The Seven Frog Brothers, a story in 9 parts,The Song of the Seven Frog Brothers

More about The Seven Frog Brothers, a story in 9 parts,The Song of the Seven Frog Brothers

The evening fell golden over the moss as seven small shadows hopped across the meadow from different directions. Each carried a small backpack on their back, worn by travel and rain, and the joy of recognition reflected in each of their faces. They were the seven frog brothers who had left the same pond many years ago to venture out into the world. And now, after all this time, they returned home—to that still water that had once encouraged them to take their first plunge. The eldest, the frog with the orange vest, stood at the edge of the pond and saw his reflection in the water. "This is where it all began," he murmured, and the others nodded. The wind rustled gently through the reeds, as if the place itself had been waiting for them. One by one, they sat down on the old mossy stone that still lay on the bank, as green and soft as it had been then. The youngest children laughed and recounted their experiences—of nightly rain festivals in distant gardens, of the frog prince who had invited them to a dance, and of a dragonfly who had shown them the way to a hidden lake where the water sang in the moonlight. As they spoke, small heads emerged from the pool—pairs of shining eyes, curious and expectant. They were the new brood, the children of spring, barely larger than a leaf frog. They listened reverently, for the old stories of the seven brothers had long since become legend among the tadpoles. The second brother, who always wore the light blue vest, moved closer to the edge and began to speak in a deep voice: "You know, little friends, the world is wide, but no water sounds as beautiful as the one that gave birth to you." Then the evening hummed like a string, and the blossoms all around bent, as if they too wanted to listen. The third, dressed in soft green, opened his backpack. Inside lay small memories: a glittering pebble, a feather, a tiny conch shell. He placed them on the shore as offerings to his old home. One by one, others followed suit—and soon a small pile of travel stories formed, shaped like things marked by wind, water, and time. The fourth, the joker of the group, suddenly jumped into the water with a loud "Quaaak!", sending the youngest children diving under in alarm—only to resurface giggling immediately afterward. Then it fell silent. The sun sank lower, and a warm evening mist rose. The fifth brother, who had always sung the wanderers' song, struck up a soft melody. At first, he just hummed, but soon the others joined in with their voices. It wasn't a song that could be described in words—more a sound of home, water, and wind. He told of distant rain, of the longing for the first puddle, of the cycle of life between moor and moon.