1: Fools Gold and Fairy Stones
My name is Sunday Woodcutter, and I am doomed to a happy life.
I am the seventh daughter of Jack and Seven Woodcutter, Jack a seventh son and Seven a seventh daughter herself. Papas dream was to give birth to the charmed, all-powerful Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. Mama told him seven girls or seven boys, whichever came first. Jack Junior was first. Papa was elated. His dream died the morning I popped out, blithe and bonny and good and gay, seven daughters later.
Fortunately, coming first did not stop Jack Junior from being a wunderkind. I never knew my eldest sibling, but I know his legend. All of Arillands children grew up in Jacks shadow, his younger siblings more than most. I have never known a time when I wasnt surrounded by the overdramatic songs and stories of Jack Juniors exploits. A good number of new ones continue to spring up about the countryside to this very day. I have heard them all. (Well, all but the Forbidden Tale. Im not old enough for that one yet.)
But I know the most important tale: the tale of his demise, while he served in the Kings Royal Guard. One day, in a fit of pique or passion (depending on the bard), he killed Prince Rumbolds prized pup. As punishment, the princes evil fairy godmother witched Jack Junior into a mutt and forced him to take the pups place. He was never heard from again.
They say my family was never the same after that. I wish I could know my father as tales portray him then: loud, confident, and opinionated. Now he is simply a strong, quiet man, content with his place in life. It is no secret that Papa harbors no loyalty to the royal family of Arilland, but he has never said a word against them.
My second-eldest brothers name is Peter. My third brother is Trix. Trix was a foundling child that Papa discovered in the limbs of a tree at the edge of the Wood one winters workday before I was born. The way Mama tells it, Trix was a son she didnt have to give birth to, and he made Papa happy. She already had too many children to feed, what was one more?
My sisters and I—
"What are you doing?"
Sundays head snapped up from her journal. She had chosen this spot for its solitude, followed the half-hidden path through the underbrush to the decaying rocks of the abandoned well, sure that she had escaped her family. And yet, the voice that had interrupted her thoughts was not familiar to her. Her eyes took a moment to adjust, slowly focusing on the mottled shadows the afternoon sun cast through dancing leaves.
"Im sorry?" She posed the polite query to her unknown visitor in an effort to make him reveal himself, be he real or imagined, dead or alive, fairy or—
"I said, ‘What are you doing? "
—frog.
Sunday forced her gaping mouth closed. Caught off-guard, she sputtered the truth: "Im telling myself stories."
The frog considered her answer. He balanced himself on his spotted hind legs and blinked at her with his bulbous eyes. "Why? Do you have no one to whom you can tell them?"
Apart from his interruption, he maintained an air of polite decorum. Hes smart, too, Sunday thought. He must have been a human before being cursed. Animals of the Wood only ever spoke in wise riddles and almost-truths.
"I have quite a large family, actually, with lots of stories. Only . . ."
"Only what?"
"Only no one wants to hear them."
"I do," said the frog. "Read me your story, the story you have just written there, and I will listen."
She liked this frog. Sunday smiled, but slowly closed her book. "You dont want to hear this story."
"Why not?"
"Its not very interesting."
"Whats it about?"
"Its about me. Thats why none of my family wants to hear it. They already know all about me."
The frog stretched out on his sun-dappled rock like he was settling into a chaise lounge. She could tell from his body language—so much more human than frog—there would be no turning him down. "I dont know anything about you," he said. "You may begin your story."
It was completely absurd. Absurd that Sunday was in the middle of the Wood talking to a frog. Absurd that he wanted to learn about her. Absurd that he would care. It was so absurd that she opened her journal and started reading from the top of the page.
" ‘My name is Sunday Woodcutter— "
"Grumble," croaked the frog.
"If youre going to grumble through the whole thing, why did you ask me to read it in the first place?"
"You said your name was Sunday Woodcutter," said the frog. "My name is Grumble."
"Oh." Her face felt hot. Sunday wondered briefly if frogs could tell that a human was blushing or if they were one of the many colorblind denizens of the forest. She bowed her head slightly. "Its very nice to meet you, Grumble."
"At your service," said Grumble. "Please, carry on with your story."
It was awkward, as Sunday had never read her musings aloud to anyone. She cleared her throat several times. More than once she had to stop after a sentence she had quickly stumbled through and start again more slowly. Her voice seemed overloud and the words felt foreign and sometimes wrong; she resisted the urge to scratch them out or change them as she went along. She was worried that this frog-who-used-to-be-a-man would hear her words and think she was silly. He would want nothing more to do with her. He would thank her for her time, and she would never see him again. Had her young life come to this? Was she so desperate for intelligent conversation that she was willing to bare her soul to a complete stranger? Sunday realized, as she continued to read, that it didnt matter. She would have Grumble know her for who she was.
For as long as she had sat under the tree writing, she thought the reading of it would have taken longer, but Sunday came to the end in no time at all. "I had meant to go on about my sisters," she apologized, "but . . ."
The frog was strangely silent. He stared off into the Wood.
Sunday turned her face to the sun. She was afraid of his next words. If he didnt like the writing, then he didnt like her, and everything she had done in her whole life would be for nothing. Which was silly, but she was silly, and absurd, and sometimes ungrateful, but she promised the gods that she would not be ungrateful now, no matter what the frog said. If he said anything at all. And then, finally:
"I remember a snowy winters night. It was so cold outside that your fingertips burned if you put them on the windowpane. I tried it only once." He let out a long croak. "I remember a warm, crackling fire on a hearth so large I could have stood up in it twice. There was a puppy there, smothering me with love, as puppies are wont to do. I was his whole world. He needed me and I felt like . . . like I had a purpose. I remember being happy then. Maybe the happiest Ive been in my whole life." The frog closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I dont remember much of my life before. But now, just now, I remember that. Thank you."
Sunday clasped her shaking fingers together and swallowed the lump in her throat. He was definitely a man in a frogs body, and he was sad. She couldnt think what in her words had moved him so, but that wasnt the point. She had touched him. Not just him as a frog but the man he used to be. A more gracious reply Sunday could never have imagined. "I am honored," she said, for she was.
"And then I interrupted you." Grumble snapped out of his dreamlike tone into a more playful one. "Forgive me. As you can imagine, I dont get many visitors. You honor me by indulging me with your words, kind lady. Do you write often?"
"Yes. Every morning and every night and every moment I can sneak in between."
"And do you always write about your family?"
Sunday flipped the pages of her never-ending journal—her nameday gift from Fairy Godmother Joy—past her thumb. It was a nervous habit shed had all her life. "I am afraid to write anything else."
"Why is that?"
Maybe it was because the honesty was intoxicatingly freeing or because he was a frog and not a man, but she felt strangely comfortable with Grumble. She had already told him so much about her life, more than anyone had ever before cared to know. Why should she stop now? "Things I write . . . well . . . they have a tendency to come true. And not in the best way."
"For instance?"
"I didnt want to gather the eggs one morning, so I wrote down that I didnt have to. That night, a weasel got into the henhouse. No one got eggs that morning. Another time, I did not want to go with the family to market."
"Did the wagon break a wheel?"
"I got sick with the flu and was in bed for a week," she said with a smile. " ‘Regret is not a strong enough word."
"I imagine not," said Grumble.
"And now youre wondering what would happen if I wrote that you were free of your spell."
"The thought had crossed my mind."
"You might not come back as a man but as a mouse or a mule or a tiger whod eat me alive. You might come back as a man but not the man you were. You might be missing something vital, like an arm or a leg or—"
"My mind?" Grumble joked.
"—breath," Sunday answered seriously.
"Ah. We must always be careful what we wish for."
"Exactly. If I write only about events that have already come to pass, there is no danger of my accidentally altering the future. No one but the gods should have power over such things."
"A very practical decision."
"Yes." She sighed. "Very practical and very boring. Very just like me."
"On the contrary. I found your brief essay quite intriguing."
"Really?" He was just saying that to be nice. And then she remembered he was a frog. Funny how she kept forgetting.
"Will you read to me again tomorrow?"
If her ridiculously large smile didnt scare him off, surely nothing she wrote could. "I would love to."
"And would you . . . be my friend?" he asked tenuously.
The request was charming and humble. "Only if you will be mine in return."
Grumbles mouth opened wide into what Sunday took to be a froggy grin. "And . . . if I may be so bold, Miss Woodcutter—"
"Please, call me Sunday."
"Sunday . . . do you think you could find it in your heart to . . . kiss me?"
She had wondered how long it would take before he got around to asking. A maidens kiss was the usual remedy for his particular enchantment. Normally Sunday would have declined without a thought. But he had been so polite, and she was surely the only maiden he would come across for a very long time. It was the least she could do.
His skin was bumpy and slightly damp, but she tried not to think about it. After she kissed him, she straightened up quickly and backed away. She wasnt sure what to expect. A shower of sparks? Some sort of explosion? Either way, she wanted to stand clear of whatever was involved in turning a frog back into a man.
Sunday waited.
And waited.
Nothing happened.
They stared at each other for a long time afterward.
"I dont have to come back, you know, in case you were offering just to be courteous."
"Oh no," he said quickly. "I look forward to hearing about your sisters. Please, do come back tomorrow."
"Then I will, after I finish my chores. But I should go now, before it gets dark. Mama will be expecting me to help with dinner." She stood and brushed what dirt she could off her skirt. "Good night, Grumble."
"Until tomorrow, Sunday."