Wizards and Lizards

II. The Drake's Procession

It shifted in the fashion of living thing, a writhing mass of metal worms. Finally settling, the sheen parted in the center to reveal a vignette unfolding, a living dream in thin air. The Magician watched the Fool struggling through the dense foliage, pinecones exploding beneath his heavy tread, darting like a frightened deer trying to gain any sense of direction. He fell crossing a fence, hoist by own enormous shoe. Tumbling backwards he fell some distance, rolling toward the base of the rise, crashing into a patch of briar. He rose from the undergrowth patting the breast pocket of his overalls, desperate for a woodbine. Finally luckless, he cursed, crushing the empty box in his bailed fist before casting it aside. Pushing himself upward he pressed onward with grimfaced determination, displaying a dogged courage Shiree reluctantly respected.

The silver smoke shifts to form a drama. Bozo is far from the circus, dumping pebbles from his shoe in a clearing. Filth encrusted, bramble whipped and generally dishevelled, he had never been closer to the lanky streak of misery the mean kids used to accuse him of being. Shiree smiles. Now whose countenance could freeze time. A fire crackles, sodden overalls dry on a branch. When the mud dried, Bozo would scrape it away with a twig.

Resourceful knave. A keen scout.

Shiree whispers more gutturally into his cup of mist. Hell winds brew in the lungs of the earth mother and she exhales from her cavernous maw a breeze to shake Babel. Howling through the makeshift camp, the wizard's tempest attacks. Bozo holds his wig tight. Stumbling, he seeks shelter in the breast of a hollowed oak. For a moment he sees the flames resist and is emboldened, tongues wildly lashing in every direction, but the gale persists on until the fire gutters, then splutters and dies.

All calms. Leaves dance downward at an owl's flight. Its departure marks the end of Shiree's vision. Before him a viscous liquid rises, filling the sucking void where the projection had appeared. The bowl disappears like smoke in a hurricane.

This is his true gift. Possession of animals. Mostly birds and bugs. Occasionally wolves and larger creatures were employed, when mother necessity called. Transformations require enormous energy. He would require rest before another attempt such-like. Until horizontal, he feels cloudy, his instincts dulled.

This gave a hint as to what went on behind the wizard's curtain, to coin a phrase. Patrons eager for good tidings sat wide-eyed while Shiree asked the birds. Robin, breast inked with Christblood, what is prophesied. Wag tail bouncing by the brook, what whispers the ripples. Crow, sagely corvid, obsidian Prince, permit me thy portents.

Of course the owl, a favourite, offering a circular view of all creation. When the Persian asks, the birds respond. Their caws yield the secrets of creation and knowledge of all men. Never anything less than grizzly; visions of starving farmers prying open the coffins of dead children to pry rings from fingers; wives blood-soaked, trowel in hand. He spares the unwashed masses the true horror of their cosmic destiny.

Shiree is sick of the circus. Sick of howling faces, cackling hyenas. Laughter contorts the face and makes apes of men. He hatee acrobats, envying their sprightliness, making him further loathe his twisted form.

He hates clowns most. Hates being considered among their number. In the ancient world clairvoyants were elevated to high societal positions, close to the ears of pharaohs. To converse with the Gods was to become a God. Present culture did not glorify his gifts.

Following the mummer's trail, Shiree enters the woodland with its churchlike vaulted ceiling. Trees, every length and thickness meet, forming a thick umbrella. Ducking between the sturdy boughs, he emerges at the familiar clearing. Evidently some thought went toward its selection, situated inside a natural ridge formed by mossy stones and thick entanglements of spadelike hogweed. He locates the remnants of Bozo's passing. Inside a stone circle shining with mica, embers glow. 

For the site of Bozo's demise, he chose a festering swamp, planning to nestle in the brackish swell, sink beneath the algal covering and bide his time until the moment struck. Where else could Bozo go but through?

He rests a while in the wooden cloister, the heat of its former occupant present still. At last restored to peak wickedness, he follows a trail of single bootprints, as if tracking some unilegged abomination to its marshy abode - the wounded Grendel toward his domain lurches.

Shiree came to the boundary shore between mulch and black mud, marking the forest's domain from that of the festering swampland. Bloated and buzzing, enormous bloodsuckers make homes among the roots. Corklike reeds project from the silty banks across its breadth like tangled crossbeams give the illusion of security. Truly if one fell, a proper tumble necessitating outside agency, any branch grasped would snap like an old man on a rugby pitch.

Amphibious lizards wait, half buried in the silt like filthied statues, snapping should any shoal of lesser denizens dawdle. A menagerie of killers for the wizard to choose from.

Shiree enthrones, planning evilly from his newfound eyrie. He utters incantations blunt and meandering, each to the same fatal design. Feeling the hard surface against his backside, he wants vengeance all the more. That a man such as he should be forced to take counsel on a boulder was insult enough to warrant retribution.

It would be a crime of passion, a passion of crimes. He tosses back his head and met a beautiful sight. However the canopy met, with its various dips, hollows and straightways like avenues on a map, the carved light met him in golden bars.

This will do, he smirks.