Tempered Love

In a shady brook, not far from the Rosenburg’s house, there lived a small frog, whose name was Jeff. Jeff wasn’t all that big, only a wee bit bigger than a thumb nail. He had a spotted gray and brown back and black toes and one tiny green spot contained over his left eye. 

He didn’t like it all that much–he thought it too similar to the spot on a moth, those big garish beasts which lumbered around seeking fibrous plants and which were even rumored to associate with the Quakefoots. So uncivilized. But Martha liked it, and so he had stopped trying to rub it off long ago. Martha was his best friend, his favorite frog in the world, his beloved wife for over thirty Awakenings. She was just a little smaller than him, maybe about a grass width or two, and she also had a motley of brown and gray hues waterfalling down her back, but with solid brown toes and a more streamlined nose, which among other things, made her a great swimmer. 

He could still perfectly remember the first day he set eyes on her, his big black pupils meeting her big blue ones. He couldn’t believe such a combination existed, and it made her all that much more beautiful. She was gracefully feeding on water flies, her tongue flitting in and out like a rapier, quickly and quietly. Slowly he had tried to inch over, and then, when the time seemed appropriate, he leaped into the air in an attempt to suavely sidle up by her side. But he had forgotten to take into account the friction of his launchpad, and his toes slipped out from under him almost as soon as he put pressure on them. This caused him to undershoot his mark, and he careened in a tangled heap through the air, his right foot far extended and his left covering his nose, until he unceremoniously splashed directly into the center of the water flies, causing them to scatter frantically in all directions. Sheepishly he had surfaced, bright red and angry at himself for wasting his shot. But unlike others, she hadn’t hopped away. No, she sat there, amused with him, those big blue eyes resting on his half submerged head, then she threw him a small grin and flick of her tongue and leapt away into the grasses towards her house. 

She had cast a spell on him, and soon after the world flipped upside down. The smile and momentary kiss snowballed, then avalanched, and there they were, married for thirty Awakenings. What a life.

This morning, Jeff woke to the usual sounds of crickets and trickling water, then went down the hall into his kitchen to make Martha some coffee. She woke shortly after, stretching and then strolling out of their room in the cozy burrow to eat breakfast with him.  

He had caught a horsefly not too long ago, and now he took what remained of it out of its little nook on the far side of the eating room. Slowly they ate, enjoying the fresh water trickling carelessly outside while contently engulfing the layers of meat and nutrients. 

After some time Jeff asked Martha where they wanted to hunt, and because it was their anniversary, they decided to embark on a journey to that special and bountiful pond where they met. It was no quick trip, for the water was a full twenty quaker lengths away, up a mountain and across the great Dark Desert, then down another mountain and through some cattails which reached infinitely into the sky. 

The Dark Desert was a wide expanse of hard rock responsible for more than a couple mysterious deaths, though some clearly died because they became disoriented, wandering on endlessly until they succumbed to heat or starvation. Jeff’s parents had worked hard to make sure this wasn’t his fate.

“Jeffrey, remember son, whenever you need to go across the Dark Desert, which shouldn’t be often, mind you, but whenever you do, remember, as soon as you mount the Reckoning Wall look for the cattails.”

“Papa’s right, put that in your head little JJ. If you ever become lost in the Dark, look for the cattails, and you can place yourself right back on the correct path.

"Can you repeat that back to us, darling? ‘Remember the cattails’?”

“Okay mama, you bet. Imma be the best navigator in the whole world. Imma cross the Dark Desert just like you do, and then I’ll discover the world! I-I bet I’ll see toads and lizards and mice and Quakefoots! Oh yes! I’ll see Quakefoots. Great big ones with stompers and leafhair and fly eyes–mama do you think I’ll see Quakefoots?”

“I bet you will, JJ. But remember what I said about the Dark Desert. Repeat that a couple times so we know exactly how good of an explorer you are.”

“Oh right. ‘Remember the cattails.’ ‘Remember the cattails.’ ‘Remember the cattails….’”  

There were tales of others, too. Mad jargon from their sputtering companions who made it back alive. They told of mountains that moved in a split second and a darkness which blotted out the sun and a sound like the Quakefoots but a thousand times worse. Some even described acid rain. All nonsense really. Likely just effects of heat exposure and dehydration. 

So Jeff and Martha slowly hopped up the first mountain, drinking from their water sacks occasionally but not too often as to preserve it. Then they mounted the Reckoning Wall, really a small thing only about a couple frogs' heights tall, but it was dangerous to hop over in case one lost their bearings. 

Then they proceeded to cross the dark expanse of rock: slowly, always making sure they could keep sight of the cattails. They made their way around great craters and small ponds and rock shelves that looked as if some giant had jammed a sharp stick into the ground and scarred the earth with it. It was altogether a desolate place, but one which needed to be endured if they hoped to reach their little paradise. 

They were about halfway across when suddenly, it happened. First came the sound. It was like a thousand dying lizards being slowly boiled alive. It was so terribly, horribly wretched. Then they were hit with a ferocious wind, and darkness overtook the land. The earth trembled and shook as the alien storm ascended onto them, a vehement mass of angry energy and untamed chaos.     

All at once Jeff could see huge black masses barreling towards him. Faster than he could flick his own tongue, they charged, consuming the earth and everything in their path. So quickly he lept, as far and fast as he could, desperately trying not to become their next victim. Martha had been next to him, and he could only pray now that she had done the same. 

Into the storm he went, a life thrown mercilessly into the fury of the dark. Round and round he was thrown, flipped and tangled and buffeted and mangled. For what seemed like eternity he careened uncontrollably through the aggressive nothingness, until he became disconnected with anything real, and instead was one with this foreign dimension. In his dazed head, he swore he faintly heard his name, but, but, but why…what, what… WHAM! Something hard connected with his head, and instantly the mayhem faded.

Slowly, gradually, he groggled awake to the hard, blisteringly hot rock of the Dark Desert. All semblance of the storm had faded, and he was alone, spread-eagled and burning. As soon as he could manage, he peeled himself off the ground and sheltered as best he could under some strewn rocks to cool himself down.

Now he examined his surroundings. Other than the few rocks and his water sack, which he found tattered some distance away, the only things which lay before him were the endless desert and unforgiving heat. He instinctively turned his mind to Martha, wondering if she had made it out alive, and given renewed strength through his love, he began to search for her. With each step, he reburned the already raw sores on his feet in the forlorn hope that he might find her. 

Hours went by, days seemed to pass, and then, silhouetted against the indistinct horizon, he saw among the waves a form. Fearing the worst, he approached cautiously, holding his breath after each step. Then he saw her. There was Martha, boiling in the cauldron of heat, her body a confused jumble of arms and legs, skin and bone. Her left eye was swollen over her face, and her nose and ears were leaking blood. But the real injury was part of her body which had become flattened to the width of a leaf over the dark ground, obviously crushed by one of the rolling black mountains. 

Jeff at once shielded her body with his own from the relentlessly biting sun, then set about attempting to tend to her wounds. He gave her what was left of the water clinging to the remains of his water sack; then he began collecting moisture from his naturally wet skin and mouth and applying it to her steaming form. Her right eyelid momentarily trembled, then slid back to reveal a large, soft brown eye, and this latched on to him as he feverishly fought to free her from the strengthening grasp of death.   

“Martha, Martha, stay with me Martha. Please Martha, hang on just a little longer” he pleaded her, but it was no use. As her long eyelash began its last journey down the gentle curvature of her eye, he realized his efforts were futile. Trembling, he started whispering to her, tenderly and urgently.

“I love you Martha…I love you so much…I love you…I love you…I love you.”

With that he carefully scraped her body off the ground and wrapped it in his tattered water sack, then with effort stood up and began shuffling across the Dark Desert. Where, he did not know, for in every direction appeared only waves of heat, though he knew he must continue, if not for his own survival then for the memory of Martha.

The hours ticked by and the oppressive heat hovered with a sickle. On and on Jeff struggled, harassed by the sun’s ceaseless gaze, until he eventually fell into a deep delirium, though he maintained his grip on Martha all the same. With each drag of his padded foot across the rough ground, his hope diminished and his body sagged further, until finally he crumbled, a forlorn pile of frog. In his crippled and hallucinating mind he swore he could see a brown tendril reach high in the sky, and this he accepted as the final reckoning of death, of whom he had recently become well acquainted. 

And deep in the back of his mind, where the toads and the lizards played friends with the mice, there fluttered awake a mantra, old and rusty but increasingly adamant of its presence. 

“Remember the cattails. Remember the cattails. Remember the. . . ”