TRANSCRIPT - Episode 139:  Little Froglet

April 7th, 2021

Kristen Zaza

[Eerie theme music plays]

Welcome to my Woods.

It has been so quiet. So very quiet.

No guests.

No hunters.

No ghosts.

Just me here, and this web, which is - frankly - getting a little too out of hand.

I just can't stop spinning it. My hands always move now, they can't seem to stop weaving, knitting, crocheting, whatever on earth they're doing, I'm no longer really aware, except that they keep moving.

Most likely because last New Moon I sought to constantly weave my magic, whatever it may be.

Next New Moon I think I shall be careful what I wish for.

It's coming up quickly. I better get to thinking.

There I am, again, controlling things yet again, spinning a web frantically and fruitlessly, to try and contain and control ideas.

I must prepare for the New Moon, but how?

Do you smell something burning?

I haven't smelled anything like that for...for several months now.

Since last autumn.

Amazing.

With a great exhale I let myself fall backwards from the treetops and get caught by a hammock of fine silver webs.

Lying on my back and looking up at the waning crescent moon now, I think and I think and I think.

Why do my hands keep moving?

Why do my webs keep growing?

What is compelling me, driving me, to make make make and think think think myself in circles?

What on earth is that burning smell?

Never mind that.

I shuffled my Tarot deck and asked my cards gently and kindly: What has a hold on me?

Shuffle shuffle shuffle, think think think, spin spin spin.

What has a hold on me?

The Six of Cups.

It is a fair assessment.

The Six of Cups represents, generally speaking, nostalgia for one's childhood, especially if one's childhood has a rosy glow around it in one's own mind. A longing for the carefree days of childhood, if one was fortunate enough to experience such a thing, which - though my life is long and my memory less so - I believe that I was. I believe that I had a very happy and sunny childhood. I remember there being grass under my feet and never worrying for or wanting for important things such as food and warmth and care. Fortunate indeed, though  I do distinctly remember loneliness even still. But it was a lovely kind of melancholy there; one where make-believe was powerful enough to still treat (though not cure entirely) the symptoms of loneliness.

Perhaps that is the lesson from childhood I've kept all this time close to my heart.

Lovely Loneliness.

Anyway, I digress, as I always do.

I was someone, long ago, someone who I am no longer.

This is natural and this is good.

To long for who you were and what you were and where you were is...

well, it's a waste of time, because they no longer exist.

There is only you now.

And so, if we keep spinning, spinning, spinning, trying to find the comfort of the past, we will invariably spin ourselves into oblivion.

For the past no longer exists.

Remember? Let me say it again, not for you but rather for me but also for you:

There's No Such Thing as Time.

None at all.

Only bodies in space changing.

So, we must accept our body in our space, existing on this other floating body floating in other space, as it spins and spins itself, too.

Recall that You are the World

And So Am I.

And so I suppose this is where my instinct to spin, spin, spin comes from.

But still.

I cannot shake the rosy glow of a warm home with a grassy backyard and the smell of fire.

Do I need to?

I asked my cards what has a hold on me.

Last week I asked what I must release -

Now I want to know what has yet to release me.

Is it necessarily bad?

No, no, but I do not like being held.

I should like to be free of my attachment to a life I can no longer have.

I should like to be free of the idea that my future can resemble my past, if I just work hard enough.

I should instead prefer to honour

This moment

in my body

on this earth

In this space.

The Six of Cups.

Playful and light and childish and rosy and warm and lovely.

But still perhaps poisonous, if it keeps you from loving what you have now instead of lamenting what you've lost.

That is the story for today, isn't it?

And so it must be, my sweet friends.

I haven't asked you yet.

How are you?

Are you well?

Are you happy? Not in general, but right now, here, with me. Are you happy now?

If not, perhaps you can be calm

Take a deep breath

And follow my voice into a place that is past, present and future and none of these things at all for truly, actually, it's just fiction.

Come with me into this place.

Once upon a time.

There was a little boy.

Well, he was once a little boy. At the point of our story in which we'll meet him, really, he is a grown man.

A great warrior, in fact.

Celebrated all across his land, he was known for having defeated countless numbers of enemies in battle; renowned warriors in their own right; and he did it with an ease and effortlessness that was, some sensitive souls might say, horrifying to see. For you see, this was all he knew, now. Fighting and winning. And he was celebrated for it, indeed, because...well, I don't know why, but I know that it's not an uncommon thing for a society to celebrate, and that makes me sad. But we will keep going with the story. Imagine for yourself an archetype: a Warrior. A Proud Soldier. A man with the stuff to lead armies and ignore the softness of his heart in favour of the strength of his fist holding a sword. Imagine him, strong and tall like a mountain; hard and unrelenting as one, too.

When he lay in bed at night, whether it was in a cot in a tent the night before a battle, or in his latest hometown in a luxurious bed that brought him no more comfort than the cot ultimately, however, a little thought haunted him.

[A distant, playful, mischievous melody is heard]

It wasn't a thought, no: it was a memory.

But it couldn't possibly be, could it?

He saw his bare feet running through golden fields of wheat. They were smaller; a child's feet. And he heard the laughter on the wind before he recognized it as his own. Perhaps he was ten. Perhaps eight. Perhaps six. He was always a strong creature, big for his age no matter what his age. He was too big for whatever world he found himself in, always, and he did not always know what to do with it. But as a child, running through the crops that lay vast and shimmering behind the farmhouse he was raised in, it didn't matter. No one was too big for this place. A giant could dance here on tip-toe and no one would even notice.

He lived with his mother. They had a little farm, and they were quite comfortable. She had been a great warrior; a soldier for the King; his very best soldier, in fact. But now that she had her child and a home and a farm and a warm fire and good bread,  she hung up her sword and her shield. For those things were no tools for a mother and a child. But oh, how he loved to hear her stories of battles long past, duels long ago won.

In the memory, he was always running.

He ran and he laughed, until he reached the river.

It was very wide. On a still day, to one who was not familiar with the land, it might seem to be a lake; but it was in fact a river. Always moving forward in one direction, headed towards the sea, miles and miles away. It was a dark green colour, always, even though a great waterfall nearby cascaded in roiling bubbles and torrents of pure white movement. But make no mistake, the water was dark green.

The fish within it that he dared not try to catch were dark green.

The growth covering the rocks lining the riverbed were dark green.

And so too were the eyes of the girl who lived in the river.

At least he thought she lived in there.

He wasn't quite sure.

He had only the most vague memory of her, but he remembered her eyes. So dark they almost seemed black - but in the light they emitted a lovely dark green. A sea green. The green of the deepest part of the river.

"Come, come, come, sweet child- Swim the waters, deep and wild;

And when you need to rest your head, sleep upon the riverbed."

But you mustn't be fooled by that lovely dark green, he remembered his mother telling him when he went home to speak of what he had seen. They are the only thing lovely about her. And they are that way, so that you lose your way when you look into them, and let her pull you down into the river with her.

Beware any girls, any women, any ladies you see swimming in the river, my son, for they are surely monsters. The River Woman and her daughters will sing to you sweet things, so that they can grab you and snatch you away from me. They are not as we are. They are monstrous.

Surely monstrous.

His mother was wise. His mother was strong. His mother knew what battles were better left unfought, which creatures were better left undisturbed. These are the lessons that warriors who live through enough conflict and strife take to heart, when they finally have the prize of peace before them.

Anyway.

Beware them, she said, the women in the river. Leave them be and they will not touch you. You needn't fear, but you must beware.

And his mother would catch him up in her big, strong arms, and rock him back and forth by the fire,

And even the threat of the monster girl in the river seemed very far, far away.

Until the next time he would run, run, run, through the wheat fields, laughing with wild abandon, and stopping abruptly at the riverside again.

"Come, come, come, sweet child- Swim the waters, deep and wild;

And when you need to rest your head, sleep upon the riverbed."

The voice would call, and he would remember his mother's warning. Monstrous, monstrous, monstrous, he knew the voice was.

Even though all he could see, dimly, standing on the river floor and looking up at him, barely visible through the tumult and the roiling of the water and the rushing of the salmon,

was a girl, looking back up at him.

"Come, come, come, lost child- Swim the waters, deep and wild;

And when you need to rest your head, sleep upon the riverbed."

He could see nothing about her except for that glint, that hypnotic green glint, two of them, shining up through the water to the surface.

He would dare himself to look as long as he could,

And it seemed that she was swimming up to him, closer and closer...

And he'd run back home.

To the arms of his mother.

Strong and Sure.

That is what he wanted to be.

Strong and Sure.

Just like her.

The memory was so distant now. But he remembered the feeling of fearing something that was not a human enemy, not another soldier, another warrior, like him. Something different. Something unknown. Something unreachable.

When his home was struck down by enemies and his mother defeated in battle, after a valiant fight of course, he then dedicated his life to avenging her. Becoming a great warrior, as she was. He took up her sword and her shield and he pledged his life to battle. To battling human foes, just like the ones who had taken his brave, strong mother from him.

But so deep was his hatred and so strong was his arm, that it was only a matter of time before he had no more enemy soldiers left to fight.

He retired early, with great fame and acclaim and the blessing of his King.

Do you think, my friend, that he was comfortable and happy with his wealth and comfort and fame?

Is anyone, ever?

He tried to live in peace. He set up his extravagant home in the city, but no fire was as warm as the hearth in his mother's house. He could afford the finest food and wine to slake his thirst and fill his belly, but nothing tasted as good as the bread his mother baked from their own grain. He found some comfort in the eyes of the men and women who adored and loved him, but none of them could make him forget

That shining, dark emerald green

That rippled up from the bottom of the river

Near his home.

The memory haunted him, day and night, and he couldn't quite figure out why.

Finally, he realized:

I have no match in any human.

And I have not yet found that same joy I had as a child.

Is it lost, forever?

Or is there one last enemy I need to defeat?

If there was one, he knew where they would be.

It was a week of hard riding for his poor horse, even as he stopped on the road to sleep and eat at a nearby inn, or to set up camp. But he was single-minded as he followed the way he knew all too well, even for not having been there since his mother died all those years ago.

He was going home.

When he saw it on the horizon, he had steeled himself for the sight before him, and so he did not weep.

In fact, he had seen much worse, throughout his career as a killer. He had done much, much worse.

The wheat fields were all burnt and razed to the ground.

The little cabin was a husk of itself now.

Only a skeleton.

He'd left it behind, all of it except what he needed, since it hurt far too much to remember what he had here.

But now...

No, it would not do to dwell on what he wished he'd done.

It was in the past and so it was gone.

All there was now, was the Returning.

He tied his horse to the burnt remains of the house and set foot on the land.

It was a veritable marsh, now.

The river had flowed over and turned the remnants of the wheat fields into a marsh.

Where all sorts of creatures now lived and thrived.

Taking his mother's sword and shield (Which he still bore to this day), he walked South towards the river,

the water climbing up past his feet, his ankles, his calves,

And soon, without even realizing it, he was standing waist-deep in the river.

The forest-green river, from his childhood.

Now darker, muddier, murkier than before.

It had spread, this river; the whole land had become the river, in fact.

But it was the place.

His last enemy.

In a voice that had perhaps not been used in song for decades, he - somewhat sheepishly - cooed the words:

"Come to me, Oh Madame Frog - Swim the surface of your bog;

I have come to rest my head, and sleep upon the riverbed."

Ah, the sighs he heard then. The lonely sighs, lonely no more, bubbling from below; not so deep, this time, but distant, or perhaps actually very closeby, he could not tell. The sound of crickets and frogs and toads and waterfowl all around him dulled his senses. The violent shivering of his jaw made him lose his focus. The horror of his childhood home now destroyed confused his heart.

He saw, racing by him, in the water below, glints of green lights, here and there.

She was here.

She was everywhere.

He readied his sword. He poised his shield.

He was ready for her.

[A quick and strange whispered sigh, from one side]

Something darted by his legs, under the water, but he knew not what.

"Show yourself," he cried out.

Silence, a horrible dreadful silence, until...

[Another quick and strange sigh, louder than the last, from the other side]

It flashed by in front of him, almost knocking him over.

"Show yourself!" He repeated, reaching his wit's end.

"Fine," he heard the voice behind him.

And when he turned,

There she was.

The girl with dark, dark, green eyes. But no longer a girl. Now a grown woman. A warrior, such as himself. But not quite like himself. Her skin was like that of a frog, or some other green amphibian; her hair was more like great long fins, like those stringing behind the most flamboyant of fish. Her eyes were a strange yellow with horizontal pupils. Her fingers and toes were webbed. He was repulsed at first, for indeed, a monster she was, but looking at her a little more closely he was more fascinated, to finally see the girl from the bottom of the river. The Monster who'd haunted him all these years.

He was a little disappointed.

She had no weapon drawn.

She had no armour, no shield.

She shrank, a little, in fact, from his gaze.

"I have come to avenge my Mother," she said, slowly curling her fingers and revealing long, dagger-like claws.

He clung to his sword, though he did not quite feel right about it. She was much smaller than he. She was strange to behold, yes, but did not seem to be any kind of match for him in battle. "I never touched your mother," he hissed.

"She was killed by Monsters like You," the girl said, and though her eyes could not cry  because of their abundance of eyelids, he could see they were doing something...similar, perhaps, to that.

"So was my Mother." He said quietly.

[The mischievous theme from earlier returns]

And he looked down at his battle-hardened body, his sword-calloused hands, his scarred face; his sword and shield, worn from battle. And he realized just how monstrous he looked.

"She was killed by monsters like me?" The amphibious woman asked, her heart already breaking for him, not even knowing his stories.

He bit the inside of his cheek as he lowered his shields.

"No. Monsters like me."

The girl watched him carefully, and her strange eyes with their additional eyelids opened wider than they had ever done before, and that glorious green shone in the moonlight. "I know you," she whispered. "You've come home."

He dropped his sword in the bog. His mother's sword.

Away, away, away, went the shield with it.

You see, the girl in the bog, the strange and sad Frog-Woman, had cried for so long that the river overflowed with her tears.

You see, he had been so consumed with grief and revenge that he hadn't thought to check on the monsters in the river. Why would he?

And now, both of their homes, both of the places that haunted their dreams with their joyful warmth and the songs of their mothers, had been lost. Lost forever.

But perhaps a new one could be built from the hollow skeletons of Farm and River.

Perhaps a little cottage could be erected,

And a little dock,

So that the two monsters could try to make a new place.

Not the same place,

But one that they could love and protect with their whole beings,

Or, perhaps, with a bit of luck and the renewed hope of a child, they could live a fine life here in this place where water met land, never needing to raise a sword or claw again.

Because I'm not so certain that the Six of Cups having a hold on you is necessarily a negative thing.

But while you can of course treasure the warmth of the past, it is, perhaps, unwise to covet it.

Unwise to scorn it.

Unwise to compare it to what you have now.

Because what you have now will always be better, for it is all you have.

I'm sorry, but I still smell something burning.

I think it's my webs.

I do not grieve for them. They were beginning to overwhelm me.

I think someone is making more space in these forests. Perhaps trying to find me.

I would worry.

I would be afraid.

But not all monsters are evil.

And that smell is very comforting.

Like a gentle voice from the past.

Like a comforting hand upon my shoulder.

Like someone whispering:

"I've returned, as I promised."

I wonder.

Until next time, my dear friends.

Rest well.

[Eerie theme music]

(Host speaks as Kristen:)

Hello my friends, and thank you so much for listening in tonight to Episode 139 of On a Dark, Cold Night. Speaking right now here right now is Kristen Zaza - I'm the writer, host, podcaster, composer, performer, etc, etc, etc, behind the podcast. I hope you've been doing well. I'm hanging in there over here in Ontario for our third lockdown. Whether you're in a similar situation or not, I hope you're still staying safe and taking care of yourselves and your loved ones, my dears.

I'd like to thank a few very generous supporters who helped out the show this week; big thank you to my newest Patreon patrons, James McGinley and Leland Palmer gets happy. Thank you both so much for your monthly pledges; it's really so helpful and generous of you to help me keep going with this work. If you're interested in becoming a monthly patron of the show, too, you can learn more at patreon.com/darkcoldnight  - as a perk, every patron gains access to my ever-growing soundtrack for On a Dark, Cold Night, as well as a few other goodies here and there. So again, check it out at patreon.com/darkcoldnight. And I'd also like to thank an Anonymous Someone who supported the show last week via Ko-fi.com; thank you so much, Anonymous Someone! If you'd like to help out in this way, via a one-time donation of metaphorical coffees without the soundtrack perk, head on over to ko-fi.com/darkcoldnight.

A great way to support the show as always without paying anything is to leave us a rating and a review on iTunes, or on my Facebook page, or anywhere else you like. It would be a huge help to me. Also, you can follow me on social media; I'm on Twitter @ADarkColdNight, instagram at darkcoldnightpodcast, or on my Facebook or Youtube pages, just called On a Dark, Cold Night. Ooh, and also, we have t-shirts and hoodies for the show available through bonfire.com/on-a-dark-cold-night, so feel free to have a look at those as well.

Thank you again for listening this week and joining me. Hearing from listeners all across the world and being able to have these weekly creepy conversations with you really does keep me happy and healthy, so thank you. Be well, my friends. Perhaps think on what you'd like to focus on for the New Moon next week. Til then.

[Eerie theme music]

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