Swan Song
By Martin Smith
There was once a tubby young tadpole called Laddy Taddy. He lived with his parents in the poorest, murkiest part of a large pond; indeed, they dwelt right under the outlet of a huge pipe that spewed industrial waste into the pond all day and all night. His father would often boast that though it may not be the swank part of the pond occupied by those toffy toads and snooty frogs, they, the Taddys, were blessed because they were not burdened by an enormous mortgage. ‘Just think, me Laddy,’ his father would often say, ‘one day, all this corner of the pond will be yours.’
All day, every day, Mr Taddy plunged his head into the murk and educated his son all about the big wide world and, particularly, the perils and predators that lay beyond their murky home. ‘Never leave the Murk, son,’ his father cautioned, ‘for to leave before you mature into a frog means certain death.’ During the day, when not being taught, Laddy swam in circles, but never beyond the Murk. His world remained dark and innocent. To be truthful, he had never actually seen the light of day, nor his parents. Yet Laddy swam in circles that grew a tad more larger each day as he became a tad more curious about the world beyond.
One evening as Laddy swam his post-dinner circles, he looked up and saw a distant muted light piercing the Murk. Mesmerised, he went to move towards the light, only for a net to scoop him up and drop him with a plop into a glass jar filled with murky water. Laddy dropped hard, hit his head against the glass and passed out.
When Laddy came to, he felt briefly disoriented until he recalled the net and the glass jar. Panicking, he swam to the jar’s perimeter, placed his bulging eye against the glass and looked out. And he croaked a waterlogged scream, for there before him, with a proptotic eye pressed against the other side of the glass, was a screaming mad scientist! Yep, a mad scientist stood there, all right—with wild, unkempt hair, goggly eyes behind oversized safety glasses and “Mad Scientist” scrawled on the breast pocket of his grimy, wrinkly lab coat. Laddy looked behind the man and saw a wall filled with shelves filled with glass jars filled with clear fluid filled with dismembered frogs. And Laddy croaked an even bigger scream, and the Mad Scientist just, well, croaked it and dropped the glass jar containing Laddy. The jar crashed to the floor and shattered, and as light assailed Laddy’s bulging eyes and air assailed his heaving gills, he knew he was about to croak it, for he was beyond the Murk.
But then Laddy spied a drain hole, and he wriggled and writhed his aching body until he fell through a hole in the drain grate. And he plunged and plopped and was lost to a surging piped current and darkness.
An hour later, Laddy burst from the pipe’s outlet, landed in a pond and drifted in stunned silence on the surface.
‘That you, Laddy?’ a familiar voice called.
‘Dad?’
And Laddy looked up and saw the bloated face of a frog sitting at the edge of the pond under a full moon. But not just any frog. An ugly frog. A friggin’ freak of an ugly frog!
‘Oh God, Dad!’ Laddy cried out, shocked. ‘I never knew you looked like that.’
‘Sure do! Though I wasn’t always the handsome Indian purple frog I am now. And, look, your mother is here too.’ Another frog face appeared, equally hideous. ‘We’re not just a pair of pretty faces, you know.’
Laddy’s parents stepped forward into the moonlight and revealed their distorted, bloated bodies, splayed legs, little heads and pointed noses. Laddy released a croak of horror when he realised his father wasn’t having a bad hair day, for his mother was as ugly as a wart on a witch’s hairy chin too. Oh God! His parents were sooooo ugly. And—Oh God!—that meant that he was an … an … ugly frogling! Doomed to become a boofhead just like his frightful father.
‘Quick, Laddy,’ his father said, ‘back to the Murk. Else, you’re doomed.’
As a disillusioned Laddy dived deep down into the Murk, he vowed that there was no way he was going to end up a loathsome loser like his dad. No, he was going to evolve from the primordial soup that was his home and become handsome and have a fairy-tale happy ending. Yes, he was going to be un-ugly, to soar above the Murk and to sing a song of joy at achieving his handsome-ever-after. All he needed was to adopt a positive mindset and to take positive action. But where to start?
First, he relocated to the semi-Murk. There was no point in envisioning one’s future if you couldn’t, in the here and now, see a bloody thing. And his world turned to translucence. He then thought about joining a gym to lose some weight and to “buff” up. But, alas, he had no arms. He thought about running away from home. But, alas, he had no legs. He turned to religion and prayed for a miracle: that he turn into a swan, a handsome regal swan with a handsome regal swan song of a rich and complex melody. But then he looked at his parents again and released a despondent sigh, for he knew such prayers were folly. There was naught he could do but accept his genes and his fated future ugliness. And in his despair, Laddy abandoned his faith and comfort-ate. And over the ensuing days he got fatter and fatter and uglier and uglier.
One night several weeks later, Laddy writhed in febrile pain all night. Not just from the turmoil of knowing he would grow up to be as grotesque as his parents, but also a physical pain that racked his body. At dawn, after only an hour’s fitful sleep, he stirred, looked down and saw a single … what was that? There, upon his lower abdomen? Was that a hair? A single pubic hair? Good God! He’d reached puberty! But, no, not a hair! A soft, thick, fluffy pubic feather! A pubic swan feather! He was transitioning from cygnet to swan. His fairy tale was alive! No more ugly frogling for him. He was a swan in the making. A handsome swan. And he spent all day with a jaunt in the swish of his tail fin as he swam merrily around his circle whilst croaking joyously at his good fortune. Indeed, he could have sworn his croak was a tad deeper than normal.
After another night of writhing in febrile pain, Laddy woke to discover he had—Good God!—a left wing! A rudimentary, feathery wing. A rudimentary, feathery swan’s wing! He was on the way up and out of this shit soup he’d soon no longer call home. He could wave! He could salute! And he could give his life to date the good old middle feather!
After another night of writhing in febrile pain, Laddy woke to discover he had—Holy Tad Shit!—a left limb! But not a smooth, fat and moist frog limb like his plumpy parents, but a bumpy, rough-scaled black limb, one to which was attached the makings of an elegant foot with webs of stretchy skin between the toes. Good God! A swan’s limb; indeed, a limb of great beauty. And he hopped a little foot jig to celebrate.
After another night of writhing in even worse febrile pain, he woke to discover his left limb had—Fooking Hell!—a buddy, again a bumpy, rough-scaled black limb, one to which was attached the makings of an elegant foot with webs of stretchy skin between the toes. Good God! Another swan’s limb. A limb of great b—hang on a minute! He looked a tad closer at his new limb and saw that it matched his left limb. Perfectly. Oh God! His right limb was a left limb. He had two left feet! But hey, who needed feet when you’d be spending your days soaring the skies whilst in swan song? Especially when, hopefully, his right wing popped out that night.
He groaned and writhed in agony all night—an agony far greater than that he had experienced combined over the four previous nights. Indeed, at one stage he truly thought that he was going to croak it. But finally dawn broke, and with eager anticipation he opened an eye and looked to his right and saw his all-new, bright-and-feathery swan’s … what the bloody hell was that? Not a feathery swan’s wing, that’s for sure! No, it was red and metallic and clunky and enormous. As an eel slid past, it said, ‘Just love your Swiss Army wing, Laddy!’ And a chorus of echoed laughter rippled the pond waters.
Laddy stared at his new appendage in disbelief. A range of emotions swirled about his ugly head and with each one out popped a “tool” from his Swiss Army wing: pliers, wire cutters, wire crimpers, a metal saw, a metal file, a precision mini-screwdriver, scissors, tweezers and … Good God! Was that a … a … a bubble wand? a bubble wand? And a tiara? But it didn't stop there! Out popped a citrus zester, a windscreen wiper, an eye monocle, a hair straightener, a violin, a trumpet, a guitarrón, a vihuela, and an acoustic guitar—Good God! He could play the greatest hits of Mariachi, if he was keen—a bear deterrent horn, a Pez candy dispenser, a pogo stick, a Pope on a Rope soap, a pair of grinning dentures, a Diamond Jubilee tea towel and mug, a rubber chicken and … Good God! Was that a … a … a rectal thermometer?
Still, the taunting laughter reverberated around the pond. But it only steeled Laddy’s resolve. He might have a weird fourth appendage, he might not be the most handsome frog in pond, but, by God, he was certainly going to be the most handy! And he could toe-tap while he was about it! No need to wait for goodness knows how deformed a swan’s beak to appear tomorrow morning. His moment was now! He would abandon the pond and head to calmer, clearer waters and build himself a prosthetic right wing. And beak, if required! ‘Da Vinci, eat your heart out!’ he shouted with a shake of the cheese grater that appeared from his Swiss Army wing. And no one would laugh at him then. He’d no longer be an ugly, deformed-due-to-toxic-industrial-waste, loser frogling but, rather, a handsome, regal swan; indeed, the prince of all swans. Such was his optimism about his feathered future, he felt the urge to burst into a song of joy. And sure enough, a microphone popped out from his Swiss Army wing, and he opened his mouth and crooned a … croak! Oh well, he thought, my song is a work-in-progress. But he had no doubt that his swan song would eventually come.
He turned and looked towards the Murk. ‘Tat-ta, Daddy! Tat-ta, Mummy!’ And with a thrust of his Swiss Army wing, he released a propeller and surged towards the pond surface and his future. But when he burst through the surface and rose in the air, a swan greeted him. And as she lowered her head and opened her beak, the tubby tadpole released neither a piercing scream nor a horrified croak, but, rather, a bird cry, a swan song, as pure, as ethereal and as sweet a trill as that of the gloaming nightingale.
And as the ugly frogling disappeared into the swan’s mouth, he fell silent, for he knew it was all over, for he, the fat Laddy, had sung.
