Breglio and the Enchanted Frog

More about Breglio and the Enchanted Frog

The rain had transformed the cobblestones of Fennbirn into a glass chessboard. Breglio trudged barefoot through the shining cracks, lantern in hand, as if searching for something hidden among the drops and shadows. In the distance, a croak sounded, muffled and strange, as if from a throat not built for this song. He followed the sound out to the old moat, where water lilies lay like shimmering plates. There he sat: a frog, as big as a child, with skin that shimmered as if someone had painted it with gold veins. His eyes, however, were dull, and from his mouth came not a friendly croak, but a croak that cut through the rain. "You're late," croaked the frog. "I've been told you can untie knots." Breglio placed the lantern on the edge of the bank. "Knots, yes. But you're not a frog of your own free will, are you?" The frog laughed hoarsely. "I am a frog because I was given memories. Once I was human. But one who demanded too much. So the hour itself twisted me." "And now?" asked Breglio. "Now I can only spit out wishes in the mud. But none come true, for my voice is broken." Breglio sat down and drew his knees up. "A frog that can't grant wishes is worse than one without a voice. Show me where it hurts." The frog stuck out his tongue. On it lay a tiny splinter, transparent as glass. The lantern flickered as she touched it. "That's not a splinter," murmured Breglio. "It's a remnant of your hour, frozen. Whoever swallows it carries the memory upside down." "Can you pull it out?" asked the frog, looking at him with a look that was both pleading and exhausted. Breglio nodded, took the splinter from his belt with tweezers, and held it against the lantern. Immediately, it began to glow, as if it wanted to return to a time that had lost it. But as soon as he pulled it from his tongue, the frog burst into wild twitching, as if an invisible net were tearing it apart. "If you remove it, I'll disintegrate!" Breglio narrowed his eyes. "No. If I extinguish it, you'll disintegrate. If I remember it, you can move on." He carefully placed the splinter in the flame of his lantern. Instead of burning, it sang—a high note that rippled through the night like a string. Rain bounced off it as if it had tuned the sky itself. The frog gasped, then slumped. Its skin lost its gold, becoming darker, less conspicuous, until it looked like an ordinary frog by the water. But in its eyes, a trace of humanity glowed: tiredness, but also relief. "Am I free?" it asked quietly. "Free enough," said Breglio. "Some transformations never completely disappear. But you are you again, as much as the hour allows." The frog looked into the lantern. "You promised me nothing.