Chanter's Bother

         Only the faint croaking of the frogs fled to Chanter's ears. He could feel the cold breath of wind over his bare neck. The swamp stood still in his presence, but he knew, once he left the scene a mystical happening would occur. Not a clue what the action would be, but he was determined to find out. He crouched low to the ground eyeing the sterile pool of muck. The moon was kind enough to keep him from losing his staring ability, but the clouds were not so generous. As the moon slowly disappeared, the wood grew silent.
         By the time the moon was fully covered by its enemy, Chanter's sight grew weak. A slight trickle of rain slid between the bare trees of winter's grip. Great, he thought. This helps me naught. The rain was cold, but he was determined to wait for the magic of the night. A tapping on his shoulder made him jump, but when he turned to his guest, the only greeting was that of the Waylor tree. He turned his gaze back to his first target. When the tapping came again, however, he stood from his resting place, and turned in every direction to see his disturbance. Nevertheless, the site was still calm and serene. So once more, the boy stooped beneath his covering bush. Why is nothing happening? He asked himself impatiently. For the third time the tapping aroused him. "What do you want from me?" The boy spoke to the darkness. Chanter was surprised when the darkness answered him.
         "I want your name, boy," the voice was cold.
         "Who is there?"
         "Only your imagination," it responded.
         "I am not a fool for games. Please answer me." Chanter's voice began to shake.
         This time it was silent for a long while until a sigh dropped from the tree behind him. "Who are you?" Chanter asked over the frogs.
         A horned figure exposed itself from the tree. "Why would I tell you who I am, if just as easily you could guess? If you can guess, you will pass the test."
         "I told you already, I am not one for games."
         "Are these games or is this fair play. Time to go, or time to stay?"
         "Stop with the rhyming words, please. A headache is not what I wish." The horned figure landed its eyes in Chanter's face. The dark pools of green flooded his sight. He knew those eyes. They belonged to a Loberchank.
         "My only question is your name. Are you new or are you fame? But then you could guess this Loberchank's call, for it stays the same during summer, spring, winter and fall."
         "Fine! But you must leave me alone to watch my game." The boy's face filled with anger at the distraction.
         "I will leave you to your game, if you please tell me your whole name." A chuckle followed his words.
         "My name is Chanter Lithse. And your name is Lob the Loberchank. Now please leave me to my study."
         "Leaving you to you study, after you clear up the muddy."
                "What muddy are you speaking of?" Chanter asked.
                "How do you know what they call me? You give me an answer free." His green eyes bounced up and down with the movement of his frantic head.
                "You told me you would leave me alone. What business do you have with me anyways?"
         A rustling from a tree somewhere in the darkness caused the Loberchank to spook. "My busyness is unfinished here, but I will warn you now: remember me this face, this frame, for I will show you how. I will leave you 'till the day is come for me to tell you why. The night's grown black and so now I am bidding you good night." And with that the Loberchank clambered back up his tree then disappeared into the night.