The Flying Sorcerers

When I awoke, the crimson sun was glaring.

Shoogar was standing above me, also glaring.

“Shoogar,” I said and groaned. The sound of my voice hurt my left eye.

“Lant,” he replied. His voice hurt my right eye.

“Shoogar,” I said.

“Lant,” he replied.

“Shoogar,” I said.

“I mean to know the meaning of your dancing this morning.”

“Not my dancing, not mine.” I lifted myself up on one arm. “It was Purple’s. He deconsecrated some housetrees so he could use their blood.”

“He what??!!”

“Shoogar,” I whispered. “Please don’t shout. He only did it for a little while. You can reconsecrate them again.”

“I can what?!!”

“You can reconsecrate them as soon as we tap their blood.

“When?!!” he screamed. I winced. “I have cloth to bless, airboat frames to bless, threads to bless, nets to bless, weaving to bless. When do I have the time to consecrate housetrees?”

“You’ll find time, Shoogar. We didn’t deconsecrate that many.”

“How many?”

“Um, not that many.”

“How many is ‘not that many’?”

“Um, let me figure it out. There was Ang’s and Hinc’s and Kifs and Totty’s and Goldin’s and … um… and…”

“Come on, clothead. Remember!”

“I will, I will, don’t rush me. I think we deconsecrated mine and maybe Purple’s — but I don’t think we have to worry about Purple’s. After we deconsecrated it, there was nothing left. And I think we did Snarg’s, but not … or maybe …”

“Lant, you’re such a bloody blithering bowl of bladderworts — if you don’t remember, I’ll have to reconsecrate every tree in the whole fang-sucking village!”

“Um, I’m sure I can remember, Shoogar. Just give me time.”