The throne of reeds

After the leaves changed colour from fire to dirt, fell and became dirt, and when the cold came quick and the sun shied away, my body tired, but I was thankful; the great green serpents, and the venomous, brown Scaled Ones with evil red eyes, retreated into stolen and abandoned burrows seeking protection below the coming frost; no longer would my subjects spend long minutes terrified, sat as still as the giant red hatted guardian of our pond, cold hearts in our mouths, hiding from slitted gaze.

So bad is the eyesight of serpents that they only react to movement; clever, brave frogs resist hopping at the sight of fangs and forked tongues.

Furred and feathered creatures who also dine on my subjects, they too would cease their raids upon my kingdom, but all would return when the snow melted.

In the thick of winter, before the ice roof froze on the pond's surface, I gathered all the Toadlords into the Reedhall; there was much to discuss.

"All the flies are gone, my king. Not even a snail or spider has been spotted above the water for weeks, and we have only enough scum to feed the Tads when next spring comes. What is your counsel, sire?" A fat brown toad croaked. He was worried; I saw it in his eyes, but his tell was how he quivered, not only because he was portly—as most of the lords are, fat from overeating juicy worms—but also because he was scared: he trembled. He had good reason; I was not as old as he, but I knew what all frogs did, that winter was coming later and later every year, and it was getting colder, sticking longer. As a result, food was getting harder to procure, and there was less of a season to grow scum. Everything kept changing, even summers were hotter and longer; the water that kept us safe lowered each year, and the Scaled Ones got quicker, stronger, more active. Some feared the kingdom would fall, and fall soon.

"Master Plumpwart," I ribbited, standing from the green throne of reeds. "All my fellow amphibians." I gestured to all lord's in the long hall, sweeping my webbed hands outward. "There will be no Tads come spring if we do not survive this winter." I looked at every beady eye in turn, knowing my next words would upset and confuse. "Ration the scum between all the frogs. Send the hunters out further, beyond the trees and bushes if need be; they need not fear The Scaled Ones, and the furred and feathered beasts are sleeping too. And we will do as they do; we will feast until the pond freezes, sealing us in, and then we will sleep safely until the first yellow petals blossom."

The hall exploded with deep croaks, consternation, and I raised my hand to the unending croaks of, "my lord, my lord," until there was silence once more.

"I don't ribbit these things lightly, but we must guarantee our survival. We cannot keep aside food for those not spawned yet when we are in dire need, but When the Tads are spawned I will ensure our efforts are doubled to produce scum for their growth."

The elder frogs and toads, wrinkled masses of faded greens and browns, had survived upwards of eleven winters, and they understood circumstances had changed, seeing more of the changes than anyone else, yet they were also sticklers for the traditions of old. Tradition was that every year scum be grown and stored to feed the next generation of Tads. So it was no wonder they were the loudest voices of dissent in the hall, but after a day, and a day again of arguing, even I was able to convince them of my ruling.

Weeks passed; the scum was divided up and what little insects our hunters were able to track and kill were also shared. The returned hunters told no stories of run-ins with any of our enemies; the only news they had was that the cold was deathly. Two good scouts had been left behind, frozen in place. Cold bodies are as much to the mercy of temperature as water.

A few days after their return, the ice began to creep slowly over the pond. When we looked up, the white of the thick ice made it seem as if the drifting clouds passing overhead had stopped, frozen in time. I called every frog to the castle; it was time to sleep.

Slumped in the throne of reeds, I looked out over all my subjects laying on their cushions of algae under blankets of leaves and moss; they looked like cold, unmoving corpses—indeed deathly cold we all were—a picture of what could pass. For a fraction of a moment I feared that future, but I closed my eyes happy and grinning, thankful; we weren't dead, we were just sleeping.