Date: Sun, 2 Jun 1996 19:35:21 -0400 From: "Susan M. Garrett" Subject: Till Tuesday This is the last of the three door stories that were posted at MediaWest, including "Upon the Cheek of Night" by Valerie Meachum and "Loneliness is a Blue Plate Special" by Sharon Himmanen. The stories were broken into parts and each part posted on a different door in the hotel. We're doing it again next year. This story is dedicated to children's librarians everywhere. And those who love . Scottie, don't read this. I'm serious. It hurt you. Run away, run away NOW! ************************************** Till Tuesday by Susan M. Garrett If he'd remained at the height well above the rooftops, Nick never would have encountered the flying frogs. As it was, he thought he heard something--his vampire hearing was sensitive enough at times that he could hear --swooped down to take a look and caught a lily-pad full in the face. There was a startled croak from the lilypad. Nick instinctively cupped his hands and ended up catching no less than one pound of frog in mid-air. It was a largish frog and seemed as surprised to have encountered him as he was to have encountered it. Not to mention the fact that he had to forcibly concentrate on what he was doing, or he would have plummeted straight to the roadway below and left a rather messy looking splot on one of Toronto's minor thoroughfares until he managed to pull himself together again. Hovering in mid-air, Nick examined at the frog in his hands. And the frog looked back, the lids languidly drooping over the large yellow eyes, blink after blink, an ancient and omniscient stare of bravado. It put him in mind of something--or someone--but he couldn't quite place it. How had the frog gotten here? Frogs did not, in his experience, fly. Nor did pigs, or cows, but then again neither had great steel birds ever taken to the air until the mid-part of this last century. He'd seen a number of strange things in his eight hundred years, not the least of which was LaCroix waking up one sunset after a sixties bender murmuring something about purple hazes, and though he'd seen frogs fall from the sky upon occasion, he'd never seen one fly. Until now. There was a low-throated 'ribbet' from his captive. The answering 'ribbet' from around him was almost thunderous. Nick almost fell from the sky, suddenly realizing that he was surrounded. There were frogs everywhere. They hovered in mid-air, seated on lilypads with all the regal elegance of a potentate of the old Orient. There were large frogs and small frogs, fat frogs and thin frogs, and there was even one frog with a small white speck on his head and an evil gleam in his eye that Nick tried desperately to ignore. Except for the swoosh of the wind past them, the only sound was an occasional 'ribbet' or the flap of a suspended lilypad leaf in the late evening breeze. The frogs appeared to float without concern for passing aircraft or of being spotted from below. Nick envied them that. Although he didn't envy the pervasive, swamp-like odor with which he was engulfed--a combination of rotting vegetation, old flies, and stagnant water that would have been quite inoffensive for frogs, but made his stomach churn. He realized then that they weren't afraid of him. And why should they be? They were amphibians--not warm-blooded. He was a hunter, but they weren't his prey. Even LaCroix would starve rather than dine upon . . . well . . . . Their circle was beginning to draw closer around him in semblance of a threat and he suddenly realized, counting in coroner style, that there were one--two--ten--eighteen--perhaps forty or fifty frogs, all fixing him with large, luminous eyes and sincerely contemptuous expressions. It took a moment more to discern the reason, but the frog clutched in his hands helped him out with a bellowing 'ribbit.' And Nick knew that he'd somehow gotten mixed up in something that was thoroughly beyond his ability to grasp. When a lilypad moved closer, he opened his hands slightly to allow the frog a clear jump. A flash of mottled green and a slight pressure on his hand and the frog was gone, riding alongside the other occupant of the lilypad. Nick wanted desperately to rubs his frog-residue coated hands on his slacks, but held off thinking the gesture might be taken as a sign of disgust. One should never be rude to frogs, when one could help it. For a moment more, all was still. And then the lilypads began to rise above him as if one unit and in harmony and complete accord with one another. He watched until he could only see the underside of the dark green leaves moving higher into the sky above him, wheeling about one another in a circular pattern and showering him with globules of swamp water. And then they were gone, gently soaring off through the Toronto skies. Intrigued, Nick began to follow, wondering what they might do. He was less concerned with the harm they might cause than the harm that might be done to them. He had a feeling that they'd only appeared 'threatening' to him--although he hadn't been all that threatened by the sight of flying frogs on lilypads, or frogs on flying lilypads, and it was the number of them rather than the thought of what they might do to him that had proven intimidating--because he'd captured one of them. They seemed harmless enough. And they seemed to be having fun. Occasionally one frog or another would break off from the group, swinging around and dipping down into the streets below, sailing unnoticed just above the rooftops of speeding cars. They stopped at red lights--he was glad to find they were law-abiding frogs, at least--but would soon grow bored with the game. Others swung through open windows. Just when he'd begin to be worried about them, they'd reappear, trailing bits of cloth or salt-shakers or small toys, which fell from the lilypads as they twisted and twirled through the sky. His greatest concern was a group of young frogs who were drawn to a billboard advertising beer--and an American brand at that. But he soared through the center of the group from below, scattering them, and made a mental note to talk with Reese about the legalities of alcohol advertising that was obviously aimed at a young amphibian audience. There were several bellowed squawks of astonishment as he dispersed them and a few of the younger and gamer frogs trailed him for a bit, but they soon went their own way again. It gave him a chance to catch up to the older, larger frogs who were the core of the group. They moved forward in a stately, leisurely manner. One turned bulbous eyes toward him and he thought he saw an amused smile on those amphibian lips . . . until a long tongue snaked out and snatched a passing fly. The eyes met his again and he nodded--yes, they were both predators in their way, part of the larger scheme. Although he envied them their part in the balance of things. There was peace in this. He loved flying, but seldom indulged himself, knowing how much it cost him. Flying meant expending energy, which meant drinking blood . . . how much of what he was, the pleasure and the pain, could be so intertwined with guilt. But for tonight he could ignore that. He was protecting them, keeping these innocent, preternatural flyers out of harm's way. It seemed like hours that he followed them through the city, then to the suburbs, over businesses and houses, and golf courses, and schools. A mortal thousand voices echoed in his ears, but he shut them all out, listening only to the near silent whisper of the wind and the flutter of lilyleaf in the air currents, hearing the calls from frog to frog as they discovered some new treat or adventure, rescuing one from a collision with a large truck, chasing another through the fire escapes of a downtown building. Without warning, there was a change in their manner. The strays gathered together, wandering in from far afield, and they flew in a loose confederation. There was no shape to their movement, save that they turned as one, wheeling through the sky. And began the trip back. He followed them for much of the way, but then realized that he had no idea where they were going. Dawn was some hours off, but he still had errands to do. And so Nick decided that he'd have to leave them on their own and trust that if they'd done this before with no harm, they'd do so again. He set down in an alley not too far from the Raven and found, to his astonishment, that several of the younger group went with him. They flew about him haphazardly, as if waiting to see what the rules were for this new game. "Go home," said Nick, waving his hands. "You can't follow me here." There were three of them. They swooped and soared around him as he turned, hovering at eye level for a second or two before moving away. Finally, one stopped long enough for Nick to make eye contact. "Go home," he said, staring into those large and--for the moment--unblinking eyes. He used a little of his persuasive power and decided that this was something he wouldn't mention to anyone--he'd never hear the end of it if LaCroix found out he'd tried to hypnotize a frog and a flying frog at that. But the frog merely stared back with a languid, disappointed look, gave a final croak, and then the lilypad soared upwards. When he turned, he found he'd been abandoned. They were gone. They were all gone. Nick knew then that he'd lost something. He wasn't certain what, but as he stood there and looked up into the darkness, his eyes tracking the last faint swirls of the lilypad as it slipped from his sight amongst the buildings, he felt a sadness engulf his soul. He envied them, these carefree, flying frogs. He'd enjoyed being part of their nocturnal adventure. And he knew, just as surely, that he'd never be able to enjoy such a thing again. It was with a heavy heart that he walked around the street, to the entrance to the Raven. Even before he entered the building, the sheer noise pounded his senses, sounding a discord against the quiet peace of the wind and the flap of the leaves he'd enjoyed during these past few hours. But he endured it. He had to remember the worst of what he was, spend time among his own kind. There was no place for him, no peace for him, nothing like the sheer joy and fun of flight that these creatures had shown him. He didn't deserve to share in such joy. He was a beast, a killer, a predator. Nick shouldered aside the others at the club, vampires and mortals alike, and made his way to the bar. The glass of cow's blood appeared almost before he'd reached the counter, the bartender merely giving him a glance. Nick seated himself at the bar and picked up the glass automatically, touching it to his lips, swallowing the blood, but barely tasting it. This was what he was, after all. This was that he was. He felt LaCroix's presence, knew that he was close at hand, but the thought made him huddle over his drink. His shoulders slumped forward and he shrank within his coat, but LaCroix was at his shoulder within seconds. He ignored the presence, the feeling of eyes upon him, studying him, hoping that LaCroix would take the hint and walk away. "I had no idea you were into nature excursions, Nicholas. I suppose it's too much to assume that you were hunting?" Nick looked up in time to see LaCroix pull a small piece of lilypad from his collar. He snatched at the leaf, taking it quickly from LaCroix's fingers and folding his fist around it in answer. This LaCroix couldn't take from him. This LaCroix would not have. And yet . . . he paused. Frogs did not fly. He was pretty certain of that fact. In his eight hundred years he'd never heard a whisper of such a thing. But LaCroix had lived for far longer. LaCroix would know if it had ever happened before. Or if it would ever happen again. He felt LaCroix's disinterest and knew he was about to leave. Nick's hand shot out almost of its own accord, his fingers grasping at the silk sleeve of LaCroix's shirt. A cold look from LaCroix made his loosen his grip instantly. "You have something to say?" This was too special to him, too important. Did he dare mention this to LaCroix? Would he be laughed at? He could say it was a joke, after all. He could pretend that he wasn't serious. "Have you ever--" Nick stopped himself and swallowed, meeting LaCroix's gaze. "Have you ever seen flying frogs?" There was an instant of hesitation. LaCroix simply stared at him for a moment, the hint of a smile touching the edges of his lips. Nick's heart sank to the pit of his stomach. LaCroix was going to laugh. Or, worse yet, would be snide and patronizing. He was a fool to have asked, to have even brought up the subject. Tonight's adventure should have been enough; he should have taken joy in the memory of it and not hoped that he might ever see such a thing again. Instead, he'd opened himself to LaCroix's scorn. But LaCroix didn't laugh. Instead, he looked across the room, a distant look in his eyes. "Flying frogs?" he echoed softly. And when he turned back, his eyebrow arched, LaCroix sighed. "Really, Nicholas, it Tuesday, after all." THE END ************** My apologies to those of you who haven't gotten the joke. All I can say is that you must read , which is a most charming children's book. If there can be vampires, frogs can fly. The world is a most marvelous place. susang@vitinc.com -- http://www.vitinc.com/~susang "This is the Hour of Lead--Remembered, if outlived, as Freezing persons recollect the snow-- first chill--then stupor--and then the letting go." http://members.aol.com/CuznJamiMR/SaveForeverKnight.html