the word hoard

What the frog might say

Once upon a time there was a woman. A woman as old as the night. Her clothes swept in long tides about her ancient body and her bones were brittle, no her bones were strong. She slept in a rocking chair before a blazing fire, in dark stone cottage, in a shadow filled wood. In the flames of her fire she kept dreams. The dreams whirled and flared, throwing bright pictures onto the stony walls of her home and in the pictures the old woman saw the people of the village or the estate which was just over the way, down the path through the wood over a bridge, through a ginnel, past the fields, alongside the allotments by the side of the dual carriageway and across the ring road.

How long had the woman lived in the shadowy wood? So long her hair had grown and grown the length of a river, so long it swept through the woods and small animals ran along the paths of it, or made their homes in it, or grazed upon it or buried holes in it. It travelled as a map might charting a course over hills, and down into valleys and now it was beginning to leave the wood and encroach upon the ring road. Cobweb grey crone hair, cracked the tarmac, crept over the roundabout, stole across the car park of the travel lodge. It prickled with static, with old magic. The old woman had given up combing her hair many ages ago, she let it roam free, so that she might see or feel the world beyond and yet keep warm by her fire.

One day, or it may have been a night, because in a shadow filled forest it is always dark, the stone walls of the cottage flickered with dream-fire and the old woman made a cup of nettle tea. Her hands were frail and brown as winter leaves and blistered and sang with stings. As she worked a frog as green as the nettles, leapt to her shoulder and whispered in her ear. It spoke the language of frog, a subtle language, very sweet and damp, but it spoke the truth, for it lived in a low down place and that, as anyone knows, is the place of truth.

This is what the frog might have said.

far far away beyond the shadow filled forest, beyond the hills that purple the sky with the stories of men, there is news. but i hardly dare say what. someone has made a discovery. the geography of your hair has begun to unsettle the boundaries, men seethe with discomfort and so you must travel lady, prepare for a journey. i have brought you these things, a goatskin purse, for goats know a lot about disguise, a bottle of wine with which to ease the suspicion of men and a third thing, always a third thing is needed, but i must leave that for another time for i cannot think of it.

Once upon another time there was a father. How he had come to be in such a predicament he knew not ….. but here he was with a daughter, with eyes like a goat, he thought and far too much hair. It grew and it grew despite all attempts to style it, train it, grip it, clip it, curl it, bob it, layer it, perm it, crimp it, iron it, mousse it, gel it, oil it, plait it, bead it, shave it, it knew no bounds.

The father sat in his chair and read the paper. He had wished for a son of course, because a boy could be relied on, to understand the future, to make plans with a settle scores. But here he was lumbered with a bothersome girl brat. He drank wine, he drank whiskey, he drank beer. He made irresponsible remarks and outlandish gestures and finally sent his daughter off with the first man that came along. She was only too pleased to go. He relentless hair rampaged through the flat and her mother was of little help having disappeared long ago in the way some mothers do, slipping through the flimsy walls into a story more promising or lurid, but at the very least a story without the trouble of little girls and feckless husbands.

Who was the first man that came along? Clippity clop over the hills, silver and shining in fine princely attire, bravely ascending the tower block stairs, lured by the singing of beauty, the promise of a lucrative deal.

Well he was a baddie of course, for feckless fathers cannot find anything else for their daughters, dutiful or otherwise. And so we have him sat at the kitchen table, in cowboy boots and a black shirt and black trousers drinking special brew and placing the winning card on the table. And she is yours – my beautiful daughter – come in child, for I have done a great deed or made an offer or drunk too much and sold you to this fine fine man.

In the doorway wearing a dress the colour of dark water and smiling obediently, combing her long hair and smiling deceptively, knotting a red cloak about her neck and smiling sweetly, packing up an old brown suitcase and smiling through tears, her heart breaking, her heart beating hard, her hands trembling, her ruby red lips, her gleaming goat eyes, her gold slippers, her long black-as-a-ravens-wing hair, growing and growing and coiled up and high on her head. She picks up her case and off they go across the city, through a blaze of orange lights, up alley ways down back streets until she has no way of knowing her way home.

And what will become of her? Ah but I do not know. Perhaps her hair will grow and grow until the city is softened or lost in her. Perhaps her hair will grow and grow and make a bed for her and her wicked husband and in one kiss his villainous apparel disappears, the evil enchantment broken. Perhaps her hair will grow and grow and ensnare her wicked husband and wolves will tear him apart and eat his heart. Perhaps her hair will grow and grow and make a shadow filled wood.

What did that truthful frog say? Well, the frog was not really a frog at all, and so may not have been entirely truthful. Mostly frogs just want a kiss, and mostly frogs have been turned into frogs for speaking out of place, and this frog was no different. A long time ago, a time so long ago, he old woman had been young, the frog had been her husband. He had been a handsome man, worn mostly black with a fine hat and boots and had quite a way with him which was not at all slimy and green, but still not entirely trustworthy. He won the young woman in a bet…..because in those days the world was like that, entirely open to chance ….. and what was the chance of winning a witch in a bet?

So what did the truthful frog say? The truthful frog told her she must flee the wood, run far far away because they were coming to cut off her hair. The truthful frog told her she must wind up her hair, fold it away before they found her. Her hair was a danger, Her hair was in danger. They were coming after her with scissors and knives, ropes and torches. There had been meetings and muttered plots had been made.

But what have I done, asked the woman.
They believe you have stolen their dreams.
But I have stolen nothing, replied the woman
But you’re so old, said the frog, you can’t be believed.
But I never leave the house, their dreams come here of their own accord.
But you’re so old said the frog, you can’t be believed.
But the forest lives in me, has settled in my hair.
But you’re so old said the frog, you can’t be believed.
But I am only a girl, said the woman
I know, said the frog, I stole your childheart
Then give it back to me, said the woman
I can’t said the frog I am only a frog

And what does a frog do with a child heart?