Toad Rage - Morris Gleitzman [1]
Limpy shuddered as he remembered the scary expressions on the holidaymakers' faces. It was exactly the same look of hatred that had been on the face of the truck driver who'd tried to kill Limpy when he was little.
I was lucky, thought Limpy sadly. When it happened to me, I'd only just finished being a tadpole. I had a pair of brand-new legs and I could hop almost completely out of the way. I only got one leg a bit squashed. Poor old Uncle Roly was completely flat before he knew what hit him.
Limpy felt his crook leg start to ache, as it often did when he was sad and stressed. He gazed down at Uncle Roly's very wide smile and felt his throat sac start to wobble.
Why?
Why would a carload of humans purposely kill an uncle who had such a good heart that he was still smiling two nights after being run over by a station wagon and caravan?
I don't get it, thought Limpy. I can understand why grasshoppers and other insects don't like us. It's because we eat them. But we don't eat humans. We can't even fit them into our mouths. So why do they hate us?
Limpy felt his warts tingle with determination.
One day, he thought, I'll go to a human place and
find out why and try to do something about it, even if I end up dry and stiff and flat myself.
The thought made him feel weak and sick.
“Time to go home, Uncle Roly,” he said.
Limpy picked Uncle Roly up, heaved him onto his shoulders, and hopped slowly back across the road to Uncle Bart.
“Bye, Uncle Bart,” said Limpy to the damp layer of pressed skin and flat warts on the tarmac. “I'll be back for you when you've dried out.”
He wondered if he'd find the courage to visit the humans before he saw Uncle Bart again.
I need to get braver, he thought. But how?
“Rack off, place mat,” yelled the grasshopper.
Ignoring all thoughts of bellyache, Limpy ate him.
Practice, thought Limpy as he chewed, that's how.
“Oh no, Limpy,” said Mum in exasperation. “You haven't brought home another dead relative.”
Limpy was too puffed to answer. Although the swamp where he lived wasn't very far from the highway, it was still a long haul for a skinny toad with a crook leg and a dried uncle on his back.
“Well, just don't leave him lying around in your room,” said Mum. “That room's a pigsty. I'm sick of tidying up dead relatives in there.”
“Mum,” said Limpy. “Uncle Roly's your brother. Don't you care that he's been run over?”
Mum gave a big sigh and leaned against the leaf she'd been preparing dinner on. She put down the ants she'd been stuffing slugs with and closed her eyes.
When she opened them, Limpy could see her throat sac was trembling.
“Oh, Limpy,” she said quietly. “Of course I care. But I've got hundreds of brothers and sisters. If I let myself get upset every time one of them's run over, I'll be a nervous wreck.”
Limpy felt a hand grip his shoulder.
He jumped.
For a second he thought Uncle Roly had come back to life and was desperate for a drink of water.
Then he realized it was Dad.
“Mum's right, Son,” said Dad. “You've got to accept the facts of life. Highway lights attract flying insects, so that's where we've got to go for a feed.”
“But there's heaps of other food here in the swamp,” said Limpy. “There's worms in the mud and slugs in the water and spiders in the mangroves and termites in the paperbarks and dung beetles in the—”
“Limpy,” interrupted Mum, “you know perfectly well you need flying insects for a balanced diet. How many times have we told you that you won't grow up big and strong unless you eat your flying insects?”
Limpy sighed. She was right.
“And in these parts,” said Dad, “the highway is where the flying insects are. It's just bad luck that humans use highways too. All we can do is accept it. It's the way it's been since the dawn of time.”
“But why do they hate us, Dad?” said Limpy. “Why do they go out of their way to run us over?”
Dad thought hard for a long time. Then he gave an
exasperated shrug.
“It's just the way things are,” he said to Limpy.
“Now go and tidy your room and don't worry your
dopey