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    A Little Frog's Heart: The First Steps Towards Maturity
    A Little Frog's Heart: The First Steps Towards Maturity
    A Little Frog's Heart: The First Steps Towards Maturity
    Ebook429 pages5 hours

    A Little Frog's Heart: The First Steps Towards Maturity

    By George Vîrtosu and Gheorghe Virtosu

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    About this ebook

    To read a book, to go page after page through a comic, even to watch a film, very much resembles the adventure of travelling down a road. When the book has several volumes, when a multitude of secondary stories cross with the main story, the road seems to be full of adventures; because you have a long way to go, surrounded by miraculous landscapes, you have many surprising detours to make, you have to walk over bridges and viaducts. This is the situation with the present cycle, that of the “Little Frog’s Heart“, about which I am more and more convinced that it is written “for all the ages“, that is, not only for my grandchildren, but even for grandparents like myself.



    In this volume, the Drop of Blood we met in the first book seems to be tired and would like to get some rest. The Flea and the little Silk Worm, for a change, seem to be not just well rested, but also so curious and talkative that they do not fall silent even once over the course of three hundred pages or so. The Flea, who is older and more experienced, tells the little Worm a multitude of miraculous stories, only asking the Worm not interrupt him! As if that’s what’s going to happen! As if you can make such a minuscule, yet so lively a creature ask not just hundreds, but thousands of questions! Just like any other child, the little Worm is full of “whys“, and the Flea, despite his feigned discontent, strives to answer them all. And so we find, together with the little Worm, a multitude of things about dreams and their interpretation, about the wisdom of fleas, about what happened to the horned cattle, or about the power of memories. But, above all, the memorable story may be the more lengthy story, which crosses some of those already mentioned, about the burial of the Old Rat, former master of the Flea and his family. As in other parts of this cycle, what is completely impressive here is the way in which the mythological elements, some connected to primitive, folkloric Christianity, some connected to paganism, are introduced in this somehow “realist“ story, even if it is written in the key of the fantastic and the miraculous.



    For the reader, irrespective of age as I realise now, reading these volumes is surely a pleasure. For the young reader, for the very young, for those who do not read yet but are read to, this is also a sort of “book of teachings“ through which readers can explain to themselves even those things which go above the first layer of understanding. On the other hand, they can make contact with the ethical dimension of our experience in this world. Congratulations to the author, and I wish good progress to the readers of all ages; as for me, I am waiting. Waiting for the next volumes, I mean. – Liviu Antonesei, 9 June 2011, Iași

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAdenium
    Release dateJun 14, 2016
    ISBN9789738097131
    A Little Frog's Heart: The First Steps Towards Maturity

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      Book preview

      A Little Frog's Heart - George Vîrtosu

      GHEORGHE VÎRTOSU

      A Little Frog’s Heart

      A Story For All Ages

      The first steps towards maturity

      Second volume

      Translation from the Romanian by Profusion International

      Editor: Adriana NICORICI

      Illustrations: Ciprian O. Dudas

      Desktop publishing: Adenium Print srl

      ISBN 978-973-8097-13-1

      Vol. I1. : The First Steps Towards Maturity. - 2012

      Editorial Adenium, Iași, Romania

      www.adenium.ro

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying) without the prior permission of the publishers.

      The illustrations, names, characters and places are registered trademarks,

      copyright Gheorghe Vîrtosu, © 2011

      If you are interested you can also enter the wonderful world of the friends of the Little Frog’s Heart through reading the comic book.

      The second volume, with the same name – The First Steps Towards Maturity will be printed soon.

      e-mail: oinimadebroscuta@gmail.com

      The second volume in the series A Little Frog’s Heart is dedicated to my Father: a strong spirit, truly alive, which I hope has found its due place in this miraculous universe.

      I therefore dedicate a pious homage to him, not only because I owe him my life – divine Sunrise – but especially because of the education he gave me. The reason is that it was not a conventional education, but one that was wholly special, outside of classic patterns. There were moments when I asked myself whether it was not the education, but Father himself who was special, different from other parents?! Who knows…

      He tried to inoculate me with a vision of life which would be as clear as possible, and he did not do it in a moralising spirit which might have induced a state of fear or boredom with regard to his advice! No! Father opened my eyes to the world with the help of thousands, of countless proverbs, sayings, and meaningful stories, many invented by himself, but each of them said at the proper time.

      The fantastic thing is that Father was trying not to repeat himself, if possible, to avoid his words being transformed into a routine! As a result, I would become very attentive! Of course, my playful age was to blame for this. I believed that each time he talked to me Father was joking. Although his attitude was grave, and his face serious – the way he talked to me was captivating! I could hardly wait to hear a new piece of advice, getting to live his words with each fibre of my being!

      I will present here only two of Father’s teachings, which my conscience just simply tattooed on its body, so I could always see them together, for the rest of my life. I did not forget the other teachings either, I will keep them carefully in the priceless archive of my childhood’s memories, and just like my father, I will scatter them at the proper time, even in the pages of the Little Frog’s Heart.

      The first teaching…

      I would often drop something or another out of my hand, and this happened even in front of Father several times. He would study me with his eyes each time, but he would not tell me off immediately, instead he waited patiently until he was convinced his eyes had said enough to me.

      But one day, when I had already grown a little, it happened again: I dropped something out of my hand. I hurried to pick up the object, feeling Father’s burning gaze fixed on me… And then, with gentle authority, he said:

      Son, this is not the first time…But imagine yourself above a fountain at this moment when you dropped that thing, for which I see you care pretty much… Or, maybe it would have been swallowed by the flames of an unmerciful fire, or by a bottomless chasm! How were you going to recover it?

      He then fell silent, and he pinned me with his piercing gaze. He wanted to make sure I understood the meaning of his words. Of course, I smiled playfully, I took it all as a joke, as usual. I visualised his words, but, proud of myself, I bent to pick up the object I’d dropped, to show him that reality was wholly different. He had, therefore, no reason to worry.

      That day, however, Father held me by the shoulders, looking into my eyes. I was almost scared of his reaction!

      Don’t laugh, child! I want you to SEE, my dear boy! I want you to SEE that you would not have been able to recover it in the situations of which I reminded you …

      Yes, Father, I SEE! I whispered to him, looking into his heavenly blue eyes.

      I am glad … he said, embracing me. You have to take care of everything that you will get to ‘hold in your hand’ during your lifetime, in order not to drop, by lack of attention, some gift received from Above! Opportunities in life are unique! Look upon any event, any moment, as if it were an opportunity! Should it be proved that you do not care, that you will ignore it, the opportunity will never return!

      Yes, Father… I whispered closing my eyes, visualising the opportunity he had talked about, and clinging to his chest.

      Father picked up the object I had dropped. He wiped it with care and put it in the palm of my hand. He then closed my little hand, gripping it softly in his protective fist, as if locking it, so that it wouldn’t ever be dropped again.

      Come here, Father’s dear child! he opened his arms widely, bending above me.

      He embraced me again, kissed me on my forehead and then went to see about his business, leaving me there to think in peace about the meaning of the words which had been spoken.

      I will be open with you, dear readers, and I will confess that it was only many years later that I took in Father’s saying properly. I don’t know, maybe it was my tender age that made me take everything as a joke back then? I now realise clearly that I have to respect and value anything that is given me, so that it would not, by my losing it, end up in the hands of somebody who could use it even against me and everything I hold dear…

      Father’s second important teaching, which I would like to share with you, is the following:

      Son, never disappoint those who trust you! Life will return everything to you, like a boomerang, and you will suffer greatly when you will feel it!

      How many times did father tell me this? It’s hard for me to remember, since there were many times that I didn’t listen to him or to Mother…

      The years have passed and I managed to experience the truth of these words in my own skin. My mind brought them to the forefront every day, especially when I woke up alone, in a cold, dark, unwelcoming, God-forsaken cell, which I could never even imagine existed. Because it is true. Disappointment is bitter when you are betrayed by everyone you had trusted!

      I was looking at the sun through the bars of the accursed cell, trying not to blink. The bars fed off parts of the days of my life. I was leaving my eyes to the mercy of the sun’s rays, and they hurried to punish them, the way they do with anyone who dares to confront them. I was, therefore, masking the wailing of pain, blaming the rays, unwilling to offer satisfaction to the prison’s walls that only feed off the suffering of those who ended up behind them. My tears were streaming, hot, but I felt that, as they flowed, my body was purifying itself. And I was thinking of Father… with regret that I had disappointed him so many times when I was a child…

      My parents, who are now two angels, never hit me. They didn’t even tell me off! Their education was not a moralising one! They told me the proper way to do things in various situations, but left me alone to choose the road I was going to follow.

      I have always lived the feeling of complete freedom intensely, feeling like a feather carried by the breath of the wind, not opposing it in any way. This is why I consider that, as a child, maybe I was different from the other children my age. I liked this feeling and I wanted always to stay like that, and the thought repaid my loyalty by helping me describe stories which I would like to be just as special.

      Freedom and health seem to me the most valuable Gifts offered to me from the time my life began; and from my Father I learned that I have to value them properly, not to disappoint He who offered me these Gifts and, especially, never to drop them out of my hands!

      Let’s continue on our way!

      To read a book, to go page after page through a comic, even to watch a film, very much resembles the adventure of travelling down a road. When the book has several volumes, when a multitude of secondary stories cross with the main story, the road seems to be full of adventures; because you have a long way to go, surrounded by miraculous landscapes, you have many surprising detours to make, you have to walk over bridges and viaducts. This is the situation with the present cycle, that of the Little Frog’s Heart, about which I am more and more convinced that it is written for all the ages, that is, not only for my grandchildren, but even for grandparents like myself.

      In this volume, the Drop of Blood we met in the first book seems to be tired and would like to get some rest. The Flea and the little Silk Worm, for a change, seem to be not just well rested, but also so curious and talkative that they do not fall silent even once over the course of three hundred pages or so. The Flea, who is older and more experienced, tells the little Worm a multitude of miraculous stories, only asking the Worm not interrupt him! As if that’s what’s going to happen! As if you can make such a minuscule, yet so lively a creature ask not just hundreds, but thousands of questions! Just like any other child, the little Worm is full of whys, and the Flea, despite his feigned discontent, strives to answer them all. And so we find, together with the little Worm, a multitude of things about dreams and their interpretation, about the wisdom of fleas, about what happened to the horned cattle, or about the power of memories. But, above all, the memorable story may be the more lengthy story, which crosses some of those already mentioned, about the burial of the Old Rat, former master of the Flea and his family. As in other parts of this cycle, what is completely impressive here is the way in which the mythological elements, some connected to primitive, folkloric Christianity, some connected to paganism, are introduced in this somehow realist story, even if it is written in the key of the fantastic and the miraculous.

      For the reader, irrespective of age as I realise now, reading these volumes is surely a pleasure. For the young reader, for the very young, for those who do not read yet but are read to, this is also a sort of book of teachings through which readers can explain to themselves even those things which go above the first layer of understanding. On the other hand, they can make contact with the ethical dimension of our experience in this world. Congratulations to the author, and I wish good progress to the readers of all ages; as for me, I am waiting. Waiting for the next volumes, I mean.

      Liviu Antonesei

      9 June 2011, Iaşi

      Dear readers,

      In the foreword to the first volume in this series of children’s books – The Golden Pen, Angel or Executioner? – I tried to give you a brief description of how the story A Little Frog’s Heart was born. The foreword to volume 1 was, therefore, transformed (without my will) into another story, which, at your request, we are going to continue. We shall go in parallel with the mysterious history of the Little Frog’s Heart which made its first steps in prison, as well as with the adventures of the characters who are already known to you, the Drop of Blood, the Flea, and the little Silk Worm.

      Enjoy your reading!

      A Jailhouse Story II

      Morning had broken.

      I had already filled all the pages of the first notebook with thousands of lines with bent backs, lines that knew the weight of the contents of the story being born. My hand used the biro with uncommon skill, while during the course of the entire night I let myself become subject to a dizzying flight through the story world which had started to take shape.

      Emotions had overwhelmed me, they were now masters of my whole body. Rifling through all the nooks of my mind and heart, I was discovering waves of thoughts and feelings, which my hand laid down on paper with terrifying enthusiasm.

      I wrote without realising, until my impetus was cut short at a given moment by an unforeseen event: I had reached the notebook’s last page. I grew so sad that the flame of the candle which had kept me company loyally for the whole night grew afraid. My face, which until then shone with an indefinite joy, instantly darkened. I noticed the way that the candle watched my states of feeling as if they were some sort of prey, feverishly observing the creases that appeared on my forehead, moving restlessly, like hungry snakes. But my worries were well founded. I had no other notebook, I had nothing on which to write any more…

      My story was fully in the process of being born in a cold cell… And no doctor or midwife was around. I had no-one with whom to share the joy of its coming into this world, no one, either, to share the pain of my inability to carry on with it.

      I had an urgent need for clean sheets of paper to embrace and swathe the new born. Just as young parents wrap up that little bundle of joy who will change their lives by being born, in new, snow-white swaddling clothes, trying to offer protection, keeping unsullied the warmth and love the baby enjoyed inside the body which gave it life… The only way to try and feel a little better was to breathe deeply. A rending sigh flooded my soul. I placed the biro carefully in the depression between the last page and the notebook’s cover. I spread my fingers slowly; several joints cracked, admonishing me for depriving them of the biro’s touch.

      I looked absent-mindedly at them. My resignation had made me pay no attention to the demands they raised. I knew they were tired, but eager to work… They had just worked for the whole night. Especially the three fingers on the right hand. The thumb, the index and middle fingers, now wore a pleasant dimple in their rosy cheeks. I noticed how they threw discreet and loving looks at the biro that was at rest nestling on the notebook… The biro smiled at them from under his moustache, content that he had managed to offer those dimples to the fingers. He’d done this on purpose, so that the fingers would think of him until they were together again. It was exactly like a wise little boy who always wishes to make a good impression before leaving a circle of girls, so that the girls should miss him until they see him next.

      This is what my biro had done to my fingers: that night he had provoked them, taking them through the story’s mysterious glades, and now the fingers were feeling important. Looking at them, I smiled; I caressed lightly those cute dimples with the fingers on my left hand, so that they would be visited by a little warm blood which would pet them tenderly and prepare them for the sleep that for a long time had waited in patience.

      A light smile passed over my lips and its breeze made a straight route to the candle’s flame. Frail and delicate, it bent lightly and the movement attracted my gaze. A thought of gratitude emerged from the recesses of my mind, and went towards her. She had sacrificed herself the whole night, staying beside me, yet she still found strength to draw a playful shadow on the worn wooden table. Yet, I was seeing the candle begin to lose her magical powers. The light of day had started to make room for itself through the bars of the window, as the sun began to prepare for his daily enthronement in the vault of the sky.

      Inquisitively, rays of light flooded the cell without asking anyone’s leave. On the contrary: the beautiful rays ignored everything, sliding in fearlessly and full of pride; aware of how welcome they always were, and advancing towards my table, towards the candle.

      Although she was gentle and had a big soul, I saw her being overwhelmed by jealousy for the uncontested power of daylight, in front of which her own light obediently declined, aware of its powerlessness. I looked at it insistently, from under my eyelashes, so that the candle would not notice and feel inadequate. I felt pity for her: more than one half had burned off, and worried, she cradled her yellowed face in her hands and pinned her gaze to my frowning forehead. She didn’t like to see me like that, and her stare seemed to be telling me off for accepting the appearance of the savage creases.

      I guessed the source of her discontent and, to please her, I smiled widely, chasing away to their beds the creases that had worried her so. On seeing this, the candle glanced quickly at me. She smiled in her turn, happy that I was not indifferent to her. Somehow ashamed, she let her arms hang on the sides of her body, stopped her flame from swinging and, shyly, made it tiny; so small I could barely see it. For a moment, I even had the impression it had gone out. But I was wrong: it was still flickering. This was what she always did once the sun’s rays arrived. The candle was wise, she used her flame in extreme moderation, wishing to extend her life for as long as possible. She was loyal to me, and I felt her readiness to sacrifice herself for me, taking care to be able to serve me with her magical light for as many nights as possible.

      She followed me attentively with a languorous look. She knew I was going to extinguish the flame soon, as I always did once daylight came. I cared for each moment of her life. Day might have been lost, but at night-time, together with its friends, the candle had the chance to become mistress of the room which I willingly entrusted to her each evening. She was aware I had to do this every morning, but I felt her displeasure when she saw me approach and pucker my lips, getting ready to put out the playful flame of which she was so proud. She worried that I would be left alone for the whole day, pottering around the room in her absence. It was a kind of jealousy about all the other things in the cell which got hold of her, even if there were only a few of them. She grew sad knowing that they would stay on to keep me company while she had to go to sleep.

      I felt pity for my dear candle. She looked at me with eyes reddened by fatigue, and her languid gaze forced me to take a decision:

      I won’t put her out this morning, I said to myself.

      I stood up slowly and went closer to the window: it was coated with a thick layer of snow. The little wind had carefully gathered the flakes and covered everything, leaving uncovered only a tiny spyhole. Through it, I could barely see what was going on outside, but I saw him. He was a youngish little wind, his back turned to me. Furious, he was throwing snow from one side to the other, rolling up big boulders of it, as if getting ready for a hard battle. Stubbornly, he did not allow the snowflakes to stay frozen, so the snow on the ground could not somehow be warmed up with its crystalline fuzz.

      Myes. This little wind is very angry! I said to myself looking around, wanting to discover who had made him angry.

      But there was nobody there. At a certain moment, it seemed to me he had got to be even more bitter, and he was lifting the small snowballs which he had crafted for himself with all his might, throwing them all around. I believed for an instant that he had probably seen me and wanted to demonstrate his capabilities. A great confusion had been created, which was soon transformed in a storm.

      The young wind was more and more daring: it probably was one of the first winters he was confronting! I saw him trying to measure his forces against the barbed wire, which no-one really pitted their minds against, lacking the courage. Nobody dared to offend it or touch it! Many times I had seen some poor little birds who, in their purity, would have liked, possibly, to appease that rough wire by sitting gently on it … But, poor things, they found their end by touching it, and ended up rotting away there, at its feet… At other times I had seen some fine drops of water which had the audacity to allay the savageness of the barbed wire with their delicate touch, but still with no result… This was why, advised by the clouds, the drops deserted the barbed wire, leaving it to the hands of moist air, the only thing which seemed to do it some good. The barbed wire thinks moist air lacks strength, but the naive wretch does not realise that its end would come from this direction! Because, with time, without realising it’s happening, it will discover itself dressed from head to foot in a morbid coat of rust. Moisture is very cunning and deceptive!

      The drops know that barbed wire would come to be at their mercy again! It will implore them with tears in its eyes to sit on its stiff body and caress it – even for one moment, giving it life and alleviating its suffocating pain.

      It is aware it was created by cursed hands, its destiny being to take over their suffering and transmit it further to others, unceasingly. It is aware that it is made of the same materials as the scythe of Death which implants horror in the souls of those it encounters. These materials have the same character: they do not know how to forgive, they do not know how to love. They learnt their destiny in the dark schools of evil, lacking the light of life and the warmth of love. They only know how to scythe, completely and without mercy, the lives of innocent creatures whose hourglass of time has sieved the last grain of sand. The realm of death permanently needs new bodies to strengthen and thicken the ceiling between the two worlds, so that the rays of the sun would never penetrate into the Realm of Darkness.

      The grotesque image to which I had given life in my mind made me shiver. I shook my head quickly, wanting to chase it away as soon as possible. Then I saw again the wind wrestling with nature in the prison yard, punishing the snowballs without mercy. It just happened that a conceited rook passed by. It seemed she was old friends with the impetuous wind, she was not even bothered by his presence! On the contrary, she seemed to have come to look around, to see how he was managing things down there… Or, who knows: the rook might have been on some special mission that morning, above the prison!

      But I was wrong: because when he noticed the bird, the wind also took issue with the courageous rook. He hit her quickly with a snowball. He had taken aim and then thrown it at the rook with all his might! You could say he wanted to teach the doom-bringing bird a lesson so she wouldn’t dare to go out of her house at the time the wind was in negotiation with the children of nature. Just so the rook would remember the wind was not just anyone, and show due respect!

      I saw how the snowball started towards the insufferable rook. I could hear the whistle that accompanied its furious speed. I think the rook heard it as well, because she turned suddenly, looking questioningly to see what was going on, and, crafty as ever, she managed to dodge when she saw danger lurching over her. Her experience protected her. But, cunning as she was, the rook was not content just with that. After the snowball passed her by, she had understood she was dealing with a youngster and, craftily, she put her hand to her heart as if hit. She even fell to the ground!

      The naive wind was jubilant, but the rook was stalking him from the corner of her eye to see what he was going to do next. When she saw the wind laughing, the rook turned and, scornfully, showed him her bottom!

      This was all the wind needed. He got so angry! In no time, he took a snowball that he moulded by pressing it hard in his fists in order to increase its force. And he started to bombard the rook. But the rook was not just any old rook: she had enough life experience, so she started to dance swinging in the round dance of death from one side to the other, dodging skilfully the wind’s snowballs of wrath! Not even one hit her!

      Eventually, the wind got tired. The rook noticed his fatigue and made rude gestures at him: sticking her tongue out, showing her bottom…

      You fool! she crowed at one point. You are good for nothing! and, in the end, she laughed in his face.

      So the young wind tensed itself, sulking because it had been offended, gathered all his strength and, with a mad whirl, gathered together all the snow in the prison’s yard. He made a lot of snowballs which he placed somewhere handy and he restarted the artillery barrage. He really wanted to bring the rook down!

      The rook was now feeling that it was no time to joke with the impetuous wind, and I saw how she ran away, wanting to quit the penitentiary yard. If the wind had hurt her from his desire for revenge, it would not have helped her in any way. She would have certainly found herself in the hands of the wardens, if she had been unable to leave the prison’s territory. Yet, when she reached near the barbed wire, the rook looked carefully so that she would not be hurt in the flight above it. The wind took advantage of the moment when the rook was not noticing him and threw another snowball. And this time he hit her! Right on the bottom!

      Poor rook! She fell under the weight of the blow, but she got lucky, because she had passed the prison fence. She was able to get up, shake off the snow, and fly on, but the confrontation with the young wind would be an unforgettable lesson for her…

      The wind was satisfied. He was smiling contentedly. I looked at him closely and then I recognised him: he was the little strand of wind that had visited my cell the evening before and had scattered everything on the floor: the notebook, the biro… I was happy to see him again. I understood that he had stayed all night near the window, keeping it captive. He had covered it with snow, leaving only a spyhole through which he’d watched me now and then.

      I tapped lightly on the glass in the window. I wanted to get his attention. He heard the noise of my tapping and when he saw me looking at him, laughing, he made it to window in a matter of moments. He looked at me a little angrily while wiping the sweat off his forehead, seeming to wonder why had I asked him over. I showed him with my finger, whispering lightly:

      Clean my window!

      No, he shook his head, stubbornly.

      He didn’t look me in the eye. You could see his anger from last night hadn’t passed yet. But I did not give up: I tapped on the window more strongly, telling him again:

      Clean my window, please, and I will let you get inside my cell again!

      He calmed down as soon as he heard

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