The Seven Frog Brothers, a story in 9 parts, Calvarn the Bold, Part 1

More about The Seven Frog Brothers, a story in 9 parts, Calvarn the Bold, Part 1

The night forest stood like an army of black spears, and above their tips the Milky Way sparkled. Calvarn adjusted his top hat, his froggy heart pumping warmly with anticipation. Beneath him pounded the mighty mount he'd known for only a few moons, yet loved like an old comrade: Brassus, the Gear Dragon. Springs and pistons worked within his body, his jaws wore plates like scales, glowing golden with each breath. When Brassus walked, the earth spoke in deep syllables. "We will be the first," Calvarn called into the lantern light that lined the path like a chain of star traps. Brassus answered with a growling whirring that sounded like a hundred cogs nodding in unison. The call of the home pond accompanied them, a hum at the edge of consciousness, like a song one knew as a child and never forgot. Calvarn pictured the brothers: Fendral on his moon snail, Merrik on a tortoise, and who knew what the others had chosen. He grinned. He already saw himself standing on the shore, top hat in hand, the lanterns of the night bowing before him like courtly servants. But the forest tests anyone who speaks loudly of victories. At the third milestone, the fog closed, and a figure stepped out of the trees. It was tall, thin, and covered in moss; vines hung from its fingers like chains. "Traveler," said the watchman, his voice made of resin and old wood, "he who learns to drone must also learn to listen. Otherwise, he only echoes himself." Calvarn started to laugh, but Brassus pushed his massive head against his boot. It was an unusually gentle nudge. Calvarn swallowed the barb. "Then I'll listen," he said, albeit reluctantly. The watchman pointed to a narrow furrow in the ground. It was barely visible, a dark cut between wet leaves. "Don't follow the bright path," the figure warned. "Follow the edge of silence." Then it dissolved like dew sinking to the ground. Calvarn rode along the furrow. The lanterns on either side grew rarer, the chirping of crickets receded, and suddenly he heard something that was not a sound: the missing note, a gap in the chorus of the night. The path led into a depression, and suddenly before them lay a silent channel, black as molten glass. A raft waited on the water, at the stern a frog of old days stood, wrapped in a cloak of reeds, its eyes silver with age. "Crossing?" asked the ferryman. "Only he who casts aside haste finds the way across." Calvarn paused. Cast aside haste? His whole being rebelled against it. But Brassus, without further debate, put a foot in the water, the joints clacking, and the raft barely rocking. Calvarn dismounted, tied the gear kite to a burlwood bollard, and stepped aboard. The ferryman pushed off, and the canal received them without a spurt of spray, as if a thought were passing through a mind. "You smell of storm," said the old man. "It rages within you, not around you. Why the rush?