Father and Son

Once up­on a time in a qui­et tribe far in the steppes of Waist­lands lived a fa­ther and a son, both of them were born and grew up there.

You see, my dear read­er, they were very close, those fa­ther and son, couldn't get clos­er than that, even though the fa­ther, a hunter by pro­fes­sion, would of­ten go hunt­ing for the high-hang­ing fruits and had to leave his son in the hands of his var­i­ous sweet­hearts.

Any long ab­sence would tear the fa­ther's heart apart. In the deep for­est he would of­ten have imag­i­nary talks with his son.

And the son, named Frin, though every­body called him Weasel (how he got this moniker is a sep­a­rate and fun­ny sto­ry, but in essence it was all about that long, re­mark­ably flex­i­ble body on dis­pro­por­tion­ate­ly short legs)... So, the son was hap­py when­ev­er his dad­dy was back to play with him, but the dad was still way young. He want­ed to bring in mares and love them hard and loud. It wasn't easy, be­lieve me.

And he want­ed a bet­ter fu­ture for his son, too. Alas, cen­taurs rarely leave the steppes and lit­tle they know that their bendy skills that they prac­tice just for fun, as a kid's game, could help putting food on the ta­ble if shown to cer­tain au­di­ences.

And then the fa­ther got some per­fect guid­ance from a gyp­sy, who was very sur­prised to see Weasel fool­ing around in pos­es worth bags of gold, while his neigh-bors weren't pay­ing any at­ten­tion, as if it was noth­ing but a kid play­ing with leaves in a pud­dle.

The fa­ther quick­ly fig­ured it out. Made some con­nec­tions. In a cou­ple of months the en­tire car­a­vanserai of Hud­ja talked about Weasel and his gor­geous dad. They per­formed every day, on­ly gath­er­ing a big­ger crowd.

So what's the point of this cu­ri­ous fa­ble? Not every pile of bro­ken glass con­tains a hid­den di­a­mond, but when it's there, it won't jump out by it­self.

See al­so

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