Feared By Molluscs

The rolled-up pancake lies on the ground.

Now you can eat it, says Terence.

Unroll it first, says Buster.

You unroll it, says Terence.

I’ll unroll it, says Roo-kai.

Roo-kai unrolls the pancake.

The inside of the pancake has not changed much.

The smiley potato peel mouth is still there.

Which half do you want? asks Roo-kai.

The top half, says Buster.

Easy, says Roo-kai.

Not so easy, says Buster.

Why? asks Roo-kai.

I know! says Terence. He wants the eyes back!

No I don’t, says Buster. I hated those eyes. I was glad when they fell off. Remember?

What then? asks Terence. Hurry up, I’m missing my lesson.

And he is right. Madame Ponty is looking at her watch, and making gestures.

The actual top half, says Buster. Can you split it?

You mean like this? says Roo-kai.

Swoosh! He rips his beak through the pancake, in a way feared by molluscs.

The top half of the pancake is separated from the bottom half of the pancake.

And both halves are thin.

Take the mouth off! says Buster.

Okay, says Roo-kai, removing the smiley mouth without even touching the pancake.

At last Buster is satisfied with the pancake.

His mouth is open, about to eat it, when Madame Ponty arrives.

What’s going on here?  Why did you stop? Is that a pancake?

Yes, says Terence.

Dear me, did you throw up? asks Madame Ponty. And what are these stones on the ground? They look like snails. But....could they be fossils?

She bends to pick up the fossils.

Buster gobbles the top half of the pancake while she is bending.

When she stands up the bottom half is still on the ground, looking similar.

Yay! No one will get into trouble.

 

Cool New Hairstyle

Where were you? asks Terence.

In the tree, says Roo-kai.

You could have stopped us, says Terence.

I could not, says Roo-kai. 

Now look, says Terence. My helmet's come off.

You wanted it off, says Buster.

Because something was loose inside it, says Terence.

Now we can see what it was, says Roo-kai.

My hair, says Terence.

Cement curls are not hair, says Buster.

They were my hair, says Terence. This is your fault.

Not my fault, says Buster. You said there was something loose in your helmet BEFORE I ran at the low branch on purpose.

So what? says Terence.

Logic, says Roo-kai. It wasn't his fault.

How do I look now? asks Terence.

Roo-kai tilts his head to one side. 

You look cool, says Roo-kai. Very short on the sides.

Do you want to go on with the lesson? asks Buster.

Yes, says Terence. I just need to put on the helmet.

Roo-kai picks up the helmet. Terence puts it back on.

It goes on easily thanks to his cool hairstyle.

He squeezes Buster's sides with his knees and gives him a kick with his heels.

No go! says Buster. I'm not moving without my half pancake.

What's this? asks Roo-kai.

Madame Ponty made me eat a pancake, says Terence. 

He was supposed to be giving it to me, says Buster. Half before the ride, half after, if it went smoothly.

I see, says Roo-kai.

But now I'd be happy with half, says Buster. Or less than half. It depends what it looks like.

Shall we find out? asks Roo-kai.

There are  advantages to not being a parrot, on such occasions.

A parrot's beak is short.

An oystercatcher has a long one.

Open up, Terence, says Roo-kai.

Terence opens his mouth.

Roo-kai plunges his beak in and draws out the pancake.

It's still rolled up.

Now to unroll it.

Cement Curls Tinkle

Stop running, says Terence.

I'm trotting, says Buster. It's what ponies do.

I'm in charge, says Terence. 

So prove it, says Buster.

Terence squeezes Buster's sides with his knees.

Ow! says Buster. What are you made of, cement?

Yes, says Terence. Can you please stop for one second?

Okay, says Buster. When I get to that tree.

Buster trots even faster, and stops suddenly, at the tree.

He looks across to where Madame Ponty and Belle are standing and no doubt watching.

But they are not watching.

Thank you, says Terence. I need to take off this helmet.

You can't, says Buster. You have to wear a helmet.

Something's loose inside it, says Terence.

Okay, says Buster. Take it off and shake it. 

But Terence can't get it off. Let alone shake it.

I'll help you, says Buster, if you give me my half of the pancake.

I swallowed it, says Terence.

You said it was stuck in your throat, says Buster.

It is, says Terence. And didn't you want the whole thing?

Buster had wanted the whole pancake.

But now, one half seems enough.

Okay, help me, says Terence.

Your helmet will probably come off as well, says Buster.

That will be useful, says Terence. 

Right now it would really be useful if Roo-kai would appear in the tree.

Because anyone can see that Buster is plotting.

If not what exactly.

Buster glances again at Belle and Madame Ponty, who are looking at Belle's phone for some reason.

(Perhaps Belle is showing Madame Ponty the waiter's Montmartre poem).

Buster backs away from the tree, stops, then gallops towards a low branch.

Ding! Crack! Tinkle!

Terence helmet is off, and so are a few of his curls.

They lie on the ground near the helmet.

But no pancake has issued from Terence.

Buster is not good at science.

Now Roo-kai flutters down.

Yes. He was in the tree, and did nothing.

We Call It Mounting

Terence is not chewing.

Madame Ponty assumes he has finished his pancake.

Et maintenant! says Madame Ponty. Knee bends!

Terence tries a knee bend. 

He is more flexible than I expected, says Madame Ponty.

Yes, says Belle. He should have no trouble climbing onto a pony.

We call it mounting, says Madame Ponty.

Hear that Terence, says Belle. Mounting is the same as getting on.

It is not simply getting on, says Madame Ponty. There is a proper procedure.

I know, says Terence. You run up and jump on.

You don't, says Madame Ponty. The procedure is this. Left foot in the stirrup, holding the reins in your left hand, propel yourself up and over.

Okay, says Terence. Let's do it!

They go out to the field. Madame Ponty calls to the pony.

Buster! Come here!

Buster comes over. What has Terence done with the pancake?

Helmet! cries Madame Ponty. I forgot it. Wait here. Get acquainted. I'll be back in a minute.

Off she goes, for a helmet.

She comes back. Put this on, Terence, while I saddle him up.

She goes across to a shed for the saddle.

This is exciting, isn't it, says Belle.

It might not go smoothly, says Terence.

Buster nods. 

Yes, it might not go smoothly.

Why do you say that? asks Belle. 

The pancake, says Terence. 

You shouldn't have eaten it, says Belle.

Buster's eyes widen. My pancake!

What? says Terence. You didn't want it.

I do now, says Buster. Those were potato peelings. And they fell onto the ground. So now it's a normal pancake. Or it would be.

It still is, says Terence. It's just in my throat somewhere,

 Poor you! says Belle. Would you like me to try and extract it?

Too late, Madame Ponty has come back with the saddle. She puts it on Buster.

It takes ages. At last Buster is ready.

Prêt à monter, says Madame Ponty. Face this way, Terence.

Terence can't believe it. She is telling him to face towards Buster's bottom.

Ha ha, snorts Buster softly.

Pat him, to show that you're friendly, says Madame Ponty. Now, hold the reins, and place your foot in the stirrup.

Terence does it.

Now boost yourself up and throw your right leg over, says Madame Ponty.

Go on, snickers Buster.

Terence makes an effort.

I'll help you, says Madame Ponty.

Now Terence is on. Yippee! He is facing the right way as well. 

Sit up, shoulders back, says Madame Ponty. Relax. Grip the reins. Exert pressure with your legs and give a slight kick with your heels.

Terence is just trying to obey the first order (sit up) when Buster moves forward quite quickly. 

Very good! calls Madame Ponty.

I wasn't ready, says Terence.

Too bad. Now it's just you and me and the pancake, whinnies Buster.

Eyes Of The Pancake

It is morning at last.

Time for my lesson! says Terence.

Breakfast first, says Belle.

They go downstairs to the kitchen, where the saints are busy cooking.

Potato pancakes! says Saint Méen. The first one is ready.

He flips it onto a plate.

Is that mine? asks Terence.

It could be, says Saint Méen. I thought you didn't eat pancakes.

No he doesn't, says Belle. But he'd still like to have it.

Yes, Terence would like to have it. 

He stares at his pancake. It looks plain. What it needs is a face.

There is not much in the saints' kitchen to make a face with. 

Only potato peelings, and there are plenty of them.

Terence makes a face on his pancake with some of the peelings.

The mouth is brown and smiley. The eyes look sneaky.

He rolls it up with the face on the inside.

Can I wait outside? asks Terence.

Okay, says Belle. I'll be out as soon as I've finished my pancake.

Terence goes outside with his pancake. 

The pony is at the fence, looking over.

Greetings! says Terence. Are you better?

Better? says the pony. I'm the best! I'm the only pony Madame Ponty has, so I must be.

From the bad sugar, says Terence. 

O that, says the pony. Went right through me. What's that in your hand?

A pancake, says Terence. It's for you. But you only get it after.

Are you joking? asks the pony. Don't tantalise.

What then? asks Terence.

Give it to me now and I'll make sure your lesson goes smoothly, says the pony.

Okay, half, says Terence.

He unrolls the pancake. The pancake's sneaky eyes fall to the ground.

What are those? asks the pony.

Eyes, says Terence.

They look like potato peelings, but the thought is enough to spook a pony.

The pony backs away.

Belle comes out to fetch Terence.

Nice, says Belle. You've made friends with the pony. 

Yes, says Terence.

Right, let's go round to meet Madame Ponty, says Belle. We'll go the long way.

The long way is not very long.

Soon Belle is knocking on the door of Madame Ponty.

Welcome! says Madame Ponty. Is this the young person who's having the lesson?

Yes, says Belle. This is Terence.

He doesn't look very flexible, says Madame Ponty. He must do some warm-up exercises first  And what's this? A pancake? I hope it's not for the pony. 

It's Terence's breakfast, says Belle.

Then he must eat it, says Madame Ponty. A good breakfast is essential. Eat up, young man.

Terence shoves the pancake into his mouth before Belle can explain that Terence doesn't normally eat things.

This does not augur well.

Jammed By Shorts

Arthur and Pierre-louis eat the Kit Kats.

Give us the paper napkin, says the knowlesi.

You won't need it now you've got your poem back, says Pierre-louis.

What about the other one? says the knowlesi.

What other one? asks Pierre-louis. 

The other one, says Quiet-tartus. Not the cat one.

The one I gave back to Arthur wasn't a cat one, says Victor. 

Give it to me, says Quiet-tartus.

He unfolds it, and shows it to Arthur.

This is the lizard one, says Arthur. You never had the cat one.

The rana kept the cat one, says Pierre-louis. But if you remember, I took a copy.

That reminds me, says Arthur. I have to send it to Belle.

I'll do it, says Pierre-louis.

He already has her number. He sends it to Belle.

....

Buzz! In Saint Malo Belle gets a message.

It's 3 am, but she is awake, thanks to Terence, who is balancing on the window sill in preparation for his pony ride tomorrow.

She looks at her message.

Oh, how sweet. It's a poem from Pierre-louis.

Are my frogs in it? asks Terence.

Yes they are, at the end, says Belle. 'Everything remains normal until these three frogs'.

That's a really good poem, says Terence. 

Be careful! says Belle. You don't want to fall out of the window. That would be the end of your pony ride tomorrow.

You mean the beginning, says Terence.

The beginning of no pony ride, says Belle. If you broke something.

Like the window? says Terence. I can't break it, it's already open.

Crumbs! says Belle, getting up quickly to close the window before Terence falls out.

Terence leans back to avoid her interference.

But does not fall out.

She has grabbed his cement ankles.

Now she closes the window behind him, jamming his shorts in the process.

I'm stuck, says Terence.

That's a good thing, says Belle. You can stay there till morning.

She goes back to bed, to re-read the poem.

Arthur must love you, says Terence.

This poem is from Pierre-louis, says Belle.

He must love you, says Terence. He stole it from Arthur.

It doesn't sound like Arthur's sort of poem, says Belle.

It's a waiter, says Terence. Arthur told me.

AHA! says Belle. The waiter's poem. Arthur wants me to to use it as ID. 

Like a spy, says Terence. 

Yes, says Belle. When I show it to the waiter, he'll know I'm there to pick up Arthur's bike.

You could just tell him, says Terence.

But I could be anyone, says Belle. 

She turns over and goes back to sleep.

Terence remains stuck on the window sill, jammed by his shorts. He can't even see out of the window, which is behind him.

Belle is mean. 

And stupid. 

And she couldn't be anyone.

Cats as Metaphor

An announcement.

Their flight is delayed for three hours.

At least we have something to do, says Pierre-Louis.

Where are we up to? asks Quiet-tartus.

Line two, says Arthur.

The one about cats? says the knowlesi.

Catacombs, says Pierre-louis.

O desoo, says Quiet-tartus.

What does that mean? asks the knowlesi. 

Where the cats are, says Quiet-tartus. At least I suppose so.

Your pronunciation is inaccurate, says Pierre-Louis. Properly speaking, it is 'au dessus', and yes, it would be where the cats are, except for one crucial factor.

Which is? asks the knowlesi.

There are no cats, says Pierre-Louis.

Who says? asks Quiet-tartus.

In the poem, says Pierre-Louis. 

Then it wasn't as good as we thought, says the knowlesi.

No, says Quiet-tartus. We thought the cats were a metaphor.

Perhaps the catacombs are an even better metaphor, suggests Pierre-Louis.

What for? asks Arthur.

What's underneath, says Pierre-Louis.

That's pretty ordinary, says Arthur. I like the cat one.

Don't you start, says Pierre-Louis.

Is anyone writing this down? asks the knowlesi.

No paper, says Pierre-Louis. How about I get some from the men's room?

Toilet paper? says Quiet-tartus. That's unpoetic.

How about buying some snacks? says Arthur. Snacks with paper wrappers.

A great idea. Pierre-Louis goes off.

Victor appears in the departure lounge. He sits down next to Arthur.

Here's your poem, says Victor. I shouldn't have kept it.

I know says Arthur. It's incriminating.

Exactly, says Victor. It seems you and I think alike.

But I think alike faster, says Arthur.

Ha ha, laughs Victor.

Pierre-Louis returns with the snacks, wrapped in a paper napkin.

Two Kit-Kats,

He's the only one who thinks it is funny.

In A Cracked Valley

These are Australian frogs, says Pierre-Louis. We're returning them to Australia.

Then where is your paperwork? asks the biosecurity officer.

We don't have it at the moment, says Pierre-Louis. 

What are those papers in the lunch box? asks the biosecurity officer.

A poem, says Pierre-Louis.

The biosecurity officer removes the lid from the lunch box.

Quiet-tartus and the knowlesi are silent.

At such times it is best not to talk.

The biosecurity officer pulls the many-times-folded papers out from underneath them and reads the poem.

As I suspected, a French poem, says he.

Why is that relevant? asks Pierre-Louis.

An Australian poem would have backed up your story, says the officer. This French poem does not.

Arthur has ended his phone call to Terence, and joined Pierre-Louis.

What's up? says Arthur.

Paperwork, says Pierre-Louis. I don't suppose you have it?

No, says Arthur. Who wants it?

This officer, says Pierre-Louis. 

Arthur turns to the officer.

Victor! says Arthur. What are you doing in Paris?

International experience, says Victor. A strategic career move.

You look good with that moustache, says Arthur,

Just blending in, says Victor. Now what's with these frogs?

Lost their bicycle, says Arthur. At the end of the Tour.

Were there frogs in the Tour? asks Victor. I didn't notice.

In Baby Pierre's team, says Arthur. He lost his bike too, and ran off to le Havre, so Belle followed him there with the frogs. 

This is all irrelevant, says Victor. No paperwork, no boarding. And that's just the frogs. You and your friend here are facing wildlife smuggling charges.

I know you love paperwork, says Arthur.

Not French paperwork, says Victor.

He thinks about all the French paperwork involved in wildlife smuggling charges

Okay, I'll accept this poem in lieu, says Victor. Go through, and count yourselves lucky.

They go through. 

Hey! shouts Quiet-tartus, when do we get our poem back?

You don't need it, says Arthur.

We do! cries the knowlesi. 

We should have made a copy, says Pierre-Louis. But perhaps we can remember it?

They sit in the departure lounge, trying to remember it.

Jullouville  (they remember)

Dans une vallée crevassée......

Try To Stay On

The taxi driver drops them at the Charles de Gaulle airport.

Pierre-Louis pays.

Bonne chance! says the taxi driver.

Thanks, says Pierre-Louis. 

Remember your frogs, says the taxi driver.

Frogs? says Pierre Louis. I thought Arthur had them.

They're on the back seat in a lunch box, says the taxi driver.

He rolls down the back window. 

Pierre-Louis reaches in and picks up the lunch box.

A crisis averted.

They enter the terminal and join a long queue.

At least we don't have bikes to worry about, says Pierre-Louis. I hadn't thought about flat packs.

Me either, says Arthur. But Belle will do it.

Have you called her? asks Pierre-Louis.

Hold the lunch box, says Arthur.

He gets out his phone.

Arthur? says Belle. What is it?

Hi, says Arthur. Can you do me a favour?

Maybe, says Belle. 

I left my bike outside the Crêperie Bretonne, says Arthur. 

And? says Belle.

I was wondering if you could pick it up when you get to Paris, says Arthur.

It'll have been stolen, says Belle.

The waiter has probably locked it up somewhere, says Arthur.

Probably, says Belle. Okay, I'll see what I can do. Do you want to speak to Terence?

No, says Arthur.

He wants to speak to you, says Belle.

Okay, says Arthur. Put him on.

Guess what? says Terence. My pony ride is tomorrow.

Lucky you, says Arthur. Have you practised?

No, says Terence. How can I?

Sit on something high, says Arthur. And try to stay on.

Okay, says Terence.

Wait, says Arthur, tell Belle I'm sending her a poem.

Do you LOVE her? asks Terence.

No, says Arthur. It's about Montparnasse. And your frogs are in it. 

Yay! says Terence.

And tell her the waiter wrote it, says Arthur.

Why? asks Terence. 

I've got to go, says Arthur. Just tell her.

Okay, says Terence. Good bye.

Arthur did have to go, due to a problem.

The frogs have gone through the scanner, in the lunch box, and Pierre-Louis is being questioned by a bio-security officer.

Not Being Physically Present

It's a half hour drive to the Charles de Gaulle airport.

In the back seat of the taxi, Arthur closes his eyes.

Soon he'll be on his way back to Australia. It will be summer. 

He will go surfing.

Which reminds him. Where is his bike?

Merde! He has left it outside the Crêperie Bretonne!

What's wrong? asks Pierre-Louis.

Bike, says Arthur. Why didn't you remind me?

Bike? says Pierre-Louis. Our bikes! We left them outside the Crêperie. We'll have to go back.

I don't carry bikes, says the taxi driver. Not unless they're flat-packed.

Curses! says Pierre-Louis. I can't turn up at Vello's without a bike. I won't qualify.

You in a race? asks the taxi driver.

That's not the problem, says Pierre-Louis.

Qualify for what then? asks the taxi driver.

I'm being interviewed for Velosophy, says Pierre-Louis. 

Since when did you need a bike for that? asks the taxi driver.

You obviously don't subscribe, says Pierre-Louis.

I don't, says the taxi driver. But an interview is two people talking. One asks the questions.

The other must own a bike, says Pierre-Louis. 

You can surely talk about it without it being physically present, says the taxi driver.

The problem is, says Pierre-Louis, Vello never liked me. He may not believe I ever had a bike. He may think I'm a non-cycling philosopher trying to wheedle my way into his magazine, under false pretences.

Perhaps you could talk about the philosophy of loss, says the taxi driver.

Of my bicycle? says Pierre-Louis. There's a thought. Arthur what do you think?

Just borrow one, says Arthur. Yours was old anyway. Mine was a good one.

Oh yes, says Pierre Louis. Here's me, only concerned for myself.

Doesn't matter, says Arthur. I'll call Belle. She'll be coming to Paris after her holiday in Saint Malo. 

By then your bike will have disappeared, says Pierre-Louis. Unless that waiter has found it.

Yes. Arthur realises that a series of lucky events needs to happen if he's to get his bike back.

1 the waiter finds it.

2 the waiter realises it's his

3 the waiter still wants to please Arthur

4 in spite of what Arthur did with his poem

5 (giving it to a frog)

6 the waiter stores the bike somewhere

7 locked up, so it does not get stolen

8 Belle turns up a week later to claim it.

9 she thanks the waiter profusely

10 she praises his poem (of which Arthur has sent her a copy)

11 she flat packs the bike and takes it with her to the airport

12 she flies home.

13 the first thing she does is call Arthur

14 to arrange a meeting to give him his bike

15 which she will have unpacked and put back together when he gets there

16 okay, item 15 may be pushing his luck

Immortalised!

The writers and artists gather in front of the rana.

S'il vous plait! Read your poem again!

The rana re-reads it.

It is very evocative, say the writers and artists.

Thank you. But I did not compose it, says the rana.

Who did? ask the artists and writers, 

They look about, and spot Arthur, who does in fact look like a poet.

It's not just the hair and the eyes, and the scabby knees either. He looks familiar.

Not me, says Arthur.

But you do look familiar, says one of the writers.

Is he that cyclist? asks an artist.

Ah oui, says the writer.

The author of the poem is a waiter at the Crêperie Bretonne, says Pierre Louis. And I believe he has made two extra hand written copies.

None of the artists and writers are currently in need of a crêpe. And anyway, they have no money. So they do not go. 

But several tourists with cameras head off.

The waiter will be pleased, says the rana.

Let us hope so, says Pierre-Louis. But now I must call a taxi to take us to the airport. 

So this is goodbye, says the rana. Thank you for bringing me to Paris. 

Goodbye, says Quiet-tartus. 

Are you keeping that copy? asks the knowlesi.

Of course, says the rana. It will serve to remind me.

But it won't remind us, says the knowlesi.

You should have waited for the waiter to make you a copy, says the rana.

There is no problem, says Pierre-Louis. I shall photograph the rana's copy. Hold it up, rana.

The rana holds up his copy. 

Pierre-Louis takes a snap.

There, immortalised! says Pierre-Louis.

He then calls a taxi.

A taxi arrives promptly.

Arthur, Pierre-Louis and the Australian tree frogs get in.

The taxi driver insists that the frogs should be in a container.

Luckily, Pierre-Louis still has the lunch box he got on the train.

Waiting For Something Montparnassey

The three pieces of worm have been eaten.

The frogs hop back up.

Arthur and Pierre-Louis finish off the cider.

Now one of us must depart, says Pierre-Louis. 

Me, says the rana. I shall miss you all. Goodbye.

You can't just hop away on this busy pavement, says Pierre-Louis. We'll look for some greenery.

Arthur points at a tree.

We can do better than that, says Pierre-Louis. Just round the corner is the Eglise Notre-Dame des Champs, with a grassed area in front of it.

Church! says the rana. O, I don't know....

There will be other frogs, says Pierre-Louis. And water.

Okay, says the rana, but first, may I hear that fine poem again?

You can keep it, says Arthur.

He starts folding the poem. 

The waiter comes up behind him.

How did you like it?

I liked it so much I'm giving it to this frog, says Arthur. 

That is not encouraging, says the waiter.

The frog liked it, says Arthur.

Yes, says the rana. We all liked it. Because we were in it. This poem will be a reminder of the time we frogs spent together.

But there is only one copy, says the waiter. Would you like me to make you two more?

Yes, says the rana, then each of my frog friends can have one.

We only need one copy, says Quiet-tartus. We share things.

The waiter hurries away. He intends to make two copies, one for Arthur.

But while he is busy trying to remember how his poem went, exactly, (did it mention the war? or did he ditch that line altogether?) ....

Arthur, Pierre-Louis and the frogs have headed off down the footpath to the Eglise Notre-Dame des Champs.

Arthur and Pierre-Louis set the frogs down on a low wall. 

There are painters ( painting) and writers (writing)  and tourists with cameras, all waiting for something Montparnassey to happen.

And it happens.

The rana unfolds his poem, 'Montparnasse'. 

He reads it in French.

The writers and painters love it because they are in it.

Those who don't speak French conjure up long-haired cats and their combs.

Skulls Don't Need Combs

Lets eat the ants! says Quiet-tartus. 

And the worm! says the knowlesi.

Okay! says the rana.

The three frogs hop down.

But the ants are already scurrying away with the spitball.

That leaves the worm.

Wait! says the worm. I only came for the poetry reading.

No kidding! says Quiet-tartus. How did you even know there was going to be a poetry reading?

This is Montparnasse, says the worm. 

Did you hear the one just now? asks the knowlesi.

Yes, says the worm. The one about cats.

The one about US, says Quiet-tartus. 'All remains normal until the three frogs'.

I thought I heard 'cats', says the worm.

In the poem? asks the rana.

At the start, says the worm. 

Catacombes, says the rana. 'Au dessus des catacombes'.

That was it, says the worm. Beautiful words. I pictured long-haired cats.

Did you? says the rana. I pictured skulls.

You're weird, says the worm. Skulls don't have hair. So they wouldn't need combs.

You're weird yourself, says the rana. You're a worm. But you don't know the catacombs?

I haven't been here that long, says the worm.

Ha ha! laughs the knowlesi. How long does a worm have to be?

Ha ha! laughs Quiet-tartus. You haven't got long!

The worm begins to realise from these enigmatic jokes that the frogs plan to eat him.

He starts to wriggle off quickly. 

Cut him off! cries Quiet-tartus.

The rana hops over the worm and lands in front of him.

The worm doubles back.

Only to face Quiet-tartus.

The long and the short of it is that soon he is in three equal pieces.

And Crazy Writers

Arthur eats his galette ratatouille.

He does not look at the poem.

The waiter hovers nearby.

Why doesn't he read it?

To be honest, Arthur is annoyed.

Crêpe verte? asks Pierre-Louis, cutting a slice for the knowlesi.

Why is it green? asks the knowlesi.

Do you want it or not? asks Pierre-Louis.

I'll have it, says the rana.

He nibbles a corner.

It's spinach.

He spits it back out.

It lands on the poem.

Manners! says Quiet-tartus.

I'll get rid of it, says the knowlesi. It was kind of my fault.

That's what I call good manners, says Quiet-tartus.

Tant pis! says the rana. No one likes spinach.

I do, says Pierre-Louis.

The knowlesi hops onto the paper, and kicks the spit ball over the edge of the table.

Ants appear.

The knowlesi looks at the paper which now sports a greasy green blob.

Sorry your poem got spoiled, says the knowlesi.

It's not my poem, says Arthur, pouring himself a large glass of cider.

It was under your galette, says Pierre-Louis. Why don't you read it?

You read it, says Arthur.

It's called "Montparnasse".

Pierre-Louis reads it. He looks impressed.

Superbe! You frogs will appreciate this!

Read it to us! says the knowlesi.

Près d'une colline/ au dessus des catacombes/ les poètes declament/ Tout est fini! says Pierre-Louis.

We don't like it, says Quiet-tartus.

I like it, says the rana.

You're French, says the knowlesi.

It's not finished, says Pierre-Louis. Shall I read the rest in English?

Yes, says Quiet-tartus. 

But it is not over/ painters arrive, and crazy writers/ afterwards, all remains normal/ until these three frogs.

Pierre-Louis stops. How did you like it?

Are the three frogs us? asks the knowlesi.

I imagine so, says Pierre-Louis.

The frogs are cock-a-hoop. This more than makes up for the spinach.

Furthermore there are ants on the ground.

 And a worm. 

Who knows where that came from?

Have A Crêpe

Gare Montparnasse. 

Arthur and Pierre-Louis get off the train with their bikes and the lunch box.

Now where? says Pierre-Louis.

Airport, says Arthur.

Shouldn't we dispose of the rana? asks Pierre-Louis.

Okay, says Arthur.

He opens the lunch box.

Not here! says Pierre-Louis. Let's at least find some grass.

Are we in Paris? asks the rana.

Yes, says Pierre-Louis. The end of the line for you. What were you planning to do here?

Have a crêpe, says the rana.

Nice of you to wait, says Pierre-Louis.

Let's all have a crêpe, says Quiet-tartus. Where's the nearest crêperie?

Oh, a crêpe! says Pierre-Louis. Do we have time? 

Sure, says Arthur. Flight leaves at midnight.

They wheel their bikes along a few streets to the Crêperie Bretonne.

And find a table outside.

A waiter approaches.

Attention messieurs! It is forbidden to eat your own food at this crêperie.

What? says Pierre-Louis. We have no intention!

Then what is in this lunch box? asks the waiter.

These are our frogs, says Pierre-Louis. As you see, they are not edible. And they wish, like any customer, to order a crêpe.

We do not have a small size of plate that would be suitable, says the waiter.

Oh, come on! says Pierre-Louis. They have their own paper. 

He pulls at the edge of the paper.

The triangles and parallelograms extend like a concertina.

Oi! says Quiet-tartus. Watch out!

We cannot serve a crêpe on a used piece of paper, says the waiter. What are these squiggles?

Never mind, says Pierre-Louis. Arthur and I will share our crêpes with the frogs. 

Is it a poem? asks the wailter, looking at one of the parallelograms more closely.

Yes, says Arthur. A waiter in Jullouville wrote it. It's not a bad poem.

May I unfold it and read it? asks the waiter.

We would prefer you to take our order, says Pierre-Louis. We have a plane to catch at midnight.

Bien sur, says the waiter. What would you like?

A galette ratatouille says Arthur. 

A crêpe verte, says Pierre-Louis. It should please the frogs. And a large jug of cider.

The waiter goes off, and returns twenty minutes later with the order, 

Arthur sees something sticking out from beneath his galette.

It's a  poem that the waiter has dashed off in the kitchen.

Back To Scratch

Stop! cries the rana. You haven't solved anything!

Quiet-tartus and the knowlesi can see that they haven't.

We should have been more methodical, says Quiet-tartus.

Crumpled paper now fills most of the space in the lunch box. There is just room for them.

This is like being in the clouds, says the knowlesi.

Clouds don't have poems, says the rana.

But sometimes they crackle, says Quiet-tartus.

Neither the rana nor the knowlesi can disprove this, so they must let it go.

Now what? asks the knowlesi.

When things have gone pear-shaped, says the rana, put them behind you and start again from scratch.

But what's scratch? says Quiet-tartus.

How it was, says the rana.

The papers were folded, says the knowlesi. But we didn't do it.

Ask Arthur or Pierre-Louis to do it, says the rana.

Easy to say.

But Arthur has his eyes closed and Pierre Louis is thinking of answers to pertinent questions that Vello might ask him, when they meet.

Furthermore, the frogs are obscured by crags and valleys of unfolded paper.

They can't see us, says the knowlesi.

Then we must improvise, says Quiet-tartus.

Yes, says the knowlesi. Improvise how?

We make our way to the highest peaks, says Quiet Tartus, and trample them down.

Simple.

They make their way upwards, until their heads touch the lid of the lunchbox.

They trample their way down.

Now there is space again in the lunch box.

The papers are flattened and creased into triangles and parallelograms, and other less well known shapes.

Some of the triangles and parallelograms (and less well known shapes) have words on them, some are blank.

You might call it a mashup.

We may as well sit on it, says the rana. You guys can sort it out in Paris.

It's the only solution.

The frogs must sit on the triangles and parallelograms (and other shapes) until Paris.

This is no fun, grumbles Quiet-tartus. Geometrical shapes pressing into our underparts.

Let's make it fun, says the knowlesi.

He stands up and presents his underparts to the other two. What is it, and what does it say?

It's a triangle, that says nothing, says Quiet-tartus.

Wrong! say the knowlesi. I was sitting on Saint Michael.

Aha! Now the other two get it.

You match up the shape with the word that you sat on.

It's tricky because some shapes are empty.

The game keeps the frogs occupied all the way to Gare Montparnasse, Paris

The Worst Place

Crumpled paper? Expanding by the minute? What's going on in the lunch box?

It started like this.

Quiet-tartus and the knowlesi each had their folded paper.

With which they were happy.

They placed their papers side by side at the base of the lunch box.

This will make us comfortable, says Quiet-tartus. I'll sit on mine. You sit on yours, knowlesi.

What will I sit on? asks the rana.

You can sit in the middle, says Quiet-tartus. In between us.

On the join, says the rana.

Try it, says the knowlesi. 

The rana sits on the join.

As he suspected. He can feel the join. Before long it will irritate his pale yellow underparts.

How about we take turns in the middle? says the rana.

Why? asks Quiet-tartus.

The middle is the worst place to sit, says the rana.

Shall we take turns? asks the knowlesi. That seems fair.

But, says Quiet tartus, you and I need to sit on our own paper. So we don't forget which one is ours.

We'd still be half on it, says the knowlesi.

But half on the other half, says Quiet-tartus.

What difference does it make? asks  the rana. You told me you don't know which is which.

But we were taking turns, says Quiet-tartus. One of us had the poem, the other had no poem. Until we swapped over.

How do you know you're sitting on the right one now? asks the rana.

It doesn't matter, says the knowlesi.

So we can take turns in the middle, says the rana.

I suppose so, says Quiet-tartus.

It seems the problem is solved. The frogs sit on their papers, with the rana in the middle.

All is calm.

Quiet-tartus thinks about what he is sitting on.

Is it the poem? Is it even his turn to have the poem?

What if, before, he didn't have the poem? 

And now, he still doesn't! 

Which would mean the knowlesi has had it twice.

He hops up, pulling his paper out from under the pale yellow underparts of the rana.

Hey! says the rana. As if sitting on the join isn't bad enough! 

Gotta see which one it is! says Quiet-tartus.

What's this? asks the knowlesi.

Quiet-tartus explains.

The knowlesi panics. So which one is he on? He starts unfolding his paper.

The rana can't see why it matters, if they didn't know before.

He tries to stop them madly unfolding the papers. 

Which only crumples them more. 

Sweet And Elusive

The person across the aisle watches Arthur cut holes in the lunch box.

The frogs watch him too.

Careful, says the rana, that plastic looks thin.

I know, says Arthur. It's a cheap lunch box.

It's a takeaway box, says the person. Not a proper lunch box. 

You have been kind enough to give us your lunch box, says Pierre-Louis. It does not matter that it's thin.

No, we don't mind, says the rana.

Speak for yourself, says Quiet-tartus. You are only going to Paris.

True, says the rana. So why don't we get in and make it comfy?

Arthur has finished cutting the air holes. 

Quiet-tartus hops in. Sniffs the air.....

The knowlesi joins him.

Sniff. What is that smell? So sweet and elusive.

The rana joins them.

Mmm. Sticky date pudding.

(an unhealthy lunch choice, by the person).

But the aroma is pleasant.

We like it, says Quiet-tartus. Put the lid on.

Arthur clips the lid on.

The knowlesi looks worried, and knocks on the lid.

Open it! Something's wrong! says Pierre-Louis. 

Arthur unclips it.

Our papers! says the knowlesi. 

Here, says Arthur. 

He hands the knowlesi the papers, and re-clips the lid.

At last, the frogs are contained, and no longer a problem.

Arthur closes his eyes and remembers the Jullouville waiter, and his not-too-bad poem.

Pierre-Louis smiles across at the person who gave them the lunch box, even though it is thin.

The person smiles back, thinking: Très bien. No more loose frogs on the train.

Inside the lunch box however, it's mayhem.

If anyone bothered to look, they would see crumpled paper, expanding by the minute. 

Knife Holes

Pierre-Louis is delighted to see Quiet-tartus and the knowlesi.

How on earth did you get here? asks Pierre-Louis. I couldn't find you.

We know, says Quiet-tartus. We decided to make our own way.

You must have moved fast, says Arthur.

We had help, says the knowlesi. We got a lift in a car.

Are you talking to those frogs! asks the person in the seat across the aisle.

Yes, says Pierre-Louis. I'm a naturalist.

Are they yours? asks the person.

No, says Pierre-Louis. They are Australian.

They could still be yours, says the person.

Hey! I'm not Australian! says the rana.

And this one is French, says Pierre-Louis. 

Is the French one yours? asks the person.

Why do you want to know? asks Pierre-Louis.

Just curious, says the person. 

Pierre-Louis decides to come clean.

This French frog is here in lieu of the other two, says Pierre-Louis.

But they are all here, says the person.

They are now, says Pierre-Louis. However, we boarded the train without these two.

So they don't have tickets, says the person.

Sir, says Pierre-Louis. Frogs don't need tickets.

Then they should be in a container, says the person. 

They would be, says Pierre-Louis. If we had one.

We would love a container, says the knowlesi. 

Was your frog addressing me? asks the person.

Probably not, says Pierre-Louis. It was just saying it would love a container. 

I have a container, says the person. It's my lunch box, which is now empty.

I don't suppose it has air holes, says Pierre-Louis.

No it doesn't, says the person.

That person wants to kill us, says the knowlesi.

Surely not, says Pierre-Louis. 

You could make air holes, says the person. I would not ask for it back.

How am I supposed to make air holes? asks Pierre-Louis.

With a knife, says Arthur, who has a knife in another of his pockets, (not the side one with the potato fritter, or the back pocket in which he transported the rana). 

The person hands over his empty lunch box.

Arthur makes holes.

Independence Or Comfort?

Quiet-tartus and the knowlesi look at one another.

Should we remain here, incognito, under this train seat?

Or make our presence known to Pierre-Louis and Arthur? 

Come, says the rana. Or don't you want to? 

It's a toss-up between independence and comfort, says Quiet-tartus.

I vote for independence, says the knowlesi.

So, you're staying here? says Quiet-tartus. Me, I vote for comfort.

There's no comfort, says the rana. I don't even have my own seat.

But you are looked after, says Quiet-tartus.

If you can call it that, says the rana. Why do you think I had to go looking for slugs?

There you go, says the knowlesi.

I'm thinking of the future, says Quiet-tartus. We get off the train in Paris. Then what?

Good point, says the knowlesi.

So are you coming? asks the rana. 

Okay, say Quiet-tartus and the knowlesi. They pick up their papers.

What are those? asks the rana.

The two sides of our poem bag, says the knowlesi. One side has the poem, one doesn't.

Which side has it? asks the rana.

We don't know, says Quiet-tartus.

I wish I had two sides of a poem bag, says the rana.

Quiet-tartus and the knowlesi feel proud.

They amble up the carriage, behind the rana, towards Arthur's feet.

The knowlesi tugs on Arthur's left sock.

Arthur looks down, and sees three frogs, looking up at him. 

And two folded papers.

He thinks he recognises the papers. They were the paper bag that the waiter wrote his poem on.

But now the paper bag is in two parts, neatly folded. How did the frogs do it?

Pierre-Louis notices that Arthur is looking down. 

He too looks down, to see what Arthur is seeing.

O! The missing frogs! The rana has found them.

He leans down to pick up the frogs.

A person across the aisle looks disgusted.

Alors! This train is infested. Earlier, I saw slugs! Now three frogs! And why is that man in the hat with side flaps picking them up? What will he do with them?

The person hopes that an inspector might appear, and deal with the problem.

An inspector does not.

Shoe To Shoe

Alas, says Quiet-tartus, regarding the slug smear.

He hops back to his place.

Where is it? asks the rana.

Yes, where is it? asks the knowlesi.

Some of it is smeared on the floor of the train, says Quiet-tartus. And the rest is probably on the bottom of the shoe that smeared it.

Shoe to shoe, says the rana.

Is that a saying? asks the knowlesi.

Yes, says the rana. Seeing that I said it.

I mean a general saying, says the knowlesi. Like ashes to ashes.

It depends, says the rana. It's not universal. Not all slugs travel that way.

Well, shoe to shoe, says Quiet-tartus. And no dinner.

I apologise, says the rana. I should have picked it up while it was intact, and brought it with me.

Never mind, says Quiet-tartus. There'll be good pickings in Paris.

This will be my first time in Paris, says the rana.

Not ours, says Quiet-tartus. 

We crashed our bike there, says the knowlesi.

You had a bike? says the rana.

We shared it, says the knowlesi. It was the spare bike of Baby Pierre.

Not THE Baby Pierre ? says the rana.

Yes, says Quiet-tartus. His bike crashed too. 

So you were in the Tour de France? says the rana.

Yes, says the knowlesi. 

Then you must know one of my companions, says the rana. 

There were no other frogs, says Quiet-tartus.

He's a human, says the rana. He was supposed to be bringing two frogs back to.... hey!

Hey? says the knowlesi. You mean Paris?

Yes Paris, says the rana. I just thought that you might be the two frogs he brought me instead of.

Why would he.... but wait, is his name Arthur? asks the knowlesi.

Yes, says the rana. But it's his companion who brought me.

Instead of us? says Quiet-tartus. Is the companion Pierre-Louis?

Yes, says the rana. Pierre-Louis Maupertuis. He wears a hat with side flaps.

That's them, says the knowlesi. Are they worried about not having us? 

The rana would like to say yes, they are worried.

But cannot, in honesty.

Why not ask them? says the rana.

Short And Brutal

The rana makes its way down the carriage, under the seats.

It expects to find a slug any minute.

But instead....

What are these sticking out from under two papers?

Legs of frogs, yes, but they are not legs of ranas.

The rana edges past the papers, silently, so as not to disturb the sleeping frog tourists. 

For frog tourists they must be.

It continues down the passage.

The train starts moving, towards Paris.

Any slugs that were waiting for this to happen now feel free to move about the train floor, looking for the things that slugs look for.

The slugs are not here in large numbers

There are two slugs, sliding slowly, having detached themselves from the shoes of keen gardeners.

The rana spies one, creeps up slowly, and pounces.

Gulp.

That leaves the other one.

The rana sees it, moving towards a piece of dropped lettuce.

From someone's sandwich.

But the second slug is a big one, and the rana is full.

Perhaps the frog tourists would like it.

The rana makes its way back to the sleeping frog tourists.

Taps their exposed parts.

Quiet-tartus pokes his head out from under his paper.

Excuse me, says the rana.

Are you an inspector? asks Quiet-tartus.

Ha ha of course not, says the rana. I'm a rana temporania. And you look like a tourist. Welcome to France.

I've been here since July, says Quiet-tartus, And I'm heading home now, but thanks.

I spotted a slug down that way, says the rana, Would you and your friend like to share it?

Would we! says Quiet-tartus. Hold my place, I'll find it.

He hops away in the direction that the rana has indicated.

But the life of a slug can be short and brutal.

Someone has seen it.

By the time Quiet-tartus reaches the slug it is in no fit state to be eaten.

It's a slimy grey streak on the floor of the train.

Rhythmical Upping And Downing

The frogs hop out of the car, clutching their papers.

Adeline's mother looks at the board.

Next train to Paris leaves in ten minutes, says Adeline's mother. Platform one.

Platform one is close by.

Good luck, says Adeline's mother.

Good luck, says Adeline. Don't lose your papers. 

We won't, says Quiet-tartus. 

The train is at the platform already. 

They hop on.

That was easy, says the knowlesi. 

Yes. No one saw us, says Quiet-tartus. Where shall we go?

Under a seat, says the knowlesi. One that's empty.

Good thinking, says Quiet-tartus.

They find a seat that is empty, and hide underneath it.

But the seat is not empty for long.

Legs, whipers Quiet-tartus. Someone is sitting above us.

As long as we whisper, says the knowlesi, we should be okay.

No, we shouldn't even whisper, whispers Quiet-tartus. Let's go to sleep until Paris.

Under our papers, says the knowlesi.

An excellent idea. The papers will hide them should anyone look under the seat.

After all, what is travel but a series of problems and solutions?

The train has not even started. More passengers get on.

The frogs do not see the familiar legs of Arthur, and the less familiar trousers of Pierre-Louis, walking past them.

Nor do they hear them talking, for they are not talking.

They are heading for two empty seats.

Pierre-Louis sits down. Arthur is about to.

Wait! cries the rana. Don't sit down. I'm in your back pocket.

It is true. Arthur had put the rana in his back pocket, after the problems. 

(in his side pockets, too much rhythmical upping and downing, not to mention the cold potato fritter)

Arthur takes out the rana.

What will you do with it? asks Pierre-Louis.

Whatever it wants, says Arthur.

Put me down on the floor, says the rana. I'll go looking for slugs.

On a train? asks Pierre-Louis.

You'd be surprised where slugs get to, says the rana.

It hops away to look for slugs which have ended up on the train.

The Question Unasked

Adeline's mother drives to the station.

Adeline is in the back, with the frogs.

She is asking them questions.

Why do you want to go to the station?

To catch a train, says Quiet-tartus.

Frogs don't catch trains says Adeline.

(which is not strictly a question)

How else do we get to Paris? asks the knowlesi.

Frogs don't go to Paris, says Adeline.

(nor is that)

They do, says Quiet-tartus. We came here from Paris,

On a train? asks Adeline.

No, says the knowlesi. Not on a train.

How then? asks Adeline.

On a bicycle, says the knowlesi. 

Why don't you go back on a bicycle? asks Adeline.

We don't have a bicycle, says Quiet-tartus. And trains are faster.

Is that why you talk funny? asks Adeline.

Is what why? asks the knowlesi.

Because you're from Paris? says Adeline.

We're not, says the knowlesi. In Paris we're catching a plane.

To Australia, says Quiet-tartus. Our beloved home.

Yes, says the knowlesi, And our families. I really miss mine.

Is your poem for them? asks Adeline.

No, our poem is for us, says the knowlesi. A memento.

Do you live together? asks Adeline. 

Ha ha no! laughs Quiet-tartus. He lives in south eastern Queensland.

And he lives in northern New South Wales, says the knowlesi.

So who will keep the poem and who will keep the paper with nothing on it? asks Adeline.

Quiet-tartus looks at the knowlesi.

Who will?

There is always the post, says Quiet-tartus.

Yes, says the knowlesi. We'll post them back and forth.

Adeline's mother stops in the carpark outside the Saint Malo station.

She has a question. 

To do with frogs and the post.

But decides not to ask it.

What Is This Rule About Pieces?

Maman! calls the little girl, who is waiting for her mother.

What is it, Adeline? asks her mother, emerging from the bushes.

Someone has dropped a paper, says Adeline. 

How thoughtless! says her mother.

We should pick it up and put it in a bin, says Adeline.

It might be dirty, says her mother.

But Adeline doesn't care if it's dirty. She will pick it up with the edge of her shirt.

She runs to the paper.

Oh!

Two frogs are busy, tearing it into two pieces.

You should not do that, says Adeline.

Pardon? says Quiet-tartus. 

You should not make one piece of rubbish into two pieces, says Adeline.

It's not rubbish, says Quiet-tartus. And what is this rule about pieces?

Two pieces of rubbish is worse than one piece, says Adeline.

But the two pieces will be smaller, says Quiet-tartus.

It's still worse, says Adeline.

Yes, says the knowlesi. The two pieces might blow in different directions.

Whose side are you on? asks Quiet-tartus.

Adeline's mother comes up. What's going on? 

The frogs are tearing the paper, says Adeline. I'm trying to stop them.

Perhaps they have a reason, says Adeline's mother. Look, there's writing on this side. It looks like a poem.

This is our poem bag, says the knowlesi. We're trying to make it more manageable.

Why not just fold it? asks Adeline's mother.

If you were a frog you wouldn't suggest that, says the knowlesi.

Of course, says Adeline's mother. Let me fold it for you.

Adeline's mother folds the poem bag neatly, until it is small.

We would have preferred a piece each, says Quiet-tartus.

Adeline's mother unfolds the poem bag, separates the pieces, and refolds them.

One piece won't have the poem on, says Adeline. 

But they will not know which, says Adeline's mother. 

The frogs like the idea of not knowing which of them has it.

They thank Adeline's mother.

Can we drop you anywhere? asks Adeline's mother.

The station, says Quiet-tartus.

 Easy, says Adeline's mother. Our car is here. Hop in.

The frogs hop into the back seat, with their folded papers. 

One has the poem, one hasn't.

It was lucky, that they met Adeline's mother.

To Split Him In Two

It's not easy to carry a poem bag, when you are two frogs.

Especially with the wind blowing.

Many times it has escaped their webbed grasp and blown into the bushes.

And they have retrieved it.

We'll probably miss the train, says the knowlesi.

Then we'll just catch the next one, says Quiet-tartus. I imagine they go all the time.

Yes, says the knowlesi. Trains will go all the time.

And what does it matter if we're not on the same one as Arthur? says Quiet-tartus.

I thought he had the ticket, says the knowlesi.

He doesn't, says Quiet-tartus. Only one for the plane.

The knowlesi remembers that he already knows this.

And frogs don't need a ticket, says Quiet-tartus.

If they're with someone who has a ticket, says the knowlesi.

We haven't tested that, says Quiet-tartus. 

No, says the knowlesi.

He looks up at the poem bag, which they are holding aloft as they travel.

Quiet-tartus looks up at it too.

A gust of wind tries to take it.

Hold tight, says the knowlesi.

I am, says Quiet-tartus. We can't lose it. 

It's our inspiration, says the knowlesi.

I know, says Quiet-tartus. 'Saint Michael poured down his fury on the devil'.

'To split him in two', says the knowlesi.

I wonder if it would be easier to carry if we split it in two, says Quiet-tartus.

That would wreck the poem, says the knowlesi.

Front from back, says Quiet-tartus. Not horizontal.

Then who gets to carry the poem side? asks the knowlesi.

We'll take turns, says Quiet-tartus.

They stop, to work on splitting the poem bag in two.

They are working on it when a car passes slowly and stops a short distance ahead of them.

A little kid gets out. And her mother.

They head for the bushes, to pee.

Wasn't Blowing

Saint Maclou has returned, from seeing Madame Ponty.

What did she say? asks Terence.

Her pony is indisposed, says Saint Maclou.

Good, says Terence.

But you may have a lesson tomorrow, says Saint Maclou. And she will provide you with a helmet.

Will it have yellow eyes? asks Terence.

That's unlikely, says Saint Maclou.

Terence, come and sit in the garden with me, says Belle.

Yes, go, says Saint Méen. I'll get your room ready.

I could do it, says Belle.

No need, says Saint Méen. I just need to open a window.

Oh. Okay, says Belle.

She and Terence go into the garden.

Roo-kai flies down.

I hate to tell you this, says Roo-kai.

Why? asks Terence. 

Never mind why. What? asks Belle.

The frog that Pierre-Louis took with him was a rana, says Roo-kai. 

Are you certain? asks Belle.

Yes, says Roo-kai. I saw it being transferred to Arthur's pocket.

But that doesn't mean they didn't have the other two, says Belle.

No it doesn't, says Roo-kai.

Well then, says Belle.

But they didn't, says Roo-kai.

How do you know? asks Belle.

I saw the poem bag, blowing down the road, says Roo-kai. I flew down and landed on it. And guess who was underneath it?

My frogs! cries Terence. The bag wasn't blowing!

No it wasn't blowing, says Roo-kai. They were taking it somewhere.

Did you stop them? asks Belle.

No, says Roo-kai. They were determined.

Which way were they going? asks Belle. 

The same way as Arthur and Pierre-Louis, says Roo-kai.

Oh, the dear creatures! says Belle. 

She imagines the frogs, trying to carry their poem bag to the station.

Good Like An Actor

 Arthur! shouts Pierre Louis. Slow down! I need to catch up!

Arthur slows down a little. 

Pierre-Louis catches up.

You went off without the frogs, says Pierre-Louis.

I know, says Arthur. I'd done enough waiting. Did you bring them?

One, says Pierre-Louis.

Only one? says Arthur. How come?

And it's not even the right one, says Pierre-Louis. 

Let's see, says Arthur.

Pierre-Louis takes one hand off the handlebars of his bike.

Revealing the rana.

What happened? asks Arthur.

I rode off in a hurry, says Pierre-Louis. I didn't want Belle to see what it was.

That makes no sense, says Arthur.

To see EXACTLY what it was, says Pierre-Louis. Of course I wanted her to see that it was a frog,

One frog, says Arthur.

And I gave her to understand I had another one, says Pierre-Louis.

He was very good, says the rana. Just like an actor.

Okay, says Arthur. I get it. The frogs Gaius wants me to bring back to Australia are missing. And we've got this..... what?

Rana temporania, says the rana. With a penchant for travel.

How about that? says Pierre-Louis

Okay, bring it to Paris, says Arthur. But not to Australia.

Aw, says the rana.

As if Gaius would be fooled by a rana temporania, says Arthur.

Well, it certainly isn't my problem, says Pierre-Louis.

Excuse me, says the rana. Are we cycling all the way to Paris?

Of course not, says Pierre-Louis. We'll be catching the train.

Good, says the rana. Because I can't see myself going all the way to Paris wrapped round a handlebar.

It was your decision to come, says Pierre-Louis. Get used to a bit of discomfort

You're not good with frogs, says Arthur,

And you are? says Pierre-Louis. 

Arthur thinks he is better with frogs than Pierre-Louis. 

Give it here, says Arthur.

Pierre-Louis detaches the rana from his handlebar, and hands it to Arthur.

Arthur shoves the rana into his pocket.

Next to a cold potato fritter.

Two Into Wrong

Frogs! calls Pierre-Louis again.

Two common frogs are nearby. 

They are mainly nocturnal, so do not answer.

Belle comes out of the cottage.

Any luck? 

No, says Pierre-Louis. How crucial is it for these frogs to return to Australia?

The common frogs cannot help but hear the question. 

Crucial as! says Belle. Gaius says they're endangered.

The common frogs may be common, but they know what it means to be endangered.

Shall we tell them? says one common frog to another.

We should, says the other. After all, we frogs are brothers.

Not really, says the first one. 

Cousins, says the other.

You or me? says the first one.

I'll do it, says the other.

The other common frog hops out from low bushes.

Crah! The sun! It is bright!

There's one of them! says Pierre-Louis.

That's a common frog, says Belle. A local.

Rana temporania, says the common frog. 

I don't suppose you've seen a quiritatus or a knowlesi? asks Belle.

I may well have, says the rana temporania. What do they look like?

The quiritatus is light brown and slender, says Belle, with a white line down its side. And the knowlesi is light brown with a black stripe from its snout to its arm, and a half golden eye.

You should have mentioned that first, says the rani temporania. The half golden eye. They were here earlier.

Where did they go? asks Pierre-Louis. 

Under the fence, says the rana.

Belle runs across to the fence.

Nothing. Not even the pony.

Looks like we've lost them, says Pierre-Louis. Too bad.

Arthur's not going without them, says Belle.

Looks like he has, says Pierre-Louis.

Yes, there is Arthur, cycling away in the distance.

Rats! says Belle. Unless, maybe he found them.

She runs back inside.

I'm light brown, says the rana.

So what? says Pierre-Louis. I've no time for herpetology. 

Take me with you, says the rana.

No way Pierre-Louis is going to do that.

He dashes off to get his bike, and follow Arthur to the station.

He must not miss that train.

Wait! calls Belle. Arthur doesn't have them!

But I have! calls Pierre-Louis. Oops! I dropped one!

He does a quick u-turn and heads back to scoop up the rana.

Changed your mind? asks the rana.

Pierre-Louis waves the rana at Belle.

Belle gives him a thumbs-up.

She wouldn't have let me go otherwise, says Pierre-Louis.

He pedals fast, thinking only of catching up with Arthur and not missing the train.

The Gift Of Finding

Terence and Roo-kai go inside.

Saint Méen is clearing the table.

Guess what? says Terence. 

We saw, says Belle. You nearly fell into the field with the pony.

It ate all the sugar, says Terence. And then ran away.

Just as well, says Belle. You weren't wearing a helmet.

And you haven't had a lesson, says Saint Maclou.

I had a lesson, says Terence. It was Don't believe ponies.

You just had a bad start, says Saint Méen.

I'll speak to Madame Ponty, says Saint Maclou.

He goes out.

We'd better be going, says Pierre-Louis. Ready, Arthur?

Arthur picks up a leftover potato fritter, and shoves it into his pocket. 

He's ready.

You've forgotten something, says Belle.

The frogs! says Terence. 

Where are they? asks Arthur.

Where were they when you saw last them? asks Saint Méen.

Don't ask me, says Arthur. Belle had them.

I put them down by the pile of potatoes when I got here, says Belle. 

Outside? says Pierre-Louis. They could be anywhere. We shall miss our train!

Terence runs into the back garden.

No pile of potatoes.

He runs back inside.

The potatoes are missing! criesTerence.

We ate them, remember, says Belle. You helped me peel them.

A terrible thought strikes Terence.

He had been talking, while he was peeling. 

And not looking at what he was peeling.

He has peeled his own frogs!

And then they have been boiled, mashed and eaten by the grownups. 

You all ate them! cries Terence. 

No, says Belle. We would have noticed. So would you. You had some soup.

It tasted funny, says Terence.

That was the food colour, says Saint Méen. Let's split up, and look for them.

Why don't you give us the gift of finding? says Terence.

Alas, says Saint Méen. Maclou and I cannot give the gift of finding.

Really? says Pierre-Louis, I would have thought it was easier than giving the gift of speech.

And what would you know about it? asks Saint Méen.

Nothing apparently, says Pierre-Louis.

He goes outside and starts calling the frogs. 

Frogs! 

He must have forgotten their frog names.