The River Bank by Kij Johnson

Author:Kij Johnson [Johnson, Kij]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781618731319
Publisher: Small Beer Press
Published: 2017-08-28T04:00:00+00:00

The Rabbit said anxiously, “I don’t think your injuries are that bad, dear Toad! No broken bones—no parts missing—your skull uncracked . . . You have a few scratches and bruises, but it is fortunate that we fell into these brambles, or things should have been much worse, you know. Indeed, we are quite lucky!”

But the Toad could not be comforted. “Doomed,” he wailed. Enormous tears rolled from his eyes to puddle in his ears. “O, I am such a vain, foolish Toad! What was I thinking? My home, my friends, my wealth—Lost! Torn away! Gone, because I could—not—restrain—myself!” He sat up, but could hardly hold his head upright for his gusty weeping. “Ratty—Mole—Otter—dear old Badger—they all warned me, again and again—told me that I must learn to be a better Toad—but I did not listen—and now I’m for it! No hope, no hope at all!” He threw himself down again full-length among the brambles (though avoiding the worst of them) and absolutely let himself go.

The Toad’s display of sorrow—long, noisy, and damp—was not for the faint of heart, but the Rabbit had many younger siblings and she had seen worse—though, to be just, never before from anyone grown to adulthood. She looked around, but there was no vase convenient, that she might dash its contents into the Toad’s face and break his hysterical frenzy. Nor did she think she could bring herself to slap him—someone of the male persuasion, and very nearly a stranger! But her reticule had somehow remained on her wrist through the long activity-filled day, and she pulled from it a little bottle of smelling salts, uncapped it, and waved it beneath his broad nostrils.

“O!” said the Toad, arrested in mid-wail, choking at the strong smell. “What are you doing, you detestable female?”

“Trying to calm you!” said the Rabbit, a little tartly, for her day had not been one of unalloyed delight, either. “And I am not detestable.”

“No, you’re not,” acknowledged the Toad with a flush of shame. “I know that; it is only my own selfishness speaking. You . . . mean well, I know that. . . . If you are brutal, it is . . . not intentional. . . . But my constitution is more delicate that one would think, to look at me.”

“I am sure not!” said the Rabbit robustly. “Why, you are—hsst! Listen!”

They heard the clop of hooves and the creaking of wheels: a horse and cart approaching. It came to a stop as the Toad and the Rabbit stared at one another with wide eyes. Someone got down from the cart, and then a second person, and then there were footsteps closer, closer. . . .

“Hullo!” said a voice just outside the bramble: a female, country voice. “Look, Ned—here’s a ruined motor-cycle! Someone’s taken a spill!”

A second voice—male; this must be Ned—exclaimed, “Right you are, Mum!” and called, “Hullo? Is anyone in there?”

The terror-stricken Toad said nothing, only cowered in his place, but the Rabbit cried out, “Yes, O yes! We have been in a terrible accident.

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