his feet were stuck in the muddy bottom.

No, worse than stuck. He was sinking!

Quicksand!
was his first, terrified thought.
I've stumbled into quicksand!

Then something else happened, something so appallingly weird that it drove the thought of quicksand from his mind. He saw a virtual army of deformed frogs swimming toward him, some with missing legs, others with five, six, or even seven legs; some were absurdly small, others horrifyingly large; some had split faces or extra eyes, or were weirdly colored. Dennis cried out in horror as the little monstrosities clambered onto his shoulders, then his head. The clammy flesh of their bellies pressing against the skin of his face drove him mad with fear. They seemed to be weighing him down, pushing him into the soft, sucking bottom of the swamp.

Dennis's screams were cut off as his head went under the surface. The muck—well past his thighs now, nearly to his waist—was holding him, clutching him. Wild with terror, he flailed his arms, churning the water like a propeller.

It did no good.

He opened his eyes. Through the dimly lit water, green and murky, he saw that the swarm of frogs was growing thicker, more dense. Hundreds—no,
thousands
—of frogs were swimming closer, pushing him deeper into the swamp.

Choking on his fear, Dennis continued his descent into the muddy bottom. The ooze, more frightening than mere water, crept up his neck. When he felt it on his chin he opened his mouth to scream again. A tiny frog slipped inside. Revolted, he spit it out and clamped his lips shut.

The muck crept past his mouth, beyond his nose.

Finally it closed above his head.

 

When Dennis woke he was lying facedown on a patch of damp grass. Insects buzzed around him. Under their music he heard the song of frogs—the trill of spring peepers, the tenor tones of the small frogs he used to catch in the swamp, the deep baritone of the great bulls. He rolled over, then yelped in fear.

Instead of the distant blue sky, Dennis saw above him a vast expanse of muddy brown, seemingly no more than a few hundred feet away. Directly overhead the brown was replaced by a translucent green circle. The dim light filtering through the circle made him wonder if it was the bottom of the swamp.

He took a deep breath, testing the air. It was damp but pleasant. Tree-sized mushrooms grew all around him. Dennis pushed himself to his feet, delighted at finding himself still alive. “Unless this is where you go after you die,” he muttered uneasily.

“Trust me, you're quite fine,” said a deep, throaty voice.

Dennis spun in the direction of the voice. Sitting several feet away was a frog the size of a golden retriever. Its bulging eyes were the size of Ping-Pong balls.

“Who are
you?”
cried Dennis.

“Your guide. The king wants to see you. Follow me.”

Without waiting for Dennis to respond, it began leaping toward the mushroom forest.

“Sure,” said Dennis. “Follow you. Why not? Since I'm either dead or dreaming, I might as well.”

The frog, clearly not listening, continued leaping into the forest. Not wanting to be left behind, Dennis scrambled to catch up.

 

The path they followed curved snakelike through the mushrooms. At some point the oppressively low “sky” was replaced by a decently distant one, which would have made Dennis feel better if not for the fact that it was bright green.

The sun—or whatever they called the glowing ball that lit the sky here—was green, too, the light green of early spring grass.

Dennis wanted to question his guide. But though the huge frog never got out of sight, it always managed to stay far enough ahead that Dennis wasn't able to talk to it.

Eventually the mushroom forest gave way to a vast swamp.

“Awesome,” whispered Dennis, staring at ferns that grew as tall as trees and lily pads the size of the dining room carpet. A jewel-eyed dragonfly buzzed past, its wings as long as Dennis's arms.

Still following his guide, Dennis hopped along strips of squishy land and crossed mucky areas on chains of grassy hummocks. Thick ooze bubbled and popped on all sides. Finally they came to a pair of towering willows that formed a natural archway.

“This is as far as I go,” said his guide. “Beyond these trees lies the Court of King Urpthur, Lord of All Frogs. Be courteous and respectful when you greet him.”

“But—”

The frog held up its front feet. “The king will tell you all you need to know. Go in.”

Stepping between the willows, Dennis caught his breath in wonder. Before him stretched a courtroom of elegant beauty. Though it had no walls, its boundaries were clearly marked by stems of mushroom and fern. Growing far straighter here than anywhere else he had seen them, they formed a series of alternating green and beige pillars. The caps of the mushrooms spread like giant umbrellas, while the fern fronds curled high to create a lacy green roof.

In the center of the court shimmered a long pond filled with water lilies, their soup-bowl-sized blossoms displaying a thousand shades of pink, yellow, and white. Along the sides of the pond, standing on their hind legs and chatting casually, were dozens of frogs, most taller than Dennis. Many wore hats and capes and had swords buckled about their waists.

At the far side of the pond, on an ornate throne carved directly into the giant trunk of a living willow, sat King Urpthur. His golden crown was studded with emeralds. A scarlet cape hung from his shoulders. The green fingers of his right hand curled around a golden scepter. Next to the throne was a gong, suspended from a willow frame.

The court fell silent when Dennis entered. All eyes—and big, goggling eyes they were—turned to him.

“Come forward,” croaked the king.

Dennis did as he was asked. But when he reached the edge of the pond he stopped, uncertain. Was he supposed to wade through it or pick his way around it? Looking more carefully, he was relieved to spot a faint path on the grassy bank. Following it around the pond to a spot directly in front of the king, he paused, uncertain of what to do next. Finally remembering his guide's warning to be “courteous and respectful,” he made an awkward bow.

King Urpthur smiled, which pretty much split his face in half. “Greetings, Dennis, and welcome to my court! Please accept my apologies for the frightening way we brought you here. It is difficult to transport a human to Froglandia, and getting more difficult as the years go by. We only brought you now because of the extreme danger in which we find ourselves.”

“The mutations!” guessed Dennis out loud.

Immediately he wondered if he should have spoken without being asked. But the king merely nodded, his face grave and frightened. “The mutations,” he repeated softly.

“I understand they would upset you. But what do they have to do with me?”

“You are one of our links to the human world.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Granted.”

Dennis blushed. “I mean, I don't understand.”

“Oh. Oh, I see!” The king began to laugh, a deep, rich
chug-a-rumming
. The court joined in, until the result was almost deafening, a percussion concert of croaking.

“As I was saying,” said the king, after he recovered from his mirth, “you are part of the frog family.” Seeing the doubt on Dennis's face, he continued, “Your nineteenth great-grandfather on your mother's side was what is sometimes called a frog prince. There is often a misunderstanding about this in the old tales. In this case, the princess who kissed the frog was
not
turning an enchanted human back into his own form. She was turning one of my own ancestors (Great-Uncle Hopgo, to be precise—we royal frogs have quite long lives) into a human! Personally, I think it was silly of Unc to give up Froglandia, and his life span, for a mere human. But love does that to frogs.