05-25-2009, 02:56 AM
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.......How easy it would be to drift away into sadness and never return. All that would be necessary was a craft, fashioned out of regret and held together with a lick of pity, and a great sea in which to sail. Remorse could be the anchor, and shame the sail. Stories such as the musician had told could be made to be as vast as the Atlantic, and there was enough material around here to build a fleet. .......And yet, there was always a lighthouse, always a great stretch of green grass, even if it lay behind some rocky shores. Hemming was close to slipping off the stones to wander into the water, following the wolves that had been stuck here by the humans, but the music that the other wolf started playing grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back. These notes, perhaps, were more like the story that Hemming favoured, a triumph of time and life. .......What the other had guaranteed was certainly true, and the gray male pulled his legs out of the water and swivelled to watch him play. The movement of his fingers across the instrument was really quite enchanting, and Hemming's amber eyes did not pull away for a while. Eventually, though, he looked back to the musician's face and asked, "Where did you learn to play so well?" |