Read Online Chorus Skating by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online Page A

to embrace him with its tinkling warmth, trying to cheer and invigorate him. The motes danced before his eyes, insistent and optimistic.
    â€œYes, yes, I’m coming,” he muttered as he grabbed a branch and hauled himself over a difficult spot. How much farther, he wondered, to wherever it was they were going? What if this clutch of notes had no particular destination? It could lead them right around the world and back again. What if Clothahump was wrong and it constituted a complete musical thought that was simply toying with whoever was dumb enough to follow its lead? What if they were going nowhere in particular, down a path with no end on course to a nonexistent destination?
    Such thoughts did nothing to lengthen his stride or boost his spirits and he did his best not to dwell on them. Mudge could be pessimistic enough for both of them.
    If naught else, the following morning brought a break in the seemingly endless geologic sequence of hills and ravines. Instead of a steep slope, the travelers had to work their way down a short but dangerous cliff, into a ravine that boasted not only a stream but a boulder-spotted beach of substantial breadth. Shallower and wider than the gullies they had previously crossed, the stream spread out to form a pond big enough to swim in.
    Rugose lily pads and other water plants adorned with yellow and lavender blossoms clustered near the natural dam at the far end, supplying more color than the travelers had seen in many days. Small amphibians peeped and sang from beneath this sheltering verdure, seeking the water insects that shot through the crystalline depths. While hardly a temperate paradise, it was positively idyllic compared to the terrain they had been struggling through.
    There was no restraining Mudge. He was out of his clothes before Jon-Tom could reach the pebbly beach. Plunging into the pool, he burst from its center like a breaching dolphin, his dark brown fur shiny and slicked back as he turned a neat somersault in the still air. A broad smile crossed his face as he swam back to rejoin his friend.
    â€œâ€™Tis at least ten body lengths deep, and as clear and clean as old hardshell’s favorite crystal sphere. Come an’ join me!”
    Jon-Tom studied the mirrorlike surface. “I don’t know …”
    â€œCor, come on, mate. I won’t let you sink.” Mudge whirled and dove, surfacing moments later in the middle of the pool. “There’s eatin’-size fish in ’ere, too. Maybe freshwater mussels on the rocks. Let’s idle a day an’ I’ll do some serious fishin’. We’ve earned it.” He swatted at a querulous chord idling above his ears. “As for our guide, ’ere, it can bloody well wait till we’ve put some decent food in our bellies.”
    Mudge was right, Jon-Tom realized as he began peeling off his clothes. They deserved a rest. He found himself seeking a protruding rock from which to attempt a proper dive.
    When half an hour later Jon-Tom finally emerged from the pool refreshed and rejuvenated, Mudge already had a fire going in a little alcove running water had hollowed out of the northern cliff face. With his short sword the otter was gutting the half dozen thick-bodied fish he’d caught without aid of bait or line. The passage of time might have slowed him on land, but in the water he was as quick and agile as ever.
    Otter and man lay back on a pair of smooth granite slabs and let the sun dry them while the spitted fish hissed and sputtered over Mudge’s excellent fire.
    A nude Jon-Tom considered the blue sky, framed by the walls of the miniature canyon. “You know, I’d forgotten how good it could be just to get away. To see different country and smell different smells.”
    â€œAye.” Even Mudge’s whiskers were relaxed. “An’ if I ain’t mistakin’, there’s a distinct absence o’ naggin’ in the air which adds decidedly to the