The Flying Sorcerers

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I was awakened by Pilg the Crier pounding excitedly on the wall of my nest and crying, “Lant! Lant! It’s happened! Come quickly!

I stuck my head out. “What’s happened?”

“The disaster! The disaster!” Pilg was jumping up and down in excitement. “I told you it would happen.”

I pulled my head in and dressed. Pilg’s joy was a frightening thing. I felt my fur rising, fluffing out in fear as I wondered…

Pilg the Crier had been predicting disaster for weeks — as was his habit. He predicted his disasters twice a year, at the times of the equinox. The fact that we were leaving the influence of one sun and entering that of the other would make the local spells completely unstable. As we approached conjunction — the time when the blue sun would cross the face of the red — Pilg had increased the intensity of his warnings. This was disaster weather: something dire would certainly happen.

Usually it did, of course. Afterward — and after we of the village had somehow picked up the pieces — Pilg would shake his heavy head and moan, “Wait until next year. Wait. It’ll be even worse.”

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