The Day the Vermin Won
By Joseph Dunlap
"Heigh ho, ye vermin know
Aye, ye scum o' the earth,
I'd dance a jig as soon as die
Same as I would at me birth.
So dance ye a jig
Down a flagon or two
Tell me my son is that what ye'd do
If'n jiggin' were all ye
was worth?"
The wind stirred lightly that evening, brushing lightly the fields of grass as a mother soothes and strokes a crying young one. An aged figure walked the cobbled path, singing softly to himself and the lonely moonlit hills around him. Behind him followed closely his young companion. He knew not the old one's name, as he chose to speak only when the time showed itself appropriate. The old one did not care for names and merely called his companion My Son, when it was necessary to address him with a recognitory name.
The Old One was a Wanderer, as I have described, and the Young One had for a time been traveling alongside, learning the ways of the Old One. This was the way things were between them, and neither saw any need to question the way things were, neither the Young One with his quiet upbringing nor the Old One with his own past and childhood. It mattered not where either traveler was from, only where they were and where they were going.
As the shadows lengthened the Old One drew his cloak tightly about himself and turned to the Young One. "We shall rest," he said. When a small camp had been set up the Old One lay back on his small pack while the Young One found himself looking into the whisping flames of the glowing fire set up between the companions. Small blades of yellow, red, and blue flowed gracefully as if swayed by the wind. The Young One noticed a single ant's journey over one of the two logs. It carried a crumb of bread that had been dropped by the Young One earlier that night. It continued obliviously on, to the Young One's surprise. Finally the flames came too close and it was engulfed with a sharp popping sound. The Young One blinked.
Then the Old One spoke.