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Mar 2, 2012 21:02
I hate the taste of mind. It is no fit thing for a being of air and fire. The cloying weight of earth oppresses me greatly whenever I come into contact with it. That is why I am choosy about my incarnations. Birds, good. Insects, good. Bats, okay. Things that run fast are fine. Tree dwellers are even better. Subterranean things, not good. Moles, bad.
But there's no point being fastidious when you have a protective shield to bypass. I had reasoned correctly that it did not extend underground. The mole dug its way deep, deep down, under the foundations of the wall. No magical alarm sounded, though I did hit my head five times on a pebble. I burrowed upward again, reaching the surface after twenty minutes of snuffling, and turning my beady nose up at the juicy worms. I uncovered after every couple of scraps.
The mole poked its head cautiously out of the little pile of earth it had driven through the immaculate surface of Simon Lovelace's lawn. It looked around, checking out the scene. There were lights on in the house, on the ground floor. The curtains were drawn. The upper floors, from what the mole could see, were dark. The translucent blue span of the magical defense system arched overhead. One yellow sentry trudged its stupid way ten feet the shrubbery.
The other two were presumably behind the house.
I tried the seventh plane again. Still nothing, still that uneasy sense of danger. Oh, well
The mole retreated underground and tunneled below the grass roots toward the house. It reappeared in the flowerbed just below the nearest windows. It was thinking hard. There was no
point going further in this guise. tempting though it was to try to break into the cellars.
A different method would have to be found.
To the mole's furry ears came the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. It was surprisingly
loud, echoing from very close by. An air vent, cracked with age, was set in the wall not two
feet away. It led indoors. With some relief, I became a fly.