Cloudy with a Chance of Inebriation
Cloudy with a Chance of Inebriation
Flash fiction, 900 words. For IAM's Sept. 4 prompt. Happy Autumn!
“You yelled at them, and they haven’t been back since. This is all your fault.”
Nebular Consulate Special Manager Okar Groats withered under the accusation. But he knew he was in the right. The Ambassador was trying to throw him under the proverbial omnibus.
“They were drunk! They flooded half the valley!”
He gestured wildly from his position kneeling in front of the Nebular Greeting Post. The Condor Valley was a vast sweep of jagged, teeth-like mountains and serpentine riverbeds. Usually, at this time of year, the rivers would be rushing and the mountains swarmed with Clouds. Not this year. The valley was dry, dusty, and so vertiginous that it made him dizzy.
Lightning from a non-Nebular storm struck the Post ominously. The assembled Consulate and valleyfolk shuddered and murmured.
“They come here for a good time, Groats! Of course they get a little rowdy. They can’t let their rain down in Bluebird Plains, I can tell you that much.”
“Let their rain down? Your Excellency, they collapsed Jay Ridge Bridge. They ruined the rice crop. The rice! They didn’t let their rain down, they dissolved completely. They didn’t even want to say goodbye. They were going to rush down to Starling Town for an afterparty! Of course I had firm words with them.”
“We need their patronage to keep this valley afloat, and it does not seem to be forthcoming.”
“They kept the valley afloat, alright, just not the way you wanted, Your Excellency. I’ve said it before, but we should follow Bluebird’s lead. Have a few strictures. They can enjoy themselves, but …”
“Silence!”
The lightning struck the Post again, and the Ambassador where he was carved into the sturdy obelisk.
Groats refused to be cowed. Of course the Ambassador withstood the lightning. He controlled it. That’s how he summoned the Clouds each April and November.
“You will apologize to them. Blubber in the dirt if need be. And no more talk of Bluebird. Those people weary me.”
Groats fought the urge to roll his eyes. When the Clouds came, the Ambassador was the first to disentangle himself from the Post and join them in the pools of beer and wine upon which they descended to weep about the sad times, cry about the happy times, and generally spill their water all over Condor to irrigate it. Then they’d roll out the next month to Starling, to do it all over again.
“I’ll apologize for yelling, but they’ve got to restrain themselves a bit. For everyone’s sake. Danya Maize in Starling told me there wasn’t enough water left over for the town last year. You think the Clouds are pouting? Starling’s not happy with us, either. We’re going to start a war with our permissiveness.”
“Special Manager Groats, that is not your concern. Your only task – your whole job – is to keep the Clouds happy. They refused to come in November. Now it is April again. If we don’t receive their gifts, we’re toast. Now, I am going to call them and tell them their gala is ready, and you are going to apologize. Properly.”
Okar Groats sighed. This was rank appeasement. Oh, the Clouds weren’t a bad sort, it’s just that they didn’t seem to realize everyone else had to work the rest of the year.
The Ambassador summoned the Consular Lightning. A storm gathered in the heights, but Groats could tell they were just clouds, not Clouds. Regular, non-sentient clouds never rained. They were simply fodder for hungover Clouds, to rehydrate them.
Then … one, two, suddenly a mass. The Clouds gathered.
They descended rapidly toward the Party Pools. Groats grimaced, knowing well they’d had to import the water to make all that beer. But just when he thought they’d splash down, they hesitated, hovering fog-like over their repast.
“Honored guests, welcome to Condor Valley,” intoned the Ambassador, going for conciliatory and finding obsequious. “Groats.”
Groats stood up. He opened his mouth to grovel, but a peeping little voice from the Clouds spoke up.
“Is it really alright for us to return?”
Groats knew remorse when he heard it. Not daring to glance at the Ambassador, he jumped at the chance.
“Yes, just be more careful this year. Last year was a bit of a mess. You were welcome back in November, you know. I’m sorry I was so harsh, but … the thing with the bridge and the rice. Well.”
“Groats!”
The Clouds rumbled. Groats wondered if he’d gone too far.
“Maybe the valleyfolk would like to join us? We’ll match their pace,” said the little voice.
Now the valleyfolk murmured. Not waiting for the Ambassador to sputter a protest, which he did in due course, the assembly broke ranks and entered the fog and stumbled toward the Party Pools.
It took but minutes for the voices to rise and the rains to start. The valleyfolk, who usually stayed inside this month, were drenched and laughing.
Groats pulled out his notebook and went through his usual operations checklist. He could see that this new style was going to try his patience. After all, the people who usually refilled the pools were busy emptying them.
“You’re lucky that worked,” grumbled the Ambassador as he emerged from the Post.
Groats said nothing. He was busy writing down ideas. A party with the Clouds. He’d be a shoo-in for keynote speaker at the Nebular Consular Regional Special Managers Conference this year.
And their parties put the Clouds to shame.