“I don’t want any advantage! Not if it’s going to cause us this kind of trouble.”
“I’ll have none of that, boy! A difference can always be to one’s advantage. ‘Tis time ye chose a profession. I know you’ve no like for running a shop like this one. What is it ye like to do?”
He mulled it over a while before replying. “All I enjoy doing is making other people happy.”
She shook her head sadly. “Sometimes I think you’ve not enough self-interest to keep yourself alive. However, if that’s what ye like, then you’ll have to find some way to earn a living at it.”
“Sometimes I dream of becoming a doctor and healing people.”
“I’d advise ye to set your sights a bit lower, boy.”
“All right. An actor, then.”
“Nay, not that low. Be sensible. Set yourself to some- thing ye can do now, without years of study.”
“I could perform right here in the marketplace,” he said thoughtfully. “I can juggle pretty good. You’ve seen me.”
“Aye, and yelled at ye often enough for practicing with my expensive baubles. But ‘tis a sound thought. We must find ye a good street corner. Surely ye can’t get into trouble performing before these simple locals.”
“Sure! I’ll go and practice right now.”
“Easy, boy, easy. You’re nearly asleep on your feet, and I’ll not have ye breaking either my goods or yourself. Go inside and lie down. I’ll be in soon to fix ye something to eat. Go on now, boy, and be sure and take your monster with ye.”
Cradling the exhausted Pip in his hands, Flinx rose and made his way through the displays to the section of the shop that served as their home. Mother Mastiff’s eyes followed him.
What was to become of the boy? Somehow he had come to the attention of powerful, dangerous people. At least there was a good chance they wouldn’t be bothered for a while. Not if he had left them “kind of dead.”
How had he escaped? Sometimes he still frightened her. Oh, not because he would ever harm a hair of her old head. Quite the contrary, as his dogged pursuit and rescue of her these past days had proven. But there were forces at work within that adolescent body, forces beyond the comprehension of a simple shopkeeper, forces he might not be able to control. And there was more to it than reading the emotions of others. Of that she was certain. How much more she could only suspect, for it was clear enough the boy had little awareness of them himself.
Well, let him play at the trade of jongleur for a while. Surely that was harmless. Surely he could not find much trouble plying so simple an occupation.
She told herself that repeatedly all the rest of the after- noon and on into evening as she sat watching him sleep. When she finally slipped into her own bed, she thought she had put such imaginary fears beyond her, but such was not the case.
She sensed that the boy lying content and peaceful in the room opposite hers was destined for more than an idle life of entertaining on street corners. Much more. She knew somehow that a damnable universe, which was al- ways sticking its cosmic nose into the destinies of innocent citizens, would never let anyone as unique as Flinx alone.
About the Author
Born in New York City in 1946, Alan Dean Foster was raised in Los Angeles, California. After receiving a bachelor’s degree in political science and a Master of Fine Arts in motion pictures from UCLA in 1968-69, he worked for two years as a public relations copywriter in a small Studio City, California, firm.
His writing career began in 1968 when August Derleth bought a long letter of Foster’s and published it as a short story in his biannual Arkham Collector Magazine. Sales of short fiction to other magazines followed. His first try at a novel. The Tar-Aiym Krang, was published by Ballantine Books in 1972.
Foster has toured extensively through Asia and the isles of the Pacific. Besides traveling, he enjoys classical and rock music, old films, basketball, body surfing, and karate. He has taught screenwriting, literature, and film history at UCLA and Los Angeles City College.
Currently, he resides in Arizona with his wife JoAnn (who is reputed to have the only extant recipe for Barbarian Cream Pie).
Alan Dean Foster, For Love Of Mother Not
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