Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

“Re-engage with a previously identified Residual Echo, huh . . .” Fabrisse muttered as he broke off the bread. It was just his luck that out of all the ways the glyph could phrase its request, it chose to speak ominously like a member of the Synod staff.

Mid-afternoon light filtered through the canopy in broken beams, dappling the water of the North Pond with a glint that looked almost like active glyphlight, but wasn’t. The clucklebeak swam over to him from the reedbed. It was a squat, downy creature with a body like a mossy loaf and stubby wings that didn’t understand flight. Its feet were oversized for its size, and it made a sound like a hiccup.

Fabrisse dropped a crust near the edge of the bank.

The clucklebeak waddled forward, gave the bread a cautious peck, then stared at him judgmentally.

“Yeah, I know,” Fabrisse said, settling down onto the flat stone at the pond’s edge. “No aether in it. Just grain.”

He watched it nibble with precise little head-jolts. Then it let out a soft churk and backed away a step, but didn’t leave.

“See? We’re learning to tolerate each other,” he said.

“Quack,” the bird said.