Chapter Six

It turned out that they didn't really need Beatrice's hidden pocket changeafter all. When Wirt tried to hand the frog manning (or frogging) the money, the bespectacled frog shied away from the metal and hissed as the copper crossed its palm. Wirt shrugged and tossed the coins back to Beatrice, but something in the air didn't feel right. When the feathers on her arms started prickling up, she knew something wasn't right. The feathers never lied.

She scanned the ferry. Greg was talking earnestly to his frog while Wirt dozed off by the railing. Everything seemed normal. But the frogs– the frogs. That was what was different. Their formerly green, healthy-looking skin had greyed, and thin, barely-there threads of black ran through their the sight of those faint, dark traceries, she was unpleasantly reminded of the Highwayman's wasted skin and she shuddered, although the late autumn sun was warm on her face. She pushed it away and walked over to the others.

"Hey," she said. "I think we should walk."

"What?" Wirt looked up blearily, yawning. "Why?"

She looked around the boat again, uneasy. "Something doesn't feel right. I think we should get off."

Wirt yawned again and waved her off. "I think all that research has made you paranoid. Relax. No one's going to try and kill us here."

She "Rrr"-ed in frustration and slouched against the railing, leveling a suspicious glare at the other inhabitants of the boat. The captain of the boat returned her gaze with blank, empty eyes and she slouched down even further. This was going to be a long ride.

Much to Beatrice's surprise, the ferry-ride was uneventful for the most part (except when Greg's frog decided to chat up one of the lady frogs and things had gotten a little messy). The tension in the air had not abated, however, and she felt like her nerves were as tightly wound as Adelaide's skeins of yarn.

The tipping point came when the ferry pulled up at the swamplands and they were readying to disembark the boat. Wirt stretched, marginally more cheerful after dozing the ride away, and said, "See, Beatrice? We're fine. Now all we need to do is stop the Forest from spreading and–" He cut himself off in mid-sentence as the frogs' heads snapped around in unison to stare at him. He shrank back, visibly unnerved. "Was it– was it something I said?"

Slowly, the frogs began to converge on them, flopping over the deck on damp frog feet. As they drew closer, their state became apparent. Something about their flat, blank eyes and the veins of black running through their grey skin made it clear: these were not the frogs that had ferried them to the swamplands three years ago. Their minds had been claimed by the Forest. The ever-growing scent of oil grew in the air as they became surrounded.

Wirt shrank back against the railing as the frogs came closer. In the back of his mind, he wondered if this was where Lovecraft took his inspiration for the people of Innsmouth.

Beside him, Beatrice cursed. "This is what happened to the Highwayman!" she yelled above the eerie croaking and ribbiting. "When you mentioned stopping the Forest, you must've made them mad!"

The frog closest to them shot out its tongue and caught her on the wrist. She hissed in pain. "Don't let them touch you!" she shouted. Her wrist felt like someone had scrubbed it with steel wool and sulfuric acid. "I flippin' told you so," she muttered, fumbling with her skirt.

Beside her, Wirt yelped as he tried to kick a frog away. "What do we do?"

Jason Funderburker croaked in panic as his fellow frogs did their best to push him and Greg over the side of the ferry and into the river.

"Oh, now you want my help?" she panted, trying to bite through the seams at the hem of her dress.

"Yes!" Wirt yelled. There was a dull,meaty thud as Greg hurled his teapot at another frog, sending it flying back into two of its friends.

She gave up and ripped the bottom of her skirt in half. In a shower of metallic-sounding thuds and clinks, enough coins to fill a small piggy bank clattered to the floor of the boat. At the sound of metal, the demented frogs drew back, hissing.

Beatrice scooped up a handful of pennies and shoved them in Greg's hands. She snatched up more and passed some to Wirt, keeping a handful for herself.

Wirt stared at the fifteen cents or so in his hand. "This is your plan?" He sounded near-hysterical. "Pocket change?"

Stressed and hopped up on adrenaline, she snapped at him. "Yes!" she snarled, feinting at a frog with a nickel. "Haven't you read your fairytales? Forest creatures hate metal, fool!"

His eyes widened and he began hurling coins at the frogs. Where the metal touched the frogs' skin, it blistered and puckered like red, angry scars. Greg threw coins haphazardly not really caring about where the coins landed as long as the possessed amphibians kept their distance. Wirt was a little more conservative with his ammunition, carefully aiming and targeting for the most effect.

And Beatrice? Hell, she just wanted to inflict as much damage as possible.

Slowly, they fought their way to the ramp that led down to the bank. Greg was the first to reach the ground, then Wirt, then Beatrice, brandishing her last penny as they retreated. Once everyone was off of the boat, they ran, not waiting to see whether they were being pursued or not.

When they were a decent distance away from the river, they stopped. Wirt bent over, trying to catch his breath. Greg sat down on the dry leaves, tired, and Beatrice prodded at her stinging arm, wincing at the pain. That's going to scar, she thought as she did her best to bandage it with some fabric torn from the ruined skirt of her dress.

Wirt slumped down next to a tree and rubbed his face wearily. "Guys," he said. "We need to talk."

"Uh-oh." Beatrice sat down across from him "That's never good."

He sighed and his shoulders drooped. "I think you two should go home."

"What?" Beatrice and Greg shouted in unison, shocked. "Why?"

He rested his head against the rough bark of the tree and looked up at the sky. Night was falling. "Crazy trees, fading worlds, demented frogs. . . this is all my fault. I was the one who blew out the lamp. You two should go somewhere safe and let me do this alone."

Beatrice opened her mouth to protest but Greg beat her to the punch. The little boy glared. "No," he said firmly. "No brother o' mine is going to do this alone."

"But I won't be alone," Wirt reasoned. "Enoch's looking after us, right? I'll be fine."

Beatrice frowned. "I don't trust him," she said. "Wirt, this is crazy. I– we can't let you do this. It'd be suicide. You're practically helpless. You are helpless." She cast about for some sort of compromise, anything. "Listen, how about we–"

"No," he cut her off. "You listen. Everyone has a torch to bear, and this one must be mine," he said, unconsciously echoing the Woodsman from so long ago. "I was the one who killed the Beast, and I have to be the one to bring him back. It's the fault in our stars. He who kills the Beast becomes the Beast. I know this," he said desperately. "I can't risk you guys getting hurt because of me."

Wirt stood up, his muscles protesting at the sudden movement. The other two scrambled to their feet as well, stirring up flurries of leaves. "I know this," he repeated. "I can feel it. Look, the Edelwood's beginning to move faster already."

Beatrice looked down and swore violently. She shook her foot, breaking away the thin tendrils of Edelwood crawling over her shoes. "What the hell," she muttered halfheartedly. She looked up at Wirt. "Well, what are you going to do?" she challenged. "If we do leave?"

Wirt lifted his chin, looking as poetically noble as he could. "When you guys leave, I'll talk to Auntie Whispers, get her advice. And while you guys are safe, I'll bring back the Beast."

Even during that short speech, the Edelwood was growing again over her feet, as if she was fuel for the Forest's unnatural, quickly-growing appetite. (Oddly, Wirt seemed to be unaffected, and no vines grew about his feet.) She gritted her teeth, hating herself. "Fine," she spat. "But the moment a week passes, I'm flying back to get you."

"Fine." Wirt glanced down to see Greg hugging his leg tightly, as if he would never let him go. Ever since the incident at Endicott Mansion, he'd been loath to see his elder brother go out of sight.

"I don't want you to go," the boy whispered.

"I don't want me to go either," Wirt said softly, crouching down to his brother's level. "But I have to."

"Why?" he asked plaintively.

"It's like–" Wirt cast about for an explanation. "It's like when something happens and you know there could have been no other way. It's like fate. You're pulled to do it, like leaves swept down an inexorable tide to oblivion. I just have to do it, okay? I'll be fine." He hugged his little brother tightly, resting his chin atop the cool metal of the teapot. "I promise." He smiled softly. "And that's a rock fact."

Wirt stood up, meeting Beatrice's eyes from where she stood, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth. "Keep him safe, Beatrice," he said.

"I will." She met his eyes steadily and he felt comforted, knowing that Greg was in more-than-capable hands.

"Thank you."

Then all of a sudden, she was hugging him and tangled red hair was all he could see. "You wonderful mistake of nature," she whispered fiercely, almost angrily, and he hugged her back. He could feel her beating heart thudding against his own and he thought that, being dead, she was more alive than anyone he had ever known before.

Wirt stood by the edge of the forest and watched as the two people he cared about most drew steadily farther and farther away from him. A trail of broken and snapped Edelwood vines stretched like footprints behind them and he silently hoped that Beatrice had the sense to keep to the parts of the Unknown where the pull of the Forest wasn't as strong.

When they were swallowed up by the shifting fog he turned around and began the long walk to redemption.

Author's Notes: I have no regrets about the frogs. None at all.