The teenager sat on the seat of her trousers as her puzzled gaze swept from Brittle to the three-eyed bullfrog beside him, chewing her lip in what Brittle hoped was deep thought and not hunger. Poor girl did look like she could do with a toast and loam sandwich or two. Finally, the teenager unclenched her lower lip from between her teeth and said, “Grandad warned me that dealing with forest spirits would be tricky.”

“The trickiest,” Brittle agreed. “Probably best to run home and ask him what to do.”

“Well that’s just it. I came prepared for tricks, not whatever” – the girl waggled her hand at Brittle and Lastar’s bullfrog form with halfhearted vigor – “this is.”

“What are you implying?” Lastar demanded.

“It’s abnormal.”

“I’m not abnormal. I’m a frog,” Lastar insisted. “Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit.”

Brittle held his forehead in the same way Sir Thomassin had done when Edvin mistook the soap bar for cheese. Alas, Lastar was just as good at being covert as he was at being a spy. “Who taught you your animals?”

“As I said, abnormal.” The girl gave her lower lip another painful looking gnaw as she considered her next move. She didn’t appear frightened anymore, mostly puzzled, with the tiniest hint of annoyance creasing the space between her dark brows. “This is not going how I expected at all.”

That made two of them. To be fair, neither befriending spies nor thwarting gold-pinching teenagers had been on Brittle’s to-do list for the day. Probably would have helped to have made a to-do list in the first place, but such was life. Mama had a saying about even the best laid plans going something, something pigsty. The saying might have been more impactful had Brittle bothered to listen to it in full.

Attentive listening, he vowed, mentally adding it to the future to-do list. Regrettably, Brittle’s future to-do list promptly became his immediate to-do list as the teenager started talking again.

“Maybe I did the offering wrong,” the girl mumbled to herself as she withdrew another handful of birdseed from her pocket and sprinkled it across the stony ground. Drawing breath, she restarted her strange chanting from the top. “O kind forest sprite of the deep dark wood, I beseech thee. Take favor in my offering. I, Rochelle Nettles of Pleasant Valley, apprentice herbalist, and future healer, bear thee no ill intent.”

Brittle tilted his head in Lastar’s direction, whispering. “What’s an apprentice?”

“Someone who receives training under a more skilled person in exchange for work.”

Brittle nodded, following along so far. “And an herbalist?”

“A plant doctor.”

“Oh, so she’s a gardener.”

“I’m not a gardener!” A flush of embarrassment crept across Rochelle’s face, transforming her warm brown cheeks a deep shade of red. Remembering herself, she hastily gathered her knobby knees beneath her and bowed her head, holding her open palms aloft. “Dear kind forest spirit, I seek not treasure, but your help.”

“I’m sorry. Really, I am.” Brittle stooped to collect the three nuggets before the girl changed her mind about pocketing his gold. “But I think you have me confused. I’m not a forest sprite. I’m a bog log beast.”

The girl kept her eyes screwed shut. “That’s just what a forest sprite would say.”

“Why would a forest sprite say that?” Brittle regarded the nearest row of dark pines, wondering if forest sprites bothered to say their goodbyes before making a break for the trees.

“Because they’re tricksters. Grandad says they don’t like to grant favors unless it’s been earned.”

The best way to prove a person wrong, Brittle found, was to use their own logic against them. “Well, in that case, I am a forest sprite.”

“Ha!” Rochelle’s eyes shot open with excitement. “I knew it.”

“Which means I’m not because a forest sprite wouldn’t admit to that so easily.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The girl’s shoulders fell in perfect sync with her expression. “Wait, that’s not…hmph.”

Ensuring his treasure was secured within his pocket, Brittle picked the three-eyed bullfrog from the ground and turned to leave. “Good luck finding you forest sprite though. We best be on our way.”

“Well hold on just a minute. Just because you’re not a forest sprite doesn’t mean you can’t help.” Rochelle scrambled to her feet after him. She withdrew a square of wrinkled parchment from her back pocket and fumbled to unfold it. “I won’t take much of your time, I swear.”

“Sorry. I have to be home in time for supper.”

“Please?” the girl called after in that pitiful sort of voice that caused mountains to move, seas to part, and bog log beasts to stop dead in their tracks.

Lastar squirmed uncomfortably in Brittle’s hands. “Don’t fall for it.”

“She did ask nicely,” Brittle said.

“Fine,” Lastar replied. “Please, please take us far from here.”

“Hers was more pitiful.”

“Well then put me down. No good will come from this, I can feel it.”

Brittle bent forward and placed the grumpy frog onto the slick bank, inadvertently giving Rochelle the few precious seconds she needed to catch up. She slipped and stumbled across the wet river rock like a newborn fawn just learning to use its wobbly legs. Unlike a newborn fawn, however, she had hands, which she was currently using to stretch the wrinkled parchment taut in front of her.

“I’m looking for this,” Rochelle said, shoving the parchment almost all the way to Brittle’s face. “Could you tell me where to find it? I’ve been scouring the woods for days without any luck.”

There was an ink drawing of a mushroom at the center of the page, surrounded by neat rows of looped handwriting. It was reminiscent of the ancient cookbook kept in the kitchen, gathering dust as no one had any intention of using it. The realization that Rochelle was showing him a recipe caused Brittle’s stomach to drop. Rochelle’s thin, scraggly frame suddenly made sense. The poor girl was just looking for food.

Brittle cursed his luck for giving the ungrateful squirrel his last scrap of crust. “I don’t know anything about mushrooms, but if it’s food you’re after, I might be able to help you with that.”

“Food? I’m not after food. I need this for medicine.” Rochelle’s determined expression lost some of its former steeliness. Worry lines creased between her brows as her reasoning spilled forth from her mouth like a babbling brook. “There’s illness in the village. It’s only one or two people now, but I’ve read about this sort of thing. It spreads quickly. I went through all of Grandad’s old books and I think this” – she pointed once more to the strange, hairy looking mushroom depicted at the center of the folded page – “could fix everything. Grandad always says nature is the best medicine. He would know, of course. He’s the best herbalist there is.”

Brittle grasped the crinkly page between his twiggy fingers and peered closer at it. “Your grandad can use the mushroom to make medicine?”

“Well, in theory, yes.” Rochelle averted her stare to her ratty leather shoes. On closer examination, they looked to be two sizes too big, which partly explained why she moved with the grace of a hobbled horse. “He doesn’t know I’m looking for it. Told me to leave it be, actually.”

“Why’s that?”

“He doesn’t get on so well with the other villagers. Grandad built our house far out in the woods just to avoid them. But it doesn’t have to be that way. I can fix it. I think that if I help the sick villagers, show them the healing powers of nature, they could see that we’re good. They might even stop throwing rocks at me.”

“Rocks?” Brittle was horrified. Sure, he was no stranger to humans throwing things at him, but Rochelle was also human. It made no sense that they would ostracize one of their own, especially one so young. The more he learned about humankind, the less Brittle understood the species as a whole.

“They usually miss,” Rochelle said with a disturbingly casual shrug.

“That’s…” While Brittle wanted to use the word ‘sad’, he didn’t think Rochelle would appreciate the sympathy. He racked his hollow head for one of the fancy phrases Sir Thomassin used when he wanted to say something unflattering in a nice way. Brittle offered Rochelle her parchment back. “That’s mighty noble of you.”

Her big brown eyes widened. “So you’ll help then?”

“Well I would, but like I said, I’m not a forest sprite. I don’t know these woods.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll take any help I can get. Be it a log person or,” Rochelle’s imploring stare dropped to the three-eyed frog still glowering between Brittle’s cork bark toes and whispered, “strange three-eyed frogs.”

“Nope. Not getting involved,” Lastar croaked as he hopped away, disappearing into a thick clump of tufted hairgrass.

Rochelle’s brown eyes widened even more, boring deep into Brittle’s soul. For whatever reason, her sheer pitifulness stirred a not-so-distant memory. Brittle recalled the last time he’d helped a stranger, and how it had changed his life forever. He wasn’t so sure he wanted that sort of adventure again. And yet, this was nothing more than a simple mushroom hunt, not thwarting a dastardly plot to kill a goddess. Surely something so innocent wouldn’t warrant the same unforeseen consequences as before.

Besides, Rochelle looked like she could use a friend as much as he did. Brittle extended his hand in her direction as human custom dictated. “Alright, Rochelle Nettles of Pleasant Valley, I’ll help you.”

Rochelle grasped it and started to run, pulling Brittle behind her at an awkward gallop towards the trees. “You won’t regret this!”

Focused on planting one rickety foot in front of the other without falling, Brittle failed to notice the feeling deep within his hollow bones that this was a decision he would indeed come to regret.