The Buttercup Splashing Ceremony Goes Professionally Sideways
Bloomspittle Pond had many traditions, most of them damp, several of them sticky, and at least one of them legally questionable if anyone bothered to ask the herons.
Every midsummer morning, when the buttercups opened their shiny yellow faces and pretended they had not been gossiping all night, the entire pond gathered for the Buttercup Splashing Ceremony. It was, according to the Official Reed Scroll of Things Everyone Agreed To While Tired, a sacred ritual meant to honor sunshine, pond water, floral abundance, and the noble art of flinging mud with confidence.
According to everyone else, it was an excuse for amphibians to wear jewelry, dragonflies to act important, snails to arrive late on purpose, and old frogs to complain that the splashes were smaller back in their day.
This year, however, the ceremony had a problem.
The problem was named Boddle.
Boddle was a buttercup boglet of medium height, roundish courage, and deeply unfortunate facial habits. He had golden skin textured like tiny polished pebbles, enormous eyes that reflected the whole pond whether he wanted them to or not, and a mouth that panicked before the rest of him had reviewed the paperwork.
Whenever Boddle became nervous, which was often, his face produced what the pond politely called an “emergency smile.” It was wide. It was toothy. It was committed. It suggested good cheer in the same way a smoke alarm suggests dinner is going well.
“Just keep your lips relaxed today,” whispered his cousin Flib, who had no jewelry, no responsibilities, and the emotional depth of a wet napkin.
“They are relaxed,” Boddle hissed through a grin so tight it could have sliced reeds.
Flib stared at him. “You look like someone told a biscuit it was being audited.”
Boddle tried to soften his expression.
This made it worse.
Across the lily pads, the pond was a glittering riot of preparation. Buttercups leaned over the water in glowing rows, their petals slick with dew. Peach-colored water lilies floated like sleepy queens who had not yet decided whether today deserved them. Pearls, bubbles, and bits of sunlit pollen drifted over the surface. A dragonfly orchestra zipped in formation overhead, tuning their wings in sharp little zings that made everyone’s teeth itch.
At the center of the pond rose the Ceremony Pad, a broad lily pad reinforced with braided reeds, polished snail trails, and the kind of optimism that collapses under pressure.
On top of that pad sat the Crown of Bloomspittle Pond.
It was not supposed to be worn.
That was very important.
The Crown was a symbolic object, an ancient circlet of goldvine, buttercup petals, opals, pond pearls, and one suspiciously large jewel rumored to contain the trapped sigh of a disappointed duchess. Every year it was raised, admired, bowed to, and immediately returned to its velvet moss cushion because the last creature who wore it had declared war on duckweed and tried to tax reflections.
Since then, the pond had maintained a firm no-crown-on-heads policy.
“The crown is symbolic,” croaked Elder Wartle from his ceremonial stone. “It represents unity, sunlight, seasonal renewal, and the fact that none of you should be trusted with power.”
Everyone nodded solemnly, especially the ones who absolutely should not be trusted with power.
Boddle stood near the back, half-submerged beside a cluster of lily pads, wearing his best jeweled shell because his mother had said, “You never know when opportunity will knock.”
Boddle hated that phrase. Opportunity never knocked. Opportunity kicked the door open, spilled nectar on the rug, and asked why you were sweating.
His shell had been polished until it gleamed like an expensive mistake. Tiny gold filigree curled across the plates. Opal chips flashed pink, blue, and honey-white in the sun. Around his neck hung a large oval pendant his aunt claimed brought confidence, though so far it had mostly brought neck soreness.
“You look royal,” said Aunt Pebbra, dabbing at his cheek with a lily petal.
“Please don’t say that,” Boddle whispered.
“Regal, then.”
“Worse.”
“Commanding?”
Boddle’s emergency smile widened by two teeth.
Aunt Pebbra gasped. “Oh, darling. Maybe keep your face turned away from children.”
The Ceremony began with the March of Moist Gratitude, during which the frog choir sang nine verses about puddles and lost the key somewhere around “blessed be the algae.” Then came the Presentation of the Sacred Buttercup, carried by three beetles, one newt, and a moth who clearly had not rehearsed but had strong opinions about spotlight placement.
Finally, Elder Wartle lifted both webbed hands.
“Creatures of Bloomspittle Pond,” he announced, “today we gather to renew our vows to sunshine, splash, and mutual tolerance.”
Someone in the back muttered, “Flexible on the last one.”
“We honor the buttercup bloom,” Elder Wartle continued, “whose golden petals remind us that even in muck, beauty rises.”
“Unless the geese get to it first,” said Old Grumple, a frog with the spiritual warmth of a cold biscuit.
“Thank you, Grumple,” said Elder Wartle. “As always, your contribution has lowered the room.”
The dragonfly orchestra buzzed a ceremonial chord. Several bubbles floated upward. A snail fainted, though no one knew whether from emotion or simple boredom.
Then Elder Wartle pointed toward the Ceremony Pad. “We shall now perform the Blessing Splash. A volunteer will approach the Sacred Buttercup, dip both hands into the pond, and offer three splashes toward the crown. Not on the crown, mind you. Toward. We are honoring it, not washing a turnip.”
The crowd murmured approval.
Boddle relaxed slightly.
Volunteer work was safe. Boddle never volunteered. He had built a peaceful life around the principle that any sentence beginning with “Who wants to help?” was a trap wearing a hat.
“This year,” Elder Wartle said, unrolling a small reed slip, “our volunteer has been chosen by traditional buttercup lottery.”
Boddle froze.
He had entered no lottery. He had signed no forms. He had, in fact, spent most of breakfast hiding behind a fern because a bee had looked managerial.
“The chosen splasher is…” Elder Wartle squinted at the slip. “Boddle of the Lower Lily Cluster.”
Every head turned.
Boddle’s face did what it was born to do.
His emergency smile arrived in full horrifying bloom.
It was not a smile so much as a hostage situation involving teeth.
The crowd inhaled.
“Oh my,” whispered a damselfly.
“He looks thrilled,” said someone.
“He looks cursed,” said someone else.
“Same family,” muttered Old Grumple.
Boddle turned slowly toward Aunt Pebbra. “Did you enter my name?”
“Only seven times,” she said. “For growth.”
“I am going to grow into a lawsuit.”
“Posture, darling.”
With every creature watching, Boddle waddled toward the Ceremony Pad. Water sloshed around his knees. His jeweled shell flashed in the sunlight, scattering bright reflections over the pond like the world’s smallest disco had been attacked by pollen.
The dragonfly orchestra shifted into the Volunteer Approach Flutter, an unnecessarily dramatic piece traditionally used for heroic entrances, royal weddings, and once, by mistake, a raccoon eviction.
Boddle climbed onto the Ceremony Pad.
It wobbled.
He wobbled.
The Sacred Buttercup wobbled.
The crowd gasped in seven distinct regional accents.
“Steady,” Elder Wartle called.
“I am steady,” Boddle said, while visibly becoming a loose sack of panic.
He knelt at the edge of the pad and dipped both hands into the pond. Cool water filled his palms. All he had to do was splash toward the crown three times. Not on it. Not near enough to disturb it. Just toward it.
Simple.
One splash.
Two splashes.
Three splashes.
Then leave, preferably forever.
Boddle lifted his hands.
At that exact moment, Nibwick the dragonfly captain performed what he later described as “a ceremonial flourish” and everyone else described as “showing off like a jeweled toothpick with wings.” He darted overhead, spun through a sunbeam, clipped a floating bubble, bounced off a buttercup stem, and knocked loose a strand of decorative pond pearls hanging above the Ceremony Pad.
The pearl strand dropped.
Boddle flinched.
His hands jerked upward.
The Blessing Splash became less of a blessing and more of a small aquatic assault.
Water flew everywhere.
The Sacred Buttercup flipped.
Elder Wartle yelped.
Old Grumple took a faceful of pond water and shouted something unfit for tadpoles.
And the Crown of Bloomspittle Pond, struck by one perfect, glittering arc of splash, slid off its moss cushion, bounced once on the Ceremony Pad, tipped sideways, rolled down the curve of Boddle’s shell, and landed directly on his head.
The pond went silent.
A bubble popped.
Somewhere, a frog whispered, “Oh, swamp biscuits.”
Boddle stood very still.
The crown settled between his wide eyes and flower-strewn brow with a soft, regal plink.
Golden vines caught in his floral headpiece. Opals flashed. Pearls trembled. A single buttercup petal drifted down and stuck to his nose.
Boddle’s emergency smile stretched across his face with the haunted dignity of a creature trying not to ruin the rest of his life in public.
“Take it off,” he whispered.
No one moved.
“Someone take it off,” he said, slightly louder.
Elder Wartle swallowed. “Ah.”
That was never a good sign from an elder. Elders said “ah” when they had forgotten a rule, remembered a worse rule, or realized the pond was about to become a committee.
“What do you mean, ah?” Boddle asked.
Elder Wartle looked toward the Official Reed Scroll of Things Everyone Agreed To While Tired. A young salamander clerk unrolled it with trembling hands.
“Read the crown clause,” Elder Wartle said.
“Must we?” asked the clerk.
“If we do not, someone will make up something worse.”
The clerk cleared his throat. “Clause Seventeen, subsection Damp: Should the Crown of Bloomspittle Pond come to rest upon the head, brow, horn, hat, shell, decorative fungus, or comparable upper region of any eligible pond citizen during the Buttercup Splashing Ceremony, that citizen shall serve as Sunlit Steward until the third bell of afternoon.”
Boddle blinked.
“No,” he said.
The clerk looked apologetic. “It says shall.”
“Then un-say it.”
“The scroll is laminated in sap.”
“Bite it.”
Aunt Pebbra clapped both hands to her cheeks. “My baby is royalty!”
“Temporary pond administration,” Elder Wartle corrected.
“Royalty enough for invitations,” she said.
Boddle turned to the crowd, crown glittering, teeth bared in full emergency formation. “I respectfully decline.”
A murmur rolled through Bloomspittle Pond.
Nibwick the dragonfly captain zipped forward and hovered near Boddle’s face. “A noble test of humility!”
“No,” Boddle said. “A regular test of me not wanting this.”
“He speaks plainly,” Nibwick declared. “A refreshing leader.”
“I am not leading anything.”
“So modest.”
“So trapped.”
“So relatable,” whispered a water beetle.
Within moments, the pond erupted into procedural chaos. The snail scribes argued over whether the crowning was valid if caused by dragonfly negligence. The frog choir began humming a leadership hymn just in case. The lily sisters debated whether Boddle’s expression symbolized courage, terror, or digestive conflict. Three tadpoles started selling commemorative mud clumps.
“Everyone calm down!” Elder Wartle croaked.
No one calmed down.
This was Bloomspittle Pond. Calm had been outlawed in spirit if not in writing.
Boddle tried to lift the crown from his head, but the goldvine had tangled with his flower crown and shell filigree. When he tugged, the entire arrangement tightened.
“Ow,” he said.
The crowd gasped again.
“He suffers for us,” said a buttercup.
“I suffer because your hat has teeth,” Boddle snapped.
“Symbolic teeth,” Elder Wartle said weakly.
“It is chewing my forehead.”
A snail wearing a tiny medic sash inched forward. Her name was Doctor Slimebeth, and she had once saved a frog from swallowing his own dramatic pause.
“I can remove it,” she said, “but not without violating Clause Seventeen.”
“Violate it,” Boddle said.
“Professionally?”
“Enthusiastically.”
“There may be consequences.”
“There already are consequences. They are on my head.”
The salamander clerk reviewed the scroll again. “Removal before the third bell may trigger the Trial of Wilting Confidence.”
Everyone groaned.
Even Boddle knew about the Trial of Wilting Confidence. It involved standing in front of the whole pond while seven flowers judged your sincerity. No one survived emotionally intact. Last year, a duckweed sprig had called a toad “performatively damp,” and he still brought it up at dinner.
Boddle lowered his hands.
“Fine,” he said through his enormous smile. “What does the Sunlit Steward do?”
Elder Wartle looked relieved and terrified, which was impressive for a face made mostly of wrinkles. “Mostly ceremonial duties.”
“Mostly?”
“A few minor decisions.”
“Minor like choosing the snack table, or minor like declaring war on duckweed?”
Old Grumple raised one finger. “Duckweed had it coming.”
“Nobody asked you, Grumple,” said half the pond.
The salamander clerk produced a second scroll. It was thicker. Much thicker.
Boddle stared at it. “Why is that scroll obese?”
“Sunlit Steward responsibilities,” the clerk said.
“That is not a responsibility list. That is a crime scene with punctuation.”
Elder Wartle cleared his throat. “As Sunlit Steward, you must preside over petitions, approve the afternoon shade schedule, bless the buttercup syrup, settle any disputes arising from lily pad boundaries, judge the Golden Gnat Toss, and deliver the closing address at the third bell.”
Boddle’s eyes widened even more, which should not have been possible without structural damage.
“Absolutely not.”
The crown sparkled.
The crowd waited.
His emergency smile glowed in the sun like a warning sign dipped in honey.
A tiny tadpole near the front whispered, “He looks brave.”
Boddle heard it.
Unfortunately, everyone heard it.
A warm little sigh moved through the crowd.
“He does,” said a lily sister.
“Terrified, but brave,” said Doctor Slimebeth.
“A leader who understands screaming internally,” said Nibwick. “At last.”
Boddle wanted to protest, but the tadpole was looking at him with big hopeful eyes, and Boddle, despite everything, was not made of stone. He was made of boglet, jewelry, panic, and poor timing, but not stone.
He inhaled.
He exhaled.
His smile remained a complete disaster.
“Fine,” he said. “I will be Sunlit Steward until the third bell. But I am doing this under protest.”
The pond burst into applause.
The dragonflies performed a victory loop.
The frog choir launched into an anthem they clearly had not finished writing.
Aunt Pebbra wept into a buttercup and shouted, “That’s my boy! Look at his precious little leadership trauma!”
Boddle stepped down from the Ceremony Pad, crown wobbling, flowers bobbing, opals flashing, and hands raised as though surrendering to the entire concept of public life.
“First order of business,” he announced, “nobody calls this leadership trauma.”
The salamander clerk wrote it down.
“Do not write that down.”
The clerk crossed it out.
“Do not make the crossing-out official.”
The clerk hesitated.
“This is already going badly,” Boddle said.
And that was when the first petitioner arrived.
She was a plump water beetle named Madam Glint, dragging two lily pad deeds, a basket of wet documents, and an expression sharp enough to peel bark.
“Your Radiant Temporary Dampness,” she said with a stiff bow.
“Please never say that again.”
“I demand justice.”
Boddle looked toward Elder Wartle. “Can we postpone justice?”
“Traditionally, no.”
“Can we redefine justice as snacks?”
“Also no.”
Madam Glint slapped the documents onto a small reed table. “My neighbor, Mister Plunk, has allowed his lily pad to drift three inches into my legally recognized sunbeam.”
A squat frog hopped forward. “It drifted naturally.”
“You sneezed it there.”
“A sneeze is natural.”
“Not when you aim.”
The crowd leaned in. Nothing excited Bloomspittle Pond like a property dispute with bodily functions.
Boddle stared at the documents. He had never judged anything more complicated than whether a pebble looked like bread.
“All right,” he said slowly. “Madam Glint, Mister Plunk, can the sunbeam not be shared?”
Both petitioners recoiled.
“Shared?” Madam Glint repeated, as if he had suggested licking a crow.
Mister Plunk frowned. “But then neither of us wins.”
“Correct,” Boddle said. “That is called peace.”
The pond went quiet.
Elder Wartle rubbed his chin. “Unorthodox.”
“Suspiciously efficient,” said Doctor Slimebeth.
“I hate it,” said Old Grumple. “But I hate both of them more.”
Boddle pointed to the disputed lily pad. “You will split the sunbeam until afternoon. Madam Glint gets the left side. Mister Plunk gets the right. Anyone who sneezes with intent loses shade privileges for one hour.”
The salamander clerk scribbled furiously.
Madam Glint narrowed her eyes. Mister Plunk scratched his chin. The crowd waited for outrage.
Instead, Madam Glint sniffed. “Acceptable.”
Mister Plunk shrugged. “I can sneeze recreationally elsewhere.”
The crowd erupted again.
“Wise!” cried a buttercup.
“Balanced!” shouted a frog.
“Moderately damp!” buzzed Nibwick.
Boddle blinked. “That worked?”
Elder Wartle leaned closer. “Do not sound surprised. It frightens the public.”
“I am the public.”
“Not until the third bell.”
Boddle looked across the pond, where an entire line of petitioners had already formed. A moth with a torn cape. Two snails carrying a cracked acorn cup. A furious buttercup tied to a stake for “dramatic emphasis.” A tadpole holding what appeared to be a tiny subpoena made of leaf.
His emergency smile twitched.
The crown gave a smug little sparkle.
Somewhere behind him, the frog choir began composing a verse about him in real time, rhyming “Boddle” with “twaddle,” which felt legally actionable.
Boddle raised both hands.
“All right,” he said. “One at a time. No screaming unless it is relevant. No poetry unless medically necessary. And whoever brought the angry buttercup, explain yourself before it unionizes.”
The crowd cheered like he had invented civilization.
Boddle stood in the center of Bloomspittle Pond, crowned, jeweled, damp, and smiling like a decorative hostage.
He had only been Sunlit Steward for twelve minutes.
There were still several hours until the third bell.
And from the far edge of the pond, where the reeds grew thick and the mud bubbles whispered ugly little secrets, something large shifted beneath the water.
No one noticed.
Except the Sacred Buttercup.
And buttercups, as everyone knows, are terrible at keeping quiet.
It began to tremble.
Then it began to glow.
Then, in a tiny golden voice filled with panic, pollen, and absolutely no indoor manners, it screamed:
“THE STEWARD HAS BEEN CHOSEN JUST IN TIME!”
Boddle closed his eyes.
“Of course,” he whispered. “Of course the flower has a mouth.”
Bloomspittle Pond screamed back.
The emergency had officially found his smile.
The Sacred Buttercup Has Absolutely No Chill
For three full seconds, Bloomspittle Pond held the kind of silence that only appears after a flower opens its mouth and announces doom.
It was not a peaceful silence.
It was a thick, wobbly, bladder-clenching silence. The sort of silence that makes every creature present suddenly aware of their own knees, regrets, and proximity to mud.
The Sacred Buttercup stood in its ceremonial reed vase on the lily pad, glowing gold from petal to stem. Its little face had appeared in the center of the bloom, pinched and frantic, with two bright pollen eyes and a mouth shaped like a judgmental seed.
Boddle stared at it.
The flower stared back.
“You have a face,” Boddle said.
“Yes,” snapped the buttercup.
“And a mouth.”
“Sharp observation from the pond’s emergency monarch.”
“Temporary steward,” said Elder Wartle automatically.
“Temporary fool with jewelry, then,” said the buttercup. “We can all split petals if it comforts you.”
A murmur rippled through the pond.
“The buttercup is rude,” whispered a tadpole.
“The buttercup has always been rude,” muttered Old Grumple. “It just lacked the decency to be quiet about it.”
Boddle lifted both hands toward the crowd. “Everyone remain calm.”
This was, historically, one of the worst phrases a newly crowned creature could say. Nothing made Bloomspittle Pond less calm than being instructed to behave like it had any relationship with emotional regulation.
A snail screamed.
A frog screamed because the snail screamed.
A dragonfly screamed because he felt left out.
Three buttercups fainted face-first into the water and bobbed there dramatically until someone noticed.
“Not like that,” Boddle said.
“Command us better!” shouted someone.
“I was not trained!” Boddle yelled back.
“Leadership is mostly guessing loudly,” said Elder Wartle, which explained more about Bloomspittle Pond than Boddle wanted to know.
The Sacred Buttercup shook so hard that golden pollen dusted the Ceremony Pad. “The steward must come with me at once.”
Boddle took one slow step backward. “No, thank you.”
“This is not an invitation.”
“Then I dislike it even more.”
The flower’s glow intensified. “Beneath the western reeds, the ancient mud seal has begun to split.”
That produced another silence, shorter than the first but much more bladder-adjacent.
Elder Wartle’s throat pouch sank.
Doctor Slimebeth tucked herself halfway into her shell-less professionalism.
Nibwick the dragonfly captain hovered in place, wings buzzing at a pitch usually reserved for kettle accidents.
Boddle looked around. “Why does everyone look like the pond just swallowed a tax collector?”
Old Grumple squinted toward the western reeds. “Because the ancient mud seal is what keeps the Deep Blurp from rising.”
“The what?”
“The Deep Blurp,” said the Sacred Buttercup. “The buried pressure of centuries of trapped pond gas, old grudges, fermented pollen, and the emotional residue of every committee meeting ever held here.”
Boddle blinked. “That is not a natural disaster. That is a digestive system with paperwork.”
“Call it what you want,” said the buttercup. “If it breaks loose, Bloomspittle Pond will be launched into the sky.”
A tadpole raised one tiny fin. “All of it?”
“Most of it.”
“Including snacks?”
“Especially snacks.”
The tadpole began crying immediately.
Boddle’s emergency smile, which had finally begun to relax into something less legally alarming, snapped back across his face.
“So let me understand,” he said carefully. “The pond is sitting on a giant underground burp.”
“A sacred underground burp,” corrected Elder Wartle.
“That does not improve the sentence.”
“It improves the paperwork.”
“And it is my job to stop it because a crown fell on my head.”
The Sacred Buttercup rustled. “Yes.”
Boddle looked at the crown. The crown glittered like it had never done anything wrong in its life.
“I hate this hat.”
“The hat has chosen,” said Nibwick solemnly.
“The hat slid,” Boddle snapped. “There was moisture involved.”
“Many destinies begin damp,” said Elder Wartle.
“That sounds like something printed on a terrible greeting card.”
Aunt Pebbra, from somewhere in the crowd, sniffled. “I would buy three.”
The Sacred Buttercup leaned forward in its vase. “The steward must perform the Constitutional Pollen Management.”
Boddle stared.
“No,” he said.
“You do not even know what that is.”
“Correct, and already I reject it.”
Elder Wartle shuffled closer, looking deeply uncomfortable. “It is an old rite.”
“Everything awful here is an old rite.”
“That is not entirely fair.”
“Name a good one.”
Elder Wartle opened his mouth, paused, and glanced toward Old Grumple.
Old Grumple shrugged. “The snack rite is tolerable when the beetles don’t cater.”
“Exactly,” said Boddle. “Your strongest defense is tolerable snacks.”
The buttercup snapped its petals. “Enough dithering. The Constitutional Pollen Management must be performed before the second bell, or the mud seal will split fully. The steward must gather the four pollens of balance: buttercup gold, lily blush, cattail brown, and moonmoss silver.”
“Moonmoss?” Boddle asked. “It is noon.”
“It keeps odd hours.”
“Of course it does.”
“Then,” continued the buttercup, “the steward must mix them in the ancient shell basin, speak the binding phrase, and sprinkle the blend upon the seal while smiling with sincere authority.”
Every creature in the pond slowly turned toward Boddle’s face.
Boddle’s emergency smile twitched.
“No,” he said again.
Doctor Slimebeth inched forward. “The smile requirement may be our strongest chance.”
“This is not a smile,” said Boddle. “This is fear showing its teeth.”
“Still counts in local government,” said Old Grumple.
Nibwick shot upward. “I shall organize a swift aerial expedition!”
“You shall organize nothing until you apologize for crown-dropping me,” Boddle said.
Nibwick placed one delicate leg over his chest. “I regret that my flourish intersected with fate.”
“Try again, but with accountability.”
The dragonfly’s wings stuttered.
The crowd gasped. Nobody in Bloomspittle Pond had demanded accountability from a dragonfly in years. Dragonflies were shiny, fast, and had the social structure of theater children with spears. They were usually allowed to be dramatic and then blame the wind.
Nibwick lowered himself until he was eye level with Boddle. “I apologize for showing off.”
“And?”
“For clipping the bubble.”
“And?”
“For causing the crown incident.”
“And?”
Nibwick looked pained. “For referring to your visible terror as refreshing leadership.”
Boddle nodded. “Accepted.”
The pond erupted into whispers.
“He corrected a dragonfly.”
“He survived.”
“The crown likes him.”
“The crown has poor standards,” said Old Grumple.
The Sacred Buttercup glared. “Wonderful. Emotional growth. Sprinkle it on the seal and see if it helps.”
Boddle turned toward the line of petitioners still waiting near the reed table. “What about them?”
Madam Glint lifted one document. “My sunbeam settlement requires notarization.”
A moth with a torn cape waved a wing. “My grievance is time-sensitive. My cape is unraveling in a socially damaging manner.”
The angry buttercup tied to a stake shouted, “I demand representation!”
Boddle rubbed his temples, but the crown made the gesture ridiculous. “Fine. Elder Wartle, you handle petitions.”
Elder Wartle stiffened. “I cannot. During a crowned stewardship, all petitions must be heard by the steward.”
“Then the petitions can wait.”
The entire line gasped as one, which sounded like someone stepping on a bag of wet flutes.
“Wait?” said Madam Glint.
“Yes,” Boddle said. “The pond may explode.”
“But my sunbeam—”
“Will explode with it.”
Madam Glint considered this. “That would make enforcement difficult.”
“Exactly.”
Boddle pointed toward Doctor Slimebeth. “Doctor, keep everyone from trampling each other.”
“Trampling is not a major snail concern.”
“Then emotionally trampling.”
“Ah. Yes. We are doomed.”
He pointed at Nibwick. “You gather dragonflies. Fast ones, not decorative ones.”
Four dragonflies in the orchestra looked offended.
“Decorative is a speed category,” one sniffed.
“Not today,” said Boddle. “Today I need useful.”
Another gasp. This one had percussion.
Boddle pointed to Flib, who had been quietly trying to hide behind Aunt Pebbra’s hat. “You’re coming with me.”
Flib’s mouth fell open. “Why?”
“Because you entered my name in nothing and still somehow look guilty.”
“That is just my face.”
“Then your face can help.”
Aunt Pebbra fluttered forward. “Boddle, darling, as your proud aunt and accidental political strategist—”
“You are not my strategist.”
“I entered you seven times. I have influence.”
“You have a problem.”
“Influential people often do.”
Boddle sighed. “Fine. You keep the crowd calm.”
Aunt Pebbra brightened. “With maternal reassurance?”
“With snacks.”
“Better.”
The Sacred Buttercup cleared its tiny floral throat. “We need the four pollens. I contain buttercup gold. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Boddle said.
“Lily blush must be taken from the oldest open water lily before she remembers she is important. Cattail brown must be shaken from the tallest cattail during a gust. Moonmoss silver can only be gathered from the underside of the shadow log.”
Flib made a choking sound. “The shadow log?”
Boddle looked at him. “What now?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing never lives under something called the shadow log.”
“It’s only haunted a little.”
“Define a little.”
“Mostly rumors, except for the humming.”
“Logs should not hum.”
“That is why it’s memorable.”
The pond suddenly trembled.
Not much.
Just enough to make the lily pads ripple and the reed table hop sideways. A line of bubbles rose from the western reeds, fat and brown and deeply impolite. They popped one by one, releasing a smell that made half the pond recoil.
Old Grumple sniffed. “Yep. That’s old committee gas.”
“Move,” snapped the Sacred Buttercup.
Boddle plucked the glowing flower from its vase.
It immediately shrieked. “Not by the stem, you jeweled potato!”
“Sorry!”
“Support the roots.”
“You have roots?”
“I have depth.”
“You have attitude.”
“Also depth.”
Boddle tucked the buttercup carefully into the crook of his arm. It continued glowing like an angry lantern.
Then the temporary steward of Bloomspittle Pond, crowned against his will, jeweled like a ceremonial dessert, and smiling as if sanity had sent a farewell note, waddled toward the oldest water lily with Flib splashing behind him and Nibwick circling overhead.
The expedition had begun.
It immediately hit traffic.
Bloomspittle Pond’s center channel was clogged with citizens who had decided that “do not panic” meant “congregate directly in the most inconvenient place and exchange theories.” Frogs bobbed in nervous clusters. Beetles paddled in document baskets. Snails formed a slow-moving evacuation line that had advanced two inches and already established a snack committee.
“Make way!” shouted Nibwick. “Official steward business!”
“What kind?” asked a frog.
“Potential explosive mud catastrophe.”
“Do we need tickets?”
“No!” Boddle shouted.
“Then why did the tadpoles sell me one?”
Boddle turned to see three tadpoles floating nearby beside a leaf sign that read: DEEP BLURP VIEWING AREA — ONE SHINY PEBBLE.
He stared at them.
The smallest tadpole slowly lowered the sign into the water.
“Refunds,” Boddle said.
“Store credit?” the tadpole asked.
“Refunds.”
“You drive a hard pond, Your Dampness.”
“I am twelve minutes from screaming in a bush.”
The crowd parted after that. Not because they understood the danger, but because nobody wanted to be between a crowned boglet and his bush scream.
The oldest water lily floated at the eastern bend where the pond widened into a mirror of soft light. She was enormous, peach-blushed, and exquisite in the way of beings who had been admired too long and started believing it was a public service. Her petals curled outward like silk. Dew gathered along her edges. A honeybee slept on one petal, exhausted from whatever bees found dramatic before lunch.
“Lady Lulabeth,” said the Sacred Buttercup, in a tone that suggested they had history and none of it was mature.
The lily’s petals stirred.
A face appeared slowly within the bloom: elegant, sleepy, and offended before any offense had occurred.
“Buttercup,” she said. “I see they finally gave you a mouth. Tragic for the neighborhood.”
“We need lily blush,” said the buttercup.
Lady Lulabeth opened one petal wider. “From me?”
“You are the oldest open water lily.”
“Experienced.”
“Oldest.”
“Radiant.”
“Ancient with moisture.”
The lily gasped. The sleeping bee woke, took one look at the conversation, and flew away as if remembering an appointment in another county.
Boddle stepped between them before the flowers could start a botanical blood feud. “Lady Lulabeth, Bloomspittle Pond is in danger. May we please gather a pinch of lily blush pollen?”
The lily looked him over.
Her gaze moved from crown to eyes to emergency smile to jeweled shell.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re the new one.”
“Temporary.”
“They always say that.”
“This time they mean it.”
“They never mean it.”
“The third bell cannot come fast enough.”
Lady Lulabeth gave a slow, amused smile. “At least you are honest. Most crowned things arrive speaking in velvet nonsense.”
“I own no velvet and cannot afford nonsense.”
“Then you may have the pollen.”
Boddle exhaled.
“But,” said Lady Lulabeth.
“There it is,” Flib muttered.
“I require a compliment first.”
Boddle stared at her. “The pond may explode.”
“Then compliment quickly.”
The Sacred Buttercup groaned. “This is why everyone talks about you behind your pads.”
Lady Lulabeth ignored her. “A sincere compliment, steward. None of that standard bloom-fluff about radiance. I am tired of radiance. Radiance is what unimaginative creatures say when they mean ‘large and shiny.’”
Boddle’s emergency smile flickered.
He looked at the lily: at her soft peach petals, the way light gathered within them, the careful curl of her edges, the graceful roots disappearing into the water. But he also saw the tiny tear in one petal, the uneven spots where beetles had nibbled, the faint green bruising near her stem. She looked beautiful, yes, but also tired. As if every creature expected her to be decorative and serene while the pond lost its mind around her.
Boddle knew a little something about faces doing unpaid labor.
“You make stillness look like strength,” he said.
The lily’s expression changed.
Not much. Just enough.
The sass drained from her petals, and something gentler rose beneath it.
“That,” she said softly, “will do.”
She shook one petal. A fine dusting of blush-pink pollen drifted down. Boddle caught it in a tiny shell cup that Flib produced from somewhere.
Boddle looked at him. “Why do you have that?”
“Snack emergencies.”
“Of course.”
The Sacred Buttercup sniffed. “One pollen gathered. Three remain. Try not to turn the next one into personal growth. We have a schedule.”
“You screamed at a pond,” Boddle said. “You don’t get to criticize emotional volume.”
A second tremor rolled across the water, stronger than the first. This time the western reeds bent outward as if something below them had yawned with bad intentions. Brown bubbles burst in clusters. The Ceremony Pad tilted. Somewhere behind them, the frog choir accidentally hit a harmony so ugly that a dragonfly changed direction midair.
“Second bell approaches,” said the buttercup.
Boddle clutched the shell cup. “Next?”
“Cattail brown. Tallest cattail. During a gust.”
They hurried toward the northern bank, where cattails stood like fuzzy brown candles pretending not to listen. The tallest one rose above the others, proud and stiff, with a seed head so perfectly cylindrical it seemed professionally groomed.
Nibwick flew up beside it. “I can create a gust.”
“No flourishes,” said Boddle.
Nibwick’s face fell. “A controlled breeze, then.”
“No spinning.”
“A disciplined air encouragement.”
“No posing.”
“You wound me.”
“You crowned me.”
“Fair.”
The cattail rustled before Nibwick could begin. A voice emerged from the fuzzy seed head, low and nasal.
“State your purpose.”
Boddle stared upward. “Why does everything here talk?”
“Rude,” said the cattail.
“We need cattail brown pollen,” said the Sacred Buttercup.
“Seed fluff,” corrected the cattail.
“Whatever comes off your suspicious hotdog body.”
The cattail gasped. “I am a reed of stature.”
“You are a swamp sausage with posture.”
“Enough,” said Boddle. “Sir Cattail—”
“Baron Bristlethatch.”
“Of course it is. Baron Bristlethatch, we need a pinch of your seed fluff to prevent the Deep Blurp from launching the pond into the sky.”
The cattail hummed thoughtfully. “And what does the crown offer in exchange?”
Boddle’s shoulders sagged. “Must everyone negotiate during the mud emergency?”
“Tradition.”
“Extortion wearing a waistcoat.”
“Also tradition.”
Flib leaned close to Boddle. “Cattails like official recognition.”
“Recognition for what?”
“Standing.”
Boddle looked up at the cattail. “You would like an award for standing still?”
Baron Bristlethatch stiffened proudly. “With excellence.”
Boddle slowly turned toward Elder Wartle, who had followed at a distance with the scrolls and looked as if he regretted surviving this long.
“Can I create awards?” Boddle asked.
“As Sunlit Steward, you may issue temporary honors.”
“Fine.”
Boddle raised one hand. “Baron Bristlethatch, in recognition of your… vertical commitment… I hereby name you Tallest Official Fuzzy Thing of the Northern Bank until sunset.”
The cattails whispered among themselves.
Baron Bristlethatch quivered with pleasure. “Put it in writing.”
The salamander clerk, who had also followed because paperwork, scribbled on a reed slip.
“And include ‘distinguished.’”
“Do not push me, swamp sausage,” said Boddle.
Baron Bristlethatch paused. “Understood.”
Nibwick hovered nearby. “Shall I provide the disciplined air encouragement?”
“Gently,” said Boddle.
Nibwick took a deep, theatrical breath.
“Gently,” Boddle repeated.
The dragonfly began beating his wings. A soft gust rose, barely stirring the reeds. Baron Bristlethatch released a delicate puff of brown seed fluff, which drifted down like tiny bits of old velvet. Flib caught it in the shell cup with the lily blush.
Then Nibwick, overwhelmed by restraint and apparently allergic to subtlety, added a tiny flourish.
Just a tiny one.
The gust sharpened.
Baron Bristlethatch exploded.
Not violently. Not dangerously. But fluff burst from his seed head in a magnificent brown cloud that covered Boddle, Flib, Nibwick, the Sacred Buttercup, the salamander clerk, and three innocent frogs who had only come to watch the government fail.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Boddle stood knee-deep in water, crowned, jeweled, and coated from head to toe in cattail fuzz. His emergency smile shone through the fluff like a haunted lantern in a pillow factory.
Flib sneezed.
Then sneezed again.
Then sneezed so hard he spun in a circle.
The Sacred Buttercup spat fluff from its tiny mouth. “I hope your award rots.”
Baron Bristlethatch, now much thinner, whispered, “Worth it.”
Boddle slowly turned toward Nibwick.
Nibwick hovered with several bits of fluff stuck to his face. “I may have over-encouraged the air.”
“You think?”
“Growth is not linear.”
“Neither is your flight path, apparently.”
They had the second pollen, even if most of it was now in Boddle’s eyelashes.
Another tremor hit.
This one came with a sound.
Deep beneath the western reeds, something went glorp.
Then glorp-glorp.
Then a long, wet, rising bloooooooorp that made every creature in the pond look at every other creature and silently decide who they would blame first.
The water level lifted half an inch and dropped again.
“The seal is splitting,” said the buttercup.
“We need moonmoss,” said Boddle.
Flib swallowed. “Shadow log.”
“Yes.”
“The underside.”
“Yes.”
“Where the humming is.”
“Flib, unless the humming eats people, we are going.”
Flib looked at the Sacred Buttercup.
The buttercup looked away.
Boddle’s smile froze. “Does the humming eat people?”
“Not people,” said Flib.
“That is a lawyer answer.”
“Mostly beetles.”
A water beetle nearby shouted, “Define mostly!”
“No time!” snapped the buttercup.
They crossed toward the southern shallows, where the sunlight grew thinner and the water darkened beneath overhanging reeds. The chatter of the pond faded behind them. Even Nibwick’s wings seemed quieter there. The shadow log lay half-submerged beneath a curtain of moss, black with age and slick with silver patches along its underside. It stretched from bank to water like the spine of something that had once made poor choices.
A low hum vibrated through it.
Boddle stopped.
“Nope.”
The Sacred Buttercup glowed brighter. “We need the silver moonmoss.”
“It is humming.”
“Yes.”
“Logs do not hum unless they are full of bees, ghosts, or beetle regrets.”
Flib leaned over the water. “Sometimes it hums lullabies.”
“That is worse.”
Nibwick hovered near the moss curtain. “I shall scout.”
“Do not touch anything,” Boddle said.
“I am capable of restraint.”
Everyone looked at the cattail fluff still stuck to him.
“Recent evidence is unkind,” Nibwick admitted.
The Sacred Buttercup whispered, “The moonmoss only releases spores when asked a question it cannot answer.”
Boddle turned slowly. “What?”
“Moonmoss is very smug. It enjoys knowing things. Ask it a question it cannot answer, and it sheds silver spores in frustration.”
“That is the most pond thing I have ever heard.”
Flib raised a hand. “Ask it why Grumple has friends.”
“He doesn’t,” said Boddle.
“Then it can answer that.”
Boddle waded closer to the shadow log. The hum deepened, vibrating through the water and into his shell. Silver moss shimmered beneath the log in threads like moonlit hair.
He cleared his throat.
“Moonmoss,” he said, feeling ridiculous because he was addressing wet fuzz under a log while wearing a crown he hated, “we require your silver spores to save Bloomspittle Pond.”
The hum changed.
A voice emerged, soft and layered, as if several sleepy librarians were speaking through a damp blanket.
“Answer first,” said the moonmoss.
Boddle frowned. “I thought I ask you.”
“Answer first.”
The Sacred Buttercup muttered something floral and obscene.
The moonmoss continued, “Why does the smiling one wear terror like a crown?”
Boddle’s emergency smile faltered.
Flib looked at the water.
Nibwick hovered very still.
Even the Sacred Buttercup shut up, which proved the moment was serious.
Boddle tried to laugh, but it came out as a tiny puff of air. “Because the crown is stuck.”
“Not the gold,” said the moonmoss. “The other one.”
Boddle looked at his reflection under the shadow log. His face stared back, round and bright and ridiculous, eyes huge, teeth bared, fuzz in his brow, jewels flashing. He looked like a creature who had been dressed for a celebration and shoved into a crisis before he could find the exit.
He wanted to say something clever.
He wanted to insult the moss.
He wanted to announce that this was all absurd, because it was. It was extremely absurd. So absurd that his panic had begun developing opinions.
But the pond was trembling behind him. The seal was splitting. The crown was heavy. The flower was glowing in his arm. Everyone was waiting for him to be something he had never agreed to be.
So he told the truth.
“Because if I smile,” Boddle said quietly, “everyone thinks I’m handling it.”
The moonmoss hummed lower.
“And are you?”
Boddle looked back toward the pond. He could hear Aunt Pebbra handing out snacks with too much cheer. He could hear petitioners arguing over whether catastrophe paused property law. He could hear tadpoles asking whether the sky pond would have better snacks. He could hear, beneath it all, the ugly wet pressure of the Deep Blurp pushing upward.
“No,” he said. “But I’m still here.”
The moonmoss went silent.
Then, from its silver threads, a fine shimmer began to fall.
Moonmoss spores drifted down like powdered starlight. Flib held out the shell cup and caught them with unusually careful hands.
The Sacred Buttercup whispered, “That was not a question it could not answer.”
The moonmoss replied, “No. But it was an answer worth rewarding.”
Boddle swallowed hard.
Then the log sneezed.
A swarm of tiny black beetles shot out from under it.
Flib screamed.
Nibwick performed three defensive loops and one unnecessary flourish.
Boddle splashed backward, nearly dropped the Sacred Buttercup, and banged the crown against a hanging reed.
The moonmoss resumed humming as if nothing had happened.
“I thought you said it mostly ate beetles!” Boddle yelled.
“Apparently it stores them!” Flib cried.
“That is not better!”
They fled the shadow log with the shell cup clutched tight, now carrying buttercup gold, lily blush, cattail brown, and moonmoss silver. They were damp, fuzz-coated, emotionally rearranged, and being pursued by three confused beetles who had imprinted on Flib as a parental figure.
By the time they returned to the center of the pond, Bloomspittle had fully surrendered to chaos.
The snail evacuation line had become a snack market.
Doctor Slimebeth was treating a frog for “anticipatory bruising.”
Madam Glint had filed a temporary injunction against the Deep Blurp for threatening her sunbeam.
The moth with the torn cape was giving interviews about textile neglect.
Aunt Pebbra had established a reassurance booth and was telling everyone, “He gets this from my side,” although nobody knew whether she meant courage or facial distress.
And Old Grumple had climbed onto a stone and begun shouting, “I warned you all about underground pressure!” despite having warned no one about anything except beetle catering.
Then the western reeds split apart.
A column of mud rose from the water.
It rose slowly at first, bubbling and bulging, then swelling into a round, wobbling mound the size of the Ceremony Pad. Reeds clung to it. Bubbles rolled over its surface. Two glowing yellow eyes opened in the muck, followed by a wide mouth that stretched into a grin even worse than Boddle’s.
The Deep Blurp had a face.
Boddle stared at it.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “Even the burp has a face?”
The Deep Blurp inhaled.
The entire pond leaned inward.
The Sacred Buttercup screamed, “Do not let it speak!”
Too late.
The Deep Blurp opened its mouth and released a voice like old mud sliding down stairs.
“WHO,” it rumbled, “HOLDS THE CROWN?”
Every creature in Bloomspittle Pond turned toward Boddle.
Boddle looked down at the shell cup of pollen.
Then at the Sacred Buttercup.
Then at the enormous mud face rising from the western reeds.
Then at the crown, still stuck on his head like destiny with poor manners.
His emergency smile returned with such force that two tadpoles applauded by accident.
He raised one shaky hand.
“Temporarily,” he said.
The Deep Blurp grinned wider.
“THEN TEMPORARILY,” it thundered, “YOU MAY BE THE FIRST TO FLY.”
The pond screamed.
The second bell began to ring.
And the shell cup cracked.
The Deep Blurp Receives a Firmly Worded Sprinkle
The second bell rang across Bloomspittle Pond with all the subtlety of a spoon dropped into a bucket of panic.
Bong.
The Deep Blurp rose higher from the western reeds.
Bong.
The shell cup cracked wider in Flib’s trembling hands.
Bong.
A thin ribbon of mixed pollen—gold, blush, brown, and silver—began spilling down the side.
Boddle made a sound that was not a word, not a croak, and not entirely legal.
“The cup,” Flib squeaked.
“I see the cup.”
“It’s leaking.”
“I see the leaking.”
“Should I hold it differently?”
“Hold it like it contains the continued geographical existence of our home.”
Flib adjusted his grip and immediately made the crack worse.
The Sacred Buttercup screamed. “Not like that, you snack-brained puddle nephew!”
“I am under pressure!” Flib yelled.
The Deep Blurp inhaled again.
The western reeds bent inward. Mud bubbles climbed its wobbling surface. It had the unfortunate grandeur of a monster made entirely of fermented bad decisions. Two yellow eyes glowed in the muck, and its mouth stretched across its face in a long, wet grin.
“THE CROWN-BEARER TREMBLES,” it boomed.
“Yes,” Boddle said. “Obviously.”
The pond gasped.
The Deep Blurp paused.
“YOU ADMIT FEAR?”
“I am wearing a cursed salad ring on my head while a mud belch with cheekbones threatens aviation. Fear seems reasonable.”
Old Grumple, from his stone, shouted, “Finally, an honest administration!”
The crowd, which had been halfway through a collective nervous collapse, froze just long enough to consider whether that counted as leadership.
Boddle did not feel like a leader.
He felt like a damp decorative mistake.
His shell was still dusted with cattail fluff. Moonmoss shimmered on one elbow. The Sacred Buttercup was tucked against his side, glowing and insulting under its breath. The crown had slid slightly over one brow, giving him the tragic dignity of a royal portrait painted during a sneeze.
But the pond was looking at him.
Not at Elder Wartle. Not at Nibwick. Not at the scrolls. Not even at the Deep Blurp, which honestly seemed rude to the Deep Blurp, considering the effort it had put into rising dramatically from the mud.
They were looking at Boddle.
Waiting.
His emergency smile trembled across his face.
He wanted to run. He wanted to hide under the nearest lily pad and become a rumor. He wanted someone else to be chosen, someone with cheekbones, training, and a mouth that did not become a public hazard under stress.
Then he saw the smallest tadpole from the illegal viewing booth clutching a refunded pebble and staring at him with watery faith.
That was unfair.
Hope should not be allowed to look that small and make that much eye contact.
Boddle took the cracked shell cup from Flib.
The crack widened again.
More pollen leaked over his fingers.
“No, no, no,” muttered the Sacred Buttercup. “We needed the ancient shell basin. The rite requires a basin. Not a cracked snack cup. Not a decorative scoop. Not whatever this depressing little clam tragedy is.”
“Where is the ancient shell basin?” Boddle snapped.
Elder Wartle looked toward the Ceremony Pad.
The Ceremony Pad looked empty.
The salamander clerk flipped through three scrolls at once, which was impressive and useless. “It was last recorded in the Stewardry Chest.”
“Where is that?”
“Lost.”
“Of course it is.”
“Possibly misplaced during the Duckweed Tax Revolt.”
Old Grumple raised a proud hand. “Worth it.”
“Nobody is asking you!” shouted half the pond.
The Deep Blurp’s grin widened. “NO BASIN. NO BINDING. NO POND.”
“Do not gloat,” Boddle said. “You are a bubble with a face.”
A few frogs laughed nervously.
The Deep Blurp’s eyes narrowed.
That was when Aunt Pebbra pushed through the crowd wearing a snack basket over one arm and the expression of a woman who had accidentally caused politics and was determined to accessorize through it.
“Boddle, darling,” she called, “why aren’t you using your pendant?”
Boddle looked down at the large oval pendant hanging around his neck. It was the same one she had given him that morning, the one she claimed brought confidence and had so far brought neck strain.
“Because it is jewelry.”
“It is heirloom jewelry.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“Your grandmother said it was very important.”
“Your exact words were that it looked ‘fancy enough for a panic.’”
“And look at us now. I was not wrong.”
Doctor Slimebeth inched closer, eyes narrowing at the pendant. “Turn it over.”
Boddle did.
The back of the opal pendant was not solid, as he had always thought. It was hollowed into a shallow, smooth basin lined with mother-of-pearl. Around the rim, tiny old symbols curled in a circle: buttercup, lily, cattail, moon, crown, reed, mud, and a final mark that looked suspiciously like a frog falling off a chair.
The Sacred Buttercup stopped glowing for half a second.
“Well,” it said. “That is inconveniently useful.”
Elder Wartle leaned in and squinted. “That is the ancient shell basin.”
Boddle stared at Aunt Pebbra.
Aunt Pebbra dabbed her eyes. “Your grandmother wore it to weddings.”
“My grandmother wore an emergency mystical artifact to weddings?”
“She liked to be prepared.”
“For what, reception-based mud collapse?”
“There was an incident with fondue once.”
The Deep Blurp surged upward with a wet roar, splashing brown water across the western reeds. “ENOUGH.”
The cracked shell cup split almost in half.
Boddle reacted before he thought.
He yanked the pendant from his neck, turned it basin-side up, and dumped the remaining pollen into it. Flib lunged forward, cupping his little hands beneath the broken shell and catching stray grains before they vanished into the pond.
Nibwick shot downward. “I can gather the airborne particles!”
“No flourishes!” Boddle shouted.
“This is not the moment for art?”
“This is barely the moment for breathing.”
Nibwick zipped in tight, controlled arcs, wings stirring the air just enough to push floating pollen back toward the basin. For once, there was no spin, no loop, no theatrical sparkle dive. Just work.
Boddle noticed.
He did not have time to be touched by it, but he noticed.
The Sacred Buttercup shook itself violently, releasing a final dusting of golden pollen into the basin. “There. Buttercup gold restored. Try not to drop the salvation soup.”
Boddle swirled the pollen with one finger. Gold, pink, brown, and silver blended into a strange shimmering powder that smelled like sunlight, riverbank, old wood, and something faintly judgmental.
“Now what?”
The Sacred Buttercup looked at Elder Wartle. “The binding phrase.”
Elder Wartle looked at the salamander clerk.
The salamander clerk looked at the scroll.
The scroll looked wet.
That was never ideal for documentation made of reeds.
The clerk unfolded the relevant section and winced. “Some of the ink has run.”
Boddle’s emergency smile became physically painful. “How much?”
The clerk held up the scroll. “The phrase begins clearly.”
“Good.”
“Then becomes more of a damp suggestion.”
“Bad.”
“Then possibly a soup recipe.”
“Worse.”
Elder Wartle cleared his throat. “Read what remains.”
The salamander clerk read, “By bud and blush, by brown and bright, by crown that sits upon—”
He stopped.
“Upon what?” Boddle asked.
The clerk frowned. “Could be ‘right.’ Could be ‘night.’ Could be ‘slightly frightened amphibious bite.’”
“That last one feels personal.”
The Deep Blurp laughed, a long rolling sound that made bubbles burst across the pond. “YOUR WORDS ARE LOST. YOUR RITE IS BROKEN.”
“Your voice sounds like soup falling into a shoe,” Boddle snapped.
The Deep Blurp recoiled slightly.
Bloomspittle Pond stared.
Old Grumple slapped his knee. “Ha!”
It was not much, but it helped.
The Deep Blurp was ancient, enormous, and filled with explosive pressure, but apparently no one had insulted its vocal texture in centuries.
Boddle looked down at the basin. The pollen shimmered in the hollow of his grandmother’s pendant. The crown tugged at his brow. The pond trembled beneath his feet. The western reeds bent as the mud seal split wider.
He did not know the phrase.
He did not know the ritual.
He did not know how to be royal, temporary, constitutional, pollen-managed, or whatever other nonsense the day had smeared on him.
But he knew something else.
He knew the pond.
He knew its ridiculous creatures and their ridiculous problems. He knew Madam Glint would fight for three inches of sunbeam but share snacks during a crisis. He knew Nibwick could learn restraint if properly shouted at. He knew Elder Wartle had survived decades by hiding behind scrolls and pretending that counted as wisdom. He knew Aunt Pebbra caused problems with the confidence of a baked good at a church auction. He knew Flib was useless until he mattered, and then somehow his uselessness had pockets.
He knew Bloomspittle Pond was messy, loud, vain, dramatic, sticky, and badly governed.
He also knew it was home.
Boddle raised the basin.
“Everyone listen to me.”
Nobody did.
“I said listen!”
This time, his voice cracked across the pond hard enough to startle the frog choir into silence.
The sudden quiet felt enormous.
Boddle almost apologized for it.
Then he did not.
Progress.
“We are not flying today,” he said.
The smallest tadpole whispered, “Good.”
“We are not letting an overgrown mud burp turn this pond into a sky accident. We are not settling sunbeam lawsuits, cape grievances, snack disputes, or whatever emotional nonsense the buttercups have been hiding in their petals until after the pond remains on the ground.”
Several buttercups rustled guiltily.
Boddle pointed toward Nibwick. “Dragonflies, clear the air above the western reeds. No showboating. If I see one unnecessary loop, I will name you Decorative Only in the public record.”
Nibwick saluted. “Dragonflies! Functional formation!”
The dragonflies launched into the air with offended discipline.
Boddle pointed toward Doctor Slimebeth. “Snails, reinforce the reed bank.”
Doctor Slimebeth blinked. “We are not fast.”
“You are sticky.”
The snail medic considered this. “Finally. A tactical use for dignity.”
She turned and began issuing orders. Snails moved toward the western bank, leaving glistening trails that helped bind loose mud and reeds together. It was disgusting and effective, which described much of Bloomspittle Pond.
Boddle pointed at Madam Glint and Mister Plunk. “You two. Direct lily pad traffic.”
Madam Glint clutched her documents. “Together?”
“Your sunbeam cannot be enforced if everyone is airborne.”
“Sound legal reasoning,” she admitted.
Mister Plunk nodded. “I can sneeze directionally for crowd control.”
“No intentional sneezing.”
“Fine. I will gesture rudely.”
“Acceptable.”
Boddle pointed at Old Grumple. “You.”
Old Grumple perked up. “Finally.”
“Stand near the Deep Blurp and complain at it.”
Old Grumple’s face softened with something dangerously close to joy. “I was born for this.”
“Do not let it focus.”
“I have ruined conversations longer than you have been alive.”
“Wonderful. Weaponize that.”
Old Grumple hopped toward the western reeds, cleared his throat, and shouted at the towering mud face, “You call that rising? I have seen better swelling on a week-old mushroom!”
The Deep Blurp turned one glowing eye toward him.
“WHAT?”
“And your bubbles are irregular!” Grumple yelled. “No rhythm! No standards! Just wet arrogance!”
The Deep Blurp’s mouth curled downward. “I AM ANCIENT PRESSURE.”
“You are a clogged pond fart with delusions!”
The crowd gasped.
The Deep Blurp gasped too, which caused another dangerous surge of bubbles but did, technically, interrupt its attack.
Boddle turned to Flib. “You’re with me.”
Flib swallowed. “To the seal?”
“To the seal.”
“Where the giant mud face is?”
“Yes.”
“The one threatening to launch us?”
“Unless another giant mud face has opened a competing business.”
Flib nodded weakly. “Just confirming.”
The Sacred Buttercup looked up at Boddle from the crook of his arm. Its tiny pollen eyes narrowed.
“The rite requires the steward to smile with sincere authority.”
“I have been smiling all day.”
“No. You have been baring teeth at fate like a cornered pastry.”
Boddle looked offended. “That has carried us pretty far.”
“Not far enough.”
The pond lurched.
The western mud seal split open with a deep tearing schlurrp. Brown water shot upward. The Deep Blurp swelled larger, its mouth stretching into a pit of old bubbles and trapped committee fumes.
“THE SEAL BREAKS,” it roared.
Old Grumple shouted, “So does your breath!”
“I WILL DEAL WITH YOU SECOND.”
“Put it on the agenda, gasbag!”
Boddle waded toward the western reeds.
Every step was harder than the last. Mud sucked at his feet. Water rolled around his knees. His jeweled shell felt heavy. The crown pressed into his brow. The ancient basin trembled in his hands, pollen shifting like powdered light.
Flib stayed beside him, pale but present.
“You know,” Flib said, voice shaking, “when Aunt Pebbra entered your name seven times, I thought the worst thing that could happen was you falling off the Ceremony Pad.”
“That did almost happen.”
“I miss that problem.”
“Me too.”
A dragonfly formation swept overhead, clearing steam and pollen haze. Snails lined the bank, sticking reeds into place. Madam Glint barked directions at lily pads like a general with boundary issues. Mister Plunk gestured rudely but effectively. Aunt Pebbra handed snacks to terrified citizens while telling them, “Chew with faith.”
The entire pond was doing what Boddle had asked.
That was somehow more frightening than the monster.
The Deep Blurp leaned down, its mud face looming above him. “LITTLE STEWARD. LITTLE SMILE. LITTLE CROWN.”
Boddle stopped at the edge of the broken seal.
The water there was hot and bubbling, a dark circle where the pond floor had cracked. Foul air burped upward in pulses. The smell was so terrible that his eyes watered.
“This is disgusting,” he said.
“IT IS POWER,” thundered the Deep Blurp.
“It is something, yes.”
The Sacred Buttercup hissed, “The phrase. Say whatever comes. But mean it.”
Boddle lifted the basin.
The pollen glowed brighter, reflecting in his giant eyes. Gold. Blush. Brown. Silver. Four impossible little ingredients gathered through compliments, bribery, restraint, honesty, and one cattail explosion.
He tried to smile.
The emergency smile snapped into place.
Too wide.
Too tight.
Too false.
The pollen dimmed.
The Sacred Buttercup groaned. “Not that one.”
“This is the only one I have!”
“No, it isn’t.”
The Deep Blurp inhaled.
The western reeds began lifting from the mud.
Boddle closed his eyes.
He let the emergency smile fall.
It felt like taking off armor he had forgotten was heavy.
Without it, his face felt strange. Softer. Smaller. More exposed. His mouth trembled. His eyes burned. He looked, he knew, exactly as scared as he was.
But he did not run.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the Deep Blurp.
“I am not ready,” Boddle said.
The Deep Blurp paused.
The pond listened.
“I did not ask for the crown. I do not want the job. I do not understand half the rules, and the half I do understand sound like they were written by sleep-deprived tadpoles with legal ambitions.”
The salamander clerk muttered, “Not inaccurate.”
“But I am here,” Boddle continued. “And until the third bell, this ridiculous pond is under my temporary care.”
The basin warmed in his hands.
“So by bud and blush, by brown and bright,” he said, voice steadying, “by crown that sits too tight tonight—”
Elder Wartle whispered, “That might be it.”
“—by lily stillness, cattail pride, moonmoss truth, and buttercup snide—”
The Sacred Buttercup muttered, “Snide?”
“You heard me.”
The pollen shimmered.
Boddle stepped closer to the seal.
“By every frog, beetle, snail, tadpole, flower, dragonfly, and whatever Grumple technically is—”
“A citizen!” Grumple shouted.
“Debatable, but included!”
A laugh rippled through the pond. Small, shaky, but real.
Boddle smiled then.
Not the emergency smile.
Not the hostage grin.
Not the face that said everything was fine while his insides were building a raft.
It was small. Crooked. Damp. Still frightened.
But sincere.
“Stay down,” he said to the Deep Blurp. “We have enough drama above the mud.”
Then he threw the pollen into the broken seal.
The powder burst open in midair.
Gold flashed first, bright as buttercup sun.
Blush followed, soft as water lilies at dawn.
Brown spiraled around them, earthy and stubborn.
Silver threaded through all of it like moonlight refusing to explain itself.
The four pollens struck the bubbling seal.
For one terrible second, nothing happened.
Then everything happened at once.
The seal erupted—not upward, but outward, sending rings of shimmering light across the pond floor. Silver roots shot through the mud. Golden vines braided themselves around the crack. Lily-pink light filled the gaps, while cattail brown settled over the edges like a firm hand pressing dough.
The Deep Blurp screamed.
It was an enormous sound, wet and ancient and offended beyond measure.
“NO!”
The mud face sagged.
Its glowing eyes flickered.
Old Grumple leaned forward and shouted, “That’s right! Back in your hole, you overproofed dumpling!”
The Deep Blurp tried to surge again, but the snails’ sticky reedwork held the bank. The dragonflies cleared the pressure vents with precise wingbeats. Madam Glint and Mister Plunk kept the lily pads from clogging the water flow. Aunt Pebbra threw a snack at a panicking frog and somehow restored order.
Boddle planted both feet in the mud and held the basin out toward the seal.
“Bloomspittle Pond stays where it is,” he said.
The Deep Blurp shrank.
Mud slid down its face in thick sheets. Its great mouth collapsed into a bubbling line. Its glowing eyes narrowed into two tiny pinpricks of ancient resentment.
“TEMPORARY,” it hissed.
“Yes,” Boddle said. “That seems to be the theme.”
The seal closed.
The last bubble rose.
It popped with a small, rude plip.
Then the pond was still.
For once, truly still.
No one screamed.
No one filed a complaint.
No one sold tickets.
Even the buttercups held their pollen.
Boddle stood at the western reeds, breathing hard, crown crooked, shell muddy, ancient basin empty, face bare of panic for the first time all day.
Then the smallest tadpole shouted, “We did not fly!”
The pond exploded into cheers.
Frogs leapt. Dragonflies spun, then quickly looked at Boddle and downgraded the spins into responsible celebratory arcs. Snails waved their medic sashes. Lily pads bumped together in soggy applause. Madam Glint and Mister Plunk accidentally hugged, immediately realized what they had done, and pretended it was a legal maneuver.
Aunt Pebbra sobbed loudly. “He gets his crisis management from my side!”
Flib collapsed backward into the water, sending up a splash. “I have never been so brave adjacent.”
The Sacred Buttercup, still tucked under Boddle’s arm, gave a tiny sniff.
“Adequate,” it said.
Boddle looked down at it. “That is the nicest thing you have said all day.”
“Do not get greedy.”
Elder Wartle approached through the shallows, followed by the salamander clerk, who was writing so quickly his reed pen was smoking.
“Boddle of the Lower Lily Cluster,” Elder Wartle said, voice thick with emotion and administrative opportunity, “you have sealed the Deep Blurp, restored balance, commanded the pond, and upheld the spirit of the crown.”
Boddle narrowed his eyes. “Do not make this permanent.”
Elder Wartle closed his mouth.
The salamander clerk slowly stopped writing.
Boddle pointed at him. “Cross out whatever you just started.”
“It was only a draft.”
“Cross it out with fear.”
The clerk obeyed.
At that moment, the third bell rang.
Bong.
Every creature froze.
Bong.
The crown loosened.
Bong.
With a soft golden sigh, the Crown of Bloomspittle Pond untangled itself from Boddle’s flower crown, lifted half an inch, spun once in the air like it wanted applause, and dropped neatly into the ancient shell basin.
Boddle stared at it.
“Oh sure,” he said. “Now you behave.”
The pond laughed.
Not nervously this time. Not politely. They laughed the way creatures laugh after almost being blasted into the sky by ancestral swamp gas and discovering they still have snacks.
Elder Wartle lifted the crown from the basin and held it high. “The stewardship is complete!”
The frog choir immediately launched into a victory song, which was only slightly better than the earlier leadership hymn because someone had removed the verse rhyming Boddle with twaddle.
Doctor Slimebeth examined Boddle’s forehead. “Minor crown indentation. Moderate glitter exposure. Severe public growth.”
“Is it treatable?” Boddle asked.
“Sadly, no. You may become respected.”
He shuddered. “That sounds chronic.”
Nibwick hovered before him, wings folded low in a rare posture of humility. “Steward Boddle—”
“Former.”
“Former Steward Boddle. I wish to thank you for teaching me restraint.”
Boddle looked at the dragonfly.
Nibwick held still.
Completely still.
It looked painful.
“You’re welcome,” Boddle said.
Nibwick lasted three more seconds before doing a tiny loop.
Boddle sighed. “Progress, not miracles.”
Lady Lulabeth floated closer from the eastern bend, elegant as ever, though one petal still carried a smudge of mud. “You did well, little steward.”
“Former,” Boddle said again.
“Temporary things can still matter.”
Boddle had no immediate complaint for that, which annoyed him.
Baron Bristlethatch rustled from the northern bank, still looking thinner after his unfortunate fluff incident. “Will my temporary honor remain on record?”
The salamander clerk looked at Boddle.
Boddle considered the cattail. “Yes. Tallest Official Fuzzy Thing of the Northern Bank remains valid until sunset.”
Baron Bristlethatch quivered. “Distinguished?”
“Do not push me.”
“Understood.”
Madam Glint stepped forward, holding her sunbeam documents. Mister Plunk stood beside her, pretending not to stand beside her.
“Regarding the sunbeam settlement,” Madam Glint said, “we have decided to extend the shared arrangement through tomorrow.”
Boddle blinked. “Really?”
Mister Plunk shrugged. “Turns out peace is less paperwork.”
Madam Glint sniffed. “Temporarily.”
“Of course,” Boddle said. “Wouldn’t want anyone to become emotionally reckless.”
Old Grumple hopped over, looking more pleased than anyone had a right to look after yelling at mud. “I will admit, boy, you did not completely ruin everything.”
Boddle smiled. “Thank you?”
“Don’t let it inflate you.”
“I think we’ve had enough inflation today.”
Grumple barked a laugh so sharp it startled a nearby beetle into dropping a pastry.
Aunt Pebbra swept in last and wrapped Boddle in a damp, crushing hug.
“My brave little boglet.”
“Aunt Pebbra.”
“My jewel-shelled hero.”
“Aunt Pebbra.”
“My precious emergency monarch.”
“Temporary steward.”
“My precious temporary emergency monarch.”
“Worse.”
She pulled back and pressed the pendant chain into his hands. The ancient shell basin had cooled, its mother-of-pearl surface now clean and smooth, as if it had not just been used to yell pollen at a geological digestive event.
“Your grandmother would have been proud,” she said.
Boddle looked down at the pendant.
For once, he did not have a joke ready.
He slipped it back around his neck.
It still felt heavy.
But not quite the same kind of heavy.
The Sacred Buttercup, now replanted in its ceremonial vase, cleared its tiny throat. “For the record, I also contributed substantially.”
“You screamed,” said Boddle.
“At the correct time.”
“You insulted everyone.”
“With accuracy.”
“You called me a jeweled potato.”
“And yet you flourished.”
Boddle stared at it.
The buttercup stared back.
After a moment, he nodded. “Fine. Thank you.”
The Sacred Buttercup puffed slightly brighter. “Adequate gratitude.”
“Careful,” Boddle said. “You’re starting to sound fond.”
“I would rather be eaten by aphids.”
“There it is.”
By late afternoon, Bloomspittle Pond had returned to its usual level of disorder, which everyone agreed was preferable to catastrophic vertical relocation. The Ceremony Pad was repaired with snail sealant and cattail splints. The dragonfly orchestra composed a new march titled The Steward Who Smiled at Doom and Told It to Sit Down, though Boddle formally objected to the title and lost by public applause.
The tadpoles reopened their booth as an educational exhibit called Deep Blurp Awareness: No Refunds Because History.
Doctor Slimebeth offered counseling for citizens affected by “sudden airborne possibility.”
Madam Glint and Mister Plunk co-authored a temporary sunbeam treaty that was immediately too long.
Old Grumple claimed he had weakened the Deep Blurp through “strategic emotional erosion,” and nobody had the energy to argue.
And Boddle, at long last, returned to the Lower Lily Cluster, where the water was quiet, the shade was soft, and nobody expected him to approve anything more complicated than whether dinner should include extra pondberries.
Flib floated beside him, chewing on a reed stem.
“So,” Flib said, “big day.”
Boddle sank lower into the water. “Never say those words again.”
“You were good, though.”
“I was terrified.”
“Both.”
Boddle looked across the pond. The western reeds stood calm. The Sacred Buttercup glowed faintly on the repaired Ceremony Pad. The crown had been locked away in a chest under three scrolls, two stones, and Doctor Slimebeth’s personal threat.
“I still don’t want to be in charge,” Boddle said.
“Good,” said Flib. “That probably makes you safer than everyone who does.”
Boddle glanced at him. “That was almost wise.”
Flib grinned. “Snack wisdom.”
“There it is.”
As the sun dipped lower, the buttercups turned golden-orange, the water lilies blushed deep peach, and the dragonflies skimmed the surface in disciplined loops that were only mildly decorative. Bubbles rose here and there, innocent little things now, popping softly in the warm air.
Boddle felt his mouth begin to pull into its old emergency shape when a group of young tadpoles waved at him from a lily pad.
“Smile!” one called.
Boddle froze.
His teeth prepared for battle.
Then he stopped.
He breathed.
He gave them the small crooked smile instead.
The real one.
The tadpoles cheered like he had performed a magic trick.
Maybe he had.
Behind him, Aunt Pebbra shouted from the bank, “Boddle, darling! I entered your name for the Autumn Gourd Judging Council!”
Boddle’s entire face snapped back into the emergency smile so fast a nearby frog dropped his spoon.
Across the pond, the Sacred Buttercup laughed until pollen fell out.
And somewhere deep beneath the western reeds, sealed tight under gold, blush, brown, and silver, the Deep Blurp heard that smile through the mud and decided to stay down a little longer.
Some disasters were simply not worth the paperwork.
Bring The Buttercup Boglet With the Emergency Smile out of Bloomspittle Pond and into your own delightfully questionable kingdom with artwork that captures every jeweled shell, golden buttercup, panicked grin, and “please don’t make me important” sparkle. This whimsical pond disaster is available as a framed print, metal print, tapestry, and fleece blanket for maximum cozy chaos. You can also enjoy Boddle’s emergency smile as a puzzle, greeting card, or spiral notebook, because some facial expressions deserve to be immortalized in multiple formats before they file an objection.
