The Wind That Tramps the World (collection)/The Frog
The Frog
The swamp like a ribbon of heavy green and golden velvet stretched for miles along the Pearl River. On fetid days a thick vapor rose from it, a vapor laden with queer, fragrant perfumes. At night great trees loomed up against the moon-splashed sky assuming odd shapes, black monsters, evil spirits, witches. Many and varied were the legends and superstitions which circulated throughout Canton about the awesome swamp. For one thing few persons had ever wandered through it and those that had told tales so strange they were less believable than the legends.
The swamp was privately owned. It was really the garden of Fu Hsi for in the center of it was a great house that rambled leisurely over much ground as is often the case in Chinese houses. Fu Hsi himself was almost as legendary as the spirits of the swamp. No one had ever seen him. No one knew him. His servants wandered about the city but they told nothing. They were as secretive as seditious plotters. Small wonder then that what could not be gleaned in any other way was invented. Some said that Fu Hsi was beloved of the gods. He was of handsome appearance, tall and straight as a young elm, with face like the full-moon, star-like eyes and lashes arched like bridges over lotus ponds. He was dressed in robes of gold and silver, embroidered of sunbeams and colored by coral dawns. He was a young god and the moon was his brother. Often at night he climbed up into the gaunt pine trees and conversed with the moon which had become tangled in its branches. Sometimes when the wind whistled weirdly around the eaves of little houses, Chinese mothers whispered in hushed voices. "List to the murmurings of Fu Hsi chatting with the moon."
Strange mad tales but enthralling to the listeners for the Chinese are poetical. They glory in fanciful things.
Others there were who discounted the whisperings of his great beauty. They declared he was an evil spirit, a Jinni who used the vast swamp for a bed in which to sleep. When he bathed in the waters of the Yellow Sea, vast typhoons rose. When he was angered and stamped about, the earth quaked with fear, houses fell down, mountains trembled. Sometimes he went abroad disguised as a big cloud of smoke. All the big smokes know each other and they ramble about the sky at will. It was said whenever a child disappeared or a pig or a dog that the Jinni of the swamp had consumed it. Poets sang of his awesome power and several timid souls erected effigies to him which they bowed down before in worship.
So the controversy continued over Fu Hsi nor did it abate as time passed for no one ever saw him. The great house in the moss-grown swamp remained shrouded in mystery.
Sometimes a tiny man was seen to emerge from the gates of the swamp-garden, a stoop-shouldered little figure always dressed in grass-green clothes. His age was problematical. In size he was a child, nor did his bland expression, an expression of dreamy detachment, suggest age yet there were numerous wrinkles about his large bulging eyes and the texture of his skin was like parchment. As he walked through the crooked winding alleys of Canton he seemed unaware of the sea of life surging about him. He muttered and murmured continuously. Sometimes it seemed as though he were reciting verses. Even in that quaint city of mystery and romance, he aroused interest. Many turned to stare at him. His feet were huge and he was flat-footed. He padded along like a great green frog. So everyone thought. And in time 'The Frog of Canton' was discussed almost as much as the unknown Fu Hsi, keeper of the swamp-garden.
Occasionally the queer little man stopped for a pot of tea at the tea-house of Pu Chiang, tea flavored with the blossoms of honeysuckle and as he sipped the fragrant beverage he breathed deeply of the sweet aroma. Time after time Pu Chiang who was a garrulous talker endeavored to inveigle him into conversation but sans result. The Frog-man was interested solely in his own meditations. This piqued Pu Chiang extremely. His curiosity was vast nor did the little man do anything to appease it. In the face of failure Pu Chiang invented a story. He told queer things about his odd customer. Once he had changed into a frog before his very eyes and hopped about the table. At another time he had breathed forth fire. He was a dragon, a fiery dragon and his true character had reflected from his eyes. As Pu Chiang waited in his shop for customers, he sucked on a long black pipe, dozed and dreamed and wove his fancies until even he himself believed in them.
The little man was not mortal. He had no soul. His blood was cold. It contained no warmth. It was like the blood of fish.
Meanwhile the tiny Frog-man went his way all unconscious of the stir he was causing. Throughout the city he was an object of derision but within the silent swamp-garden he was king. The flowers were his subjects. He talked with them by the hour. And they understood his songs. Flowers have hearts and souls as surely as people. The little Frog-man knew this and among them he was happy. The swamp was teeming with plant, insect and bird life. Bees droned in the noon-day heat. Frogs basked in the sun. The green of their bodies was no more brilliant than the coat of the little man. The winding stretches of forest were amazingly cool. The moisture of the swamp saturated everything. Only a bit of light penetrated the forest depths where the verdure was thickest. At night the Frog-man slept on a bed of moss and soft loam, more restful than feathers. But when there was a moon he slept in the treetops on a natural couch in the high branches which he had discovered. The wind playing softly in the willows lulled him to sleep. His couch swayed softly like a cradle while the yellow lanternmoon splashed down its gorgeous light upon the whispering swamp.
When morning came the little man would scramble down from the treetops. With a shout of glee he would cast off his green suit and plunge into the cool yellow water. What cared he that the water was oozy mud? In the coral-dawn it shone like gold. It laved his face like some sweet elixir. Each time he rose to the surface he was a golden statue, the glistening yellow mud clinging like paint to his skin. All about him frogs croaked and gurgled and gloried in the swamp. When he had splashed about as long as he desired, he sped to where there was a bit of a waterfall. Under this he stood till the last vestige of gold had been washed from him. Then came the sun, drying his body, toning-up his happiness. When he was dressed he would wander throughout his garden, touching, caressing occasional flowers that were his especial friends.
Sometimes he raised a dew-drenched rose to his lips or a gorgeous pond lotus. But he never plucked a flower. For he hated to give pain and he knew as an aid philosopher has written that one cannot pluck a flower without troubling a star. Stars are the great lovers of flowers. Flowers blossom joyously, lift up their heads to the sun, so that they may find favor with the stars.
At times it rained. The sun attempted to peep out from behind a tapestry of clouds. It shone on the steady downpour creating a veritable shower of glistening golden diamonds. At such moments the little Frogman would scamper up to his bower in the treetops and laugh and dance and sing lustily. Fragrantly the rain poured down perfumed by the countless sweet breaths of the flowers. And not infrequently when the storm was over and all the leaves and petals glistened in the sun in full splendor a gorgeous rainbow would arch off into the sky like a runaway road leading to enchanted realms of loveliness. And all the frogs croaked their gratitude for such a picture while the strange little man capered about like a merry elf.
It was a superb existence, living in the garden-swamp among the flowers, sleeping in the treetops beneath the moon or on the soft loam under the swaying willows. Every flower in the woodland was his friend and all the tiny animals that lived there never fled at his approach. They knew and loved him. They were all brothers. Life was happiness, song, ecstasy. What mattered that the little man was a monstrosity, a tiny dwarf who resembled a frog with great flat feet and bulbous eyes? For the flowers loved him. Their sight is very keen. They could see the real beauty of his character shining through the ugly shell of his body.
Never did the little Frog-man enter the great mansion owned by Fu Hsi. It stood gorgeous and majestic. Its great red roof was like a huge full-blossomed rose. It was a house of vast extent with many rooms and endless winding spacious halls. It was filled with all sorts of costly objects, fine porcelains from Kingtehchen, wondrous jades, carved tables of ebony wood, silk and satin draperies embroidered in countless colors with designs of houses and dragons, phoenix and flowers. The floors were softened by silk rugs of Pekin and Lientsin. But though the house was magnificent it was strangely silent, almost like an empty house despite the presence of numerous servants. No music was ever heard therein, no conversation of merry guests, no laughter or song. It was as though the great house was forever listening, listening for some voice in the garden. Perhaps it listened to the voice of the little Frog-man who loved to sing to the moon on purple nights when it rose like a great yellow-lantern in a sea of blue or perhaps it was enthralled by the plaintive voice of the wind in the willows.
Back at the tea-house of Pu Chiang the meditations continued. It is pleasant to have a problem to mull over as one imbibes one's tea. There was sufficient oddness about the little man to supply such a need. Where was Fu Hsi who had builded such a wonderful house and yet was unknown to everyone? What had become of him?
According to Pu Chiang, beautiful though it appeared the house was really sinister. It was a house of horror which all wise folk might well avoid. The Frog-man who dwelt in the swamp was a dreadful character, a necromancer whose heart matched jet.
"Once," he told the numerous loiterers who frequented his tea-house, "I was passing the swamp-garden on a night when the moon was idle. I paused for a moment fascinated outside the gate and as I gazed within I noticed a dozen men in white robes marching slowly off into the winding trails of the forest. Each carried a lantern which glimmered like a firefly in the darkness. Sombrely, soundlessly they marched along, like dead men escaped from their tombs. They were on their way to commune with the Frog-man for he only in all Canton is able to converse with spirits. All through the dark night they remained in the heart of the swamp plotting weird crimes. Until dawn I waited as though bound by a spell, and then as the sun's first gleam appeared like a sword in the East, they returned. They emerged from the forest and marched soundlessly up toward the gate before which I stood. I shuddered as I beheld them. For me there seemed no escape. But as each one crept through the gate he disappeared into the air. It was a strange sight to witness. Every man of them vanished before my very eyes. Necromancy ended as they passed the gate. Such was one of my experiences before the swamp garden and I have had many, each less believable than the last. Truly the Frog-man is a menace to the good people of Canton. They should rise in their wrath and destroy him."
In the swamp-garden the little man walked down the fragrant paths. It was noonday and the glow of the sun was never more wondrous. It brought out more pungently the colors of the flowers. The carnations and chrysanthemums, the peonies and sweet lan bloomed more perfectly than ever. Occasionally he stopped and caressed a flower. He breathed deeply of the fragrant air. No garden could be more lovely than this.
His gaze was attracted by a flower more exquisite than any other he had ever beheld, a pink and white flower that stood in the path of the sun. Its pink petals were like the cheek of a lovely maiden, a tall slender maiden that would make kingdoms tremble. The little Frog-man sighed softly. His blood surged in ecstasy through his shrunken body. Again he looked at the lovely flower but now it was not a flower any longer but a lovely girl, a girl of enchanting beauty. She came toward him and drew him into her arms. As her lips pressed his all sadness fell from him. What mattered that he was a hideous dwarf, a Frog-man, what mattered that his eyes protruded or that his feet were immense? This wondrous girl was his and she was in his arms.
In his tea-house Pu Chiang continued his malicious gossip. His stories were seasoned by the smoke from the long black pipe. All the plagues of China, he declared, were traceable to that tiny Frog-man. He was an evil spirit, fit only to be blasted from the earth. His companions listened to his ravings, mused over them as they sipped their tea.
"I have solved the mystery of the continued absence of Fu Hsi," he said slowly. "Fu Hsi who built the great house in the swamp-garden. He has been done to death by the weird Frog-man who perhaps has feasted on his body. One of the greatest men in all Canton, to be blotted out like this."
Now Pu Chiang had never seen Fu Hsi, but he inferred that he had. It gave piquancy to his fancies. It is a trait of mankind to condemn that which cannot be understood. So his companions drank their tea and plotted. They decided to seize the little Frog-man and exact retribution from him for imagined crimes.
One night he came to the tea-house when Pu Chiang and his companions were there. He ordered tea. Pu Chiang laughed slyly as he slipped a sleeping-potion into the cup. It was a delectable moment. The next thing the little Frog-man knew he was lying in the yellow-moonlight on a slight hill outside the city. Several shadowy forms glided about. When Pu Chiang discovered that the little man's consciousness had returned, he dragged him to his feet, bound his hands behind his back and commenced beating him with a bamboo switch. The little man writhed in agony. He groaned and cried hoarsely. To overwrought imaginations his screams sounded like the croaking of a frog.
When Pu Chiang grew tired one of his companions took up the delectable task. It was extremely pleasant to beat the helpless little Frog-man with bamboo. But not long did he continue without interruption for there suddenly appeared a maiden of jewel-like beauty upon the silent hilltop. The rays of the moon spun about her like a web, making her slender body fairly glow. She was dressed in a costume of silver, so brilliant that it seemed to be made of star-dust. Her face was beautiful and her blue hair blended into the blue of the sky. Her lips were red like crushed cherries and an elusive perfume floated on the air about her. She stopped as she reached the side of the little Frog-man. As she did so the wielder of the bamboo switch stepped back in awe. Never had he beheld beauty comparable to this, not even in a sunset or a flower. Softly she stooped over the little moaning man. She lifted his head into her lap and pressed her gorgeous lips to his.
"Little Fu Hsi," she whispered, "little keeper of my garden."
He sighed softly, sighed in ecstasy. Forgotten was the torture he had been through. For the lovely lady was bending over him and her breath was mingling with his.
She helped him to his feet and hand in hand they walked off toward the moon. Pu Chiang and his companions gazed upon them entranced. They marveled that they had ever thought the little Frog-man ugly. On that clear night on the hilltop they saw the real man which the gargoyle shell of his body had always hidden. For one brief interlude their sight was as keen as that of flowers. He was straight and handsome, like a young tree, and his beauty matched hers in perfectness. Like beaten mice Pu Chiang and his friends crept down from the hilltop. They had sinned by interfering with the strange ways of destiny.
From that day forth misfortune dogged the footsteps of Pu Chiang. His business did not prosper. His customers fell away. They complained that his tea was bitter. When he brought them honeysuckle blossoms and rose petals to flavor it with, strange bugs peeped out from the flowers whose bite was poison. At last not a customer remained to Pu Chiang, the garrulous.
More and more he sought solace in his pipe. He grew nervous and irritable. He had lost his wealth and his health was fleeing. He became a victim of his own hallucinations. Always he had controlled his dreams but now his dreams controlled him. He believed that on moonlight nights more of the moon-glow came to his house than to any other. The moon was spying on him. The moon was alive. It was an enemy, a great animal whose breath was poison. It tore at his reason. When it was moonlight he cried and moaned as though the moon were beating him with bamboo sticks.
One morning his reason broke free from its moorings. He rushed from his deserted tea-house to the swamp-garden. After all life was a veritable swamp. No matter how hard one struggled the end was inevitable. One was sucked under by the purling ooze. It was a beautiful morning. The flowers lifted up their heads to a sky that was cloudless. Bees droned in the fragrant air. A bird sang shrilly. The swamp-garden was a vault of liquid gold. Blindly Pu Chiang rushed into the forest. He was mad. Helpless. On into the swamp he plunged, into the golden mud that was bottomless. As he sank he ceased screaming. Only a few bubbles on the yellow water proclaimed that he had passed.