Thumbelina and the Toad by the Pond

More about Thumbelina and the Toad by the Pond

As spring opened the garden like a silent book, the stream carried away the first pollen like golden words. Thumbelina, barely taller than the cup of a tulip, sat at the edge of a green pond, its water so still it seemed to be listening for secrets. She wore a blanket made from a violet leaf, a needle for a walking stick, and in her apron held seven seeds, given to her by someone who believed in miracles. She spent the morning explaining to the wind where she wanted to travel one day: to a house whose windows glowed from within, not from lanterns, but from hearts. But beneath a root, where the shadows were cool and trusting, lay the toad. Her skin was wrinkled like a forgotten map, her eyes two moist pieces of amber. She had a son whose voice sounded like a false note in the night's chorus, and she was determined to find him a bride so that the lonely hut under the thatched roof would no longer rattle like an empty barrel. When Thumbelina dipped her hand into the water, the toad glided closer, as silently as an idea, and crept to the bank where the stalks trembled. "How pretty you are," she croaked, "how fitting for a humble house. Come a little closer, child, mirrors are more reliable than dreams." Thumbelina smiled, for she believed in good. She leaned forward, and suddenly the toad sprang like a dark arrow from the folds of the reeds, seized the violet leaf, Thumbelina's still, and pushed it out onto the water with a practiced paw. The leaf rocked, and the pond widened, as if it had decided at that very hour to be a sea. "Where are you taking me?" cried Thumbelina, and the wind carried her clear voice away. "To where a door awaits you," croaked the toad contentedly. "My son has a warm place by the hearth, and his heart beats strongly. You'll learn to like the silence." Then the pond laughed, and its laughter was a series of small rings that spread out until they reached the bank, frightening the ants. Thumbelina sat upright as best she could, holding the needle tight. Behind her glided the toad, beside her leaped the shadow of the cattail. Above her, flies buzzed like loose thoughts. "I don't belong in the darkness," she whispered, "I belong where they give me a name that doesn't just mean small." A frog on a flat stone made a face as if sympathizing, but stayed where he was, because sympathy is easier than help. Once the leaf came to a place where the willow roots hung so low they looked like curtains. Thumbelina placed her hand on the bark, rough and warm from the sun, and asked for advice. The willow was silent, but its silence was not empty. Sometimes a tree is an entire library that reveals nothing directly, but only teaches you which line to lay your heart on. Thumbelina understood: gain time, not despair. She pulled one of the seeds from her apron—it shone like a promise—and pressed it into the moist leaf vein. "Grow," she said, "if you can, grow me a hold." The leaf curled as if incorporating the small wish into its green memory.