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THE HESTWOOD By Rob Chilson How long, how long, in infinite pursuit Of This and That endeavour and dispute? Better be merry with the fruitful grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, fruit. —Omar/Fitzgerald * * * * WENTING SONELLIAN SAT crosslegged before his croft, playing the zootibar. The haunting minor- key notes of the long bamboo flute wafted down to the beach and out over the Bay of Repose. To his right, Weary Water slipped soundlessly into the Bay. To his left, beyond the Bay to the west, the Ramping Sea lay sleeping. In the orchard behind his croft, Squatham, the birds were singing “Joy to the Morning” in massed chorus. The air was as warm as milk and as invigorating as wine. And best of all, Calian dautNinnian, Wenty’s current lover and future wife, was sleeping in his croft. All was well on this best of all mornings in the sixty million years since man-kin first appeared upon the Prime Mondeign. The only discordant note in all the world was the bickering of the gulls on the beach. But Wenty was too happy to frown at that. Then Calian dropped her scarf by him and trotted into the bay, startling the gulls, who cursed her. Splashing herself in a quick bath, she rinsed off the salt in Weary Water, tossed back her cascade of golden hair, and padded back
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