š A bumpy black toad reads the poetry of a prince hidden in the enchanted hollows of a secret tree
The Art:
Features above. Illustration of a tree stump stacked with a prince's secret poetry journals. A bumpy black toad sits atop the stump, guarding the hollow against a woodland critter trying to sneak his own works into the collection.
Illustrated by Zack Castro @paintcapsule
The Tale:
The small child with wild brown curls and chocolate smeared across his chin was back again. He stumbled through the weeds and thorny bracken towards a small, hollowed tree stump, carpeted with lichen and tiny golden mushrooms.
In the childās grasp was a thick stack of pages, roughly bound with cloth and bark. Resting against the stumpāto the chagrin of one small, bumpy-backed amphibian observing from the liquid shadows of a nearby puddleāthe child spread out his pages across the grass and began to scribble.
The sun was near to setting when the child finally packed his mess away, stowing the stack of pages in the treeās dark hollow. The child fought his way back through the grass and, at long last, away from the peace of the observerās domain.
The child returned the next day, and the day after that. Day by day, week by week, month by month, the observer took to hopping up atop the stump when the child was too absorbed in his writings to notice, watching as the scribbles became letters, and then words.
They were beautiful words. Well chosen and scribed in wobbling lines and dashes. Beautiful words became beautiful sentences, and the observer learned to think entirely new thoughts. They rose and curled, like smoke and the scent of new leaves, germinating, quickening, burgeoning into feelings the observer had no name for.
The observer flicked out his tongue at a passing mosquito and waited for the child to return.
Return he did. Year after year, the child and his curls grew, his bearing as wild as his thoughts, both exquisite in their chaos.
The child had long since discovered the observer, and had begun to ask his opinion.
āWhat do you think of this line here? I donāt think the rhyme scheme quite conveys the way a dance feels like swimming, but only when you let yourself fall from step to step...ā
The observer blinked and snapped his tongue.
āNo, youāre quite right, the stress is all wrong, how about...ā the boy took several long moments to scribble over his words with new thoughts. ā...this?ā The observer tilted his head in regard and decided he quite liked both ways, and gave a loud croak to say so.
āWell thatās not spectacularly helpful, Gale. Do you mind if I call you that? Gale? I think itās a rather regal name for a black toad, especially one so bumpy as yourself. Iām a prince you realise, and a prince must have a regal familiar.ā
The observer considered the new word. It felt like marshland and the howl of a spring deluge. Gale approved.
Gale took it upon himself to guard the princeās words. His deepest secrets and most beautiful thoughts. Book after book, stack after stack, piled up within the hollow.
Sometimes the witch with livid hair and eyes like a deep lake would come, and Gale would have to learn the new skill of how to share his prince. After a bite to the witchās finger, a stern scolding from his prince, and gifts of glimmering moonflies from the intruder herself, Galeās jealousy was appeased.
Sometimes creatures would scamper up to the hollow, sniffing curiously at the cloth and leather bound pages. For these, Gale bore no patience, and would scare them away with a croak like thunder.
Sometimes the rain, like his namesake, would pour down and threaten the princeās treasures. Yet Gale, having learned one or two secrets from the witch, bellowed back, diverting rivulets and sheets of cold rain away from the mouth of his princeās hollow.
Weary from a sleepless night in battle with a summer storm, Gale basked in the princeās praise of his stalwart service. The prince fed Gale worms and crickets, and allowed him to sleep in his coat pocket.
Sometimes the prince would forget Gale was there, and Gale would get to go on adventures through the palace and the catacombs, forgotten crypts and half-buried libraries, lush gardens that sprouted in caves, and dark thickets of a forest whose heart keened with sorrow.
Gale saw the princeās world in fragments, snatches of sounds and sensations, strange scents and stranger tastes. Much like his princeās poetry, Gale learned a new world, stanza by stanza.
Gale slept on silk pillows, watching over the prince as he dreamed up new ballads.
Gale forgot about the hollow.
Until.
Gale woke to the sound of thunder and the tickle of curls beneath his chin.
The prince sat up, disgruntled, as lightning flashed beyond the window, dislodging a still more disgruntled toad from his soft bed.
The prince blinked at Gale, and Gale blinked back.
āOh... Oh dear, if youāre here, then... My books!ā The prince scrambled from his downy bed and pulled on his boots. Gale croaked and leapt into the princeās coat pocket as he pulled it on with a violent shrug, tearing out of the room into the hall beyond.
Ignoring the shout of the guard by his door, the prince raced down stone corridors, thumping over lush woven carpets, and dashed out into the rain.
Puddles splashed, showering Gale in mud as the toad clung to the lip of the pocket. Sodden footfall chased behind them as three guards pursued the prince, who was now leaping over logs and crashing through the underbrush towards his hollow.
āNo...ā
The prince sank to his knees as they entered the small clearing, the fabric of his trousers soaking through with muddy water.
Icy rain was pouring sideways into the hollowed tree stump, drenching the whole stack of books from top to bottom. Shuffling forward, the prince tried in vain to shield the books as he lifted a leather-bound journal from the top of the pile.Ā
Gale hopped from the princeās pocket to once more stand guard atop the rough, mossy stump. With a croak that shattered the driving rain and whistling winds to stillness, Gale watched in shame and misery as the prince grieved his words.
The crash and cracking of leafy brambles heralded the arrival of the three pursuing guards.Ā
āFateās sake, child, what are you thinking of chasing out here in the middle of a stormā Oh... oh dear.ā The guard in front holstered his club of carved bone and placed a hand on the princeās shoulder. The child turned and presented the ruined book with a tearful grizzle.
With a heaving sigh, the guard wrapped the princeās coat tighter about him and lifted him from the earth in a cradle hold.
With a few terse, muttered instructions, the other guards retrieved the rest of the books and made to leave the clearing, following behind the guard holding the weeping prince.
Gale croaked in despair, his chest aching with failure. Had he been here, he would have staved off the storm. Had he been here, instead of content and dreaming on a silk pillow which did not belong to the likes of bumpy black toads such as himself, his prince would not be mourning years of beautiful thoughts now ruined.
Defeated, weary, and heartsick, Gale nestled into a patch of moss and closed his eyes, listening to the rustle and snap of ferns as the guards stomped away.Ā
Gale doubted he would ever see his prince again.
As the footsteps faded into the distance, and Galeās magic melted away to allow the rains to fall across the clearing once again, a voice cried out from the far thickets.
āWait!ā the prince called. āGale! We have to get Gale, turn back, please!ā
Gale sat up as the chatter of a frustrated and longsuffering argument approached. The guards re-emerged through the dark and soggy trees, the prince still curled up in the lead guardās arms.
The prince stretched out, nearly toppling from the guardās grasp as he reached his hand towards Gale.
āOof, hold still will youā What? Thatās Gale? Good gander, little princeling, youāre going to be the death of us,ā the guard grumbled, lips twisting in disgust beneath his avian mask as he caught sight of Gale huddled on the tree stump. āFine... why not, shall we go fishing for leeches next? How about a nice stew of tree slime orāā
The prince took no heed of the guardās muttering as he beckoned for Gale with pleading brown eyes. Coiling himself against the rough bark, Gale kicked out his legs in a great leapāarcing, arcing through the airāand landed with a squelch on the princeās chest.
āGale!ā the prince cried in joy, caressing the bumps across his snout.
āBlegh,ā the guard gagged. āAll ready then? Got your swamp thing? Got all our diaries? Excellent.ā The guards about-faced, crunching across the sodden earth back towards the palace.
In the days that followed, Gale watched as his prince laid all his pages out in the wan autumn sun to dry. All the charcoal writings had smudged, but only a very few pages were completely unsalvageable.
Day by day, as the pages dried, and the prince examined his work, the ache in Galeās chest eased. All had not been lost, and the prince was very kind to his familiar.
āI think,ā the prince mused as he fed small glowing bugs to Gale where he sat atop a stone windowsill, āthat we need a better place to hide our poetry.ā
Our poetry. Gale croaked a contented agreement, the warmth of affection filling his stomach as surely as the glittering flies.
Gale listened and watched and wandered with the prince. He chased away all the scratching and scrabbling terrors of dark places as they renewed their adventures in search of secret havens.
The prince spilled more words across fresh pages, and Gale learned the names of new feelings. The witch would visit and trade flowers for a princeās thoughts, and Gale was only a small bit jealous.
Gale lived in pockets and the silky beds of feather pillows and, more often still, the silken nest of his princeās bark-brown ringlets, curling up to dream of ballads.
Deep within the forest stood a hollow red tree. It wasnāt the tallest, nor the prettiest, but it was the perfect home for wood witch Marmalade. Airy chimes rang amongst the boughs as an autumn draught fanned the flames of her stove.
Sugar pies were stacked atop muffins atop towers of shortcakes. The wafted scent of baking bread enticed all manner of creatures to Marmaladeās tree for sweet treats and a place to rest their paws.
Each morning, Marmot would scurry up to Marmaladeās kitchen window and scamper away just as quickly clutching samples of the dayās goods. Huffing in the warm smells of fresh pastries, Marmot tossed them over his shoulder one by one. Too many cherries. Too much banana. Apricot... Honey... Marzipan. This wouldnāt do.
Marmalade dusted icing powder from her hands and turned back to her bowl. Only to find a clump of fresh moss sinking into the batter.
āMarmot!ā Marmalade cried, brandishing her whisk at the fluffy tail whipping out of sight. āAgain!ā With a laboured sigh she dumped the batter and began her recipe anew.
Marmot sniffed as he watched Marmalade through the window. Dejected, Marmot curled into a ball, breathing in the tantalising scent of scones ruined yet again by sweet fruits. Hearing sad sniffles, Marmalade looked up to see Marmot, forlorn and hugging his tail for comfort.
Shaking out her apron, Marmalade beckoned Marmot inside. Padding cautiously to the bench, Marmot took the whisk from Marmaladeās proffered hand. Snatching up a basket, he dashed back outside, soon returning laden with long grasses and patches of lichen, hard seeds and wild roots.
With tender hands and amused smile, Marmalade guided Marmot as he added flour and water to moss and weeds. The grass only caught fire once as the bread baked. Barely had it cooled when Marmot scarfed the loaf.
With full cheeks and sheepish eyes, Marmot glanced at Marmalade. She laughed. āThatās alright, I wasnāt hungry anyway.ā Marmot brushed his nose against her hand and scampered back into the forest, leaving Marmalade to sweep up the crumbs.
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Artwork by Zack CastroĀ @zackmcastroĀ š
When storms come howling through your waking dreams and sleepless heart, stir your cup and watch as the lightning illuminates your landscape. Crags and steepled slopes look harsh against the blue and white horizon; revel in their teeth for that ceaseless, frigid instant, and know the edges will soften once more at daybreak.
