By Pamela Love

Fountains, flowering trees, and the Pond… From the viewport, only those in the know would recognize Ernest and his parents’ destination as a prison.

As the airship docked, his father said, “Chin up, m’dear. It’s not as if the place were common. Rather like a resort, really.”

Mother refused to look up, dabbing her tear-stained cheeks. “For three years we shan’t see Ernest!”

Ernest hid a smirk. Three carefree years away from Oxford, and without his tedious parents—not to mention three years closer to his eventual inheritance, not that he quite dared say that. “This changing into a frog business does seem a bore. Warts and slime, you know.”

“But you won’t remember your time at the Pond. Judge Trent said once you’re enchanted, it will be like falling asleep, then awakening three years later. Who doesn’t enjoy sleeping in, eh?” Father elbowed Ernest in the ribs. “Besides, when you’re human again, you won’t be one day older. Wish I could say the same after that much time.”

Clenching her handkerchief, Mother said, “This is all a monstrous injustice. You didn’t mean to knock that wretched baroness down. You thought she was a lady’s maid!”

Mr. Digby, the man in charge of delivering Ernest into custody, harrumphed. “An unjust sentence, indeed.” If his parents had been unable to afford the transformation fee the warlock—that is, the Warden—charged to put “overly high-spirited gentlemen” under control at the Pond, Ernest would have been transported to the brutal conditions of Australia.

A bell sounded. Flanked by Digby and two guards dressed like footmen, they descended a spiral staircase. With three steps to go, Ernest sprang to the ground, landing in a crouch. “How’s this? Ribbit!”

Father guffawed, but Mother choked out a sob. “Son, how can you? Isn’t it bad enough you’ll actually become one of those revolting creatures?”

From behind a wrought-iron fence came the clicking of boot heels on the garden path. Everyone quieted as a tall figure cloaked in black reached the gate. “Ah, Mr. Digby.”

Digby nodded. “Warden, I bring you Ernest Harcourt, sentenced to three years’ transformation at the Pond.”

The Warden’s eyes narrowed. “You may all enter, with the exception of Ernest Harcourt.”

Mother gasped. “You recognize son’s innocence? Perhaps we might bring him home?”

 “Ernest Harcourt must enter.” The well-oiled gate swung open.

Slumping, Mother trailed along with the others following the Warden. Digby’s hand gripped Ernest’s shoulder. Ernest chose to ignore him, although he wanted to slap the blighter for his impudence.

As they neared the Pond, something plunged from the sky, followed by a squawk on the opposite shore. Mother turned ashen. “What was that?”

“My clockwork falcons strike down most predators, for the residents’ protection,” the Warden said.

“‘Most?’ If a fox or stoat attacked Ernest, my son would be helpless!”

At the Pond’s edge, the Warden halted, water lapping at his boots. “Do you see those silvery flashes near the water lilies?”

“Fish, surely. Are they also… residents?”

“Indeed not. They are also clockwork guards.” A flick of the Warden’s wand summoned something serpentine ashore.

“Snake!” bellowed Father, stepping backward.

A faint smile touched the Warden’s lips. “One of my clockwork cottonmouths. Your son will be constantly protected from any intruders. Of course, no guard can endanger the residents themselves since they are specially fashioned never to harm any frog.”

 “Perhaps this won’t be completely unendurable, Ernest.” Mother’s lower lip quivered. “Many gentlemen spend years in more disagreeable places than this—like the Navy.”

Mr. Digby coughed. “The airship follows a strict schedule. Time to say your farewells.”

Mother’s tears flowed afresh. Even Father rubbed his eyes. He clapped Ernest on the back while Mother hugged Ernest tightly.

Raising his wand, the Warden asked, “Do you want to see his transformation?”

Ernest rolled his eyes. “Just go, both of you. Don’t fret. See you in three years.”

To his immense relief, after a brief, final kiss, his mother took his father’s arm, and they departed. Damned embarrassing, the frog thing. Having his parents witness it would only make it worse.

Ernest’s parents were well down the path when the wand descended. As it did, he felt himself descending as well. Down, down, down…

What! That blasted judge said I was supposed to fall asleep. Why am I awake? Where are my legs?

And why can’t I breathe?

 Mr. Digby blinked while Ernest flopped on the ground. “What’s wrong? Why isn’t he a frog?”

Kneeling, the Warden said, “Is Harcourt below the age of twenty-one?”

Mr. Digby opened a folder. “He is twenty.”

“Then he is the youngest felon ever sent here. The others had reached their majority.” A flick of a forefinger, and Ernest landed in the Pond with a tiny splash.

Phew! At least these blasted gills work.

“How long will he be a polliwog?”

“Until he is restored. Those under this enchantment do not age, as you know, and remember nothing of their time here.” The Warden folded his arms. “Personally, I see no reason to notify his family. Having a place at the Pond means a sentence of three years’ transformation. Into what is never specified.”

“Oh, I quite agree. No sense dealing with more paperwork. Provided you restore their son before his parents see him like this, they need never know.” At Digby’s sharp glance, the guards bowed.

“One might call this, ‘tad-parole.’”

 “Very droll, Warden.”

As they left, their chuckles and footsteps masked the sound of steel slithering back into the water. The clockwork cottonmouth had sensed something not a frog in the Pond.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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