Nantucket was a frog with unusually long legs. Unusually is not quite a strong enough word, nor is exceptionally, or distractingly, so I’ve had to make up a word: life-upendingly. No other word will do. These life-upendingly long legs prevented Nantucket from swimming well or from hopping easily. Instead, he had to walk upright with a bit of a strut, which, more often than not, turned into a prance or a sashay. His long legs made him heads taller than the other amphibians, so he had no choice but to look down on everyone.

Nantucket spent nearly his entire summer, autumn, and the early part of winter considering his life-upendingly long legs when an idea occurred to him: He had all the makings of a star.

At that moment, Nantucket fully froze. I bet you didn’t know, my dear reader, that instead of hibernating, a frog will freeze solid during winter. He doesn’t freeze all at once, but slowly: first his fingers and toes, then his arms and legs, then his insides. His heart, brain, and lungs freeze last.

The last idea a frog has before he freezes is the one that cements in his brain. It will be the first thing he thinks of when his mind thaws again in the spring, just like if you go to bed with a head full of ideas and dream about the last thought you had before falling asleep.

When spring arrived, and Earth blinked away the snow, her clouds yawning open to release their spring showers, Nantucket’s first thoughts were of his aspirations for fame. By the time the forest bloomed with flower buds, wisps of birdsong, and the early unfurling of ferns, he felt certain his long, beautiful legs destined him for the performing arts. Flexing his still-stiff limbs, he pursued his gift, doing his utmost to ignore the never-ending rain.

Most unfortunately for Nantucket, it seemed no one around him could recognize talent if it hit them straight across the face (which it often did, as Nantucket flailed about). Day after day, Nantucket performed plays, songs, and dances without so much as a polite clap.

“No one has any sort of appreciation for the fine arts,” Nantucket said, adjusting the beret he fashioned for himself from an acorn top. The other frog did not look up from his book. “Sampson,” Nantucket finally said, snapping his long green fingers. “Are you listening to me?”

“No,” Sampson said, turning the last page of his book. When he finished, he lit his pipe and turned to the first page again, not wanting the story to end. This proved quite difficult, as the rain soaked the book through, sticking the pages together. More droplets splashed onto Sampson’s wide belly, twisting and misshaping his smoke rings.

Nantucket made his way down to a small, babbling stream full of mirrets, the smaller equivalent of merpeople. Think what a pony is to a horse, or what a gnome is to a human, and you should have no trouble picturing what these tiny merpeople look like. Perhaps when you’re on your next walk, you can crouch by a stream and catch sight of these mirrets, hardly larger than a guppy. Just like merpeople, mirrets have small, pointed, red caps covered in feathers. When he was just a tadpole, Nantucket used to swim amongst the mirrets, admiring their red caps and wishing he had a special hat of his own.

Further down the stream, caught on a tree branch, a wisp of lichen waved in the wind. Nantucket hurried toward it, loosening a wisp and tying it around his neck as a fashionable green cravat. Clearing his throat, he began to recite:

“Never has there been a frog so talented as me,

Someone who can sing and dance, as gifted as can be.”

Nantucket danced a little jig as he sang, hopping and slapping his feet against the wet ground in what he considered a fine rendition of Broadway tap. However, the mirrets took no notice. Nantucket graciously started again, and then a third time, but the mirrets still continued to flit up and down the stream, whispering amongst themselves as if there wasn’t a spectacular show happening just on the other side of the surface. Nantucket didn’t see the crow perched high on a branch, watching him.

By now, the drizzle had thoroughly soaked his cravat, weighing down the lichen. The accessory pulled uncomfortably at his throat, so his eyes bulged more than usual. “One must take risks in the name of impeccable fashion,” Nantucket said to no one in particular, the lichen continuing to press against his windpipe. Further down the stream, Sampson rolled his eyes.

Nantucket then realized the mirrets likely couldn’t hear him over the steady rain pour. I’ll have to— Nantucket thought, but before he could finish his idea, the mirrets disappeared lightning-quick, darting underneath clumps of water cabbage and in between stones.

Nantucket turned. Behind him stood the crow, its beady black eyes fixed on the frog. “You wouldn’t dare,” Nantucket said, backing away. “It would be unforgivable to squander my success, my talent, all for a bite to eat—”

The crow lunged forward, beak open. Before Nantucket could even cry out, he was flopping about on the bird’s tongue. Nantucket’s last thought was of what a shame it was that he hadn’t finished the musical he’d been halfway through performing.

Except the crow kept the frog alive in his mouth, carrying Nantucket deeper into the forest. The behavior of my fans is getting to be unmanageable, Nantucket thought. They landed in a patch of clover and moss surrounded by thick, towering trees, where stood a stone dwelling. The crow spat out Nantucket, who gave an affronted scoff, wiped mud and clover out of his eyes, and, despite the ceaseless rain, drew himself up to his full height. Come to think of it, the frog thought, it’s rained incessantly every day of spring. No wonder no one wanted to watch his performances. Surely, it wasn’t his talent to blame, but the weather!

“I need you to do something for me,” the crow said, its voice high and rasping.

“Goodness, me,” Nantucket said, forgetting that just a moment ago, he feared for his life. “It’s clear not all of us have the personality for the spotlight. You’ve just missed the perfect opportunity to make a joke about having a frog in your throat.”

The crow vanished, turning into a figure cloaked in black, one hand closed over a gnarled walking stick. Nantucket took one look into the magician’s eyes, the same beady black as before, and did his very best not to tremble. Frogs and magicians, as I’m quite sure you know, do not get on well.

The magician stooped down, picked up Nantucket, and held the frog in the palm of his hand. Nantucket looked anywhere but at the magician. Water pooled at the frog’s feet. “I need you to bring me the magical red cap of a mirret,” the magician said.

“Naturally, I must be the one to do it,” Nantucket agreed, flipping the soggy end of his cravat over one shoulder. “As the best and the brightest of the bunch.” Nantucket did not even consider why the magician couldn’t get the cap himself. Perhaps the mirrets were wiser to dark magic than Nantucket and would never have allowed the magician near. My dear reader, I am certain you remember how the mirrets darted upon sensing the crow!

The magician smiled in a way that did not quite reach his eyes.

“I’ll expect some sort of pay,” Nantucket said, feeling bolder after hearing the compliment, even if it came from himself.  “I don’t work for free, you know.”

“Don’t you?” said the magician. “I haven’t heard so much as a clap after your performances.”

“Well!” Nantucket said, scoffing. “It’s just difficult to hear the applause over the sound of the rain.” As he said this, large fat raindrops beat down upon his shoulders.

“I can make the other woodland creatures take interest in you.”

“Hardly needed,” Nantucket snapped. “I am most revered. The weather just hasn’t allowed them to fully appreciate…” He trailed off, distracted by an idea beginning to form in his mind. The rain! If only there were a way to stop it.

“Alright,” Nantucket said, puffing out his chest. “I’ll bring you a mirret cap in exchange for a wish.”

********************

He ran back through the woods, his long legs streaming behind him like silk scarves. He stopped at the stream’s edge and crouched down, peering into the water for a sign of a mirret.

A hop away, Sampson finished his book for the second time and settled into a long sulk. It rained so fervently, his smoke rings were crushed flat, hardly visible.

“You lived,” Sampson said.

Nantucket thought Sampson ought to sound more pleased. “I am far too handsome to eat.”

Sampson harrumphed. Nantucket concentrated on the mirrets. He plunged his hand into the water but missed.

“Leave those poor creatures alone,” said Sampson.

Nantucket waved his other hand in Sampson’s direction. “I have an important job to do. It’s not all fun and games being an artist, Sampson.”

Sampson narrowed his eyes. He was several years older than Nantucket and had seen the magician disguise himself as other animals before.

“Nantucket, you must—”

“Aha!” Nantucket yelled, succeeding in yanking the red cap off a mirret. The little merrow turned towards him, furious, her teeth bared. She hissed in an aquatic language he didn’t understand.

Nantucket turned, running back in the direction of the field of clover. Sampson scrambled to his feet to run after him, to warn him, but the frog and his life-upendingly long legs had already disappeared.

Night had seeped into the woods when Nantucket arrived. The magician stood waiting outside, the menacing yellow tinge of dusk circling him, dimmed by the never-ending downpour. Nantucket held the mirret cap up to the magician. The magician turned the object over in his hands, inspecting it from all angles, grinning. Possessing the mirret cap would allow the magician to breathe underwater for as long as he liked. The magician needed special aquatic ingredients for potions he hoped to make.

“Your wish?” the magician asked.

Nantucket blinked. Rain slid off his acorn beret, dripping into his eyes. The magician stood before him. Over the sound of the drizzle, Nantucket could hardly hear himself think. He looked at the mirret cap in the magician’s hand. “I wish,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I wish that it would stop raining.”

The magician laughed.

The woods grew quiet, the only sounds coming from the low hooting of an owl or the rustle of rabbits amongst bushes. The rain ceased.

The frog walked back home, already feeling much lighter. The moon illuminated blades of grass and turned the flower petals a magnificent silver. Nantucket slept on his back, looking up at the stars. The next morning, he noticed how deliciously green everything was, now that he no longer needed to squint from the rain. He ran through the forest, looking at the rich hues of vines and mossy tree trunks and algae floating down the stream like little green clouds at which the mirrets gazed. The sun shone through the canopy of trees for the first time in months.

It didn’t rain the next day or the day after. Even the clouds disappeared from the sky, piece by piece, as though a large beast swam through the sky, gobbling them up.

Without the rain, Nantucket finally had his audience. The stream’s surface smoothed over, and the mirrets could see the frog. The other animals came out to stare, their heads no longer bowed against the rain. Creatures ventured out of their homes earlier and for longer, not needing to shelter.

Nantucket cleared his throat, shook out his long legs, and stood as tall as he could. He began.

There once was a frog so grand and so good,

Who danced and who sang as well as one could.

The trees bowed down, the sun shone bright,

In the woods, he pranced, to all a delight.

The animals turned, captivated. When Nantucket finished, they clapped and whistled, and Nantucket felt much obliged to provide an encore and, afterward, even sign a few autographs.

His audience loved the next day’s performance even more, and the one after that, and the one after that. So caught up were the other woodland creatures in the frog’s entertainment, including Nantucket himself, that they hardly worried when the rain didn’t return at all. Only Sampson did not come to the performances, and Nantucket chalked this up to the old frog not knowing how to extract his nose from his book, or perhaps—and Nantucket would never say this within earshot—Sampson suffered from a spot of jealousy.

Nantucket continued to sing and dance his way through summer, which seared hot and angry, sending great cracks along the earthen floor. By autumn, the stream ran so shallow the larger animals had to wander farther away for water, missing Nantucket’s shows. Soon, many animals left the woods for good. Nantucket’s last thoughts before this winter freeze were the tinge of annoyance he felt about the animals needing to miss his spectacles and what he might perform the following spring.

The following spring again brought no rain, and the plants did not bloom, sprout, or unfurl. Drought ravaged the forest. Once again, Nantucket found himself performing without an audience, and he realized he had been tricked. Perhaps the magician was envious of him and withheld the rain as a sabotage. Furious, Nantucket returned to the magician’s dwelling and knocked on the door.

“You are unhappy with your wish,” the magician said before Nantucket could speak. “I suppose I could give you another one…if you bring me something else instead.” He was in the midst of making a potion that required several of the ingredients to be picked by a frog. The magician learned the hard way not to cut corners with potion making, as underneath his wizard hat, he was missing an ear.

Nantucket felt so excited about the prospects of a new wish, he forgot entirely his fury with the magician and how awful his last wish was. “What is it?” he croaked.

The magician gave the frog a riddle inked on a small bit of parchment. “The answer is what I’d like you to bring me. It wrote the riddle itself.”

You may see my gills and scales and think I am a fish

Though that I can’t be, still cook me and see how tasty I make a dish.

You may note my veil and skirt, both of which are white,

Though a ring I possess, should “bride” be your guess, that answer would not be right.

You may find me in the woods I’ve happily made my home

Though I’m small and fat, and red is my hat, don’t think I am a gnome.

You may learn giraffes and whales are ants compared to me

But as my name implies, I’m just the right size for frogs to take a seat.

The riddle was shaped like a sun, the beginning of each line starting from the center and expanding outward like rays. Nantucket had to keep turning the paper to read it. He walked back into the woods, saying the verses aloud to himself.

Sampson sat on the same rock as always, blowing perfect smoke rings that did little to cheer him. He missed when the rain twisted and bent them.

“Though I’m small and fat, and red is my hat, don’t think I am a gnome. Sampson, what could that be? An overfed elf?”

Sampson said nothing, though he couldn’t resist overhearing the frog solving the riddle.

“But as my name implies, I’m just the right size for frogs to take a seat.” Nantucket readjusted his acorn beret, looking around. “A frog to take a seat? Some sort of log…or lily pad…or?”

Sampson couldn’t listen to this any longer. “The answer is a toadstool you blithering—”

But the frog had taken off, running half-mad through the woods to the mountains, where a spring burst clear and crisp and beautiful. Toadstools surrounded the riverbed. Nantucket leaned against the red-and-white spotted fungus, savoring its smell and sturdiness, before heaving it up from the ground and making his way back to the magician’s dwelling.

“Your wish?” the magician asked, answering the frog’s knock.

“I could wish for more rain,” Nantucket said. “But, then I worry you’ll flood the Earth instead.” The magician said nothing, inspecting the toadstool Nantucket gave him. “I ought to try to make my first wish more specific,” Nantucket decided, pacing back and forth across the magician’s doorstep. “That’s it! I wish I could go back in time to right before I made my first wish.”

The magician didn’t have time to stop him. Nantucket felt a plummeting sensation, his stomach dropping into his feet. It was as though the last several years had not happened, and by now, they hadn’t. The frog had no memory of the drought, as though he had picked up right where he left off, the rainless period never existing, like a dream Nantucket woke up from and couldn’t remember. He was back in time two years, to just before his first wish.

He blinked. Rain slid off his acorn beret, dripping into his eyes. Over the sound of the drizzle, Nantucket could hardly hear himself think. He looked at the mirret cap in the magician’s hand.

“I wish,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I wish that it would stop raining.”

The magician laughed.