Wow! Yes, some were willing on the spot to declare the snake the winner. Why bother to hear the rest of the tales? Who could
possibly tell one better? But then the schooled salmon spoke out.
Not so hasty, my friends! Yes, I admit the snake declaimed well. Yet I submit to this plodding assemblage of scholars a point
to seriously consider. He did omit from his chronicle an event of such significance that its exclusion mars his tale entire.
The serpent slighted salmon in his tale! He mentioned us once and only in passing. In his vivid account (and oh how vulgar!)
of Thor's great feed at which he dispatched a whole ox at a sitting, the serpent mentioned us in an addendum, or a tailpiece,
you might say. Thor, he told us, gulped down eight salmon.
First of all, we salmon call this god not Thor but Shor.
Secondly, it is no fun to be eaten. (And yet, we do take some pleasure in hearing creatures say that salmon is food fit for
the gods.) But to the serpent's NEGLECT, the great gap in his tale: he glossed over the fact that Shor was responsible for
giving salmon their peculiar shape.
Why does the salmon's body narrow so abruptly at the back end? Ah, my scholars,
therein hangs a tale. Well I know this tale for it intimately touches my tail. All salmon parents teach this tale to their
Alongside God Shor, we feature the god Loki, but we salmon call him Lucky. I shall narrate it, and though I prefer academic
discourse, I shall do it in the asinine style of the snake.
You may have been wondering, dear readers, why I don't mention Pagoda. But now do you see? These fabulous stories, these
tales one right behind the other - just too priceless to lose! I must record these precious yarns. For lovers of literature!
For Pagoda! Yes, I'll get them all on paper and save them for Pagoda. We'll read them when we reunite. She can't be dead!
How she will love this animal epic, this migratory romance. I'll amass them all for Pagoda. And so I carefully entered in
my album all the salmon said.