Guy--Part Forty-One

Splog # 174

Forty-One

 Guy ruminated on what it meant to be burnished. The word was vaguely familiar and it was obvious from Bugs' conversation that he was talking about the coating that Guy had acquired before they started their journey.

 "Of course there are large fish and other sorts of predators in our ocean. But the burnishing produces a sort of 'nolo me tangere' effect, if you catch my drift. I've often wondered if it's a visual signal or possibly olfactory. Then, too, is it an imperative to stay away or merely a sensation of distastefulness? Probably never know..."

 Bugs trailed off and Guy quickly put the last piece of oogachaka in his mouth. He was carrying the knot of three other bags in his free hand and now placed it in his other pocket, opposite the one containing the disc that had once been a pebble.

 Guy was wondering about something to drink when Bugs serendipitously spoke up.

 "Would you wish some liquid refreshment to accompany your oogachaka?"

 Guy got a kick out of Bugs' rendition of the exotic word. He always put a bit of extra energy into it that made it come out with a growling resonance.

 "That would be very nice, thank you."

 "I'll take your hands for a moment, if you please."

 Guy's hands came up before his face and his two thumbs and two forefingers all pressed together to form a small opening that looked like a tiny square with curved sides.

 "Now put that to your lips and use it like a straw."

 Guy did so and what entered his mouth was fresh water mingled with the slightest hint of oogachaka.

 "Any time you need a drink, do the same. Just make sure your fingers are all pressed firmly together or you may get a mouthful of salt water."

 Guy looked at his hands, floating in front of his face. They looked almost the same as usual. Except there was a slight sheen to them. It gave them a look of plastic, like a mannikin's hands.

 "Guy, do you care for poetry?"

 Guy enjoyed creating rhymes and had learned many from reading Mother Goose when he'd been younger. He also remembered Bugs experimenting with rhythms and rhymes when they'd first met. So he answered with a strong affirmative.

 "Good. Good. I've been working on an historical piece for some time that may interest you, both as a piece of poetry and as background to our quest. But only if you'd care to listen. I could always impart the information in a prosy text-book sort of way. Hmm? What do you say?"

 "I'd like very much to hear a poem you've written, Bugs. Especially if it has to do with our quest."

 "All right, if you insist," Bugs replied warmly. "I've been experimenting with titles but haven't found any satisfactory as of yet, so let's just call it 'The Beginning'. Or maybe 'The Commencement' has more style. Then again, 'Genesis' is quite evocative and yet simple. 'Creation', or even 'Creating', has a grandeur that can't be denied. But its implications might be misleading. 'Birth' might be a little too biological. 'The Start' is rather prosaic and mundane. Then again, 'The Starting' is a touch unusual." Bugs let out a sigh. "Well, we'll save entitlement for another time. Let's go back to 'The Beginning':

You see that tower tall and white?

It's cool by day and warm by night.

There lies the center of our tale

With which your ears I now regale.

Not only center of a story

But of a world the crowning glory.

A world whose freshness fills the air,

A world of peace, a thing most rare.

A world where Nature stands unbowed

And smiles and grins and laughs out loud.

A world whose mountains, oceans, earth

Are pristine as new come to birth.

A world of quiet, gentle sound

Where only surf on rock do pound.

A world of light and also dark.

A world that holds a vibrant spark.