Wizards and Lizards

II. The Drake's Procession

Easy as a switch flicked, he starts on in his stage accent, 'That's because I'm not a clown, you afroed goat. I am a seer. I am an oracle to rival Delphi. I choose not my gift, merely I am a mouthpiece, a vessel to amplify the will of the universe. A clever man once said that we, humans, are a way for the cosmos to know itself,' He points to the stars, then with soot-stained hands invites Bozo to look around, 'only some are born to more knowing than others.' He traces a button's circumference with his index finger, then nods glibly to finish.

'Drop it, Shiree. I've heard the shtick. Save it for the horny cowherds.'

The seer flashes a toothless smile. His thin lips, for his sins, were etched in a permanent sneer, two pale pigmentless worms that barely quivered when he talked. 'If what I heard from those sows is true, your knees must be sore. Will we see if I've a tincture for it?'

Bozo spits and stoops to his haunches, oversized strides mudcaked ankle to knee. One foot goes unshod, his favoured poulaine lost in the fervour. 

Argument was futile. He knew how this went, concede defeat or argue until the seas dry. Shiree never let a thing go, not a borrowed penny, not a stringless favour, let alone an exchange of barbs.

Bozo sighs, 'We'll argue until the cows come home. Forget it. What's your plan anyway, magic man?'

Shiree laughs, all arch and theatrics even in direst straits. 'Strange you'd have to leave when the cows come home, is it date night already?'

'Fuck off.' Bozo exhales a plume of cigarette smoke, the same foundry grey as the steam-laden morning mist. Shiree imagines a dragon vomiting carcinogenic fire, selfsame as those stitched on his breast.

'No spiel, master jester. Merely my tongue and the secrets of the Gods. There are no plans either. The Perfumed Persian makes no plans, he alters the fabric of the universe to suit his desires.'

'Fine, have it your way, sandman. In what manner will you alter the fabric of the universe?' Bozo, growing impatient, taps his foot like a heated beast.

'I appreciate your correction, but I must rudely ask that you rescind your request for information. Shiree discusses not matters of celestial importance with baseborn whelks.'

Bozo poises to sigh again but stops himself mid gasp, realizing his last ten breaths had been sighs, which medically is considered hyperventilation. 'Have it your way, Wizard.'

He stood enormous, a modern titan. Six foot three easy, no mean feat in crueller ages, when only the silkskinned could afford to import the top tiers of the nutritional pyramid. His shoulders were broad, built for tossing bails, although one could not easily tell through his baggy playsuit, a loose fitting one-piece decorated with blue and orange orbs, twinned with yellow stripes. The platforms he wore performing raised him six feet eleven.

A profound stoop resulting from excess spine made him appear glum, eyes always to the ground, though he was of pleasant temperament, if not charismtically challenged.

'If you fancy a jaunt I'm bound for Duffy's. Lecho said he's looking for performing types for the jubilee. Shouldn't take three nights hard going.' With that he leaves, turning at the gate to see if the imp followed which he didn't. The forest's mouth devours him. 

Shiree begins to mutter. 'Shiree wanders not in the company of minstrels, lest their airs be praising him.' His child's knees barely buckling to stoop, he leans and picks up Bozo's cigarette still smouldering in the muck. He wipes it clean before bringing it to his lips, whispering the magic words into the moist filter. Smoky tendrils curl animatedly from its charred tip, shifting to form an ethereal bowl suspended in the air, smokelike and strange, at once foggy and clear, diaphanous almost. Shiree stands on his stilts and stares hatefully into the summoned cauldron. Quicksilver bubbles below.