[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
conversation, who won't answer in other than monosyllables, and who cries
herself to sleep each night, honest. But most of those involve things similar
to sitting up on the Posts of Punishment.
The stream bent up ahead, and I suspected there'd be some fish feeding under
the fallen tree that didn't quite bridge the stream. The morning was getting
old, and the food in our pack wasn't getting any more plentiful, so I shrugged
out of my rucksack and beckoned to Andy to wait.
She dropped her own rucksack and squatted on the ground, silently obedient.
I would have rather she spoke up and spooked the fish.
I crept out on the log. Sure enough, just under the surface of the rippling
water, in a quiet space sheltered by the tree, a trio of largish trout hovered
in the shadow, either having a quiet chat about fishy life or eating
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
something.
Not for long.
One of the gifts I got in transition to This Side is my reflexes, and while
they've been more important, they've never been a lot more fun than when I
lunged, scooping up one of the fish and flinging it high into the air, just
like a bear with a salmon, except that I'm much prettier than any bear.
The trout thunked down on the riverbank, flopping madly.
Flibitaflibitaflibita.
Nice-sized, the way local speckled trout often get. Maybe three, three and a
half pounds.
I'd sort of hoped Andy would take over, but she just watched it, so I pulled
the utility knife from my rucksack I don't use my dagger or my throwing knives
for this sort of thing then quickly gutted the fish, rinsing off both the fish
and my hands in the stream. Ick.
"Now, the right way to cook trout involves poaching it with vinegar and
spices," I said. "Blue trout is one of the greatest meals that ever there was.
"A good second choice is to tie the trout to a green stick and then shove it
head deep in nice, hot coals.
On the other hand, we don't have nice, hot coals, and I'm not going to spend
an hour building up that kind of cookfire."
Keeping up a steady monologue, I gathered some dry wood and built a quick
cooking fire on the riverbank if you've got some birch bark handy, which we
did, and if you're willing to waste a little gunpowder, which I was, you can
start a fire real quick.
I cut the fish down the back and seared the halves on the ends of a pair of
green sticks, using a rough stone to grate just a taste of wild onion onto it.
It only took a few minutes; all you really have to do with freshwater fish is
cook them enough to kill any parasites.
A bit of salt from the saltwell in my pack, and, voila:
fish on a stick. Lunch for two.
"What are you going to have?" I asked.
She didn't rise to the bait, and I wasn't irritated enough to let her go
hungry, so I handed her one of the sticks and then quickly wolfed down my own.
Not bad. Not bad at all. Fresh trout, no more than fifteen minutes from the
stream, is a dish fit for a king.
Or even for Walter Slovotsky.
I washed my hands in the stream and then scooped some water onto the fire.
"Let's go."
* * *
The first days were like that. Andy slept when told to, ate what I put in
front of her.
To my surprise, she stood her turn at watch and stayed awake and alert while
she did, but that was about all.
The nights were cold, and I wouldn't have minded not sleeping alone. But it
didn't seem like the right time to bring up the subject, not even of sleeping.
I'm a sensitive guy, eh?
So, instead, I kept up the constant monologue as we walked. I swear, I began
to run out of subjects; by the third day, I'd covered damn everything I knew
(well, almost everything. Some things Woman Isn't
Meant to Know). About how to set up a staff in a castle. About how to keep in
practice with a bow.
About why you keep flintlocks loaded, and how poor old Tennetty always scared
the shit out of me.
We hit the Heliven-Ollerwell road late on the second day, and left the stream
and trout dinners behind.
* * *
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Just as we were breaking camp the next morning and I was launching into
today's monologue a reconsideration of the Nickel Defense and its suitability
for college football Andy looked up at me and frowned.
"Walter, shut up," she said.
"Well, well, well. It lives." I hefted my rucksack to my back and we started
to work our way back toward the road through the forest.
She should have snorted, but she just looked at me deadpan. "Your sympathy is
underwhelming. You don't know what I had to give up."
"Better than sex, so I'm told."
The corner of her mouth may have turned up a millimeter. "Depends on with
whom."
"Was that an offer?"
"No."
Sometimes no doesn't mean no, but when it's accompanied by a weak shake of the
head, lips pursed just , that's exactly what it means. Which is okay. I can
take no.
so
On the other hand, I was heading home to my wife, to make things work. It
would have been nice to have one last dalliance. On the other hand . . . I've
run out of hands.
Just as well.
* * *
We walked along, not talking. I can take silence, although you'll never get
that in the forest. There's almost always the far-off cry of a bird, the
chittering of insects, and if nothing else, a whisper of wind through the
trees. Not silent at all. Not even quiet, not really; it's only the tallest
trees that are quiet.
"What now?" she asked. Or maybe said. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl akte20.pev.pl
conversation, who won't answer in other than monosyllables, and who cries
herself to sleep each night, honest. But most of those involve things similar
to sitting up on the Posts of Punishment.
The stream bent up ahead, and I suspected there'd be some fish feeding under
the fallen tree that didn't quite bridge the stream. The morning was getting
old, and the food in our pack wasn't getting any more plentiful, so I shrugged
out of my rucksack and beckoned to Andy to wait.
She dropped her own rucksack and squatted on the ground, silently obedient.
I would have rather she spoke up and spooked the fish.
I crept out on the log. Sure enough, just under the surface of the rippling
water, in a quiet space sheltered by the tree, a trio of largish trout hovered
in the shadow, either having a quiet chat about fishy life or eating
Page 159
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
something.
Not for long.
One of the gifts I got in transition to This Side is my reflexes, and while
they've been more important, they've never been a lot more fun than when I
lunged, scooping up one of the fish and flinging it high into the air, just
like a bear with a salmon, except that I'm much prettier than any bear.
The trout thunked down on the riverbank, flopping madly.
Flibitaflibitaflibita.
Nice-sized, the way local speckled trout often get. Maybe three, three and a
half pounds.
I'd sort of hoped Andy would take over, but she just watched it, so I pulled
the utility knife from my rucksack I don't use my dagger or my throwing knives
for this sort of thing then quickly gutted the fish, rinsing off both the fish
and my hands in the stream. Ick.
"Now, the right way to cook trout involves poaching it with vinegar and
spices," I said. "Blue trout is one of the greatest meals that ever there was.
"A good second choice is to tie the trout to a green stick and then shove it
head deep in nice, hot coals.
On the other hand, we don't have nice, hot coals, and I'm not going to spend
an hour building up that kind of cookfire."
Keeping up a steady monologue, I gathered some dry wood and built a quick
cooking fire on the riverbank if you've got some birch bark handy, which we
did, and if you're willing to waste a little gunpowder, which I was, you can
start a fire real quick.
I cut the fish down the back and seared the halves on the ends of a pair of
green sticks, using a rough stone to grate just a taste of wild onion onto it.
It only took a few minutes; all you really have to do with freshwater fish is
cook them enough to kill any parasites.
A bit of salt from the saltwell in my pack, and, voila:
fish on a stick. Lunch for two.
"What are you going to have?" I asked.
She didn't rise to the bait, and I wasn't irritated enough to let her go
hungry, so I handed her one of the sticks and then quickly wolfed down my own.
Not bad. Not bad at all. Fresh trout, no more than fifteen minutes from the
stream, is a dish fit for a king.
Or even for Walter Slovotsky.
I washed my hands in the stream and then scooped some water onto the fire.
"Let's go."
* * *
The first days were like that. Andy slept when told to, ate what I put in
front of her.
To my surprise, she stood her turn at watch and stayed awake and alert while
she did, but that was about all.
The nights were cold, and I wouldn't have minded not sleeping alone. But it
didn't seem like the right time to bring up the subject, not even of sleeping.
I'm a sensitive guy, eh?
So, instead, I kept up the constant monologue as we walked. I swear, I began
to run out of subjects; by the third day, I'd covered damn everything I knew
(well, almost everything. Some things Woman Isn't
Meant to Know). About how to set up a staff in a castle. About how to keep in
practice with a bow.
About why you keep flintlocks loaded, and how poor old Tennetty always scared
the shit out of me.
We hit the Heliven-Ollerwell road late on the second day, and left the stream
and trout dinners behind.
* * *
Page 160
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Just as we were breaking camp the next morning and I was launching into
today's monologue a reconsideration of the Nickel Defense and its suitability
for college football Andy looked up at me and frowned.
"Walter, shut up," she said.
"Well, well, well. It lives." I hefted my rucksack to my back and we started
to work our way back toward the road through the forest.
She should have snorted, but she just looked at me deadpan. "Your sympathy is
underwhelming. You don't know what I had to give up."
"Better than sex, so I'm told."
The corner of her mouth may have turned up a millimeter. "Depends on with
whom."
"Was that an offer?"
"No."
Sometimes no doesn't mean no, but when it's accompanied by a weak shake of the
head, lips pursed just , that's exactly what it means. Which is okay. I can
take no.
so
On the other hand, I was heading home to my wife, to make things work. It
would have been nice to have one last dalliance. On the other hand . . . I've
run out of hands.
Just as well.
* * *
We walked along, not talking. I can take silence, although you'll never get
that in the forest. There's almost always the far-off cry of a bird, the
chittering of insects, and if nothing else, a whisper of wind through the
trees. Not silent at all. Not even quiet, not really; it's only the tallest
trees that are quiet.
"What now?" she asked. Or maybe said. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]