Preaching the good news and healing the sick
in New Zealand, Nepal and the world
The River
There was once a young frog who lived in a green and limpid pond. He was contented there, for there were plenty of tasty worms plugging the mudholes, and crunchy flies skimming the surface. There were smooth lilies upon which to bask on sunshine days, and knotty reed-beds to hunt in idle moments and young female frogs to sport after. His firm skin, like his ambition, was shiny, green and bright. For soon he would be a large mature frog, maybe even the king of the pond.
One sunny, basky day, he fell into conversation with a brown, wrinkled frog whose skin was mottled and whose black markings were faded with age.
‘I haven’t seen you before. Do you live in this pond?’
‘No,’ replied the old, brown frog. But despite his brief reply the look on his face held secrets, which made the young frog curious. ‘Where are you from, then?’ the young frog asked.
‘Oh, I came down the river.’ And the old frog looked at him with the same secret look.
The young frog was a little discomforted, as if he had begun to talk of his rheumatism or his piles, as old frogs will. But he was not really surprised. For he had heard speak of the river, discounting it as myth, or at least if partly true, as something which didn’t really concern him. The pond yielded its living to him easily. Who cared about old frogs and their tales of the river?
The young frog surreptitiously appraised the ample girth and scrawny limbs of his companion. ‘Well, this is a smart pond. You’ll be welcome here. Food is easy and the girls are fine!’ He winked, as only young frogs know how, sensing that here was little competition.
‘Have you never been to the river, then?’ inquired the old amphibian.
‘No, what for? I mean, everything I want is here. Besides, I don’t really believe in it. It might be OK for others, but there’s no real evidence for it anyway. Why waste my time chasing after dreams, when I can chase girls instead?’
‘Did your parents never read you the Book of the River when you were a tadpole?’
The young frog was already beginning to tire of the conversation. Two young female frogs had just popped up onto a nearby lily-pad, and were admiring their reflections in the surface. Unconsciously, he puffed up his neck a little. ‘Well, bits of it. They read lots of stories. I used to love the one about the frog who turned into a Prince.’ He wondered how it must have felt to kiss a human. Yuk!
‘Then you will never see it,’ the old frog sighed.
‘See what?’ replied the youngster, gazing at the lily-pad. The two girls were preening, their green skins radiant in the sunshine. He licked his wide, wide mouth.
‘The waterfall.’
‘The what?’
‘The waterfall,’ the brown old frog repeated. ‘It is the most beautiful thing on earth. It is as though the river bursts. It cascades over the edge with a huge roar, crashing to the pool below. Then it dances and gurgles, and leaps in great waves which surge with power. And you should see the sparkling spray! The dew clings to you like a skin of pearls. Oh, it is beautiful, beautiful,’ cried the old frog.
The young frog turned back to the newcomer, expecting to see the gleam of madness in his eyes. ‘Clearly the old man was losing it,’ he thought, for he didn’t even understand his language, never mind his meaning.
But the old frog wasn’t looking at him any longer. Instead, he was gazing with deep longing beyond the far edge of the pond, where no one ever went. There was something in his earnestness which stirred the spirit of the young frog. What if the old thing was right after all? What if there really was a river? From the deep echoes of his mind came a fog of memory from the ancient tales.
‘So in this river of yours, the water moves?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes! The whole river is alive. Near the edge it is gentle, but in midstream it is fast. You cannot swim against it. In winter it is so powerful it can roll huge boulders along the bottom, and move whole mudbanks with its force. And in summer the sunlight plays on the rippling surface in a kaleidoscope of colour, and the water crowfoot weaves in the stream like willows in the wind. It is not confined like this pond, which you can circle within an hour. It comes from nowhere and goes to nowhere, and goes on forever.
‘And it is so fresh,’ the old frog went on. ‘You can breathe it and not suffocate. It is so clean you can see through it for leaps and leaps. There are great fish there too. Mighty silver salmon, and huge spotted trout, and pike which will eat you in one swallow, and crayfish which swim backwards. And eels and …’
‘Old man, your dreams have turned you crazy. How can a fish swim backwards? And fish don’t eat frogs! Give it up, old frog, and go back to your river. You won’t convert me into a river-freak. I have a life to live here. Besides, where is this great river of yours? I don’t see it, or feel it, or hear it. It is a figment of your fading imagination. Dream on, old croaker!’
The old frog wasn’t in the least perturbed by this out-burst. ‘The river is one good leap beyond the edge of this pond, that is all. One leap, and you’re there. One leap, and a whole new life awaits you. One leap, and this pond will seem a small and dingy place. It will seem dull and cramped and smelly and …’ The old one fixed his eyes on the youngster. ‘And lifeless,’ he added. Without another word, he plopped under the surface, and swam gently over to the far bank.
The young frog watched him climb out on the far side where no one ever went, past the knotty reed bed and the tall willows fluttering in the breeze. And then he saw the old brown form leap into the air and disappear from his gaze.
After some moments he swung his eyes back to the lily-pad, but the two girls had gone. He felt the strange emptiness that comes when you have lost something. Something precious. A hollow stomach which can only be filled by the treasure lost. He wasn’t sure now if it was the empty lily-pad or the words of the old frog which had made him feel this way, though it seemed to him as though somehow he was being given a choice. He looked back at the distant shore of the pond. What was it the old croaker had said? ‘One leap?’ It seemed so very, very unlikely. And yet…
A twinge of hunger broke his reverie. He slipped into the muddy water, and in a few seconds was hunting for worms. Somehow the pond had lost some of its glamour today. The water was flat in his nostrils. Dull. ‘Bother the old frog,’ he thought. ‘Bother him and his river tales. An hour ago I was happy, and now I am worming in a dull, cramped, smelly old pond, and for what? To get bigger, to become Top Frog of a muddy pond, to rear tadpoles, get old and crabby and die? Is that a life?’
His thoughts stole his appetite. He spat out the remains of a worm, and swam to the surface. Once again his eyes were drawn to the distant shore. And then with firm strokes he struck out across the green water. ‘One leap the old beggar had said. One leap I shall make,’ he told himself. ‘And if the old frog was wrong, at least I will know, and can go back to my worms.’
For the first time in his life he pulled himself out onto the bank by the knotty reeds, and hopped tentatively past the willows. And then he gathered himself tightly and leaped with all his strength, into the waiting River ▪