The Frog

Mr Yuto Kumagai was a collector of things. To look at him. A slightly built elder, with a mop of dyed black hair, accusatory eyes, a pencil moustache, severe lips and an aura of superiority, you would think Mr Kumagai too serious for the silly or the obscure. He was after all, an architect. A serious profession. All straight lines and modernity. He had designed libraries and civic centres, music halls and celebrity homes. Angular, concrete, monolithic, imperious and clean.

The exterior of Mr Kumagai’s house was in keeping with his own. A long, sleek rectangle, austere on the outside. Wooden panelled and soft on the inside. The whole house jutting out onto a beach. Mr Kumagai’s home was designed to be a communion with, and part of the coastline on one single level.

Mr Kumagai’s living room was flooded with light, and dotted with oddities, collectables. Wooden masks, pieces of pottery, oddly shaped glass sculptures. Objects from every continent.

By his reading chair, on a small glass table, sat a bronze frog, with manic eyes staring in different directions. Its mouth a lid that opened into an ash tray.

Mr Kumagai would arrive at his reading chair, the living room drenched in the long beams of coastal light. He would sit down with his newspaper and read abut the world, current affairs, politics, business and a smattering of sport. Without fail, he would take out a packet of Camel cigarettes. He would light that small stick of wrapped tobacco with a silver lighter bought at a flea market in Little Rock, Arkansas. The lighter emblazoned with an eagle. He would puff on that camel, and flicked open the bronze frog, newspaper in his lap. And he would stare at the frog, its scooped-out innards on show, gathering ash. And he would think about where he had bought that little frog from.

It was a marble grey day in Camden Market, London. The frog sat there facing away from him. The seller saw Mr Kumagai staring at the frog and turned it to face him. Without a word Mr Kumagai picked up the frog, and he held it flat in his palm.

“He’s £10,” said the seller.

Mr Kumagai gave her £20 and slipped the frog into his deep duffle jacket pocket, and he went on his way.

Smoke filling the space around him, Mr Kumagai rested his cigarette in the frog and opened the paper.

The United State was threatening war. Europe was in a frenzy. Russia was asserting its dominance. Iran was firing back. Israel and China, and all the chess pieces were moving. Japan was pondering whether to vote for a conservative female Prime Minister, over someone more on the liberal side of Japanese politics.

Mr Kumagai thought of his father who had fought in the war. Who had hated everything of conflict and knew the shame of such things. And he read that conservatives in his country were talking up an expanded military, a bigger role in international affairs. Mr Kumagai grew tired of the paper. He took his cigarette, the pack of Camels and the frog, and moved across the living room to a large sliding door, opening it to the crashing waves.

Mr Kumagai sat out on the balcony and stayed there until the sunset. His anxieties washed away.

4 years ago I wrote this short story for a video for my Mum. During the lockdowns and in the early years of the pandemic, I got into making videos for family members and friends, (I had a lot of time on my hands). Up until the pandemic started I had regularly returned home see Mum for Easter. Because travel was still restricted and I was concerned about passing anything onto Mum, I stayed in Cardiff.

When I was little, I had an illustrated version of The Three Trees, a Bible story that told the tale of three trees on a hill, each contributing in some way to the life of Jesus. I am sharing this story not as someone who is particularly religious anymore, but as a wider story about intention, about purpose and the role we can play in shaping the world. I also added in a brief interaction between Jesus and Thomas, taken from the Bible. Doubting Thomas was referenced at both my maternal grandparents’ funerals, it hit me hard both times. I too, am a doubting Thomas, but it is stories like this that help me overcome my doubt.

Three trees stood atop a hill.

The first tree looked to the stars, dreaming of becoming a treasure chest, decorated in gold and fine jewels, hoping to hold the greatest treasure of all.

The second tree looked towards a snaking river that flowed into an endless sea, dreaming of becoming a ship whose bows would endure even the mightiest of storms.

The third tree looked down at the town nestled in the valley below – a town bustling with people with little time for God. The third tree did not dream of being made into anything. She wanted to remain on that hillside, pointing towards heaven, towards God.

One day, woodcutters ascended the hill, and took their axes to the three trees.

The first tree was glad, for when they were cut down, they were taken to a carpenter’s workshop. However, instead of being crafted into a treasure chest, the first tree was turned into a lowly trough for animals.

The second tree was pleased, for when they were cut down, they were taken to a boat yard. However, instead of being turned into a mighty ship, the second tree became a meagre fishing boat.

The third tree was crestfallen, for she was cut down and not left to grow tall, pointing towards heaven. Instead she was split into beams, chopped into planks and dumped at the edge of a lumber yard – abandoned, bereft, hopeless.

Time passed. The trees lost sight of their dreams.

One night a golden star lit the inky purple sky, and a young couple with an infant child came to a stable in Bethlehem. They rested their precious babe in a lowly trough, and the first tree remembered their dream – to hold the greatest treasure of all.

Years passed. A weary traveller and his friends arrived at a shore, and found the fishing boat, made from the second tree. The traveller and his friends pushed the boat into the water, and climbed aboard. A mighty storm did come, and the wind did blow and great towering waves did nearly sink the boat. But the traveller, defiant and calm, stood up and commanded the storm to stop. The second tree remembered their dream – to endure even the mightiest of storms. And in so doing, it carried the greatest cargo of all.

One Friday, violent men came and yanked the third tree’s beams from a forgotten heap. She was turned into a cross, and was dragged through the streets of the town by the traveller, wearing a crown of thorns, body bruised and bloody. He was flogged and spat on, the towns people jeering as he passed. The third tree was scared for the man who carried her.

The third tree was carried to the top of the hill and erected as a warning to those who wished to defy the authorities. The traveller who had carried her was strapped to her wooden beams, and his hands nailed into her. She felt ashamed to be the bearer of such cruelty, she felt ashamed to be the bearer of such pain.

Pleased with their work, the violent men and the jeering crowds left the man to die.

She felt the life of the man seep away.

That night, under the cover of darkness, the man’s friends came and removed him from the third tree’s bows. They wrapped the man’s body and took him to a cave, where they laid him to rest.

Saturday passed without incident. Night came, the stars replaced day, and when the sun rose, some of the traveller’s friends visited the cave. They were shocked to find the cave was no longer sealed as they had left it. The cave was open, and their friend’s body was gone.

One of the follower’s friends, Thomas, was haunted by this. Believing that robbers had taken his friend’s body. He walked, to rid himself of his anger and despair.

Thomas came upon a clearing, and found a robed man sitting on a felled tree. Without looking over his shoulder the man said in a familiar voice. ‘Thomas, come sit with me.’

Eyes wide, voice trembling Thomas replied, ‘your voice – it sounds like a friend I lost.’

The man stood up and turned to face Thomas – it was the traveller, Thomas’ friend, who only days before had been nailed to the cross and died.

‘It…it can’t be…’ said Thomas, trembling.

The traveller presented his hands to Thomas – bearing the scars of the nails so viciously hammered through skin and bone.

Smiling, the traveller said, ‘Thomas it is me. Trust in me. Have faith. I have returned.’

And Thomas fell to his knees and said, ‘My Lord and God.’

The traveller said softly. ‘Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.’

The third tree saw the traveller and his friends, rejoicing at the traveller’s return. She had played her part in his story. It was then she remembered her dream – to stand atop a hill, pointing towards heaven. There she stood, no longer bearing the dying man. Whenever anyone was to think of her, they would be reminded of the pain and sacrifice, as well as hope and peace. As the cross, she would become a symbol – representing the point between earth and heaven, always pointing skyward, always pointing towards God.

Wishing you all, whether you celebrate Easter or just look forward to an extended weekend (in the UK at least), a peaceful weekend.

Thanks for reading.

I know this Substack is usually linked to my podcast or topics adjacent. Maybe it's because the season has compelled me, but I've always wanted to write a Christmas story. So here we go...

It had become a tradition for them, the night shift debrief. Armed with mugs of hot chocolate and a small blanket, Otto and Lucas would make their way to the workshop extension roof, sitting down feet dangling off the edge, staring out into the dark howling tundra beyond.

Otto and Lucas clasped their large mugs, marshmallows bobbing in swirling ponds of lava hot chocolate, sharing stories from their long shift.

Golden orbed lights illuminated the perimeter, marking the cluster of workshops, offices and warehouses from the whistling, howling dark snowy night beyond.

Days of night came every September and lasted until March in this part of the world. In this endless gloom, Otto, Lucas and a cadre of engineers, designers, painters and storytellers crafted their best work.

Legs swinging in time, Otto and Lucas wore burgundy red boiler suits, bobble hats sat on their short messy hair. Otto had fair Bavarian skin, Lucas’s was sun kissed from years spent exploring the hills of São Paulo.

‘We were off target again last night,’ said Lucas.

‘How many days is that now?’ asked Otto, his register a little lower than Lucas’s.

‘Five in a row, seventeen in the last 30,’ Lucas puffed out his cheeks.

‘And what does the Big Man say about that?’ asked Otto.

‘He hasn’t really said anything,’ said Lucas.

The two of them stared into the arctic void.

‘He used to care a lot more,’ said Otto finally.

‘He’s looking very tired,’ Lucas took a sip from his hot chocolate. For elves, sugar wasn’t a vice - it was fuel. Without it, they simply stopped working.

‘And he’s lost weight,’ added Otto.

‘It’s very concerning,’ Lucas nodded.

‘I’m trying to work out how much missing the targets is to do with the Big Man vs the newbies,’ said Otto.

‘Well,’ Lucas sighed a very long sigh. ‘The newbies are a factor, but motivation starts from the top. If the Big Man isn’t firing on all cylinders, how does he expect the rest of us to be firing on all cylinders.’

‘The newbies don’t understand how we work. It takes them a lot longer to learn to do the work,’ said Otto.

‘They don’t have magic to speed things up,’ Lucas glanced at his colleague. He wanted to give Otto something, but not everything. ‘We had a lot of retirements, and the Big Man needed the workers.’

‘Short-term thinking doesn’t get anyone anywhere,’ said Otto.

‘And the newbies have taught me a lot.’

‘Oh really?’ Otto laughed sardonically. ‘Like what?’

‘Well they’ve taught me about the new machines…’

‘Don’t get me started on the machines, they’ve been a disaster,’ Otto threw his hands in the air, the hot chocolate and marshmallows did the same, quickly catching the rest with his mug. ‘It’s all Colin’s fault…’

Lucas rolled his eyes. He’d clearly heard this one before.

‘He gets promoted to Chief Innovation Officer, whatever that means, and then he gets that all costs paid for trip to a Texan tech fair and comes back with an order of super computers and algorithms and dashboards and all this silly reporting. It kills the magic Lucas, it really does.’

His colleague didn’t reply. Instead, he knocked back the last of his hot chocolate.

‘I want to be optimistic, I want to believe the computers will help us get back on track,’ said Lucas, hope disappearing from his voice. He clearly wasn’t confident in his own words.

Before Otto could reply, the sound of excitable barking filled the dark sky. Scrambling padded feet beat the snow as a pack of huskies pulled hard, dragging a sleigh and its single occupant.

‘He’s going out again,’ said Otto in a flat tone.

‘The Big Man finds comfort in it,’ said Lucas.

‘Staring into the void,’ Otto stood up. He offered a gloved hand. ‘Come on, time for the next shift.’

The huskies’ slobbering breath rose into the crisp sky. The stars winked and blinked above.

‘Steady!’ called the large figure on the sleigh.

As the huskies forged a path through the pristine snow, the sky darkened and the stars merged into fluorescent green and blue.

‘Woah! Woah boys!’ said the figure. ‘Woah!’

The huskies slowed into a canter and eventually came to a halt. The large figure disembarked. They wore a big arctic coat, a bright orange hat and gloves. Their heavy boots pressed into the snow. Large goggles shielding their eyes.

Erin, harlequin, lime, neon, fern, greens of every shade blended into aqua and violet, as the light from the sky danced across the figure’s goggles. Slowly they removed their gloves as the light’s tendrils stroked the tundra.

The figure removed their goggles to reveal deep, dark chocolate brown eyes. And then he removed his hat, to reveal a smooth shaved head and the rounded face of Nicholas of Myra. Large shadows hung under his eyes, his beard grey and white, a flat nose and olive skin.

He looked up at the aurora, eyes reflecting the northern lights. He pressed on a compartment on the sleigh. He took out a small light, placed it on a narrow shelf and pulled out several letters.

Ahead of Nicholas, the huskies panted hard.

‘Time to rest boys,’ he said softly. And the huskies followed their master’s order, sinking themselves into the snow, curling up together as a large fluffy mass.

The letters, from children of all ages, each came from different parts of the world. Palestine, Ukraine, Sudan, China, the UK, the US. He thumbed through the letters, calligraphy of varying readability, hand drawings, paintings, sketches, lists and in some cases paragraphs of dense text.

‘I don’t ask for presents or toys. I ask for my family’s safety.’

‘I pray for peace.’

‘I ask you bring us food, and hot water.’

‘I want to return home.’

‘I want to see my family again.’

‘I miss my friends; can you rebuild our school.’

Of all the years, the decades, and the centuries, this time, for Nicholas of Myra, the challenge to bring hope, seemed even greater. He sniffed, a feeble sniff. He felt warm tears turn cold as they ran down his smooth face.

The aurora began to fade. His sleigh light stopped Nicholas and the huskies being enveloped by darkness. That one lamp lit the way.

Nicholas found courage in the light, he delicately returned the letters to the compartment in the sleigh.

‘Awake boys, awake,’ he said, courage returning to his voice.

As the huskies stirred to begin the journey home, the stars returned. One particularly strong. In the far distance a star blinked and dropped out of the sky. It fell to ground, lighting the earth in an explosion of green, white, red and blue light. A snowstorm swept across the tundra, whipping at Nicholas and the huskies. The huskies began to bark.

An engine roared. A snowmobile burst from the storm, ‘Turn Up the Radio’ blaring from its speakers. The driver spotted Nicholas and the huskies, waving with energy and verve. The driver slowed and pulled up several metres from Nicholas, the huskies still barking.

The driver removed their helmet to reveal a cherubic face. The huskies immediately stopped barking.

‘Gabriel!’ Nicholas exclaimed.

‘Nikki! Fancy seeing you here,’ said Gabriel. He wore a multicoloured arctic coat emblazoned with golden stars.

Nicholas disembarked his sleigh. The huskies swarmed Gabriel, licking him until he giggled. Gabriel turned to Nicholas and they embraced.

‘Good to see you my old friend,’ said Nicholas.

‘And you Nikki,’ Gabriel pulled away. He looked his friend up and down. ‘How are you friend?’

Nicholas narrowed his gaze on Gabriel. ‘He sent you, didn’t he.’

‘He sensed you needed some help,’ said Gabriel.

‘The world is a dark place,’ Nicholas sighed.

‘It is our job to bring the light my friend,’ Gabriel smiled.

A blizzard blew past them and engulfed the snowmobile, a funnel of wind drew up heaps of snow and rocketed skyward, enveloped by a brief storm in the sky before going silent once more.

‘He likes to show off like that sometimes,’ said Gabriel, annoyed.

‘I guess you’ll need a lift,’ Nicholas smiled. The first time in a long while.

‘To the workshop Nikki, there is work to be done!’

Gabriel and Nicholas climbed aboard the sleigh.

‘Away boys, away!’ cried Nicholas.

The huskies barked and panted and tugged, as Nicholas and Gabriel sped away on the sleigh into the dark night.