He wore short pants and a favorite old shirt that was now badly weathered and torn. The long hair which fell to his shoulders was thinning conspicuously in front and his skin had been browned by long years of exposure to the sun. The wooden shaft of his fishing gear was firmly jammed into the earth and braced with several rocks, while the line drifted amiably downstream with the current. He lay flat on his back, hands behind his head. The bank on which he reclined was sloped just enough toward the water to enable him to occasionally tilt his head up and study the moving stream.
On his left, exhibiting a degree of repose the most relaxed human could never have matched, was a very large otter. He was similarly attired save for the feathered cap that rested rakishly on his head. In his utter lack of activity he was being perfectly otterish, individuals of the species to which he belonged seeming to exist always in a state of either consummate immobility or uncontrolled frenzy. At the moment the subatomic particles which comprised the essence of his form seemed to have ceased all movement.
He was content to treat his pole and the water with equal disdain. Quicker than any fish, he could have acquired a full meal simply by leaping into the river and nosing about for ten minutes.
But that would have been hunting as much as angling. In contrast, pole fishing required a degree of resignation and commitment. Sure Talea and I were mad at him for running off like that with your kids, but they got back alive and in one piece, and you have to admit he made his point. If he wants to be a spellsinger that badly, I'm sure he'll find some way to make a success of it. Mudge glanced across at his friend, peering out from beneath the brim of his feathered cap.
They still can't do anything about his voice, but his fingering just keeps getting better and better.
Sadly, he also seems subject to the same difficulties that used to plague me. Which is to say that his musical inventions don't always result in what he's trying to magick. With an agile digit the otter instigated a lazy exploration of one black nostril. Jon-Tom ignored the obligatory dig. Buncan doesn't tell us a lot about his friends. The otter chirped thoughtfully. They sing like angels an' play like drunks. Seems we may be destined, mate, to 'ave sired a spellsingin' trio that can never split up. That is, unless me blessed offspring get a tickle up their butts an' decide to 'ave a go at somethin' else.
You know 'ow 'ard it is for any otter to commit to anythin' for more than 'alf an 'our. Maybe I'll 'ave a go, if 'tis still there in a few minutes. Got to give the fish a sportin' chance, don't you know. Jon-Tom returned his attention to his own line. The otter emitted a sardonic bark. Mate, that's just so Weegee an' Talea can run off to town an' do wotever it is they do when we ain't around. His companion grinned.
Occasionally and by accident we get a brief glimpse of it. The consequent confusion gives rise to questions, but the replies always seem to consist of dress sizes or detailed descriptions of medical problems. Being both incomprehensible and boring, this inevitably results in the cessation of our inquiries by subtly inducing in our unsuspecting minds a common medical condition best described as terminal bafflement. Bobbin' through life in a sort o' drifting, permanent fog.
Did I ever claim to be otherwise? I ain't no bloomin' wizard nor spellsinger. All I ever wanted to be were a decent cutpurse an' thief who were good at 'is craft an' didn't 'urt 'is marks no more than were absolutely necessary.source site
Chorus Skating | Revolvy
Ain't fast enough anymore. I'd get caught too often to make a go of it. No, mate, this sedate family life suits me. Ten inconsequential minutes melted away, whereupon he looked to his left and inquired, "Does this mean that you're as bored as I am? Infinitely more so. Health Care. Make up. Skin Care. Hair Care. Oral Care.
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