The Seven Frog Brothers, a story in 9 parts, Calvarn the Bold, Part 2

More about The Seven Frog Brothers, a story in 9 parts, Calvarn the Bold, Part 2

The pond doesn't run away." "I... want to be the first," said Calvarn, and the word suddenly sounded like a tin cup in a cathedral. "To be is one thing. To return home is another," murmured the ferryman. "You can reach home and still not arrive." The raft glided to the other shore. Calvarn thanked Brassus curtly, but when he climbed back onto Brassus, he felt a fine ridge within him, as if the old man had found a crack in the cylinder of his thoughts. They continued on their way. The forest changed its face: trees now stood far apart, the night smelled of cold iron and wet stone. The lanterns were replaced by small cages in which fireflies circled like golden dots. A wheel rumbled in the distance. Calvarn felt Brassus's rhythm begin to stumble. He jumped off, tightened his gloves, and opened the maintenance hatch on the dragon's chest. A spring had overstretched, a gear shifted almost imperceptibly. "I pushed you too hard," murmured Calvarn. He took oil, reset the spring, released the pressure, and adjusted the gear with a gentle tap. The dragon's breathing steadied, the Core Light pulsed evenly again. As he closed the hatch, he noticed something at the edge of the path: a small lantern, knocked over, its flame dying. Calvarn picked it up, cleared the muzzle, and blew as gently as he would have blown dust as a tadpole. The flame was revived. He replaced the lantern and nodded. Shortly afterward, he heard footsteps ahead of them, quiet and numerous. From the shadows stepped tiny creatures with bronze umbrellas: spark goblins, keeping the forest clear of overconfident travelers. Their eyes glowed like coals. The tallest, barely reaching Calvarn's knees, placed his hands on his hips. "Tin Rider," he croaked, "your din awakens the dream seeds. Why should we let you through?" Calvarn saw the tiny faces, saw the quivering threads of the fireflies above their hats, saw the lantern he had just raised, and felt his answer change. "Because I want to learn to walk more quietly," he said. "And because my companion is heavy, yet his heart is soft." He placed his hand on Brassus's neck armor. "I am a loud frog, I admit. But I listen." The goblins whispered, hissed, laughed. Finally, the leader raised his umbrella. "Then you may pass. But put on this helmet." He handed Calvarn a tiny funnel, barely larger than a limpet leaf. "This is a horn of humility. Whoever wears it is reminded of the size of their own mouth." Calvarn couldn't help it: he laughed, but it wasn't a mocking laugh. He stuck the horn on his top hat like a silly earring. Brassus hummed contentedly. The goblins opened a row of lanterns that joined to form a new road, narrow but safe. And Calvarn noticed that Brassus's footsteps actually grew quieter, as if the lanterns had transformed the noise into golden strings. Towards morning, the forest thinned. Mists rose from meadow hollows, the stars faded. Calvarn stopped at a rise and looked far across the gray land.