The rats licked his face. They liked the salty tears under his eyes. At first he was frightened, but after a few days he had become more comfortable. In time he did not need to be tied up. He slept soundlessly on the hay and did not worry about the rats doing any harm.
The rats adored the boy. They wanted him to be around more. During the day they lived in the dark of the barn while the boy was outside as free as the squirrels in the trees. The rats wanted more out of life. They wanted to see what was happening out in the world.
When the lady came in with the feed and water she would talk to them about all her plans. They could not grasp the immensity of the lady's plans, but they were certain they would be released at some point in the future. This gave them hope. So they stayed loyal to the lady and did not attempt to escape. They looked forward to seeing the boy come in for sleep when the sky darkened.
As the boy played his flute the wives walked out to the pond to wade in the water. They seemed, to the boy, that they were murmuring with the bullfrogs, communicating, possibly singing to them in an unknown language. The boy played on. First with the scales and then with simple songs taught by the lady.
One of the songs goes like this:
It's time, it's time to learn
About how the village will burn!
On that horrible day
Make sure you're far away!
The youngest wife, the girl, walked out past the boy. She was holding her spoon and looking at her reflection. She saw the boy playing his silly songs.
She giggled, placed the spoon in her pocket, and said, “Who would take the time to play that song?”
“You don’t like it?”
“I hate it! It’s a stupid song. Everyone knows it’s a stupid stupid song.”
“Do you know a better song?”
“I know lots of songs.”
“Can you sing me your favorite?” he said, noticing how very pretty she was.
"I don't sing for a boy who doesn't own pants." She laughed and thought he looked like a goat without horns. His black beady eyes and long scraggly hair; skinny legs with knobby knees.
The girl giggled, walked on by the boy, and into the pond. She enjoyed the coolness of the water. Her wet dress clung to her frail body.
The other wives walked out onto dry land. They were tired from giving birth and tired of singing their own songs to their offspring. They walked into the house, not even looking up at Husband on the roof, each one, headed to a room to sleep.
The girl sang a different song, one she favored when giving birth.
Then she felt herself open and felt the thing slip out. The frog, her offspring, rose to the surface of the water. The thing was wet and wide-eyed.
She picked it up and met its big black eyes. “My baby,” she whispered. “Another baby.” She kissed the frog on the lips and set it in the water. It swam to the edge and sat and breathed deeply.
The girl knew that her most recent baby did not understand what it meant to have a mother. The girl walked out of the pond carrying her grief. She did not like to feel the emptiness. She wanted to feel the fulfillment of motherhood.
She walked up to the boy, her dress now transparent from the water.
The boy stopped playing his flute and looked again at her pretty eyes. He could tell she was very tired and possibly weary. Right then he hated Husband.
“Boy,” said the girl, “Who sent you?”
"Our Virgin Mary.”
“She should have given you a pair of trousers. Your shirt is made for a man twice your size.”
“Our Virgin Mary decides who is blessed and who is cursed.” The boy could not resist looking at her slim figure. And the way her brown hair curled down her neck.
The girl studied the boy. There was something she could see in him, something that she longed for. Yes, he was a hideous sight, but could be improved with consistent meals and work clothes. There was an innocence, a sweetness too. She walked back to the house and the thought occurred to her that she would like to run away with him someday. Maybe even have his baby, a real baby, no more of these damn bullfrogs slipping out to swim away. She wanted to be free from Husband.
A shiver went down the girl’s spine at the thought of Husband ever touching her again. His webbed feet brushing up against her thigh, it was enough to make her sick.