The Minstrel & The Cook

A new short-story, and a prelude to my first book Frog of Arcadia

From the moment he had first arrived in the countryside, the minstrel had quickly achieved fame among the water rats. From under his hooded cloak, peaked a fury and whiskered nose — a clever mask which concealed his true identity — and from under that false snout came the most melodious songs those rats had ever heard. Like an old-time troubadour, the lyrical bullfrog toured incognito through the fens and hollows, strumming his lyre and singing verses about the characters he’d met and the places he’d visited. But alas, wherever he roamed he saw only misery and woe.

The once prosperous swamp had been invaded by water rats who had enslaved its inhabitants. While larger beasties like the possums had little to fear from these invaders, those smaller critters were put under bitter bondage. Leopard frogs, wood frogs, pickerel frogs alike were driven into despair, a grief which was only enhanced by their small, bickering factions. The mice of those swamplands were no better off, finding no allies in their times of need. On their own, each individual clan stood little chance to defend themselves against the power of the water rats.

With promises of wealth and prosperity, the naïve swamp residents had willingly traded in their freedom for credit. For the first time on those Arcadian shores, taxes would be levied for social projects to elevate their new “progressive” society, and a central currency was established to govern this coming golden age. Through very lawful means, those treacherous rats had ensnared the gullible Arcadians. And all those poor critters got in return was death and despair. Each of them suffered under a growing yoke of debt, and those who could not pay their debts through forced labour were cruelly eaten.

It troubled the minstrel to see these once prosperous wetlands reduced to such low-level bureaucracy and wickedness. It seemed like every other day that a new by-law officer was appointed, or someone else was being audited. And so it was that these misfortunes informed his songs — for what good is a folk singer who won’t sing ballads about present woes? But the minstrel’s routine was soon to land him in hot water, as they say, for the rats would not suffer any hard truths about themselves.

“This marsh once housed the fat of the land,

With food as far as the reaching of the hand.

You could take what you need and leave the rest;

Only a rat would take for himself the very best.”

For the crime of offending the local overseers, the minstrel would be ambushed by their hired hands. But those henchmen would find the minstrel no easy target, for as skillfully as he had played upon its strings, the minstrel could ably sling his instrument as a weapon. Thus, he would continue his song as he smashed their teeth.

“If there is some untruth that’s accompanied my lyre,

Then make it plainly known, or call yourself the liar.”

Failing to seize the minstrel, the overseers appealed to the crown saying, “there’s a troublemaker in our parts who sings ill of our progressive values.” And it wasn’t long before the Rat King’s own guards had come to visit the musical poet. Each of them marvelled at the minstrel’s mighty stature. This time they tried persuasion.

“Won’t you come with us, fellow rat?” one of the guards bid carefully. “The Rat King has heard of your fame, that never before has a water rat had your skill upon a lyre, and he wishes you to perform in his court.”

The minstrel smiled from under his hood. His rat skin cloak had truly fooled the lot of them! The masked minstrel had relied upon the poor eyesight of the rats to allow him to walk freely among them, but now he was offered access to the Rat King himself.

What a jolly jest this will make, he quietly laughed as he accepted their escort.

***

The air was thick and putrid in the Rat King’s darkened throne room, reeking of blood and dung. The mighty minstrel looked upon the Rat King with morbid curiosity, for that potentate was not one, but ten. Nine subordinate rats were a footstool to one fattened rat who say atop them and wore a crown. The minstrel perceived that one of those vassal kings was dead and decaying; this one near the bottom of the pile and pushed to the side. The disgust of this place offended the minstrel’s senses.

The living rats who made up the collective kingship stuck their noses out at the minstrel as they took in his scent.

“You smell like frog, minstrel” spoke Sugarplum, the crowned rat who sat atop the mass.

“’Tis my diet, m’lord” the minstrel replied evasively, as speaking to the ten.

“Step into the light.” Sugarplum commanded. There was a beam coming down from a hole in the roof of his squatter’s palace. The minstrel obeyed, stepping into the daylight for inspection.

“My nose says frog, but my eyes say rat,” one of rat vassals hissed.

Sugarplum whacked his subordinate with his sceptre. “You will speak when spoken to,” he shouted. Then turning his attention back to the minstrel, he began to marvel at his frame.

“What is your name, portly rat?” Sugarplum inquired.

“Snaggletooth, m’lord” deceived the minstrel, pointing to one of the crooked teeth on his rat-faced headdress. 

“And how did you come to be so well nourished?” the Rat King asked, in response to his guest’s large frame.

To that question, the hulking minstrel again deceived. “This muskeg offers a hearty diet for a rat like me.”

Sugarplum stroked his chin suspiciously. It had been a long time since the Rat King had heard the sound of music, for rats had long ago lost the ability to bend their strings to make any kind of harmony. Rat instruments would only hiss and screech in held in their musicians’ claws. This fact helped bolster the mystery of a strange rat who could play the lyre well, and the Rat King greatly desired to hear some of those rumoured melodies.

“Play a song for your king,” the Rat King commanded in one unified voice.

With a sly grin, the masked minstrel sat himself on the floor and began to strum his lyre.

“Where’d these filthy vermin come from?

Exploiting the innocent, like filthy profiteers.

Where’s a Pied Piper when you need one?

To end the rodent plague and tears?”

The Rat King frowned sourly at the spoken verse. He loathed any association between rats and pestilence as mere prejudice. But the plague that the minstrel sang of was one of hopelessness.

“I do not care for this self-deprecating manner of humour,” Sugarplum said to the mass beneath him.

“A rat has no business criticizing his fellow rodents.” agreed another from the cluster.

“But his skill with a lyre is plain to hear!” yet another hissed back. “Besides, we could find use for such a large fellow in our employ.”

Their collective council was received by the fattened rat sitting atop their mass.

“You will stay with us and entertain our courts with music” Sugarplum finally decided. “In exchange for your services, we offer you double rations from our storehouses. You’ll find our pantries full of cakes and pies baked from the choicest fruit of this wanting land. Our cook, Percy, is gifted in the culinary arts… I think you find our offer satisfying?”

“M’lord is most gracious” the minstrel accepted with a bow, stepping back into the darkness.

And so it came to pass that the masked minstrel entered the Rat King’s employ that day. From there, he would discover the joys of shoofly pie and all manners of bug pastries. But he was intent to leverage his new position by spying on all the comings and goings of the rats. This was his true mission: weekly, he would bring a report to the scattered and helpless frog resistance.

Though he was the lord of the bullfrogs, these thankful frogs did not recognize him from beneath his rat skin disguise. But from his insider intelligence, a substantial push began to emerge against the rats. For the first time that anyone could remember, different frog clans were coming together against a common enemy. The tide appeared to be turning.

“Tell us who you are, brave soldier” the grateful resistance leaders would eventually request. But always, the masked minstrel would decline.

“My time has not yet come,” he would simply reply.

But as time marched on, the minstrel found that his newfound comforts and rich diet were making him fat and lazy. He realized that he had become significantly slower moving than when he had first arrived, and he found that he was spending considerably more time in bed than he used to.

“Curse that cook and his culinary genius!” the now hefty minstrel bemoaned, speaking of Percy as though he meant him direct harm.

But as tired and lazy as the bullfrog had grown, his continued spying was fueling a growing rebellion of the frog clans. This, in turn, caused significant persecution against the oppressed, and the minstrel’s heart strings would finally be tugged into bolder action.

That night, the minstrel decided that he would help himself to the Rat King’s pantry one final time, and then he would steal away to reveal himself to the resistance as Melchizedek, lord of the bullfrogs. From there, he would lead a coalition of frogs against the tyrants. And so, under cover of darkness, Melchizedek shed his rat disguise and crept into the kitchen for that final, departing midnight snack; a farewell tour of the Rat King’s pantry, so to speak. Barrels of winged insects and slow roasted grasshoppers greeted him as he stuffed his gullet. The bullfrog’s massive mouth watered as he consumed quantities upon quantities.

But just as he was finishing his dinner, even before he could wash it down to make room for dessert, a light flickered over his shoulder. Turning from the rack of goodies, Melchizedek saw the Rat King’s trusted cook swinging a lantern. The jig was up! The unmasked bullfrog had been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

The bullfrog was shocked to see that the cook, whom he had never laid eyes on before, was a small albino field mouse. Clad in a matching white apron and topped with a white toque, the mouse sneered at the thief in his kitchen. Immediately Melchizedek understood that this little mouse was a slave to the invading water rats. But it would take time to test where Percy’s loyalties really were.

“A bullfrog!” the cook accused, pointing his clawed mouse finger at Melchizedek’s green, fleshy body.

“Aye!” the great frog replied. “’Tis a pity you have discovered me on the eve of my departure. I must say that I have enjoyed your pantry tremendously.” Melchizedek slapped his firm tummy as he spoke these things. “It will be a shame to smite so able a cook, but you have interrupted my dessert, and that simply won’t do.”

Placing the lantern on the countertop, the field mouse cook gripped his rolling pin by the handle and charged after the bullfrog spy.

“You have deceitfully gained a seat at the Rat King’s table!” the cook shouted as he lunged at the frog. “How dare you profane my cuisines with lies!”

“Nonsense!” the frog king replied, evading the strike. “Your culinary arts were profaned already, as they were prepared by a mouse for the company of rats!”

As the two wrestled and grappled, they tumbled and rolled upon the pantry floor, knocking all manners of delectables from the tall shelves. With his long tongue, Melchizedek would snatch these fallen items off the floor to nourish his tiring muscles for the fight. His stamina was not what it once was, and he found himself sufficiently drenched with meat sweats, oiling his fleshy body. Those pantry shelves quickly collapsed to ruins, as the pair tumbled through bags of flour and wrestled through tubs of lard.

Finally, the cook fought his tiring opponent into a head lock, hoping for a plea of submission. But the greased bullfrog was able to slip his way out, surprising the cook. Swiftly, Melchizedek reached for a cast iron pan and hit the cook on the head, knocking him to the floor.

Panting from the struggle, the weary Melchizedek seized the opportunity for a brief recess. Wrapping his lips around barrel taps, one by one, he drained the bog water kegs down to their dregs. Then he began taking in some dessert to restore his energy.

Eventually, the cook would rise to a sitting position, clutching at his bruised forehead. “You’ve given me a nasty lump.” he finally spoke grudgingly. It was clear that the mouse was no longer in the mood for a fight.

“Either I’ve lost my edge,” the massive bullfrog spoke “or you fight well beyond your weight class.”

“Perhaps it is a combination of the two,” the cook replied. “It is my responsibility to protect this kitchen from thieves. When I heard you rummaging through my pantry, it set my blood to boil. You must know, stranger, that it is my skin on the line if the kitchen is robbed.”

Swallowing a final cricket-raisin cake, the frog king smacked his lips with satisfaction. He was now sufficiently full. Then, picking up his lyre from the mess, he composed a new verse in the cook’s company.

“Cricket-raisin cakes and shoofly pies,

Are too rich a blessing for this house.

Why not cook for a better guy?

A den of rats is no place for a mouse.”

The cook turned his head from between his knees to look at the bullfrog. “You offer me a job?” he asked.

“The swamp critters suffer greatly outside these walls,” spoke the bullfrog. “I have concealed my identity from the rats to infiltrate their lair. But my time here has come to an end. I must now return to the outside, to lead a rebellion. Whether we will succeed or die trying, only the Maker knows. But this I do know – that if we succeed, it will be under the banner of the united frog clans. And how much stronger would that banner be if the mice would join the fight against our common enemy?”

Percy looked around at his pantry, which had been utterly destroyed by their tussle. He had only remained in the rat’s employ for his family’s protection, labouring as a kitchen slave to pay his debts. But for this crime of property damage, he knew that he and his family were no longer safe. He now had no choice but to flea.

Looking at the bullfrogs offered hand, Percy felt as though he should be angry. But he somehow knew it to be the hand of providence.

“Maker willing, and the creek don’t rise,” Percy replied apprehensively, forcing himself to take Melchizedek’s hand.

“We fight come hell or high water,” Melchizedek spoke vigorously, lifting his newfound ally to his feet, “Nay, especially high water.” And there they swore a pact — that from that moment onward, so long as there was a homeland to defend, that their descendants would strive together under one banner, to rid the swamp of wickedness.

That very night, the unmasked bullfrog and the field mouse cook stormed into the Rat King’s chambers, slaying Sugarplum and his vassals with the sword. Then with cooking oil, Percy torched those putrid chambers. Chaos erupted amongst the rats as they watched their squatter’s palace burn to the ground. 

Seizing the moment, Melchizedek revealed himself to a handpicked few in the resistance, a leader from each of the frog clans, and word quickly spread that the bullfrog king was alive. From then on, courage begat courage as the Arcadian critters came together against their common enemy. Leopard frogs, wood frogs, pickerel frogs, and field mice fighting side by side.

Though history recalls many instances of rat plagues, it had not been since the time of Pharaoh that frogs had arisen with such a fury.

At their victory, Melchizedek raised a stone of help to commemorate the grace of their Maker. And there it was that Melchizedek was crowned king over the now united frog clans. So goes the legend of the minstrel and the cook, and how the mice came to serve Melchizedek’s throne.

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I truly hope that you enjoyed this short story. This tale was written as a prelude to my first book, Frog of Arcadia. If you haven’t read Frog of Arcadia yet, you can grab your copy by clicking the “buy” button below. If you enjoy my work, children’s literature told with an old soul, please consider supporting my future publications by subscribing. And please feel free to share your thoughts. Thank you for reading The Minstrel & The Cook.