The Frog Bridge

By Ian Boyd

As Liam comes to terms with the loss of his older brother to a long-term illness, a new kid moves in next door from a strange country far away. To Liam, the new boy is an invader who threatens to destroy the only life he has ever known. But like the tadpoles which slowly turn into frogs under a bridge beside his house, he learns that life is con

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spirit of the Earth Books
• Release date: Nov 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9780648905738

Book preview

1

Look at that one, Tilly!

My little sister and I lie side by side, face down on the frog bridge in the back yard of our house. The water is so close beneath us that I can almost touch it. And it’s perfectly still, like a mirror. But we’re not interested in the reflection of our faces. We’re looking at what’s moving around under the water. Tiny black creatures dart about in a world of their own. I wonder if they even know we’re watching them.

I point my arm down like a fishing spear at the biggest, fattest tadpole in the pond. Tiny back legs have sprouted from either side of its tail. It looks like a miniature, half formed lizard.

Oh yeah! says Tilly, screwing up her nose. Where are its fwont legs?

I don’t know, I shrug. Maybe they’ll come out tomorrow.

What time?

I don’t know.

Does it hurt?

How would I know? I’m not a tadpole, am I.

Well …

I can see Tilly trying to think of another question, like I’m some kind of frog expert. We both know our big brother could tell her. Peter knows the answers to everything. But I’m not as smart as he is. I mean, as smart as he was. I keep forgetting he’s not here anymore.

Tilly’s eyes light up as she finally thinks of something else she wants to know. When do they turn into fwogs and jump out of the water?

I don’t know, I snarl. Maybe they jump out at night. I’ve never seen them turn into frogs, have I?

Tilly frowns at me like I’m stupid. I hate it when she does that. She can’t even say frogs properly, or any word with the letter ‘r’ in it. I puff up my cheeks and pull a frog face at her like she’s the one who’s stupid for asking so many questions. But she doesn’t get the hint and keeps going.

The big fat one keeps looking at me.

He does not.

Yes, he does. Tilly stops to think for a second. How do you know he’s a boy?

Because he looks like a boy.

Then what’s his name?

Fatso! I answer, like I already knew. But I just made it up without even thinking.

I don’t like calling him Fatso. It sounds wude.

It isn’t rude if that’s his name. Just be quiet for a minute.

I turn away from Tilly and stare into the pond. Dozens of tadpoles float through weedy moss that sways between the stems of spiky grass poking right up out of the water. The tadpoles flick their tails and dodge each other, minding their own business. It looks like a cool place to live, down amongst the muddy rocks. I can’t help wondering if the tadpoles are excited about turning into frogs one day and jumping out onto dry ground. So many things out here could eat them. Or kill them. Or squash them. If I was a tadpole, I’d rather stay hidden away under the bridge forever.

I notice the reflection of two chubby cheeks, blue eyes, and long red hair stick out between Tilly and me. It’s one of her stupid dolls. I hate dolls. I nudge it with my elbow to push it away from me.

Hey, Tilly snaps. Stop it, Liam!

Well don’t make it touch me.

My little sister pokes her tongue out at me and pulls the doll under her arm, like it’s a real baby or something. I swear there’s something wrong with her. Why can’t she be interested in cool stuff like I am? Like Peter was.

Peter and I used to spend hours hanging out at the frog bridge. I don’t know who put it here, or when, or why. The sides are made from thick pieces of rusty steel with grey wooden slats running between them, like railway sleepers. You can get splinters in your legs if you’re not careful. And it’s pretty small. I’m the best long jumper in my year at school, and it only takes me three decent jumps to make it from one end to the other. But the most important thing about the frog bridge is that it crosses a creek running through our back yard. So, it’s our bridge. That means nobody else is allowed to come here and walk across it unless we say they can.

The whole pond area is hidden from the road by a huge, fuzzy golden cypress bush. It looks like a yellow woolly mammoth that stopped at the creek for a drink thousands of years ago and got frozen here when the ice age came. It must have been weird for all the animals living on Earth when the ice age came. I hope there’s no ice age while I’m alive or I could get frozen while I’m peeing over the fence. Future people will find me in a thousand years, and they’ll do all kinds of experiments to work out what kind of creature I was. Maybe they’ll put me in a museum like a water fountain. School kids will walk past and be amazed by how far ancient humans like me could pee.

The golden cypress bush doesn’t look like a woolly mammoth was peeing, but I bet an animal that big could pee a long way. And dinosaurs could probably pee even further. Like the ones that got frozen behind the cypress bush. It looks like there are four of them that turned into giant oak trees running along Druids Avenue in front of our house.

In fact, Peter found out that the oak trees are more than a hundred years old. He reckons no one should ever be allowed to cut them down because they were here before any living person was born. But I don’t really care how old they are. All I care about is how they drop acorns that we can throw at each other. And they drop branches that we can use for sword fighting. That’s what Peter and I always do around the frog bridge. Or we used to, anyway.

I’m only hanging out here with Tilly because Peter died a few weeks ago. Everything feels wrong now. Like something’s missing all the time. I hate hanging out with my little sister because we don’t like doing any of the same things. And I don’t reckon Tilly likes hanging out with me, either. But Mum keeps forcing us together and telling us to go and play outside! Which is kind of like making a dog hang out with a cat. I’m the dog—in case you didn’t work it out—because dogs are fun. Cats are only friendly when they want something. That’s what Tilly’s like.

The thing is, Mum’s eyes always look sad since Peter died. It feels like I can’t argue with her, or she’ll start crying. And I don’t know what to do when she cries. Dad reckons it’s best to leave her alone, which is why I came out to the frog bridge with Tilly just now. I’ve been trying to do the right thing. Like Dad told me to. But it just gets so boring.

Tilly finally starts looking like she’s going to watch the tadpoles without talking, when she suddenly sits up and crosses her legs. She stands her dolly up on her lap and fiddles with its dress. Then she makes it dance around on the bridge. I think she’s pretending it’s a ballerina or something.

Tadpoles are borwing, she says. I’m going back inside.

No, I tell her. Mum said we have to stay outside so she can have a rest.

But I don’t want to stay out here.

Why not?

Because my legs hurt.

Stop being such a— I stop myself before calling her a sook. I would have called her that before, but I’m the oldest now. I hate being the oldest. You can’t just say whatever you want.

The thing is, I wasn’t the oldest before Peter died. But now I am. Nobody cares about how he was twelve when he died but I’ve only just turned ten. Dad reckons that now I’m the oldest I have to ‘start acting like it’. Whatever that means. I think part of it is knowing when not to say something because it’s the wrong thing to say. Peter always knew about that kind of thing better than me. If you ask me, he was better at being the oldest than me in every single way because he was born first, so he was supposed to do it forever.

No one understands that it’s harder for me being Tilly’s big brother because Peter and Tilly are more the same as each other. Like Dad. They all have the same mousy coloured hair and freckles. I have blonde hair like Mum. But it’s more than just what we all look like. Peter and Tilly are happy to sit quietly without talking. Reading books. Drawing. Stuff like that. But I hate being quiet and sitting down. I need to move around. If I sit still for too long, I feel like I’m going to explode and spray the walls with all my blood and gizzards.

I guess there were some ways Peter was like me. He liked sword fighting, riding his bike, playing video games, kicking a football, or fishing with his best mate, Muff Leota. The problem with Tilly is that she never stops talking about her dolly, or princesses, which is driving me crazy. I want to teach her how to do some of the cool things Peter and I did together. Hopefully, she’s a good learner like I am.

Stand up, I say, jumping to my feet in the middle of the bridge.

Why?

Because I want to show you something.

Tilly stands up and stares at me with a blank face. Her shoulders are slumped, so I can tell she thinks I’m going to show her something boring. But I’m not. I’m going to teach her how to sword fight.

Follow me. I start toward the far side of the frog bridge from our house. There’s an old wooden fence covered by scrubby green bushes. That’s where Peter and I pee if we’re busting and can’t be bothered going inside. I’m not quite tall enough to see over the top to the neighbours’ back yard, but I can pee over if I push as hard as I can. I won’t even try to teach Tilly how to do that.

In front of the bushes is an open patch of dirt as big as our lounge room. In winter, the dirt is covered with oak leaves, but they all blow away before summer so it’s a great spot to practise sword fighting. Peter says that if any invaders come along the fence, we have to force them back before they reach the frog bridge. That’s why he calls our patch of dirt the battlefield. And he’s the king of the battlefield.

The thing about my family that makes us kind of special is how our last name is King. My brother is called Peter King, and I am Liam King. We think that’s because our ancestors were actual Kings. We can’t prove it or anything, but no one can prove they weren’t, either. And I reckon it has to be true because my brother would have been a great king.

Peter always knew he was born to be a king, like it was in his blood. He read every book at our school library about battles. And he was always telling me what kings would be thinking when they sat on their horses, planning the battle as they waited for an enemy king to arrive with his army. Just like playing chess and draughts. Peter played those games with Dad all the time, and he could even beat him sometimes. I have never beaten either of them at draughts, but I can beat Tilly every time.

I tried learning how to play chess but it’s too slow and boring. Maybe that’s why I suck at being the oldest. It turns out I’m better at doing things where I don’t need to think too much, like sword fighting and throwing acorns. I could probably go in the Guinness Book of Records for being the best acorn thrower who ever lived. If I throw five acorns at the streetlight across the road from our house, one of them will always hit. Peter says I would have been a