“I'd rather be a forest than a street

Yes, I would

If I could

I surely would”

Nettle inhaled painfully. She was, as it turns out, not a fish, so her lungs didn’t much appreciate the water. She clenched her hands blindly into the mud, letting the prick of pine needles take her mind off the chest-burning hacking. Tears mingled with the water dripping from her hair and nose. Her coughing progressed into that body-rocking honk that people with really bad colds used to keep others up at night.

Something gave her a firm whack on the back. Then, a lingering presence situated itself, cold and wet, on the small of her back before leaping again and again. One smack: hack. Two smack: splutter. Three smack: clear.

“Thanks,” she said, the water running from her nose providing a congested quality to her voice.

“It was the least I could do,” the toad said in a charmingly smooth gravel.

Nettle stabilized herself onto one arm and wiped her face into the crook of her elbow. The cold weight bounded off her once more, landing half a pace from her face. The fat toad watched, its face equal parts calculating and slow-blinking amphibian. Nettle sat up and pinched clear her nose.

“A talking frog? Sure, why not?”

“That’s it? Just like that?”

“Why? Is there normally more?”

The toad rubbed the back of its head in a very un-toadlike manner.

“Well, usually, we have this back and forth where it's all, ‘Ahh! A talking frog’ and ‘Who are you, and how’d you become a frog?’ ”

“Okay?”

“Then I’d tell you how I was a down-on-my-luck prince from a foreign land who met their unfortunate fate at witch’s hands, only freeable by true love’s kiss.”

“And all that’s true?”

“No, of course not. I only say that so they’ll . . .” The toad suggestively wiggled what passed for its eyebrows. “You know.”

“And these women? They–” Nettle gestured up and down the toad with both arms. “No offense.”

“None taken. But yeah, sometimes.”

“Kiss you, that is.”

“Obviously. Take it from me: true love’s one-night stand is a tough sell.”

Nettle must have made a face because the toad rolled its eyes and sort of sagged into itself.

“Puh-lease. Don’t flatter yourself, not in public anyway. Any dignity you were preserving spoiled when I watched you stumble from the forest and nearly drown yourself. For a second, I thought I might have to give you a ‘true clear-this-broad’s-airway kiss.’ ”

Nettle stood, grabbed her coat from the branch where it was drying, and put it on, still damp.

“Okay, well, I better leave now if I want to make Leylen’s tonight.” She grabbed her shovel and reached for her bag, only to find the toad sitting atop it like a wart.

It sat up on its haunches, waving its stubby arms and shaking its head, “Wai-w-w-w-wait.”

Nettle waited, and the thing seemed surprised by this because it took a couple of seconds before asking in a quick and quiet voice, “Could I get a ride?”

Nettle guffawed and huffed before responding, “They really kiss you?”

“You're still stuck on that? I was kidding. Mostly. Not at all.”

“How old are these girls, anyhow?”

“Listen, I got a deal for you. If you take me to Leylen’s with you, I know a guy who can house you for the night for free, your whole stay, in fact.”

Nettle slid her shovel under the toad, ignoring his protests, and hoisted him to eye level. He smirked and smugly folded his arms.

“Got your attention, did it?”

Nettle balanced the shovel on her shoulder and turned to the stream.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

She did. The toad catapulted through the air in a beautiful arc.

....ooooo................

“Y...........ouu..........

.....................uu.....

.........................Biii–” Ploop.

The toad clambered out of the stream, looking none too pleased. He wiped himself in the way a person might dust their clothes. He raised a fist and opened his mouth before realizing Nettle was already walking away. Nettle nearly stepped on him as he intercepted her.

“Ma’am, if you’ll forgive my behavior, I believe we got off on the wrong foot.” He wrung his hands like a food vendor after selling moldy bread. “My name is Toad. What, if I may be so bold to ask, is the lady’s?”

“Your name is Toad. And you are a toad.”

“That is the case.” He smiled a smile which met his eyes through sheer force of will.

A thin breeze rustled through the leaves.

“Nettle.”

“It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me your real name.”

“That is my real name. Mostly.”

Toad puffed up and then slowly released his breath like an old guy who just sat down at the bar. “Nettle?”

Nettle mocked his disbelief, “Toad?”

“Yes, of course, forgive me,” he said, “It’s very fitting.”

She didn’t like the way his smile turned genuine.

“I just need to take you to Leylen’s?”

Toad nodded eagerly.

Nettle allowed him to shuffle in place as she mulled it over.

She scooped him up, his warty skin wriggling beneath her grasp. “You can get me a place to sleep?”

“It’s as I said.”

“This guy you know. He owes you a favor, right?” Toad nodded. “Get me dinner, too, and you have yourself a deal.”

Toad silently deliberated. Nettle squeezed.

“Deal.”

Nettle dropped him into her compass pocket, where he squirmed blindly before popping his head out the top. She made her way back to the road and started walking.

“My guy in Leylen’s runs a tight ship. I can guarantee no one will bother you while you stay. Unless, of course, you do something unbelievably stupid. Although you’ve brought your own shovel, so it won’t be too bad if you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nettle asked reflexively, but she didn’t hear his response as she had a sudden, melancholy, empty thought: This is familiar—the back-and-forth, the outrage both real and played up. She tuned back in.

“--Murdery types. And I don’t say that because of your condition, just because of how you dress.”

It was familiar. How could she miss something she never even had?

----------------------------------------

The sun had long since dipped behind the trees by the time Nettle found herself in Leylen’s. The illuminated sky was just dusky enough for lanterns to flicker through the streets. Nettle stopped tuning out the passenger in her pocket.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“I told him, ‘Well, a pig that special, you don’t eat all at once!’ ” Toad did his strange barking inhale of a laugh.

“Where do I go?”

Toad looked up, a self-satisfied smile lingering on his face. “Hmm? Oh, right. Head towards The Garden.”

Can’t say I’m particularly surprised.

Nettle walked the roughly cobbled streets, her fatigue growing in the calm of the residential area. It was like her body knew it could rest soon and decided to get a headstart without her.

The streets were empty, people either at home or in The Garden. Nettle took in the quiet through a deep, swelling breath but didn’t dare stop walking lest the day fully catch up to her. The air was full, not of the tense quiet of the forest but the tired silence of a city at rest. Nettle hoped to join that soon.

Her stride slowed to a stroll, and she took the time to study the curved, bell-shaped wooden homes. The decorations that littered the street momentarily baffled her before she remembered it was Allsday tomorrow.

As she approached the city's dark heart, the small residential buildings grew into storefronts. Nettle ran her hand across the orange and yellow zinnia flowers draped from windowsills—the colors of celebration.

More people milled about here, browsing stores and arguing with street vendors. One man, in particular, took up the entire walkway animatedly grousing in front of a weathered building whose rusty sign proudly declared it a ‘Word Loan’ in red lettering. The one-armed wordlender, whom he shouted at, leaned out the doorway with a predatory smile.

The disposed man shook his fist, “Eight moss and ten percent is robbery, and you know it. You- you half-glazed ham!”

The one-armed man laughed unfazed, “Not on Allsday, you gizzard. With my talent, you could make twice that playing guitar on the street.”

“Yeah, with my hard work and your generous talent.”

“Talent you otherwise would lack.”

The fuming man turned to Nettle with an expression that pleaded for backup.

“Sounds good to me,” Nettle said, trying to step past.

The man spun in place, searching for anyone who might join his cause, before folding his arms smugly, “So why don’t you buy it?”

“Etymancy isn’t really for me,” Nettle said, again, trying to get around him.

The man studied her pale face and looked disgusted. “Am I supposed to be surprised that a Paper Person is opposed to honest work? The Garden is that way if you have some gambling den or cathouse waiting for you.”

Nettle shared a look with the wordlender, then shoved past the man, their bickering following in echoes even after she rounded the corner.

“Do people often say those kinds of things?” Toad asked as Nettle broke onto Main Street.

Nettle let a bit of the tension out of her chest. Main Street was mostly empty as its municipality buildings attracted few around dusk.

“It’s almost worse when they don’t say anything but you can tell they’re thinking it.”

At the end of the street, Leylen's pudgy visage lounged immortalized upon a pedestal in white marble. A metal placard told his inane history or some other such thing.

“You know what’s funny?” Toad asked, his eyes on the statue but his gaze a thousand years away, “Leylen came out here to escape the city and its people.”

“That’s usually the kind of thing that attracts people’s attention.”

Nettle looked down to see Toad fidgeting absent-mindedly with the cord of beads she used to keep track of her distance while traveling.

“Give me that.” Nettle swiped the cord and stuffed it into a random pocket.

An alternating pattern of white and gray stone demarcated the entrance to The Garden. Beyond, the cobbled streets became well-trodden grass paths. Buildings cramped together, fighting over real estate with trees and vines. The buildings were mostly winning. Toad rustled in her pocket before bringing out the compass, which he held aloft like a map.

“Southeast.”

Nettle pivoted mechanically.

“South.”

She turned down an alley that was more jungle than city. Nettle stopped just before stepping back onto the street.

“South.” Toad jerked in his pocket like a rider would spur a horse; when Nettle didn’t start walking, he followed her gaze to the wall. “Oh.”

“Notice. Fifty moss will be awarded upon the bringing of any living Paper Person to Leroy Gottle in Koelmus,” Nettle read slowly aloud.

Toad scanned the poster, “No address. Or picture, for that matter.”

Nettle leaned in to read the small text in the border, “Twenty if dead.”

Nettle tried to peel the poster off the wall but couldn’t get her nails under the paper. The sound of footsteps wound her nerves. She turned, ready to bolt only to unwind as two old drunkards stumbled down the street, mumbling more than talking – one with a head like a pumpkin and the other like a butternut squash. They stopped and squinted at Nettle.

She pointed at the poster, “What do you know of this?”

Pumpkin opened his eyes as if seeing her for the first time and grinned, “Hey, baby.”

He opened his arms for a hug and stepped forward. The smell of piss hit Nettle’s nose like a shovel. She shoved the man. Pumpkin hit the floor, and Butternut hacked out a coughing laugh that transitioned into more of a squelch. Butternut doubled over, leaning on the wall for support.

Pumpkin tried rolling to his front like a turtle before laughing as well, “Help me up, you old bastard.”

Nettle stepped over the scene and away from the squashes.

“How is that allowed?”

Toad looked up, concerned, “They allow way worse stuff here. Being sloshed that bad is the least morally bankrupt thing I imagine people are doing here.”

“Not that, the poster.”

“Hmm? Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. They can’t do anything in Leylen’s, just imply it.” Toad pointed to an alley clogged on one end by a knotted willow. “We’re here by the way.”

‘Here,’ it seemed, was a two-story building built sideways from the back of another building like a parasitic growth. A tree sprouted from inside and out an upstairs window, contrasting the stone brickwork. One of the double doors was missing, and a beaded curtain hung in its stead.

“The Swallow’s Tail?” Nettle asked skeptically.

“Ain’t she purdy?”

“It's a whore house.”

“And they’re purdy too. It's a twofer.”

Nettle clattered through the beads and felt the heat of salty air envelop her. Men sat in booths and displayed their yellowed teeth to the young women who served their drinks. A slow piano tune filled the space between people’s voices. Nettle approached the bar and the tan woman who was running it.

Toad spoke just above the music, “Tell her to get Queenie.”

“Hi, I’m looking for Queenie.”

The woman gave Nettle a once over and raised an eyebrow, “Who’s asking.”

“Tell her Mr. Luciatti,” Toad whisper-shouted.

Nettle did her most charming smile, “One moment, please.”

The bartender motioned with an open palm, “By all means.”

Nettle turned her back to the woman and slouched over, “Who the hell is Mr. Luciatti?”

“I’m Mr. Luciatti. Trust me, Queenie loves me.”

“Then why are you hiding in my pocket?” Nettle hissed through her teeth.

“You see that blonde by the stage?”

Nettle turned, “There’s a couple.”

“Not the eight, the ten.” Toad discreetly pointed her out.

“I suppose.”

“Let’s just say we don’t get along.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

Nettle turned back to the barkeep, “Mr. Luciatti is asking.”

The barkeep rolled her eyes and stepped through a back room.

“Toad Luciatti.” Nettle test the feel of it. “Is that Feliflese?”

“Yeah. From my great-grandpa, but I’ve never been.”

“Me neither, but I know an old Feliflese woman who houses me whenever I visit Aushoo.”

“That’s nice.”

Nettle set her bag on a stool and pulled up another for herself. She put her head down and closed her eyes. She must have passed out because she woke up to the barkeep shaking her awake.

“Mr. Luciatti? Queenie is able to see you now.”

Nettle blinked stupidly at the woman for a while before she could understand what any of those words meant.

“Of course. Thank you.”

The woman motioned to the door she previously disappeared behind. Nettle grabbed her pack and shambled away from the noise of the showroom. The following hallway was so thin her shovel dinged off the wall every couple of steps from its place strapped to her pack. A single door sat halfway through the hall, which ended unadorned and abruptly. It was as though the builder forgot hallways were meant to go places. Nettle knocked and heard a muffled ‘Come in.’ She swung the door open, and Toad hopped out of her pocket.

“Let me talk to Queenie. He can be a bit rough around the edges,” Toad scruffed his chin, “Actually, you just wait out here.”

Nettle didn’t have time to argue before he was able to slip through the crack and slam the door closed. Nettle stood listless for a bit before slumping to the floor. She listened to the muted piano and occasional cheer from the tap room. Nettle faded in and out, lulling her head like a pendulum.

Something hit Nettle’s forehead and fell into her lap. She opened her eyes and examined the brass key and the amphibian that had thrown it.

“Ask the barmaid for Queenie Soup. You’re room six.”

Toad squeezed back through the door, followed by muffled laughter. Nettle lurched to her feet and almost walked into Toad’s blonde ten as she exited the hallway.

Nettle miraculously kept eye contact with the woman as she spat out an, “I’m sorry, miss. Excuse me.”

The woman gave a gasping smile and cooed, “Were you just talking to the bossman? How exciting! A paper girl!” The woman ran a thumb over Nettle’s cheek before tucking a loose lock behind her ear. “You’re so exotic.”

“Yes, that’s very nice of you.” Nettle edged her way around the woman. “You have a very large, uh, heart.”

Nettle took a seat at the bar, and the woman followed suit. Nettle caught the bartender’s attention and requested some ‘Queenie Soup.’ The blonde woman rested her chin in her hands as she studied Nettle.

“You’d be surprised what some of the men here go for, so I wouldn’t worry.”

The bartender came back and slid a bowl across the counter. Nettle instantly dug in, scooping half a quail egg up with her spoon. Nettle looked back to Ten as she choked down her food, unsure what the woman was going on about.

That reminds me.

“Barkeep, what are the cup sizes here?”

The bartender fumbled behind the counter before producing a pint glass.

“Could I get a drink?” Nettle set a single green coin on the counter. “Anything’s fine.”

Foamy liquid gold flowed from the tap.

Nettle scarfed down her soup and washed it down with the pint.

“Sorry to cut things short, Ten, but I should be sleeping about now, so if you’ll excuse me.”

“Who’s the lucky client?” She looked around.

Nettle also looked around, her foggy mind unsure who they were searching for.

Ten sighed, “I should get back to work too.” She waved with her fingers. “Good luck, new girl.” With that, she swayed away.

Nettle dangled her key, and the bartender pointed to the stairs. She ambled her way upstairs and found the door with ‘six’ stamped on its brass plate. Her key matched the lock. Once inside, Nettle locked the door, slumped off her pack, hung her outerwear on the tree that consumed the center of the room, and finally fell face-first into the mattress.

Nettle desperately wanted to sleep, but her worries played billiards with her insecurities.

Too much had happened in too little time. Two days. Just two days. The dead man, fighting for her life, getting buried, negotiating with her would-be captor, talking frogs, the poster, Queenie Soup.

She probably used up her whole life’s excitement in two days. Even still, she felt empty. Emotionless. She’d been feeling empty for a while now. Sure, she was scared and angry while running and fighting, but afterward? She should have been furious. She should have been poison and venom.

When she was weeping over the dead man. That had to have been the last real feeling, right? She tried to replicate the despair she felt at that moment but couldn’t well it up. Before that? Nettle wasn’t sure the last time she felt so entirely.

She was a leaf in a river.

Nettle drifted to sleep, feeling guilty she couldn’t cry as she had done before.