The Old Bog

A man fell into the old bog and was never heard from again. The bog is also where there was a man the villagers called Mr. Toad. He resembled a toad, in many ways—he was a toad. He had the disposition of a gathering storm that lurked in his countenance whenever his ironed frown lines settled around his crooked, drooping mouth. He hardly spoke, and when he did, it was only to gurgle out a guttural, rhythmic croak of a note or two.

His place was along a bog. He never left this place of singular solitude except when upon urgent business. From day to day, he sat there, and watched and meditated on all he saw…for, though alone, there was so very much to see in this desolate part of the world. The bog stretched out for miles, sinking deeper and deeper until it joined with the pond that lay before the wood. The mists of this pond rose continually, mirroring the reflection of the thick clouds that hovered low in the dark sky. All here was dark, as though this was the one place in the world where the sun had forgotten to rise, and it was utterly up to the elements of this region to scrape out what little light they could from the flickering of fireflies, and the occasional clearing away of some of the mist to reveal the reflection of the murky waters.

To an outsider, it seemed a melancholy place…but to Mr. Toad, it was one of tranquility and solitude—two things of which he could never be left without. He rose early, just as soon as the stirring of the clouds announced another day was to begin. Packing a light lunch of crumpets and milk, he donned his satchel and thick leather boots—and a singular crooked top hat. This was his favorite hat, and this was his favorite way to dress. He always wore those leather boots and that hat…Thus clad, he would balance his way down the little foot bridge he had made across the bog, which led from his swamp hut to his place of solitude. All the while he frowned, and never seemed the least bit interested in anything around him, yet he looked on everything he saw with a mild amusement, his eyes always focused intently. He had a way of staring that was unique to him. It was as though he were trying to discover something new in the normal, to see something beyond the present, to gain some knowledge from what he saw that should justify why he saw it—whether he gained anything from this or not, no observer could have said, for his expression never changed.

Thus, Mr. Toad would continue across the little foot bridge until he reached the marshes. From there, he would gingerly step out onto several large stones that rose from out of the mist. These stones had been there almost as long as Mr. Toad. Rumor had it that he had placed them there long ago for his own convenience in crossing to his place of solitude, but the surrounding region had other stones, too, that rose from out of the bog. Anything could have resided in the mist, and no one should have known it was there…in fact, the mere fact that Mr. Toad was always confident the stones were exactly where he remembered them to have been, and that they should hold his feet, just as they had every time he put his faith in them—was in itself, a marvel of nature.

After crossing these stones, Mr. Toad, with great personal satisfaction in his achievements (which he expressed in a mere grunt…truly revealing his sense of pride in himself), he struggled up a steep bank, wading through planks and reeds up to his chest before finally dipping back down to another set of stones, which he also crossed. Finally, he would reach his spot. It was a clearing, where the flags had been long since cleared and there was a little lump of earth that afforded just enough space for a man to sit. It was its own little island; all around was rushes and bog and the mist, and all overhead was a grey painting of clouds that seemed to struggle with one another to let a little light in to shine down on the swamp—but it was quiet, and peaceful—and thus, Mr. Toad would unceremoniously drop himself down on the rough earth, and sit there. With his crooked hat pushed back atop his head, pull thoughtfully at his greasy greyish-black beard, and sit back to observe.

What was there to observe? Musing…thinking…to be sure, Mr. Toad had asked himself the question many times before. There were marshes, murky water lapping at his humble source of comfort all around him, flags that enveloped his sanctuary. The pond was alive with living creatures of all kinds. The frogs croaked to each other, up and down the bog, their notes blending with the buzz of the dragonfly and the sound of the lark from his nest, buried somewhere in the mist.

Thinking…that’s what Mr. Toad would do. He was an older man, and thus, had little else to do with his time. Little was known about him, save that he had been a schoolmaster in his day…but that was long ago. Since then, he had nothing to do with society, no connection with the outside world, save when he occasionally passed through the little village to gather what supplies he needed to continue his living. He had a humble hut, and needed nothing else but food to live on. He had a small store of money, and a brother—who at times would send little sums to keep him living. Rumor had it that he had put this brother through school, and there was a certain level of debt the brother seemed to think he owed to Mr. Toad for his kindness. This was fulfilled in the sums he sent—just enough to live on.

It seemed the essence of Mr. Toad’s life was shrouded in mystery. He had his daily routine. He packed his lunch, went to the bog, and returned some time after nightfall to his hut. Now and again, a hunter would see him, if he chanced to cross that region in pursuit of ducks. He would see the solitary figure, seated with the top of his crooked hat and a corner of his forehead just visible above the rushes that enveloped him—but everyone knew it was Mr. Toad. No one else dared approach that spot. It was his, and his alone. One could say the bog was his, too. He practically lived in it.

All the day long, as Mr. Toad observed what went on around him, perhaps a frog would venture to leap up onto his little bank and croak at him. He would gurgle something in reply, and stare at it keenly, watching it as its chest swelled up, and it let out a rhetorical “Ribbet!” Before bounding back into the swamp. Mr. Toad would continue to stare at the place it had just been, seeming to reflect on other things, things that had come and gone, come and gone, as though he looked at stages of his life that had come and gone.

A deep thinker was Mr. Toad. Everyone in the village said he was, yet no one could confirm or deny these superstitions, as no one had ventured to ask him anything. They said something had happened that had made him withdrawn, that had kept him coming to the bog. He was almost a part of it, just as alive as it, and yet equally as isolated as it. Whatever had happened, no one wished to ask or dared remind him of; they would far rather gossip about their assumptions than to test them and have them disproven. If the man wished to disclose, he would of his own accord. Who were they to press him? No one bothered him, and he never bothered anyone.