Chorus Skating by Alan Dean Foster

kids?”
    â€œHow do you mean?” asked Mudge darkly.
    â€œI mean that I’m not just going to sing the same old songs anymore. When possible I’m going to try and do as he did and devise my own lyrics to cope with any unexpected situations.”
    â€œâ€™Ere now, guv, I know it ain’t for me to say, but if it were up to me, I’d rather you didn’t do that, don’tcha know. You always seemed to ’ave enough troubles findin’ quite the right old song to spellsing. I ain’t sure brilliant improvisin’ is exactly your line.”
    â€œEmploying lyrics of my own invention will give me a lot more control over each spell. Besides, you have to admit I can’t do worse than I’ve done with the standards.”
    To this the otter had to nod sagely. “You ’ave me there, mate.”
    â€œHave some confidence, Mudge. After all, I’ve been doing this for nearly twenty years now.”
    â€œThat’s wot worries me,” the otter confessed, but under his breath.
    â€œYour feather’s wilted.” Jon-Tom indicated the battered green felt cap and its decorative quill.
    The otter touched a finger to the tip of the weathered chapeau. “Weegee keeps throwin’ it away. I keep sneakin’ out and recoverin’ it from the garbage. Tis a game we play.” To change the subject he gestured toward the river. “Wot do we do if our musical accompaniment decides to make a sharp left-’and turn? Sing up a spellsong for walkin’ on water?”
    Jon-Tom beamed indulgently. “We’ll do what we’ve always done, Mudge. Handle each crisis as it develops. Buy me no trouble and I’ll sing you no lies.”
    â€œI’m encouraged no end,” the otter replied dryly.
    Days succeeded one another in comparative tranquillity as they reached the junction with the Tailaroam itself and turned southwestward. Small sailing craft coursed rapidly toward the distant Glittergeist, while the crews of vessels bound in the opposite direction strained at their oars to make headway against the current, rowing upstream toward Pfeiffumunter and still more distant Polastrindu. From time to time human and otter would wave at them, and various members of the disparate crews would wave back, occasionally hesitating, to gesture and gape at the softly tinkling cloud which preceded the odd pair down the trail.
    â€œWeegee won’t believe me letter.” Mudge amused himself by catching a small grasshopper and letting it go, then catching it again with a snatch of the fingers that was little more than a blur. “She’ll think I’ve stumbled off to Lynchbany to carouse and drink.”
    â€œA not unnatural assumption,” Jon-Tom deposed.
    â€œOi now, mate, that ain’t bloomin’ fair. You know I’ve outgrown that wastrel existence. I’m a respected, settled family type, I am.”
    â€œMost all the time,” his friend agreed. “Don’t worry about it. As long as Weegee knows you’re with me, she’ll know that I’ll keep an eye on you. For what that’s worth. In any case, she’ll be more tolerant of your taking off than will Talea.”
    â€œWell, naturally.” Mudge looked mildly surprised. “I’m an otter.”
    Far behind them now his tree home stood deserted and silent. The Wooden walls of the study did not tremble to the vibrations of Jon-Tom’s bardic modalities, nor the kitchen to the vibrant rustling of Talea’s apron or cursing. The spell-soundproofed upstairs bedrooms were devoid of human presence, not to mention the raucous rapping of Buncan, Squill, and Nocter. Beds stood neatly made, closets dripped with clothing unworn, and the floors reposed somnolent and unscuffed, awaiting the return of the occupants.
    The only movement was produced by the infrequent sprite or demonic appurtenance as it skittered along a crack in the floor or ceiling, brightly