roared, the sharp spines of her back flexing with amusement, “this is not a bird, but a bug!”
The minuscule speaker whirled angrily. “I am Nomote, of the Kind.” Laughter and smoke filled the gathering place. “I demand to be heard!”
Old Kurenskaya raised both clawed forefeet, and the ferocious, terrific laughter gradually died down. He scowled at the tiny visitor. “There are three recent-born among us. I did not know of a fourth.”
“Who would admit to birthing this?” Videprasa snorted, and another round of awesome laughter shook rock from the walls of the cavern.
Old Kurenskaya looked around reprovingly. “This Nomote is of the Kind, if . . . somewhat lesser than most of us. Give to him the deference he deserves, as befits the traditions.” At this stern admonishment, an abashed silence settled over the gathering.
The Elder Dominant nodded to the hovering mite. “Speak to us then of your exploits.” One of the assembled sniggered, but went quiet when Old Kurenskaya glared threateningly in his direction. “Tell of what you have done to fulfill the traditions of the Kind.” He sat back on his hindquarters, his leathery, age-battered wings rumpled elegantly about him.
“I am young and have not the experience or strength of others who have accomplished so much.” A few murmurs of grudging approval sounded among the assembled. “I have had to study our ancient adversaries and to learn. I have struggled to master the stealthy ways needed to carry out the work without being noticed by the humans and their clever new machines.” It hesitated, wee wings beating furiously to keep it aloft in one place.
“Alas, I have had not the skill, nor the strength, nor the prowess to do as so many of you have done. I have done but one thing, and it, like myself, is small.”
Nomote’s humbleness and modesty had by now won for him some sympathy among the assembled, for who among them could not, save for the intervention of fortuitous fate, imagine himself in such a poignant condition.
“Tell us of what you have done and what you do,” Old Kurenskaya said encouragingly. He glared warningly one more time, but by now the gathering was subdued. “None of the Kind will laugh, I promise it. Any offender will have to deal with me.” At that moment Old Kurenskaya did not look so old.
Nomote blinked bright, tiny eyes. A small puff of dark smoke emerged from the tip of his snout. “I go invisibly among those humans who are ready and those who are reluctant; I breathe the addiction into their nostrils and their mouths; and then when they weaken and are finally susceptible, I light their cigarettes.”
They gave him the Chalice, which was too large for him to carry, much less wear around his neck. But Nhauantehotec moved it to a convenient lair for him, and though he could not fly with it shining broadly against his chest as had his glorious predecessors, it made a most excellent bath in which to relax upon returning from a good day’s work among the execrable humans.
LAYING VENEER
In 1989 my wife and I took a couple of weeks and
drove from Brisbane, Australia, all the way up to Port
Douglas, eventually getting as far north as the Bloomfield
River. The euphemistically named Bruce “Highway” was
in actuality a narrow two-lane road, rarely flanked by
the comforting shoulders common to American roads.
For long stretches you’d drive for kilometers without
seeing another vehicle. Then a road-train, consisting of
an enormous diesel truck fronted with roo bars (to ward
off wayward kangaroos, lest by colliding with them they
somehow damage these moving mountains of steel) and
towing three or more trailers would come hurtling
toward you, taking up more than its narrow lane and
forcing you off the side of the road where you hoped the
wheels of your vehicle would find enough purchase to
get back on the pavement.
Ah, the pavement. Shimmering with heat, undulating
like a mild stomach upset, receding into the
The minuscule speaker whirled angrily. “I am Nomote, of the Kind.” Laughter and smoke filled the gathering place. “I demand to be heard!”
Old Kurenskaya raised both clawed forefeet, and the ferocious, terrific laughter gradually died down. He scowled at the tiny visitor. “There are three recent-born among us. I did not know of a fourth.”
“Who would admit to birthing this?” Videprasa snorted, and another round of awesome laughter shook rock from the walls of the cavern.
Old Kurenskaya looked around reprovingly. “This Nomote is of the Kind, if . . . somewhat lesser than most of us. Give to him the deference he deserves, as befits the traditions.” At this stern admonishment, an abashed silence settled over the gathering.
The Elder Dominant nodded to the hovering mite. “Speak to us then of your exploits.” One of the assembled sniggered, but went quiet when Old Kurenskaya glared threateningly in his direction. “Tell of what you have done to fulfill the traditions of the Kind.” He sat back on his hindquarters, his leathery, age-battered wings rumpled elegantly about him.
“I am young and have not the experience or strength of others who have accomplished so much.” A few murmurs of grudging approval sounded among the assembled. “I have had to study our ancient adversaries and to learn. I have struggled to master the stealthy ways needed to carry out the work without being noticed by the humans and their clever new machines.” It hesitated, wee wings beating furiously to keep it aloft in one place.
“Alas, I have had not the skill, nor the strength, nor the prowess to do as so many of you have done. I have done but one thing, and it, like myself, is small.”
Nomote’s humbleness and modesty had by now won for him some sympathy among the assembled, for who among them could not, save for the intervention of fortuitous fate, imagine himself in such a poignant condition.
“Tell us of what you have done and what you do,” Old Kurenskaya said encouragingly. He glared warningly one more time, but by now the gathering was subdued. “None of the Kind will laugh, I promise it. Any offender will have to deal with me.” At that moment Old Kurenskaya did not look so old.
Nomote blinked bright, tiny eyes. A small puff of dark smoke emerged from the tip of his snout. “I go invisibly among those humans who are ready and those who are reluctant; I breathe the addiction into their nostrils and their mouths; and then when they weaken and are finally susceptible, I light their cigarettes.”
They gave him the Chalice, which was too large for him to carry, much less wear around his neck. But Nhauantehotec moved it to a convenient lair for him, and though he could not fly with it shining broadly against his chest as had his glorious predecessors, it made a most excellent bath in which to relax upon returning from a good day’s work among the execrable humans.
LAYING VENEER
In 1989 my wife and I took a couple of weeks and
drove from Brisbane, Australia, all the way up to Port
Douglas, eventually getting as far north as the Bloomfield
River. The euphemistically named Bruce “Highway” was
in actuality a narrow two-lane road, rarely flanked by
the comforting shoulders common to American roads.
For long stretches you’d drive for kilometers without
seeing another vehicle. Then a road-train, consisting of
an enormous diesel truck fronted with roo bars (to ward
off wayward kangaroos, lest by colliding with them they
somehow damage these moving mountains of steel) and
towing three or more trailers would come hurtling
toward you, taking up more than its narrow lane and
forcing you off the side of the road where you hoped the
wheels of your vehicle would find enough purchase to
get back on the pavement.
Ah, the pavement. Shimmering with heat, undulating
like a mild stomach upset, receding into the
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