Friday Fiction: Philo the Frog-boy (Part One)

CHAPTER THREE: PHILO THE FROG-BOY

[7/13/2021]

 

     When I returned from lunch that day and reported back to Mr. Williams, I discovered that Pa had already been called away on another case. It was disconcerting to be so suddenly on my own, but the business of my training soon occupied all my thoughts and efforts. I’ll never forget that first talk Mr. Williams gave, mainly because we were all handed a casebook bound in pebbled green covers and told to take notes.

     “We are working on a handbook for the department,” he said, slapping a pile of long, legal-looking papers together. “In the meantime, I will read you a short precis that I have assembled. It is a rough and ready sort of guide to the key types of cases the Bureau covers. I like to call them the Three D’s. Pencils ready? Let’s begin.

“First of all, we have the Dybbuks. That’s with a y and two b’s. That’s a Jewish term, and it means a ghost, most often a ghost haunting and possessing a human person. We have a broader definition here at the Bureau. It is any non-corporeal remnant of humanity surviving death.

“Now, what does this mean? Does the Bureau endorse the existence of, for want of a better word, souls? Not as such. Just as when a man dies he leaves behind bones and rotting flesh, we believe he leaves behind certain, let’s call them energies, that may persist and decay, causing a health hazard just as dangerous as an unburied body. Do we deny, then, that the soul exists?”

Rank glanced up smirking in expectation and Rose looked very serious indeed.

“No, we don’t,” the secretary went on. Now it was Rank’s turn to frown. “We can’t, as a matter of policy. Our present stance is that that which is termed an immortal soul, the person itself, passes beyond the physical world. Its fate is beyond our provenance. What we do deal with basically are useless and even harmful leftover vestiges of the mind and spirit, clearing them away and putting them out of the path of the public.”

“Like an undertaker,” I said.

“Or a garbageman,” Rank added disgustedly.

“Both very necessary occupations,” Mr. Williams replied. “Dybbuks are the lowest, most common, and, though frightening, least dangerous class of phenomena that we deal with. The next level up are the Daemons.”

“Demons?” Rose asked quickly.

“No, no, Daemons.” Mr. Williams sighed. “This is going to take a little explaining. The ancient Greeks used the word for a special order of being, partly earthly, partly spiritual. Now, there seems to be an analogous order of existence that is … ah … unknown to science at the moment. They appear to be physical, of an animal-like appearance, seem bound to certain areas, and have a mind greater than a beast but utterly puzzling to human intelligence.”

Rose raised her hand.

“You say they are partly spiritual. How has the Bureau reached this conclusion? It seems unlikely from a scientific point of view,” - here she cut her eyes toward Rank - ”and certainly from a religious standpoint.”

“It does indeed, and we are not entirely comfortable with this part of the definition ourselves. But they seem to defy capture in highly unlikely ways, appear and vanish most inexplicably and unexpectedly, and on the whole seem to leave no solid evidence of their passing. Unless we can capture some very canny beasts or discover some hitherto unguessed laws of nature, these genius locorum best fit some very ancient definitions indeed. These creatures are not malicious as such, but their wildness can be a threat to mankind.” He cleared his throat. “We are working on cataloging and nullifying the perils of these phenomenon.”

“And what’s the third D?” I asked. I had been keeping count, and tallying things I had seen myself into the categories. I had a good idea what was coming next.

Mr. Williams shuffled his papers and ran a nervous hand over his chin.

“The third D,” he said. “Is, thankfully, the rarest, though it can be the most dangerous. This D we call the Devils.” He raised a forestalling hand. “And no, I don’t mean horns and hoofs and pitch-forks. I mean the diabolii, the enemies of all mankind, the wycche, the wicked or twisted, the malificarum, the ill-wishers. There may be some dark force behind them; I do not know. In truth, I do not want to know, and the Bureau cannot pretend to know. That is a matter of individual faith.” He sighed. “But they do have these, hm, powers, and they have turned them to evil.”

He looked at Rose sympathetically.

“Yes, my dear, exactly what you and those you’ve known have feared about yourself. But don’t worry about that. These are not ‘wise women’ or so-called ‘white witches’ or ‘cunning men’. The talent doesn’t make these people evil; their choices do. Their anger, their greed, their cruelty does. They, and you, have a temptation not available to most people. And it is a choice you have to make every day of your life.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, in a very small, quiet voice.

“But it is, as I said, thankfully rare. And you three certainly won’t be on such a case right away, and hopefully never.”

“Thank goodness for that,” I piped up. “I wouldn’t care to face anybody like the Deacon again.”

“The Deacon?” Rank wrinkled his brow.

“Well, that was a special case,” Mr. Williams said dismissively. “An undead malificarum is certainly an anomaly in the Bureau records. That you were able to figure out how to destroy him was an astronomically unlikely event.”

     “An undead …” Rank and Rose looked at me appalled. I could see by their expression that they were considering that what had seemed a simple-looking country bumpkin, too young even to shave just yet, was talking calmly about such a horror. I felt what I must confess was a slight, smug twinge of pride.

“It doesn’t matter at the moment,” he went on. He pounded his notes with his forefinger. “What I am telling you, Mr. Bellamy, is that you cannot count on Providence or good luck to bail you out of every situation. You must be prepared. And that goes for all of you.”

“The Three D’s.” Rose quickly checked her notes. “Dybbuks and Daemons and Devils.”

Rank summed it up.

“So, ghosts and monsters and witches,” he said. He leaned back.  “Is that all the DEA deals with?”

“Oh, my, no. Mr. Rank. On a case-by-case basis, most of our work is clearing up misidentification, fraud, and just plain stupidity. There are some strange cases that don’t fall into any apparent category. I estimate that ninety-nine out of a hundred cases are tidied up without any extranatural explanation whatsoever. But that hundredth case? You could say that is the core of why the Bureau exists at all.”

“To help folks who have no one to help otherwise,” Rose said in conviction.

“Yes, there’s that, too,” Mr. Williams said vaguely. He pulled out his watch. “It’s almost four. I think that concludes the business for today. We must see to getting you established in your boarding house, if you’re to be there in time for supper.”

We headed out behind him like a line of ducks. I picked up my luggage from the desk and smiled at Mr. Demullins, who bowed deferentially to the Secretary and sent a runner to fetch his carriage around front. As we bundled in, the Secretary gained the addresses of the other apprentices’ lodgings and sent for their belongings. Neither was far to go; Rank had checked into a local inn, and Rose actually came from an Irish neighborhood in Washington called, oddly enough, the Swampoodle.

We arrived at an area made up mostly of boardinghouses that catered to the rather transient population of the City, and there we stopped at a modest building that Mr. Williams explained was particularly devoted to employees of the Bureau. As such, the proprietor, a Mrs. Haley, was quite used to the coming and going of agents and their rather odd habits. She greeted him warmly and welcomed us young folks with almost motherly attention.

It wasn’t long before we were established on the third floor, in adjoining apartments that shared a sitting room between them. After setting an appointment for the next day, Mr. Williams bid us good night and left us to our own devices. Rose had it rather better than us boys as she had her bedroom to herself. I started to unpack at once, and it wasn’t long before the others’ things arrived. Rose had one large cedar box, rather like a hope chest, but Rank’s luggage turned out to be nine rough, heavy packing crates that nearly filled up our little chamber to the ceiling.

“What in the world?” I asked. “It can’t all be clothes, Mr. Rank.”

“Certainly not,” he said happily. “It is something even more essential.”  He started prying the wooden boxes open with a peculiar little flange on his cane – an embellishment that seemed specially designed for just such a purpose. “And you can call me Howard, Mr. Bellamy, and, if you don’t mind, I shall call you Bob.”

“Suits me,” I said. “But what – “

I paused as I was interrupted as he gave a loud grunt, and with a squawk of tortured nails and wood the box flew open.

“There! Now isn’t that pretty!” he said with proud satisfaction. I drew nearer and looked inside cautiously.

It was books, rows upon rows of books, more books in that one crate than I’d ever seen in public life outside a library or a bookshop. They weren’t in any great shape, but their sheer number was impressive. I looked up at him bewildered, and then at the other boxes.

“Are they all books?”

“Most of them,” he said, turning to the next crate and inserting his wedge. “But quite a few of them are journals and periodicals and such. There’s one half-full of just clippings from the papers.”

“But didn’t you bring along any clothes or a shaving kit or anything like that?”

“This fine ensemble you see on my back is the best of a poor lot; the rest I left behind for the ragman. Oh, yes.” He patted the front pocket of his rather shabby overcoat. “I do have a razor. The rest I’ll have to borrow. Do you ...?” He looked at my face. “No, I suppose not. Ah, well.”

“Where do you propose to put all this?” I indicated the rather spartan room. “There’s not a super-abundance of shelving available here.”

“That’s fine with me, I really don’t need to unpack it all. I know where everything is, believe it or not. There is a method, ha ha, to all this madness. I say,” he turned on me suddenly. “You don’t mind me taking up so much room, do you?”

“Oh, no,” I said hurriedly. “I’ve got by on much worse. But what – “

“Excellent,” he said promptly, turning back to his task, banishing me from his thoughts. Or so I thought. I watched him dumbly for a while until he suddenly spoke up.

“So, the son of the agent has some experience himself, eh? That was quite an eye-opener. Did your father help you through that?”

“Sort of, but not really. He’d given me some rather oblique advice over the years, but I didn’t know he was an agent at the time, or that the Bureau of Shadows even existed.”

He whistled.

“That must have been quite a nasty experience. You were certainly lucky.” He ran a finger over the backs of his books and started to draw one out.

“Worst night of my life,” I admitted. “Even without the Lake Monster or the Wood-ape, the Deacon would have been bad enough.”

He went still.

“You know, Bob, you were doing so well. You didn’t have to embellish it any more.” He shook his head and went back to his work. “I almost believed you.”

“But it did happen!” I objected. “You heard Mr. Williams. You can ask him …”

He smiled. “That’s okay, Bob. You can spin yarns for the old man, but don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes. But I do appreciate a good tale. You’ll have to tell me all about it one day.”

“I tell you, it really truly …”

There was a sudden knock on the door, and Howard ignored me to cheerfully call out, “Come in!” Rose stuck her head inside the door.

“Mrs. Haley says supper is ready,” she said, looking askance at the shambling pile of half-unpacked volumes. “Apparently it’s stewed mutton tonight, and we’ll have to hurry if we want a good cut.”

It’s a peculiar rule that no matter how good a cook is, nor how good a dish, that the more people it’s made for the worse it will be. The same meal made for two will be fine but make it for thirty and it will be as bland as can be, if not inedible. Maybe it’s the proportion of attention and fine-tuning available. Lucky for us there were only about a dozen at the table that night, so it was fairly satisfactory.

After we ate, the three of us gathered around the fireplace in our common sitting room, which had grown quite toasty against the chill November weather. Rose settled down with her sewing box, and, after a wrangle with Howard, started mending the seam of his coat, which she had noticed was coming undone. Howard sat back loftily in his chair as if disdaining such niceties, opened one of his books, and lit a small cigar. Rose wrinkled her nose but said nothing. I sat down to write a letter to Ma and Daisy. After a while, into the silence, I asked the question that was on all our minds.

“I wonder,” I said, “Which of the three D’s we’ll have to deal with first?”

 

So, what was our first case? It’s hard to say, really. All I can tell you is that it was Philo the Frog-Boy.

That initial week or so was an uncomfortable combination of dullness and bustle as we learned our way around the Bureau. Part of this consisted in a quick, cursory tour of the building itself, given by a brisk young colored page named Sanders, which left me almost more muddled than when he began. Besides telling us where the cloakroom and all the water closets were, he rushed us pass a bewildering multitude of offices, rattling off the names of the people who worked there and what their functions were. Quite a few of these were ‘best not to be disturbed’, and there were some corridors that he informed us, with a roll of his eyes to heaven and a shudder, were absolutely forbidden.

The other part consisted of rather dry preparatory lectures on procedures and policies, given by Mr. Williams in the hour before lunch. It was in the course of one of these talks – it was on compensation for personal damages while in the pursuit of a case – that Philo came bursting into our lives.

Mr. Williams had concluded his talk and we were finishing up our notes with an occasional question to clear up a point or two when we were all startled by a knock on the door. It was immediately followed by its opening a crack and the head of a harried clerk stuck through the gap.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Williams,” he said hurriedly. “I told him you were busy, but there’s a Mr. Wheeler here to see you, and he was most insistent that he … hey!”

The door was pushed open behind him and a most gaudy figure came striding in, thrusting his way through with an enormous wicker case used like a battering ram to shove the incensed clerk aside. We watched him as he strode up to Mr. Williams desk, parked his case, and swept off his battered hat with an impressive bow.

The man was over six feet tall, wiry, and dressed in a lemon-yellow coat (somewhat smudged), a red vest, and olive-green pants. His tie was bright orange and pinned with what must surely have been a huge glass bauble, cut like a diamond. Yellow gloves on his spatulate hands and shiny black boots on his boat-like feet completed his ensemble.

But his most notable feature was his head. Completely hairless except for a large mobile pair of eyebrows, the sallow skin stretched tightly over protruding cheekbones, it looked like a someone had taken a polished skull and affixed a pointed wax nose to it and added a couple of wide translucent pink shells on either side to complete the illusion.

The skull smiled engagingly.

“How do you do, Mr. Williams, sir,” he said, sticking out a hand to be shaken. “My name is Professor Titus T. Wheeler, of Wheeler’s World of Wonders, and it is a pleasure to meet you. You are just the man I want to see, and if I may make so bold, I think I am a man you will be glad to meet.”

Mr. Williams sat staring motionless for just a beat too long for comfort, his hands twined together. Then he raised a finger to the flummoxed clerk at the door.

“You may go, Lyman.” The clerk bowed himself out, pulling the latch closed with a clack. We out our notes aside and watched curiously. Williams turned a polite but distant eye back to the visitor. He accepted the still outstretched hand for the briefest of moments, barely a shake, then laced his fingers again.

“Mr. Wheeler,” he said sedately. “How may your government serve you today?”

“Well, now,” Wheeler began jovially, with just a hint of unease at the other’s attitude. He tapped his leather case with a nervous finger. “What I’m hoping is that my government and I may help each other.”

“I see.” Mr. Williams looked a little bored as he opened a drawer in his desk and briskly, mechanically, took out a form and dipped a pen. “A showman, I take it?”

“An exhibitor of curiosities, sir, a displayer of rare talents, designed to amuse and educate. Demonstrations both scientific and artistic, garnered from the wide world over, and all presented to young and old for mere pennies a show!”

Mr. Williams smiled a little bleakly.

“And a Professor, eh? What do you profess?”

The brash attitude suddenly dropped from the colorful skeleton’s manner.

“Well, to tell you the truth, mister, right now I profess to being worried about my friend Philo’s health.”

The Director’s eyebrows shot up.

“Philo?”

“One of my exhibits, sir. Philo the Frog Boy.”

Mr. Williams leaned back dismissively and waved him away.

“I must tell you, Mr. Wheeler, that this department is not interested in what are termed ‘freaks.’ The proper place for such unfortunate people is in a hospital …”

“Ah, but that’s the point, you see, Mr. Williams. Is he a people? I’ve had a doctor look at him, a proper doctor … well, a horse doctor, to be sure, but he’s very good … and he tells me he’s never seen the like of Philo in twenty years of pulling teeth and setting bones on the side, and he’d seen some queer things, indeed. He’d heard of this place, somehow, and informed me that here is where I needed to go.”

Mr. Williams looked intrigued despite himself.

“Oh, very well, Mr. Wheeler. You can bring this ‘Frog Boy’ in.” He checked his watch. “Perhaps after lunch?”

Wheeler grinned and laid a hand on his case.

“Why wait?” he said dramatically. “He’s here now!”

With a flourish he unlatched the case and flung it open. Inside, curled up in a bed of straw and blinking in the sudden light, was Philo the Frog Boy.

Mr. Williams pulled out his glasses and slowly stood up, putting them on as he did. Rank and Rose and I rose as he did and drew near, overcome with curiosity.

“Astonishing,” the Secretary murmured.

The figure in the case was only about three feet long, with its spindly legs curled back up onto the body, knees almost as high as the chin, in a manner that certainly wasn’t human. He uncrossed his webbed hands tentatively, leaned forward, and unbent himself until he stood looking around at the circle of unfamiliar faces. He stepped out of the case, thin legs rocking on unsteady feet. He was dressed in what looked like ordinary toddler’s clothes; except for that, he did indeed appear to be nothing more than an enormous frog.

On close examination, though, I noticed some odd distinctions. The skull was oddly bulging behind, not flat, and the eyes seemed a bit more set forward, almost binocular, though as they peered around at us, they moved virtually independently of each other. And if you’ve ever seen a real frog held up until it stands on its hind legs, you know that it isn’t designed for it. But this odd figure stood there quite naturally erect.

“Philo, say hello to the folks,” Wheeler said, tapping him on the shoulder.

The creature’s eyes disappeared in a blink that seemed the swallow the liquid black orbs into his bobbing head, his neck puffed out, and he belched out a squeaking oink that seemed to come from the bottom of his belly.

“Most fascinating,” Mr. Williams said slowly. He reached out a gentle finger and touched the thing’s hand. Its skin was wrinkly and dark brown, like the fruit of a palm-date. It looked up at him warily.

“Dry,” the Director observed. “Is that normal?”

“Yes, well, that’s part of why I’ve brought him here, you see. Normally he’s a little oily – plays the devil with the costume sometimes, but nothing a good laundress can’t get out. But lately he has dried out, and along with other symptoms, I don’t think it augurs well. Drooping spirits, lack of appetite – you should have seen him in his heyday, sir; merry as a cricket. Which, I may say, he enjoyed by the buckets-full.”

“You actually spent your time collecting bugs for the beast?” Rank asked, wrinkling his nose.

“No, no, that was just an amusement I advertised for the little children, and believe me, sir, they delighted in bringing a pail and watching him feast, a delight salted with happy disgust. But Philo didn’t care; he cheerfully crunched them down.” A tear came to the skeleton’s eye. “Alas, no more. He’s taken a sad turn this winter.”

“Where and when did you get this … er … Philo?”

“I bought him from a sailor off a ship in New Orleans, Mr. Williams,” he explained. “That would have been five years ago. The man said he had taken him in trade at a port along the South American coastline. The trip over the saltwater hadn’t done the poor lad any good, however, and he looked on the point of expiring then and there. I bargained the sailor down to a good price – three dollars and a new waistcoat, as I remember – and set about nursing him back to health.” He reached down and scratched the thing’s head. It arched its’ neck up and made an odd weak thrumming sound, almost like the purr of a cat. “Named him Philo, because he’s got the kind of face only a mother could love.”

“I see,” said Mr. Williams sadly. “And is that why you’re here today? To pass the ailing thing along? I’m sorry, Mr. Wheeler, but I myself don’t have a spare waistcoat to offer.”

“Now, now, don’t be like that, sir,” the showman said. “I really care about the little fellow.” He knelt down and put his arm around its shoulders and turned its head to face Mr. Williams. “No hospital would accept him, and I won’t give him to no university. They’d just cut him up out of nosiness. I know that he’d be much better for you to keep alive, and I’ve done all I can for him.” He gave the frog-boy’s shoulder a sad hug. “If you can’t or won’t give me a just compensation, well, …” There was a catch in his throat; he stiffened himself. “Well, I’d just as soon rather leave him with you here for free, to see what you can do for him.”

I looked over at Rose as she sniffed, and I saw a few drops standing in her eyes. Mr. Williams looked over at her sternly, and I was surprised when I saw what I thought a hint of compassion quivering in his eyes too. He cleared his throat and reached over to ring the bell on his desk.

The clerk popped his head in again and looked inquisitively at his superior.

“Is Doctor Browning back yet?”

The clerk shook his head.

“No sir, and isn’t expected for five days, at the least.”

“Ah. You may go.” He turned to Mr. Wheeler. “Dr. Browning is our house physiologist and I would like him to examine Philo first, before we take any definite action. But you heard: he won’t return for five days. Can you wait that long?”

“I’m afraid not. We have to move out tomorrow, if we’re to meet our ship on time; we’re headed south for the season.” He removed his hat and turned it fretfully in his hands. “I blame myself. I delayed too long in coming here; I kept hoping he’d get better. But now I fear that with the shape he’s in he wouldn’t survive the rigors of the journey.”

Mr. Williams sighed and sat back behind his desk. He started gently beating his balding forehead in thought, then looked up, having reached a decision.

“Very well then, Mr. Wheeler, I will accept, uh, Philo, in the name of the Bureau. You must sign away all ownership and rights, and I will even pay you recompense to the amount of, hm, ten American dollars.” He pulled yet another form from his desk. “Gentlemen – and lady – draw near to witness how this sort of thing is done, please.”

We crowded around him and watched his nimble hand as it filled in spaces and he murmured as he worked.

“Party of the first part … representing the Department … in consideration of monies received … the date, and Mr. Wheeler if you will sign, and Mr. Rank if you will witness … thank you.” He stamped the document with his seal, then wrote out another note. “If you will present this at the desk on the first floor, you will get your ten dollars.”

The colorful showman accepted the paper with alacrity and clapped his battered hat on his gleaming head.

“I thank you, sir, on behalf of Wheeler’s World of Wonders, and on behalf of dear Philo here.”  He stuck his hand out again, but this time to the squat, gangling creature as it stood there blinking morosely at him. “Take care of yourself, son.”

To our surprise, the Frog Boy reached out a paw and, with the most natural human gesture, shook hands with the showman. Mr. Wheeler turned to go.

“One moment, sir,” Mr. Williams said, arresting his departure. “Is this creature, well, intelligent? How much does it know of what goes on around it?”

Wheeler paused thoughtfully, hand to his hat.

“I couldn’t really tell you what he knows,” he said. “But sometimes I’ve thought he understands quite a lot.” He tipped his hat. “You may keep the case, sir.”

And with that, he was gone.

Philo gazed after him forlornly, feebly moving his limbs as if not knowing quite what to do. Mr. Williams looked at him with something like abstract pity, then shook himself.

“Ah, well. So now the Bureau has a Frog Boy. Put him back in his box, Bob. He’ll do well enough locked up here in the office until after lunch.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “And then what’ll happen to him?”

He grinned mirthlessly.

“Then you three will have your first assignment. There’s no place for him at the Department right now, so you will take him to your boarding house and care for him until Dr Browning returns. Feed him, water him, keep him clean and warm, and most of all ALIVE. You will make notes and observations and record any impressions or ideas that may occur to you. This includes you, Miss Calhoun. This will be an around the clock watch, mind. I don’t want to have spent ten dollars of Bureau money for nothing.”

“You’d still have the corpse for dissection,” Howard put in helpfully.

Mr. Williams hooded his eyes.

“Not an optimal outcome,” he said flatly. “If that happens, you can be sure that the person on whose watch it occurs will earn demerits on their record if it is shown to be their fault. Now let’s go to lunch. I understand it is beef stew today, and this delay has made me exceptionally hungry.”

Notes

As I've noted elsewhere, after A Grave on Deacon's Peak I started on a sequel, provisionally called Bob's Book, which followed the start of Bob Bellamy's career in the Bureau of Shadows. This is the first part of the third chapter; I have elsewhere published the first chapter on this blog. There was to be an introduction to the Bureau, several individual cases, and an over-arching throughline that led to a grand finale. It stalled somewhere in the fourth chapter.