The Wog and the Yellow Lilies

Down the hill sat a little green pond tucked beneath the low hanging trees, the water warm and thick with silt and algae, the kind that clung to anything that touched it. It was home to the big, fat, wobbly Wog. He wallowed in the guck and gloop, squishing it between his webbed toes while he waited for some boy or girl to wander down the path and toss stones or sticks into his pond.

He let them toss a few in, playing along the path while he scraped himself deeper into the mud until only his eyes showed. They’d laugh, they’d sing, never noticing how still he’d gone. He waited for the moment he liked best. Then he’d burst out, springing off his meaty thighs, and gobble them down.

But the path grew overgrown, and one day they put up a sign: KEEP OUT. DO NOT GO DOWN TO THE GREEN POND. DANGER. At least, that’s what he thought it said, from what little he’d learned of their language.

It had been years since he had fed. His big green belly had shriveled down to almost nothing. He didn’t even bother with the muck anymore. He sat by the pond and stared at the sky, his tummy rumbling and groaning like an old kettle left on too long.

One day he heard the faint sound of a little song drifting down the path, someone coming right past the sign without a second thought. He wiggled down into the mud until only his eyes showed. A little girl, about eight years old, skipped and sang her way toward the pond. He waited for her to grab a stone and toss it in, the way they always did. But she didn’t. She stopped skipping, and her mouth curled upward in a way he’d never seen before. All her small white teeth showed, and he wasn’t sure what that meant, only that she was looking right at him when she did it.

“Hello, you silly thing. What are you doing in the mud?” she asked.

The Wog blinked. No one had ever said hello before.

“Who, me?”

“I don’t see anyone else here. Just you, Mr. Frog, in the mud.”

“Frog?”

“Ribbit. You’re the biggest frog I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m not a frog, girl. I’m the Wog,” he said proudly.

“You talk funny,” she said. “I didn’t think you would speak at all.”

“Were you going to come throw stones in my pond?”

“Why would I do that with you sitting in there? It wouldn’t be very nice.”

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

“Well, I won't.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“You eat the stones that children throw?”

“No. I eat the children who throw the stones.”

“You’re silly. But I like you.” She smiled and danced around the shore. She climbed onto a rock and kicked a stone.

He lifted himself from the mud and lunged with his mouth open. It snapped loudly, missing her, and he came up with a mouthful of mud.

“Did you just try to eat me?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m a Wog. It’s what we do.”

She laughed. “Well, you’re not very good at it. And you shouldn’t eat children. It’s not very nice. Why don’t you try an apple instead?”

“Nonsense. Wogs don’t eat apples!”

“Have you ever tried one?”

She plucked an apple, wiped it on her dress, and took a bite. The Wog was so hungry watching her that his mouth watered. His big eyes rolled back and he let out a long sigh.

“See? They’re delicious. Do you want to try?”

“It might be poison to a Wog. What if I die?”

She tossed an apple right into his open mouth as he started to reply.

“You’ve poisoned me! I’m going to die!”

“You’ll choke if you don’t chew it up.”

His lips smacked together as he began to chew. It crunched. The Wog froze. Then sweetness spilled across his tongue.

“What is happening to me?” he whispered.

“You’re eating an apple.”

He had eaten many things in his life, frogs and fish, turtles and snakes, and all manner of wriggling things that lived in the mud beneath the pond, but he had never tasted anything like this.

“I don’t know what my mouth is telling me,” he said. “It’s crunchy and sweet.”

“Fruit is good for you. My mom says an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

“Who is this doctor? They sound delicious. More like Wog food.”

She tossed him another apple. “I need to go home now, before my mom calls me.”

“Leaving?”

“Yes. I’ll come see you after school tomorrow. I promise.”

She skipped back up the path.

He was alone again, but he felt good for the first time in years. His tummy was happy and full. Just warmth. The next day he waited. It was the longest day in years. Then he heard her, singing again. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Hello, Wog! I’m back!”

“Hello,” he said eagerly. “I was starting to worry you wouldn’t come.”

“I promised. When you make a promise, you can’t break it.” She held something up. “I brought you something.”

“Is it food?”

“No, silly. It’s a friend to keep you company during the day.”

She held up the tiny water lily. “Mom said this one was getting too crowded in her water garden.”

“What will I do with it?”

“Watch it grow. Soon you’ll have yellow flowers all over the pond.”

The Wog touched the little lily.

“My mom liked flowers,” he said softly. “She used to hum while she floated near them. Sometimes you sound a little like her.”

“I miss my dad. He lives in the city. He taught me that song.”

“What is a city?”

“It’s not like this place. It has huge buildings taller than the trees. There’s no grass, only cement. People are so busy in the city they don’t look down and see you. My dad is one of those people.”

“I don’t think I’d like a city much,” said the Wog.

The days passed. Every afternoon she came down the path after school, and they talked about everything. The Wog found himself waiting for her footsteps, for her voice drifting through the trees. When school was almost over, she came to the pond with a different look on her face.

“There are fun things to do in the city,” she said. “I’ll be going there when school lets out, to stay with my dad.”

“You will be leaving me?”

“Just for the summer.”

“Who will bring apples?”

“Talk to the lily,” she said. “It’ll keep you company. And I’ll come back when summer is over.”

He sank deeper into the mud, only his eyes showing.

“Summer sounds very long.”

“It’s not,” she said. “It goes fast, even too fast.”

She plucked a yellow ribbon from her hair and held it out.

“Here. Keep this safe for me.”

He took it carefully between two wide, wet fingers.

She giggled.

“Just don’t lose it.”

A week later she came down the path slower than usual. She didn’t skip. She didn’t sing. She told him she was leaving in the morning, early, before the sun was up. She hugged her knees and stared at the pond. He watched her reflection ripple.

“I’ll miss you,” she said.

“I will be here,” said the Wog.

She stood, brushed off her dress, and waved.

“Goodbye, Wog. I’ll be back before school starts. I promise.”

He watched until the trees swallowed her.

Summer came hot and heavy. The pond grew quiet. The Wog tried apples and pears and cherries. He practiced the tune she taught him, though it came out low and rumbly and not quite right. He talked to the lily. He talked to the clouds. He talked to himself.

One afternoon a lanky boy came down the path carrying a willow switch, swatting at dragonflies as they drifted past and knocking the heads off the tall weeds crowding the trail. Every few steps he kicked at something: a pinecone, a mushroom, a rotten branch. When he reached the pond, he stopped and looked out over the water where the yellow lilies floated from shore to shore.

The boy grinned.

“Bet I can hit one.”

He stooped, picked up a stone, and tossed it, and the moment it struck a lily the pond erupted, the Wog bursting from the water in a spray of mud and green water, rising so fast the boy didn’t even finish his grin before he disappeared.

The lilies rocked on the pond as the Wog blinked, his belly giving a quick twitch, then another, and he made a face before spitting the boy back onto the shore.

The boy hit the muck with a wet splat, stared up at the Wog for half a heartbeat, then scrambled to his feet and tore up the path, dropping his willow switch as he ran.

“Stay away from my lilies,” said the Wog.

The pond grew quiet again as he looked down at the yellow flowers floating safely on the water.

“There now,” he said.

Every day he looked up the path. Some days he held the yellow ribbon tight and whispered, “She promised.”

The lily grew. Before long another appeared beside it. Then more. Yellow buds rose like tiny suns across the green water. He watched them open one by one, and something warm bloomed in his chest.

Then one afternoon, when the heat was fading and the shadows were long, he heard a little voice skipping down the path, the tune drifting through the trees like something he half remembered.

He almost didn’t believe it. He sank low in the mud, trembling.

Then she burst through the branches, taller than before, her hair longer, her cheeks sun brown from the city. The leaves shook as if the whole forest exhaled.

“Wog!” she shouted. “I’m back!”

He rose from the mud, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

“You came back.”

“I told you I would.” She held out her hands. “Do you still have my ribbon?”

He opened his palm. The yellow ribbon lay there, a little muddy, a little wrinkled, but safe. She smiled.

“You really kept it.”

He nodded.

“It stayed safe.”

“Did you have fun in the city?”

“I did. Dad taught me three new songs.”

She looked out over the pond at the yellow flowers blooming everywhere.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It grew while you were gone,” he said.

She sat on her rock, swinging her legs, humming a new tune she learned in the city. He listened, eyes half closed, letting the sound drift over the water. Lilies covered the pond from shore to shore. Their reflections trembled in the sunlight, turning the water gold. The Wog settled into the warm mud, the ribbon tucked safely between his fingers, and listened to her sing.