Weard had tried talking to Hoff about the residents’ ages, but failed to persuade him to open up. He'd tried some of the other villagers too, receiving a variety of sad smiles, angry waves, and feigned deafness, but no answers. True, it wasn’t any of his business, but he’d never been able to resist poking his head where it didn’t belong.

I could do more than that if I want to, but I don’t want anyone to pick up on my heritage. It’s bad enough between rival neighbouring hamlets or different ethnicities. I don’t want anyone who witnesses one of my tricks to reach for their pitchfork.

Weard lay against the stake stuffed earthworks and watched the clouds go by. Magic was streaming through the sky.

What awaits Cempa and the others at the Wúduwésten? He nibbled at his lip. I’m sure they’ll be fine.

A thunderstorm was condensing out on the plains, a great wall of turbulent moisture and rampant air. A cool, damp breeze lapped against Weard’s skin. He took a good sniff. The scent of rain filled his nostrils.

Rain is awesome. Easier than a bath, and better smelling too.

Weard’s excitement grew as the wind drove itself across the plains with ever greater ferocity, whipping the grass into a frenzy of rippling motion.

He caught a hint of something unpleasant. It took him a moment to place the smell: lightning residue. Weard abandoned the earthworks and rushed from Éaggemeare until he stood on the ridge where he’d first seen the smoking settlement.

Should be far away enough by now. No kettles out here.

Perhaps he should have warned the village first, but the idea of telling the people who’d lived here for ten years, and been through several weeks of hellish phenomena, that a storm, which had been forming all morning, was on its way, seemed both condescending and absurd. He couldn’t see anyone outside. They would be hiding indoors, the most sensible and logical choice, which was almost certainly why he was outside.

A summer storm was the wilderness at its best. He’d made countless excursions through forests, mountains, and plains accompanying his father on trapping expeditions. He’d foraged for food with his mother in the early dawn through crisp frost, muggy mist, and almighty downpours.

Weard would even admit, when he was sure no one was listening, he liked to dance naked in the rain in broad daylight. Moonlight was no good, you were guaranteed to trip, which rather spoiled the liberating nature of the experience.

He’d been cooped up, his curiosity forcefully curtailed and done nothing but wince, hobble, and lie about in the sun doing nothing for over a week. Perhaps the last one wasn’t so bad, but now he was determined to enjoy himself.

Weard was down to his braies before he noticed something was wrong. The grass beneath the approaching storm was green. Not an everyday problem to be sure, but when you’re looking at green grass, that is supposed to be yellow, and should take days to go green after rain, then something is wrong.

The storm front reached him. His bare feet tingled. He sneezed. The first rain drops began to fall. They were fat, heavy, and stung his shoulders, but were blissfully cool.

Weard patted himself down and checked inside his braies: everything was present and accounted for, yet somehow he felt disappointed. He looked towards the village.

Still there, not too much, not too little.

Weard limped towards the closest tree he could see. It was small, stunted, and looked miserable. He gave it an affectionate pat on its trunk and hung his clothes from a branch, braies now included. Weard awaited the onslaught, scratching at his arms. He hoped no one in Éaggemeare owned a telescope.

The sky darkened and thunder burst around him. Weard spread his feet apart and stretched his hands into the air. As if on queue, the rain fell in earnest, pouring from the sky and drumming against his skin. It wasn’t quite warm, but still felt good. He rubbed his leg where a grass blade tickled him and returned to his immodest pose.

A blaze of heat shot through his chest. He gasped. A second wisp whizzed through him.

How rude, I can’t blame them though. They’re not smart. Still, who wants to be treated as an insubstantial object? I have feelings too and they are substantial, well, sort of. Metaphorically. Damn, outsmarted by a wisp.

Weard scratched his shoulders. He smiled. There would be no cartwheels, flips, or folk steps today, but he already felt much better, at least until he was bowled over by a torrent of electrifying wisps, feeding off the waves of magic pushed along by the storm.

Weard stood and tried to wipe the dirt from his body, but it was no good, he was now dirtier than he had been before the rain. If he’d known he was going to fall over, he’d have waited for nighttime and tripped about under the moon.

A distant house sprouted leaves and grew into a tree. That was new. A second house started germinating and a third caught fire. The villagers ran from their homes. Weard dived into the grass and scratched his scalp. What was he going to do now? People were congregating on the village green, which was now actually green, staring in terror, confusion, and awe as their village turned into an arboretum.

Weard ran a hand through his hair. Then he did it again.

My lovely long locks are back! My injuries are healed too. Now, where is the downside? A four inch termite bit him. Not only was it way too big, but it was angry too.

I should not have sat on that. Weard picked it up and flung as far as he could.

Ah, this storm is uncontrolled life magic. Images of termite armies nibbling his toes, packs of dire wolves attacking farms, and living bodies rupturing as they drank altered water filled his imagination.

My rain dance would have to wait for another storm.

Weard raced back to the stunted tree, only to find it had grown too and he couldn’t reach his clothes. He cursed and tried to clamber up the side but it was too smooth. He could use one of his tricks or go back to the village naked.

Weard pushed his fingers and toes inside the tree as if it were no more solid than treacle and pulled himself up the trunk until he reached the bottom most branch. Balancing with the wind, wisps, and rain buffeting him was a hassle so he let it all pass through him.

Weard’s body turned translucent. He held out his arms and walked the length of the narrow branch to his clothes. He kicked them to the ground and jumped down, letting his body sink a little into the earth to cushion his fall. As he stood, all the dirt fell from his body.

I forgot that would happen. It’s been a while since I last used magic.

Weard pulled himself out and tugged his wet clothes on. They stuck to his skin and he had to hop from one foot to the other to stop himself from falling over. Weard ran down the slope.

“Get back inside!” he shouted, sliding to a stop before the startled villagers.

“Inside what?” said Hoff. “My house is full of roots.”

“We’re not standing in the rain for fun you know,” said Hrolf. Tadhgán was leaning on Hrolf’s shoulder, looking pale.

“What about the pub?” said Weard, pointing.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hoff said, “It burnt down weeks ago.”

“Well, it’s there now,” said Tadhgán.

Hoff gaped like a fish.

Weard laughed, “We need to get inside. Come on.”

“Why?” said Hrolf.

“Do you want to stand in the rain that makes houses sprout, or a ghost pub with magic beer?”

“Fine, fine,” said Hoff. “But we can drink it right?”

A goat nibbled through the grass towards a water trough, took a sip and grew another head. It wasn’t pretty to watch and reminded Weard of the last time he’d tried to slurp a gelatinous pudding through his nose as an ill conceived festival trick.

“I think I’d get on well with myself,” said Weard. “Just imagine, I could laugh at my own jokes.”

“Please don’t,” said Hrolf. “We’ll go inside.”

The villagers crammed themselves into the restored pub. Their clothes steamed in the muggy atmosphere.

“It looks the way it did the day before it burnt down,” said Hoff.

“I thought the house Milde and Clæfre found was still burnt inside,” Hrolf said.

Weard pushed through the crowds to a spare table, “Whether magic is shaped by symbols or desires, the stronger the source, or the greater the will behind it, the more extensive the effect will be. There are over a hundred people with their memories of this place inside here. What did you think it would look like?”

“I don’t know,” said Tadhgán. “Nobody tells me nothing.”

“Like it would make any difference,” said Hrolf.

“Hey,” said a bedraggled woman. “That stuff you said about magic, do you know what’s happening?”

“Who me?” said Weard. “Not a clue.”

“You told us all to get inside before the goat made a new friend,” said Hrolf. “Come on Weard, you know things. There must be something you can tell us.”

Well that did it.

Everyone started pushing towards him. He’d spouted lore without thinking about it and now the pub was going silent, in that eerie way reactions spread through crowds, as they waited for him to speak. It was even more unsettling when both the building and bench he was on, didn’t truly exist in the first place.

“What do you mean, he knows things?” said Hoff.

“It’s not like that,” said Weard. “Look at my hair.”

“You look very pretty,” said Tadhgán.

“Stop trying to dodge the question young man,” said the bedraggled woman.

“It’s such a tragedy, I go to the trouble of changing my hair and no one notices. It’s always been that way. Dye, curl, or cut it, no one ever appreciates the effort, even when it grows back.”

“That’s what hair does,” Tadhgán said. “It grows.”

Weard sighed, “Really, has no one noticed? How’s your headache, is your vision still blurry?”

“Now that you mention it,” said Tadhgán. “I do feel a little better.”

“And the wood in the houses turning back into trees, you saw that too,” said Weard.

“Yes, of course we did,” said Hoff. “I agree with Branwyne, can’t you get to the point?”

“Life was normal, rain comes, stuff starts growing and you all thought, ‘let's go stand in it’. What do you think could possibly go wrong if everything kept growing?”

“Oh,” said Hrolf.

“ ‘Oh’, my arse, you plume plucked porcine. I don’t know things, I work them out. Accusations and crowds do not mix well.”

“Sorry, Weard,” said Hrolf.

“Damn right.”

“What are we supposed to do?” said Branwyne.

“Stay inside until the rain stops, and don’t eat or drink anything that the rain touches. You’d probably be fine, but it’s not worth finding out.”

“I’ll pass the word around,” said Hoff. He slipped behind the bar and rapped a keg with his knuckles. A small smile spread across his face.

“That includes the beer,” said Weard.

Hoff sighed, stroked the barrel, then clapped his hands, “Alright everyone. Listen up!”